Left Behind: The Suburban Dead

by T. A. Sorsby

  I’d never seen us move so fast.

  We were back in Damian’s big blue monster and reversing before I’d quite had a chance to grab onto something in the boot. Neville spun us around in the car park, throwing me against Morgan with an apologetic gasp as the wind was knocked out of me.

  I managed to right myself as we stormed onto the streets of Greenfield city centre. VBC Studios was not far from the train station. Not far at all. Neville turned us left, speeding down the side street and onto the main road – a week ago, traffic would have been pretty heavy around here, but now it was smooth sailing, onto a different part of the dual-carriageway, and we were practically there.

  Neville crossed four lanes, not heading for the train station’s small parking area, but meaning to drive us straight up to the front doors.

  Greenfield Station wasn’t a particularly grand affair – a little old, a little dated, but the area outside had been freshened up for the Greenest City awards. Set down from the main road, the station was separated from the sidewalk by a sloping, curved fountain wall of stainless steel, bringing you down into a plaza of planters and benches. When the weather was nice they even had table tennis outside.

  The station’s edifice was all old stone arches, but around that skeleton they’d bolted steel and glass, for the more modern look. Between that and the fountain, it was actually a fairly pretty place to look at. On a good day.

  Today the view was spoiled by the drab CDC tents erected between the greenery, with gurneys and scattered supply tables tossed around by the ravages of a struggle some days ago. More than one of the marquee tents had been burned to its skeleton, nothing but ashes and the blackened remains of cot beds standing beneath.

  The glass walls of the station had also been covered over with opaque white tarps – emblazoned with yellow and black stripes. Quarantine, if I had to guess. Did they even realise they’d quarantined the station we were supposed to escape through?

  My mind raced for another way in – but I knew there wasn’t one. You couldn’t see them from here, but there were high walls with barbed wire around the parking lot, and if we spent the time driving to the other side of the tracks we’d be met with the giant retaining wall of the hillside opposite. My train of thought, so to speak, was derailed by the chatter of gunfire.

  ‘Fuck, no!’ Neville shouted, breaking hard before we reached the bottom of the ramp, and reversing up, looking over his shoulder. He’d seen the men emerging from the tents, and they did not look friendly.

  GCR wasn’t a private broadcast, and there must have still been some of those arseholes from the convoy close enough to intercept us. As of now, I had no clue what their problem was with us, or the Mercs, but since they were firing at us it was definitely an issue.

  ‘Get ready to fight!’ I yelled, as Neville backed us to the top of the ramp. ‘We’re going through them.’

  ‘There’s got to be like, ten, twelve guys down there!’ Lucile panicked, ‘We can’t take on that many!’

  The gunfire petered out as we were out of sight, but that meant that the sound of another engine could cut through the new silence. Something big, with a lot of grunt – a charcoal grey cousin of our own 4x4.

  The Sydow Sec Humvee charged into the plaza at the bottom of the ramp, just after the curtain wall. They’d done what we’d done, come up the curb using a pedestrian crossing. But unlike us, they didn’t have to curve down into the plaza. They were straight into it, barrelling down the corridors formed between tents, scattering and distracting the gunmen.

  ‘We go through them!’ I yelled again, opening the boot and turning back to bellow orders. ‘Laurel, sniper, up here! Damian, cover her! Everyone else, with me!’

  I had no fucking idea if they were going to do what I said, but I should have known by now that these people would listen to me. The idea of being in charge was still pretty fresh, and as much as I’d tried my damnedest, I’m sure I’d always have doubts.

  I didn’t see Laurel and Damian setting up, but I heard the crack of her rifle before I felt the presence of the others at my back as I strapped on my bag. I helped them into theirs, left Laurel with her’s, and picked up Damian’s heavy pack, straining my left arm but trying to put that out of my head. Neville had agreed to take it, but I needed him shooting.

  I moved for another one of the plaza’s entrances – the stairs. While the ramp provided access near the doors for wheelchairs, sightseers and the occasional ATV, the stairs led down into the planters and tents.

  It was a more exposed route down, but the low wall that shielded the ramp wouldn’t have been much better – best thing would be to close as quickly as possible, make use of the confusion that Sydow Humvee had bought us.

  Neville and Anita capitalised on it straight away – as we crossed the open ground between the stairs and the nearest planter, one of the gunmen was stumbling around the corner of a tent, checking his shoulder. They were sparing with their shots, but more than enough hit home, spraying the side of the tent with red mist as he dropped.

  The shots brought a renewed hail of gunfire, but none of it seemed directed at us. From within the rows of tents I heard a woman scream – ‘Get down!’ – followed by the loudest gun I’d ever heard. It was like Laurel’s rifle firing on automatic. The thundering, chugging sound of the weapon deafened us to everything else.

  I led my team around the side of the tents, sticking to the planters, going for the right side of the building. The fighting sounded like it was coming from the front doors, so we’d go in through the side. I checked to make sure everyone was following, and was pleased to see them staying low, moving one at a time while the others covered.

  At the top of the stairs, crouched behind the chest-high wall, I saw Laurel in position, but over the booming noise of the machine gun, I couldn’t tell if she was firing – until the gun suddenly stopped. Maybe the operator had been shot? But whose side were they on anyway?

  Another series of shots rang out, punctuated by two thunderclaps from behind me, Laurel taking out unsuspecting shooters. When the hail of bullets from the machine gun didn’t resume, I figured it was as safer time as any to move.

  ‘Shooter, on the stairs!’ I heard someone shout.

  ‘Hostile?’ another voice answered. No telling if they were Sydow’s people or the convoy raiders.

  ‘He’s our sniper!’ a third voice called back, ‘Put your guns down and walk, this doesn’t have to go worse for you than it already has.’

  The third voice was the voice of reason. Made sense if that’d be Sydow, but I wasn’t in a mood for taking any more chances. If they had the guns and the skills, they’d be right behind us after they’d finished dealing with these assholes.

  I waved until I got Laurel’s attention, then made a beckoning motion, followed by holding up one finger, hopefully she’d get that meant ‘one minute’. I knew she’d be exposed coming down those stairs – Damian keeping her from just making a dead sprint for it, so we needed a distraction, and I knew one that’d worked before.

  ‘Anta, flares.’ I whispered, taking the green and red fireworks out of my pocket.

  She understood, taking out her own. ‘Green?’

  ‘On the count of three…’ I began, letting her finish the countdown in her head. On the third beat, we ripped the end of a flare each, and tossed them into the tents without a sound, coloured smoke billowing skywards. We’d picked green – hopefully Sydow would recognise it as military flares, and green for the friendly colour.

  There came the sounds of swearing, followed by something being knocked over. Someone else started barking orders and within moments the gunfire resumed, though perhaps more frantic and panicked than before.

  Laurel and Damian didn’t stop when they got to us, they kept on running, the tall woman supporting the large man in a mad dash for the side of the building. It’d be worth a few fresh stitches if we managed to catch this train.

  Past the planters and the plaza, the confusion and the gunfire, we ma
de it to the taxi rank, a sheltered turning circle for pickups and drop-offs near the car park. The quarantine tarp still blocked the doors I knew were there, but Lucile grabbed hold of a seam and found the zip, pulling upwards as I did the head count. Nobody left behind, I thought with pride.

  I took the lead, going for the glass doors beyond the tarp, but they were locked. I couldn’t see the mechanism, so I figured it had to be electronic, stuck into lockdown as the power went out. I doubted the doors were bulletproof glass though.

  Standing back, I fired once, shattering the left door, and leading the way into the building, Lucile holding the tarp so everyone could get through. On one hand, we were out of the gunfire, on the other hand, I think we’d have been safer in it.

  ‘Mother of fuck.’ Morgan gasped, bringing her gun into a ready position, but holding fire.

  The main body of the station stretched away before us, a few concession stores on the right, a coffee shop on the left, all the shutters down. Daylight came in patchy through the skylights, and muted through the tarp that covered the front of the building. But it was enough light to see the blood by.

  People must have come here for evacuation before us. A lot of people. The tiled floors were a mess of luggage, bloody smears and footprints – the milling footprints of wandering zeds, all of whom had gathered at the front of the building, pressing their mass against the windows and doors in a shuffling, moaning horde. There must have been a hundred of them.

  The gun battle outside had shattered several panes of the glass walls, letting a handful of zeds here and there press right up against the tarp – a matter of time before it broke or came away from whatever had fixed it to the walls.

  Luckily, they hadn’t heard my shot amongst the din outside, nor heard Morgan’s swearing. As everyone else came in behind us, I knew it’d be just a matter of time until we were spotted. I handed Damian’s bag back to Neville.

  ‘I’ll be bringing up the rear,’ I muttered, turning away from the horde and back to my people, ‘Neville, make sure everyone gets on that train. Head for the platform bridge, the stairs will slow the shamblers down, but I’m going to draw their attention.’

  ‘What?’ was the general response from the group.

  ‘They’re going to burst through the walls and attack those soldiers in the back, a whole horde of them.’ I gestured behind me, ‘If Sydow survive that firefight then they’ll still be in deep shit from the zeds. I might be cutting them off from getting the train with us, but at least they might live to see tomorrow.’

  ‘No time to argue,’ Laurel said, ‘let’s go, now or never.’

  Neville adjusted his grip on Damian’s bag, and set off across the station, sticking to the right side, where the concession stores and public toilets were. I brought up the rear, just behind Morgan.

  Archways led towards fast food joints and the first platform, with stairs to the platform bridge in the middle. We got through the archways unseen, and began climbing the stairs. When we were at the top, I waved everyone to keep going, then took out my red flare.

  ‘Over here!’ I yelled, igniting the flare, ‘Right here you braindead bastards!’

  I stood on the top of the steps, waving the red flare and firing my gun twice into the ceiling, to the sound of breaking glass. It must have been enough to convince them the firefight wasn’t all that interesting, as no sooner had the shattered panes rained on the tiles, than runners were shouldering their way through the pack. They’d been at the front of the horde, but they were making better ground that I was, standing still.

  I swore some more, tossing the flare their way and getting myself onto the platform bridge. It spanned all eight platforms, with glass walls overlooking the lines and platform coffee shops, stairs heading down at every number. The group were already at five, but I was catching up fast.

  Suddenly, at six, Morgan was knocked off her feet.

  It came out of one of the stairwells, tackling her like a football player. Her head would have smashed against the hard tile floor if she hadn’t turned in the fall, taking the impact on her backpack. Like the Ghouls at the hospital, this one was in military camo.

  Further ahead, it was Lucile and the supported Damian next in the line, but they hadn’t even seen her go down, let alone were in a condition to help.

  Willing myself faster, I pumped my legs and surged forwards, screaming wordlessly at the Ghoul – unlike the zeds, these things had a sense of self preservation. By being the loudest, meanest looking thing in sight, I hoped I’d scare it off.

  It sort of worked.

  The Ghoul leapt back off of Morgan, the young woman dragging herself out of my path before I tripped over her. I’d thought about using my gun, but I’m an average shot at the best of times. Running forward, firing my revolver single-handed, I stood more chance of shooting Damian in the back.

  Instead, I hit the Ghoul with all the force and momentum I could muster, not trying to bear it to the ground as it had done Morgan, but simply trying to knock it flying. It’d changed its stance to meet me, planting its feet apart, half crouched and waiting – but the end was in sight for me and my people. I was the irresistible force, and he was just another movable object.

  With what I assume to be the force of a battering ram, I shouldered the Ghoul off its feet, knocking it backwards, where it slid a couple of feet across the tiles. That’s when I opened fire.

  Bang. The first shot missed as it tried to regain its feet.

  Bang. My second took it just under the neck.

  Bang. I pressed my gun up to its head before pulling the trigger.

  But that wasn’t the end of the gunfire.

  Morgan was backing up, firing down the bridge at the way we’d just come, where an uncomfortable number of runners were pouring up the stairs, every bit as fast as we were. I holstered my gun, back at my hip.

  ‘Go!’ I ordered, unbuckling the bag strap on my chest.

  ‘Not leaving you!’ she shouted, still firing, ‘Nobody gets left behind!’

  ‘Don’t plan on staying – take this!’ I said, thrusting my bag at her. She took it in one hand, and kept firing with the other. She’d actually managed to get a couple, but there were more where they came from. ‘Go!’

  She growled, but listened to me, tossing me her gun. I didn’t know how many shots were left, but they’d be enough. They had to be. I adopted the grip Anita had taught me and fired at the oncoming runners, emptying the magazine in four or five shots. I only managed to get one before the distance became dangerous, but with that last shot the downed zed managed to trip the two behind it.

  I ran on, shoving the gun into my pocket, steaming for platform eight, the end of the bridge, while drawing out Edgar’s old pistol, my only loaded weapon. I risked a glance over my shoulder and saw that the runners were closer than I expected – three of them, the others still lagging far behind.

  These would get me if I didn’t do something.

  An abrupt turn and I was face to face with them, raising my gunhand and pulling the trigger without trying to think about it. I let the damn thing practically run onto the barrel of the gun before I blew the back of its head off.

  I thrust out a stiff-arm tackle to block the other one while I cocked the pistol with my thumb, just about managing to wrestle the gun into position and fire before the third runner was on me, ragging at my clothes, trying to throw me off balance. It worked.

  I fell into the wall and bounced off, landing face down on the ground. Before it could come down on my back, I rolled, smacking it in the face with the butt of the pistol as it knelt beside me – the force of the blow, fuelled by sheer terror, knocked it backwards long enough for me to get back on my feet. I cocked the pistol, kicked it in the face, and fired as it hit the ground. It would have been cool if I didn’t miss and fire again.

  The fastest of the remaining runners was closing the gap again, two platforms away, but this time I could steady myself, hold the gun properly, and take it out with my remaining two sho
ts. Now all my guns were dry, but at least I had no pursuers. I was clear.

  I reached the top of the stairs to platform eight, and saw the train at the platform already, a mixture of flatbed cargo carriers and steel boxcar containers. They hadn’t stopped the train though, it was still moving, slowly but surely. They couldn’t afford to stop – that platform had a fair number of zeds scattered about – in amongst luggage and scenes of violence. I had to move fast.

  Damian and Lucile were already out of sight, presumably they’d managed to climb into a container, but everyone else had waited, confident they could just leap onto the flatbeds that came next. Laurel shot a zed near the bottom of the stairs, while Anita plugged away at a small knot of them moving towards us from the far side of the platform.

  ‘Go on, go!’ I shouted as I took the stairs, seeing the train begin to noticeably pick up speed, ‘I’m right behind you!’

  Anita and the overburdened Neville jumped onto the flatbed, Morgan not bothering to run further up the platform to get them, just taking a half jump-half stride onto the next flatbed back, still holding onto my bag.

  ‘What took you so long?’ Laurel asked, before jumping onto the one with Neville and Anita.

  I didn’t have enough breath to answer. I just ran as the train began to pick up speed in earnest, reaching the bottom of the stairs and launching straight into a sprint – blind panic setting in at the thought of the train leaving without me, but I was easily within distance to catch it up and jump aboard Morgan’s flatbed.

  I put on a final burst of speed to make the jump – and came crashing down to the cold, rough concrete, the wind knocked out of me, something wrapped around my ankle.

  ‘No!’ I heard Morgan cry out, over the sound of the rolling train, and the ringing in my ears.

  ‘Look out!’ Laurel echoed in my head, the crack of her rifle cutting through the ringing.

  I turned in time to see one zed drop to the platform, half its head missing, but a fast, low shape was moving down the stairs, in military fatigues. Another Ghoul.

  Laurel’s rifle cracked again as I tried to stumble to my feet, kicking the bag strap that’d gotten twisted around my foot, but she must have missed it. The Ghoul jumped on my back, but I’d barely gotten my balance. I came crashing down again, but not before smacking my head against a steel bench.