The Left Series (Book 3): Left On The Brink

by Fletcher, Christian

  They nodded once at Cole as they passed by. Job reluctantly done. Cole responded with an appreciative nod of his own and the two Marines returned to sentry duties beside the refueling truck.

  I was desperate for a cigarette to help calm my nerves but I knew smoking while in the vicinity of pumping aviation fuel was a big no-no.

  We stood in silence in a horizontal line with our M-16’s at the ready, staring into the snowstorm, waiting for the refueling crew to finish up and watching out for any zombies stumbling through the blizzard towards us.

  Capaldi’s voice through the headsets broke the silence. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, guys but the fuel on that tanker is not going to be enough to reach our intended destination.”

  “Shit!” Cole growled through his hood.

  “There are two more trucks inside the motor pool,” Milner said. “Both are gassed up to the brim.”

  “Looks like we’ll have to go back in there and get them, I’m sorry to say,” Cole groaned.

  I felt my body physically sag. We’d been through hell to get the fuel truck out to the aircraft and now we were going to have to go do it all again. I didn’t know how much more my nerves could take.

  Chapter Forty

  Chief Cole suggested Smith and I sit this mission out but we wanted to be involved. We knew the motor pool layout and could provide directions back through the blizzard. Cole reluctantly agreed and briefed the personnel he chose to re-enter the terminal building.

  I was pleased when he picked me to ride shotgun alongside Cordoba in the snowplow. Smith and Kauffmann would return with us and hop into the next fuel tanker when we got back inside the motor pool. An aircrew driver, Milner, Amato, and the two Marines who took care of Dyson would follow us in the Humvee to provide extra fire power and cover us when we swapped vehicles. I handed over the sets of gas truck keys and the M-9 handgun to Kauffmann.

  Cole wished us luck and told us not to waste any time in returning. I didn’t intend to prolong our stay at Halifax Airport in the middle of a freezing winter snowstorm. Cordoba pulled away in the snowplow once again, with the Humvee following in our wake.

  We’d trundled slowly along, following our same route through the furrows we’d previously made in the blanket of snow, when we saw shuffling shapes emerging from the fog, heading towards us. The bedraggled, walking corpses seemed unaffected by the harsh weather and fanned out in lumbering files across the snow cleared trail.

  “Hostiles heading our way,” Cordoba informed Milner through the radio headset.

  “Roger that,” Milner responded. “Lukas is ready in the turret on the M2.”

  We heard the rattle of the heavy machine gun a few seconds later and the undead bodies began to drop into the snow. Cordoba didn’t deviate from the already cleared path and the plow blade sliced through any zombies who came to close.

  We didn’t have much difficulty relocating the motor pool door we’d smashed through making our breakout. The fallen roller door lay bent and buckled on the ground by the open entranceway, already with a thin layer of snow forming over it.

  Cordoba bounced the vehicle over the top of the twisted metal structure and back inside the motor pool. It felt as though we were returning to the scene of a crime when I saw all the bloody and broken bodies lying around the floor space. Cordoba moved the snowplow at a crawl towards the two fuel trucks on the opposite side of the motor pool. She U-turned our vehicle and backed up a few feet in front of the gas tankers. I noticed a large bloody puddle surrounding a pile of guts, bones and gore on the ground, slightly to the left of the empty parking space where we’d moved the gas truck earlier. Shredded remains of combat fatigues and cold weather gear lay amongst the gruesome mess and I realized it was all that was left of poor Swann.

  “Jesus,” I muttered, as I studied the grisly remnants. It was hard to believe the pile of bloody pulp used to be a walking, talking, breathing human being not more than an hour before. A lone, skinny male zombie crouched over the leftovers, sucking the flesh off what looked like a leg bone.

  Milner drove the Humvee around in a tight circle in front of the snowplow cab, checking the area for hazards. A few zombies still milled around the motor pool and began their slow, lumbering approach.

  “Guys, don’t shoot around the gas tankers,” Cordoba warned the rest of the crew through the radio.

  Milner brought the Humvee to a halt, broadside on to the snowplow cab and Amato, the aircrew driver and the other Marine jumped out the back doors. Lukas, the other Marine stayed in position in the heavy duty machine gun turret while the others sprinted towards the aviation gas trucks. Amato picked up a wrench from the floor and weighed it in his hand. He clumped the heavy tool around the back of the bone sucking zombie’s head as he moved by the horrific clutter of Swann’s human residue.

  “Okay, go guys,” Cordoba hollered at Smith and Kauffmann. “Let’s get these damn trucks moving.”

  Kauffmann opened the passenger door and him and Smith bum shuffled across the front seat.

  “Do you want me to show you where the battery jumper is?” I asked.

  Smith laughed beneath his hood. “I think we can manage okay, kid.” He slapped me on the shoulder as he and Kauffmann clambered out of the cab.

  They disappeared from view, running alongside the snowplow body. Cordoba kept a watch on events through the side mirror. I wanted to say something to her about the way I felt now that we were alone.

  We heard shouts of encouragement and instructions coming from between the gas trucks. Lukas fired off a few well aimed single shots from the Humvee machine gun turret at any zombies who came too close. The heads of the undead exploded into brown mist when the .50 caliber bullets hit their target.

  I tried to pluck up some inner courage as I kept glancing at Cordoba.

  “She wouldn’t be interested in a loser like you,” I heard my alternative self mock inside my head.

  “Ah…what’s your first name?” I stuttered.

  “Estela,” she muttered. “What’s yours?”

  “Brett,” I spat out too quickly. My response sounded more like “Bbbwet.”

  She nodded but kept a vigilant watch between the side mirror and the Humvee in front of us.

  “Ah…when this is all over, I mean when we get to Scotland. Would you like to have dinner with me sometime,” I burbled.

  A lengthy silence followed and I felt my face flushing again behind the cold weather hood.

  “Maybe, Brett but let’s just get there first, huh?”

  “Okay,” I muttered and turned my gaze to Lukas manning the heavy machine gun on top of the Humvee.

  The awkward silence was broken by the noise of one of the gas truck’s engine roaring into life. My embarrassment was temporarily suspended.

  “That’s one started,” Cordoba cheered. “Come on, guys,” she pleaded through the radio. “Let’s get going.” Her voice had attained an attractive huskiness that I found both sexy and appealing but the probable truth was she was damn exhausted.

  I leaned across the seat to look in the side mirror and saw Smith, Kauffmann and the other guys scurrying around by the gas trucks, wheeling the battery jumper between them.

  We heard another derivative rumble and Kauffmann yelled across the airwaves. “Second truck engine is running. Ready to move when you guys are.”

  “Roger that,” Milner cheered a reply. “Cordoba, you lead the way, Kauffmann, you follow first then Ruiz in the second truck and we’ll follow on your six.”

  All relevant parties concurred through the radio. I presumed Ruiz was the aircrew driver who would be driving the second truck. Cordoba rolled forward and our convoy followed us back outside into the snowstorm.

  We encountered another bunch of zombies who couldn’t decide whether to plow on through the snow towards the aircraft or make their way back to the motor pool to encounter us. They were too late whatever they’d decided. Cordoba plowed straight through them, slicing their decayed bodies into pieces. Arms, legs
and heads scattered amongst the deep snow as we drove through the line of undead standing in our path.

  The refueling crew waited for us when we returned alongside the C-17. The first gas truck had already been emptied and parked up a safe distance away from the aircraft. Cordoba swung the snowplow around and brought the vehicle to a halt next to the first gas truck. The two remaining fuel tankers lined up alongside the C-17, directed in position by the refueling crew.

  I breathed out a sigh of relief when Cordoba applied the snowplow parking brake. It was only a matter of time before we were airborne again. We’d somehow succeeded in the first stage of our mission. Surely, crossing the Atlantic would be a walk in the park compared to the hassles we’d had whilst trying to refuel the damn plane?

  Chapter Forty-One

  Cordoba and I walked back to the military aircraft, watching the refueling crew dash backward and forward between the gas trucks as we passed by. I noticed Ruiz, the aircrew driver had rejoined his team and was busy yelling instructions to the rest of his guys. Chief Cole stood next to the bottom of the ramp, keeping a watchful eye on the operation. Smith and Kauffmann stood either side of him. Cole nodded a welcome as we approached and slapped me on the back.

  “Good work, guys,” he boomed. “We’ll be up in the air again in less than an hour.”

  Amato and the other Marine regrouped with Milner and Lukas in the Humvee, which was parked a few yards to the left of the gas tankers. Lukas remained inside the machine gun turret, constantly sweeping the landscape for hostiles.

  “I’m going to grab a cup of coffee,” Cordoba sighed. “I’m dead beat.”

  “Me too,” I added and followed her up the cargo ramp.

  An immobile forklift truck and a few pallets and packing crates sat in the snow next to the left side of the ramp. I remembered the Humvee was packed inside the cargo hold in front of the freight, so the guys had to remove the crates and pallets in order to get the vehicle out of the interior.

  Cordoba led the way. We removed our eye goggles and folded up the hoods so they remained on our heads like winter hats. Cordoba took our M-16s and unloaded and racked them. She approached a small table surrounded by a huddle of military guys and girls. All wore cold weather jackets and welcomed Cordoba with smiles and pats on the back. A few of them gave me a nod of appreciation but I was never going to be a returning hero in their eyes. I was just some dude, a waif and stray hitching a ride on their plane.

  A big, silver urn sat on the table surrounded by a pile of white Styrofoam cups. The pleasant aroma of fresh coffee wafted through the cargo hold and I desperately wanted a cup of the hot, reviving beverage.

  “Coffee?” asked a smiling, pretty female, with blonde hair poking out the sides of her wooly hat.

  Cordoba and I both gave a positive response and the blonde girl handed us a cup of steaming Joe each. A jug of cream and a sugar pot sat on the table but I couldn’t be bothered to add the extra ingredients. I sipped the black coffee and enjoyed its warmth as it slipped down my throat. Somebody handed around a box of donuts and I gratefully took one. Cordoba chatted to her colleagues, recounting our exploits inside the airport terminal. I wanted to spend some time alone with her but realized that wasn’t going to happen any time soon.

  “Hey, Brett,” shrieked a voice behind me. I turned to see Batfish grinning at me with her arms held open.

  I responded with a long hug, careful not to spill my coffee down Batfish’s neck. It felt good to be embraced, even if the donor was a plutonic friend.

  “You did it, Brett. Well done,” she cheered in my ear.

  “Where’s Spot?” I suddenly worried about the little dog.

  “Oh, he’s okay,” Batfish replied, drawing away from our embrace. “I took him outside for a quick walk earlier but he didn’t like the snow. He’s with Mignon and Landri, last seen asleep on their laps. Where’s Smith?”

  “Ah, he’s outside with Chief Cole and a few of the other guys looking out for zombies. I’m glad everybody is okay in here.” I sighed and took another sip of coffee and a bite of the donut.

  “Brett, you look terrible,” Batfish wailed, studying my face. “What happened out there?”

  “Same shit as usual. We lost a few guys along the way.” I thought of Johnson, Swann and Dyson and suddenly felt completely exhausted.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Batfish asked.

  “Not right now,” I groaned. “I could do with a sit down and a bit of shut-eye.”

  Batfish forced a smile. “You go ahead, Brett. Get some rest, you’ve earned it. I’m sure we’ll be up in the air again soon.”

  I returned a weak smile and made my way back to the row of seats. Landri and Mignon flashed me huge grins when I approached. Spot sat between them on the seats and raised his head and wagged his tail when he saw me. I ruffled his head, tossed him the remainder of the donut and smiled back at the girls.

  “How long to fly again, Brett?” Landri asked me.

  I guessed she wanted to know how long it would be until take off.

  “One hour,” I said, holding up my index finger.

  “One hour?” she repeated, with a bemused expression on her face.

  “Si, oui, ja, or however you say yes.” I nodded to reiterate.

  Landri asked me something else in broken English but I didn’t understand what she was saying and I was too damn tired to try, to be honest. I slumped into my seat, drained the last of my coffee and then leaned my head back against the headrest. My eyelids drooped shut and I felt myself drifting into unconsciousness.

  I didn’t know how long I was out for but the rumbling engines awoke me. Smith sat in the seat next to me and slapped my thigh.

  “Better buckle up, buddy. We’re about to get airborne again,” he said, with a hint of excitement in his tone. He’d removed his cold weather clothing and was dressed in some clean, khaki combat fatigues.

  “At fucking last,” I sighed and strapped myself into the seat. I wasn’t too hot or too cold and couldn’t be bothered to remove my jacket. I pulled the hood off my head and let it fall to the floor.

  I felt the motion of the plane backing up then turning and hoped the snowy weather wouldn’t hamper our take off.

  “What about the snow?” I mumbled.

  “What?”

  “Will we be able to lift off in the snow?” I repeated with slight irritation.

  “You bet,” Smith replied. “Kauffmann cleared some of the runway with your girlfriend’s snowplow. This bird don’t need much of a run up to get into the sky.”

  Again, I felt a little annoyed at Smith’s reference to Cordoba as my girlfriend but didn’t give him the satisfaction of showing I was riled. Instead, I closed my eyes again and felt the aircraft gather speed. My stomach churned and I heard cheers from the rest of the passengers, which told me we were back in that strange place, above the surface of the Earth.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  I slipped in and out of sleep for hours. The continuous drone of the engines helped put me back into an unconscious state whenever I awoke. Smith sipped from a can of beer on one occasion when I came to. I desperately wanted a glug but was too tired to ask him for some.

  Fragments of memories, dreams and images of people from my past all flashed through my mind while I slept. None of it made sense and there was no comprehensible sequence of events during the dreams. People spoke with different voices and took on different traits and personalities. My brain was a jumbled mess of fatigue and psychological trauma.

  I stirred and fully awoke when the pitch of the aircraft engines changed to a whine. I rubbed my eyes and blinked rapidly, trying to alleviate the grogginess. Smith and Batfish dozed in their seats on either side of me. I looked around to the row of seats behind me. Spot lay curled up, sleeping on Mignon’s lap. Landri’s head rested on Mignon’s shoulder and both girls looked peaceful in sleep. Chief Cole also slept, snoring loudly in the seat beside Landri.

  The C-17 felt as though it was descending and no
t for the first time, I wished the damn plane had some windows so I might have some idea of what the hell was going on out there in the atmosphere. Were we above land or sea? Enclosed in this fucking flying tube, I had no clue. I suddenly started to feel jittery and claustrophobic. Beads of sweat formed across my forehead and I felt hot and anxious. My stomach was in knots and I thought I was going to throw up.

  I unclipped my seat belt and tore off the cold weather jacket, pants and tactical gloves. I tasted the coffee I’d drunk earlier combined with stomach bile forcing its way from my guts. I stood and stretched, rolling my aching neck then walked on shaky legs around the side of the cargo behind the seats. Everybody in the C-17 interior remained asleep, nuzzled on their seats, running along the aircraft sides. I rubbed my face and wiped away the sweat with my sleeve. What was wrong with me? What if I was sick? Had I somehow become contaminated with infected zombie blood?

  All kinds of scenarios raced through my mind. A ghastly, throaty voice rasped inside my head – “Illness, terminal illness, cancer, heart disease, Ebola, typhoid, malaria, gonorrhea, diarrhea, fucking bubonic plague. Who’s going to treat you if you catch any of those?” The fucker kept repeating the words over and over.

  “Shut the fuck up!” I screeched, holding my hands over my ears in an attempt to block out the horrible singing voice. I shut my eyes, wishing all of the bad thoughts away.

  When I opened my eyes, I noticed several people staring at me with an expression of shock and concern on their faces, as though I was some kind of basket case. I’d awoken them with my yelling at the voice inside my head. Unfortunately, one of the worried onlookers happened to be Estela Cordoba. Her dark eyes gazed blankly at me and her mouth hung open.

  “You’ve blown it there, pal,” the voice inside my head crowed.

  Reality hit me like a slap in the face. Maybe I was mentally ill or perhaps I was suffering some sort of breakdown.