The Left Series (Book 1): Leftovers

by Christian Fletcher

  “Okay, people? I’m Colonel Podolski of the U.S. Army 42 Infantry Division.” He pointed to a name badge sewed over the left side of his shirt as if to confirm who he was.“The situation is critical on the outside, you must obviously know that.”

  “Of course,” Smith sighed.

  Podolski’s steely blue eyes darted in Smith’s direction for a second. Wrinkles appeared briefly in his forehead below the graying buzz cut. I knew Smith would do his best to get under the guy’s skin.

  Podolski carried on unperturbed. “In order to attempt to rectify the situation, we need to carry out some tests on the H5N1H1N1virus with living humans.”

  I didn’t like where Podolski was going with this. A bead of sweat trickled down my forehead. My bladder felt like it was going to burst.

  “Unfortunately for you guys, we’re going to have to perform some tests on you,” Podolski carried on. “Be rest assured though, the tests will be carried out by qualified physicians. The tests may not result in the way you hoped but will protect the future of mankind.”

  “Colonel, sir?” I piped up. “I really have to use the bathroom.”

  “Oh…err…okay, take him to the bathroom,” Podolski waved nonchalantly at one of the soldiers.

  “Yes, sir,” the soldier barked and moved towards me.

  He guided me out of the room, through the corridor and into a bathroom. My stomach ache receded instantly when I relieved myself. I washed my face and hands at the sink with the soldier standing over me the whole time. I looked at my reflection in the mirror and saw a shadow of my former self, a broken and emaciated man. Dry swollen lips, red puffy eyes, noticeable weight loss. I looked gaunt and skinny, like one of the dead. I’d aged ten years in the last few days. Maybe I was a dead man walking. Maybe these were my last few hours left living and breathing as a human being. I had a feeling what was left of the army was going to use us as guinea pigs in some bizarre experiment to preserve their own skins. Would being a zombie be so bad? At least you were sort of alive. Rosenberg didn’t hold out much hope for a cure for the disease that had taken hold of the world.

  “Time is up sir,” the soldier said behind me. “We need to go back to the interview room.”

  Interview room? I always associated interviews with job applications and talking nicely to future employers. This “interview room” was more like a death sentence area. I wished I had some sort of weapon on me to fight this guy. I would rather go out fighting and be shot than expose myself to Frankenstein type experiments that were almost certainly going to end badly.

  “Two million dollars is yours if you let me go,” I squealed. I didn’t know if the soldiers had confiscated Smith’s loot or left it in the RV. “Two million dollars in cash is in our vehicle. It’s yours if you let me go.”

  I felt like a snake shedding its skin, ratting out on the others just to save my scrawny neck. I couldn’t believe the words came out of my mouth. I looked in the bathroom mirror at the soldier’s reflection. I knew he was thinking about it by the expression in his eyes, behind the gas mask. Trickles of sweat ran down my forehead.

  “Come on, you bastard. We can both disappear out of here and get somewhere safe with two million bucks.”

  Gunfire echoed through the corridor and the opportunity was lost.

  “Quick, finish up, sir. We need to get back to the interview room,” the soldier yelled through his mike.

  Static, screams and yells came through his mike all at once. I knew something was going on, maybe in the interview room or zombies had broken through the soldier’s defense. I thought for a brief moment of rushing the soldier as he bent over to talk into his mike. The moment passed when he stood up straight and aimed his rifle at me. More screams came through his mike and I recognized Batfish’s voice shouting, “Oh my fucking God, he’s dead.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  I didn’t need any guidance by the soldier as we rushed back through the corridor to the interview room. I bundled through the door and faced a scene of carnage.

  Smith lay prone on his back in the middle of the room with blood pooling on the floor around him. Two vertical spaced gunshot wounds pierced high on the right side of his chest. Rosenberg knelt by Smith shouting at the soldiers for medical supplies. Batfish, Julia and Eazy stood ashen faced in the far corner of the room. Four soldiers stood with their rifles aimed at them and yelling to keep back. The soldier called Earkhart lay prone and still on the ground with bullet holes through the blood stained eye lenses of his gas mask.

  “What the fuck happened, Denny?” I whispered, kneeling next to Rosenberg.

  “Smith said something about that guy’s mother and he went to batter him. Smith grabbed his rifle and shot him in the face. Then Podolsk shot Smith,” he sighed.

  “Is he alive?” I stammered.

  “Okay, you go over there with the others,” the soldier who accompanied me to the bathroom grabbed me by the arm and shoved towards the corner of the room.

  I was glad to see Batfish had hold of Spot in her arms. At least he hadn’t been hurt in the commotion.

  Podolski paced up and down the length of the two way mirror holding a service pistol with a look of rage on his face.

  “This is what happens when we don’t conform, people,” he shouted. “This is why the world is so fucked up.”

  Doctor Doom and the chubby orderly burst through the door with a look of frustration etched on their faces. They marched into the center of the room and took a look at the two prone figures.

  “What the hell is going on here, Colonel?” the doctor snapped. “Why are these people shot?”

  “There was an incident with one of the detainees,” Podolski hissed through clenched teeth.

  Now we were classed as detainees, which in reality sounded something like prisoners. Not for the first time, our situation was rapidly going to rat shit.

  The orderly knelt down over Earkhart’s body and tested for a pulse on his neck and wrist. “This one is dead, sir,” he said.

  Rosenberg did his best to stem the flow of blood from Smith’s wounds with his bare hands until the orderly brushed him aside. He checked Smith’s pulse and heart beat.

  “This one is still alive, sir although his pulse is weak and he may not make it. He’ll need immediate medical attention.”

  “Okay, take him to the medical center,” Doctor Doom ordered two of the soldiers standing behind Rosenberg. “That dead body will come in useful for further tests,” he said to Podolski.

  Podolski nodded. “Take Earkhart’s body to the lab,” he ordered to two soldiers standing each side of the doorway.

  The soldiers slung their rifles around their backs and lifted the two bodies, carrying them around the shoulders and legs.

  “Be careful,” Rosenberg stammered rather pathetically as they lifted Smith.

  Doctor Doom and the orderly shuffled after the soldiers into the corridor outside the interview room.

  “Get that mess cleaned up,” Podolski pointed to the pools and foot prints of smeared blood on the floor where the bodies had laid.

  I hoped Smith would make it. He was more or less like our unelected leader. I know I looked to him for inspiration and protection sometimes. Smith was a loose cannon all right, but even by his standards, he was crazy to have tried to take on a room full of armed soldiers with his bare hands. It was in his nature to live and die by the sword. Maybe he’d rather be shot trying to escape than succumb to whatever these impending experiments were.

  Batfish and Julia sniffed back the tears either side of me. Spot shook uncontrollably in Batfish’s arms. Eazy looked shocked, nervously glancing around the room. Rosenberg, his face pale and sweaty, was shoved into our midst by one of the soldiers. We stood like a pathetic flock of sheep waiting to be slaughtered.

  “Okay, let’s move them down to the holding pen,” Podolski ordered.

  “Holding pen?” I queried. Now we were really being treated like animals.

  “Let’s go,” barked one of the sol
diers gesturing to the doorway with his rifle. “And do not try to escape as the use of lethal force will be applied.”

  We shuffled to the door in single file with rifles trained on us from all sides. Podolski followed behind with his pistol still drawn. The soldiers led us through the corridor and down some gray concrete steps. I heard the drone of the backup generators as we descended deeper into the bowels of the building. We exchanged tense glances in total silence.

  The lower level spanned out into a large floor space with several closed, plain white doors uniformly spaced on either side. Small rectangular windows with embedded wire mesh were positioned at head height in the center of the doors.

  Podolski moved towards a keypad on the wall to our right and typed in a code. The keypad bleeped and three LED lights flashed green before the doors swung open inwards.

  “Okay, one person per room, please,” Podolski barked. “The dog can stay with you, missy,” he said nodding, at Batfish.

  The soldiers herded us into our respective cells. Eazy tried to protest but was shoved in the chest by one soldier and had a rifle barrel shoved in his face by another.

  “May God have mercy on your souls,” I heard Podolski say before the cell doors swung shut.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The holding pen, as Podolski had called it, was nothing more than an eight by six foot box. A dim light embedded in the ceiling, buzzed irritatingly overhead. The only item the cell contained was a narrow metal bed, bolted firmly to the wall with a thin, vinyl covered mattress perched on top and a small, stinking stainless steel toilet clamped to the back wall.

  I took a peek through the small window at the room beyond the door. I couldn’t see any of the soldiers standing on guard out there. Foolishly, I tried to push open the door to no avail. Somehow I doubted whether Podolski and his men would be stupid enough to leave the cells unlocked.

  “Anybody got any plans?” Eazy’s words were muffled through the walls.

  I sighed and slumped down on the uncomfortable bed. Batfish made inaudible threats and I heard something about “kicking ass.” I for one was fresh out of any ideas or escape plans. All those near misses and scrapes, escaping the clutches of the living dead were bringing us here, to this God forsaken place. But the whole world had become a God forsaken place and there was nothing that anyone could do about it. Especially not Doctor Fucking Doom and that asshole Podolski. What the fuck did they think they were going to achieve? The remaining, living humans should be protecting each other not creating more death and misery. I hoped they would create another virus and inadvertently wipe themselves off the face of the planet.

  All we could do was sit and wait for whatever was about to happen to us. I wondered what Smith would do in this situation. Where had they taken him anyhow? The reality hit me that I’d probably never see him again.

  “The dog needs a pee, you assholes,” Batfish yelled, thudding on the door or the walls.

  Poor Spot was going to have to piss in the corner of the cell. I wanted a cigarette but remembered the soldiers had confiscated all our personal items before they loaded us on the truck back at the Interstate. The only items they’d let us keep were the flashlights for the journey.

  I thought about the world before the mass outbreak of infection had started. It was all bullshit. I wondered what kind of state the call center was in, where I’d turned up for work for nearly six years, loathing every wasted day. Enlarged photos of happy, smiling people had adorned the office walls. The people were supposedly happy because they had piece of mind due to buying life insurance from our company. All their concerns and worries would be taken care of because the insurance would cover all their financial needs if they got sick. What a total crock of crap that ideology was. I wondered how many people had claimed on their life insurance policies when they or members of their families had become infected with the zombie virus.

  Politicians had talked about global recessions and economic failures for the last few years when, in reality, the whole structure of life itself had come crashing down in a matter of days. No amount of false smiles, slogans and advertising campaigns could have stopped the mass tidal wave of death, disease and chaos that had ensued.

  I lay on the bed and dozed deciding to try and recharge my energy levels and make up for the lost sleep I’d missed over the last few days. Hours drifted by and I lost track of time as my watch was confiscated along with my other possessions. Occasionally, I awoke when one of my other cell mates banged on the door in desperation and vented their anger and frustration in muffled cries.

  I felt like I’d been asleep for days when I was awoken by the cell door opening. My throat was dry and I was gagging for water as I sat up, wiping the sleep from my eyes.

  Three soldiers entered the cell pointing their rifles at me. They didn’t wear the gas masks this time and their faces showed no emotion, only grim determination and red eyes through lack of sleep.

  “Okay, get up,” one of the soldiers grunted, kicking the bed frame.

  “What’s going on?” I croaked.

  “Your presence is required elsewhere,” the soldier at the back of the line barked. The other two laughed briefly.

  So this was it. I was being summoned to meet Doctor Doom for a face off. I felt dead already and hoped the experiments wouldn’t be too painful and drawn out. I hauled myself to my feet, still feeling exhausted and beaten. Surprisingly, I felt no fear. Maybe I’d just accepted my fate.

  The soldiers led me out of the cell and I heard the others banging on their doors. I glanced back and saw their anxious faces pressed against the small windows. I gave a slightly pathetic wave and felt a lump of sorrow in my throat. I was the first one to be submitted to the experiments but maybe it was better to get it over and done with, instead of prolonging the inevitable conclusion.

  I blocked out the muffled words the others yelled as the soldiers led me up the staircase. Whatever they said couldn’t have made any difference to the situation. I felt like some convict from long ago, taking his last steps up to the gallows.

  I thought about dad, standing on the deck of his yacht anchored off Battery Park Harbor, checking his watch, trying my number on his phone and scanning the shore for our approach. Unfortunately, he’d have a long wait before he finally gave up with the crushing realization that I wasn’t coming. I felt overwhelming sadness as I imagined his face crumpling with grief.

  Maybe we could have just holed up in Brynston somewhere and either starved to death or finally succumbed to the zombie hordes. We’d made a last stand and put up a bit of a fight, surviving longer than most. At least we’d tried to continue to exist. I felt slightly proud of that fact.

  The soldiers led me through the corridor and passed the door where we’d been examined in the interview room. The corridor snaked around to the right with more rooms leading to the left. I hadn’t realized how big the building was when we entered, in what seemed like weeks ago.

  My armed captors stopped outside the last door on the left of the corridor. One of the soldiers rapped on the small safety glass window and was acknowledged by a muffled reply. He opened the door and gestured for me to enter with a jerk of his head.

  The room was dimly lit and the same size as the interview area with a different layout. Inverted wall lights illuminated racks of test tubes and glass jars along the back wall. Waist high counter tops ran around the perimeter of the room. A reclining dentist chair with wrist and ankle straps was positioned in the center with small trolleys on either side. I noticed several syringes placed on white cloths on the top shelves of the trolleys.

  Doctor Doom and his evil assistant plodded back and forth across the length of the room. They trudged to various test tubes and lab equipment then back to an operating table in the corner. A dead body, illuminated by a bright folding lamp, lay on the operating table. The chest and stomach was cut open revealing the rib cage and internal organs. I hoped it wasn’t Smith. I moved slightly to the right and was relieved to see the dead b
ody wasn’t Smith but recognized the face as Earkhart, the dead soldier. The fatal head wounds had been cleaned to reveal two circular bullet holes in his cheek and forehead. I wondered what disgusting experiments these two bastards were performing on one of their own.

  “Well, sit our patient down in the chair,” Doom barked at the soldiers.

  I thought of making a break for it. Grabbing one of the rifles and trying to shoot my way out like Smith had attempted. Before I summoned the courage, I was forced into the chair and strapped into place at the wrists, ankles and around the neck.

  “Is that all, doc?” asked one of the soldiers.

  Doctor Doom gave me a casual glance, studied the restraints and nodded.

  “Yes, that will be all. Tell Colonel Podolski I’ll inform him of any progress made,” he said casually.

  The soldiers nodded and left the room, leaving me at the mercy of the deranged doctor. I tried moving my arm against the straps but they were tightly secured.

  “You’re supposed to be helping people live,” I blurted. “What kind of sick fuck are you?” My tone grew louder. “Call yourself a doctor? You’re worse than those dead bastards outside.” My rage and frustration spilled out, I felt tears welling in the corners of my eyes. I struggled against the restraints wishing I’d summoned the courage and will to live a few moments earlier.

  The doctor ignored my ranting. He gave me a brief glance over the top of his lab glasses.

  “You better suppress that patient, Finn,” he said to the chubby orderly. “I’m finding it difficult to work with all that noise.”

  The orderly nodded and approached.

  “Don’t you touch me, you fat fuck,” I spat. Spittle flew from my lips into the orderly’s face.

  My threats were in vein. Finn rolled up my left sleeve and took one of the syringes lying on the top of the trolley. I screamed and shuffled in the chair as much as I could, primal fear taking hold of my body. He muttered something to the doctor before plunging the needle into my arm. I screamed louder as I felt the sting of the needle penetrate my skin. Sweat dripped from Finn’s forehead as his thumb depressed the syringe plunger. Clear liquid discharged from the syringe into my veins. The effect was almost instant.