The Left Series (Book 1): Leftovers

by Christian Fletcher

  The red mist of anger rose from my gut to my head. “Soames, you’re crossing the line here,” I said, trying to sound like Smith.

  “I told you not to take this piece of shit out onto the water. Why did I listen to you people?” he ranted. “Oh, get out of the way,” Soames clambered over the driver’s seat and stepped between us, treading on Rosenberg’s foot. He scrambled towards the motor at the rear of the boat. “I’ll check for your pull chord Rosenberg, then I’ll check nothing is snagging on the propeller while you people sit there on your fat asses.”

  Rosenberg shook his head. “Jeez, for a senior doctor, he’s a real asshole,” he whispered.

  Julia looked straight ahead, chewing on her lower lip with a look of concealed anger. I felt the same way. I’m not really a fighting man but I would have punched Soames full in his ranting face if we were anywhere but stuck on a small, drifting boat.

  I turned in my seat and watched Soames muttering obscenities while searching for a starter chord on the engine. He gave up and instead reverted to his plan B. He crouched down beside the engine and dipped his left arm in the water, presumably searching for the submerged propeller.

  “It doesn’t feel like anything is caught on it,” he mumbled to himself, leaning further out of the boat.

  I caught sight of something floating in the water to Soames’ left. At first, I thought it was a piece of drifting debris from one of the empty boats. Then I saw a pale white hand rise up from the surface, the fingers curled with blackened nails. A mangled, pneumonia blue face loomed from the murky water with deep gouges around the cheeks and forehead. Matted black hair was plastered to the side of its head. Those milky white eyes fixated on Soames as what was left of its top lip curled up, revealing chipped and broken brown teeth.

  The image was so terrifying, I struggled to speak.

  “Look out, Soames,” I finally yelped. Julia and Rosenberg turned to see what was happening.

  Soames turned his head to look at me then turned back to follow my gaze. In that split second, the zombie grabbed Soames’ submerged left arm with its right and flicked its left hand out of the water and around the back of Soames’ neck.

  Soames shrieked as the zombie hauled itself up out of the river and bit into Soames’ left cheek. Blood spurted from the wound in a jet and sprinkled into the water, forming an inky pattern on the surface. His eyeglasses fell from his face and plopped into the river.

  Julia gasped and grabbed my hand. Rosenberg recoiled and tumbled backward over the back of the driver’s seat.

  Soames struggled to break free of the zombie’s grasp. A mixture of blood and river water ran down his left shoulder. The zombie shook its head while biting into the soft flesh of its victims face. We watched in horror as Soames’ feet bashed about on the boat deck, slipping in the wetness in a futile bid to gain some kind of leverage. He managed to release his head from the snarling teeth and looked back at us with sheer terror in his eyes. Half his cheek was missing, the side of his face was a bloody mess with shredded flaps of skin hanging from the wound. His face turned ashen white, his body went limp and then he was gone. His head disappeared over the side of the boat then his legs pointed skyward for a brief moment as his body slithered into the water.

  “Oh, shit, oh, shit,” Rosenberg whimpered.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” Julia spluttered. She brushed by me and wretched over the side of the boat.

  “Careful Julia,” Rosenberg hissed. “Don’t get too close to the water. Those creatures could be right under the boat.”

  This situation was something terrifyingly new, something we hadn’t thought about. We’d seen the dead tumble in the water by the jetty but totally discarded the danger. Of course they would still be moving around under the water the same way as they operated on land. Soames was gone now and with him was our only hand gun. I knew he kept it in a small shoulder holster. We couldn’t even defend ourselves.

  Julia wiped her face and sat back down, hugging me close. “What are we going to do, Brett?” she whispered. “Those things could be all around us. It makes no difference where we go. They’re always going to be after us.”

  I had to think of something, some plan to get us out of this mess. We were sitting ducks stuck out on the river.

  “Try the ignition key again,” I said to Rosenberg.

  He leaned over the front seat and tried the key. The engine whined in slower and slower tones until it became nothing more than a low hum.

  “I think the engines dead,” Rosenberg stated the obvious and sat back down.

  We sat in terrified silence watching the river pass on both sides of the boat, half expecting watery ghouls to emerge from the surface at any moment. We drifted towards the shores of Jersey City at the mercy of the river’s tide.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Smith knew they had to keep going forward. Retreating wasn’t an option. Going backward would lead them into a huge mass of zombies shambling around Jersey City. He drew his pistol and clicked off the safety and heard Eazy doing the same.

  “Can those things see in the dark?” Batfish whispered.

  “I think they can smell or sense us somehow,” Eazy murmured. “What’s the plan, Smith?”

  “Keep going slowly and don’t make a noise. Link arms so we don’t get separated.”

  Batfish slipped her arm inside Smith’s and Eazy did the same on her left. She felt glad at least she was in the middle. They trod slowly forward in the darkness, Smith and Eazy feeling the way with their free hands, guiding their way around the stationery vehicles. Batfish felt Spot scrabbling around in her rucksack. The dog seemed to be trying to delve as deep into the bag as possible.

  Smith realized he was taking a huge gamble. A member of the living dead might not be more than two feet away from them, lurking in the dark or in one of the vehicles.

  “Fuck it,” he sighed and turned the flashlight back on. “We’re at too much of a disadvantage if we can’t see shit.” He swung the light beam in a three-sixty angle to get his bearings and make sure none of the dead were in close proximity.

  The light reflected in the glass and shiny paintwork of the vehicles. Moans of the undead echoed around the tunnel walls. Rattles and thumps of metallic objects clanged up ahead.

  “Shit! How many of them are there?” Eazy hissed.

  “Sounds like too many,” Batfish said.

  Smith thought for a moment. He was worried the narrow walkway through the vehicles wasn’t wide enough for them to get passed the approaching mass of zombies. They wouldn’t have time to reload their six shooter pistols with any great ease. He shone his flashlight straight ahead and saw silhouettes of a crowd of numerous undead shuffling their way towards them, threading their way through the vehicles. He made out their pale, greenish faces looming from the blackness. Smith estimated the zombie throng was around twenty yards away.

  Eazy felt a hand gripping his bicep and immediately thought Batfish was reaching for his arm for some kind of comfort. He heard a throaty hiss and spun around on his heels, pointing his pistol into the dark space to his left. The hand tried to grab and pull him.

  “Yo! Smith, shine the light my way,” he said.

  Smith swung the light beam towards Eazy’s voice. A female zombie with a white, puffy face and a curtain of dark matted hair leaned from the open window of a Chrysler Grand Voyager, gripping Eazy’s shoulder with bloody stumps that once had fingers attached. Its mouth gnashed the air, anticipating biting into living flesh.

  “Ah, shit,” Eazy shrieked and recoiled from the car, raising his pistol. He fired two shots; one hit the zombie in its open mouth sending blood and dark brain matter splattering the opposite window and interior of the car. The second shot hit the zombie somewhere high in the forehead, sending it sprawling back through the open window.

  “Shit, man. That was too close,” Eazy sighed. He quickly reloaded two bullets into the pistol and snapped the barrel back into place.

  The noise of the gun shots a
lerted the crowd of zombies up ahead. The volume level of moaning and wailing increased. Smith swung the flashlight back onto the road ahead. The undead throng came forward with renewed vigor. They sensed human presence and the noise of the gun shots had confirmed their prey was close.

  Smith swung the beam to the wall on the left side of the tunnel. He’d noticed some kind of narrow railed service walkway when he’d turned the flashlight back on. He swung the beam back and forth across the wall looking for a service entrance. No exit doors were in close proximity. The moans became feral growls as the zombie swarm drew closer, bouncing off the sides of the vehicles and jostling for space.

  Smith contemplated retreating back down the tunnel but would only lead them back into the clutches of the hundreds, if not thousands of zombies marauding around Jersey City. He thought quickly, his mind racing through several possible scenarios.

  “Quick, onto the car roofs,” he snapped.

  Smith led the way. He jumped onto the trunk of a Lincoln in front of them and ushered the other two to follow. Eazy helped Batfish onto the trunk and followed her onto the car roof.

  “Okay, we have to move fast,” Smith said above the din of the zombie’s wails. “Avoid any soft top or convertible roofs and keep to the middle so they can’t grab you. We can do this.”

  Eazy and Batfish nodded with nervous expressions fixed on their faces.

  Smith set off, bounding across the car roofs. Batfish followed at a slower pace and Eazy moved behind her. Smith swung the flash light beam in front of him, then back towards Batfish and Eazy so they could see where they were jumping.

  The zombies quickly surrounded the cars on which they stood. The three of them leaped through grasping hands and gnarled finger nails, clawing at them between jumps. Batfish shrieked, she wasn’t sure she was going to make it to the other side of the tunnel alive.

  “Keep going,” Smith barked. He was starting to pull ahead of the other two.

  Eazy let fire a couple of shots at zombies who grabbed his ankle while he and Batfish were on the roof of a low standing sports car. The dead hands battered the car roofs, making a drumming noise that echoed through the tunnel walls.

  “Don’t hang around on top of one car for too long,” Smith yelled.

  “That’s easy for him to say, the big tall freak,” Eazy said.

  Smith seemed to be effortlessly picking his way through the vehicles with enough speed and momentum to easily out run the grasping hands. He stopped and gave any zombie, who half clambered up the vehicle hood, a whack in the face with the toe of his shoe.

  Eazy and Batfish carried on through the mass of hands, reaching and snatching at them like beggars in a back street of some poor, God forsaken country. The moans reached a high crescendo as the dead knew their prey was close but just out of reach.

  “Come on, you two.” Eazy and Batfish heard Smith’s voice echo from somewhere up ahead.

  Smith’s flash light beam became dimmer the further he ventured ahead.

  “Smith, don’t go so far ahead,” Eazy yelled above the groans. “Hey, wait up man! We can’t see shit back here.”

  Smith stopped on top of a Range Rover and flashed the light back at Eazy and Batfish. They were slowing him up and he briefly considered leaving them where they stood in the dark. A few days ago he probably would’ve simply turned and left them to their fate. But now those two were the only people he definitely knew were still alive and kicking. Brett Wilde and his crew of no-hopers were probably dead or in deep shit by now.

  “Come on,” Smith yelled. “We can do this.” He tried to sound encouraging.

  Eazy hopped onto the vehicle behind Smith and motioned for Batfish to follow him. She leapt onto the roof but didn’t land right and began to topple backward. Eazy grabbed her by both arms and managed to stop her fall. She was still leaning backward slightly when a tall zombie, wearing the remains of a yellow basketball shirt, grabbed Batfish’s back pack and tried to pull her down to the ground.

  “Oh shit, help me,” Batfish shrieked.

  Eazy had slipped his pistol into his waistband and couldn’t let go of Batfish’s arms to retrieve it. The basketball guy was strong, even in death. If Eazy let go with one hand he wouldn’t have enough strength to hold her the small distance away from the grabbing, dead hands.

  Smith shone the light beam directly onto the basketball zombie’s shaven head. He leveled his pistol along the light beam. He’d always found six shooters weren’t very accurate given any sort of distance over ten feet. He couldn’t afford to miss.

  “Eazy, Smith, help me,” Batfish shrieked again. Her were eyes wide and her mouth hung open.

  The basketball zombie tugged harder, not wanting to give up his catch. Batfish’s feet teetered on the edge of the car roof. If the basketball guy pulled her a few inches lower, she’d be level with the throng of hands and nails and then the thrashing mouths with all those sharp, twisted broken teeth.

  Smith fired a round. The bullet grazed the back of the basketball zombie’s skull but was enough to remove enough dead flesh and bone to qualify for a kill shot. The zombie’s hand went limp around the strap of Batfish’s bag and he fell backward into the mass of the undead crowd.

  Eazy pulled Batfish towards him and gave her a brief hug. “Let’s get going,” he murmured.

  Batfish tightly gripped hold of Eazy’s hand as they leapt onto the Range Rover roof to join Smith. Batfish planted a quick kiss on the side of Smith’s cheek.

  “Thanks for saving me,” she spluttered.

  Smith nodded. “Let’s not get all gooey with each other yet,” he said. “We’ve still got to get passed these rotting fucks and get out of this freaking tunnel. I’m starting to get pissed off being stuck down here now.”

  “How far do you think we’ve got to go?” Eazy asked.

  “Best guess? Around half a mile.”

  Batfish groaned like one of the zombies below.

  “Look, I know it’s not exactly a New Year’s Eve party down here but we don’t have much choice,” Smith grunted.

  Undead hands rattled on the windows and sides of the Range Rover. The vehicle began to tilt from side to side under the weight of the mass of hungry zombies. Smith, Eazy and Batfish held on to one another to steady themselves.

  “We better get moving before we all end up in that mess down there,” Eazy said.

  “Try zigzagging across the lanes when you jump the cars,” Smith instructed. “You may not be moving further down the road as quick but the distance is less to jump.”

  The three of them carried on car hopping but progress was so slow that Smith worried about their situation at the end of the tunnel. They were moving so slowly that they’d never out run the zombie hordes.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  “We can’t just sit here like this,” I said. My frustration was approaching boiling point.

  We drifted by the New Jersey Ferry port on our right. I recognized the hotels and banks on the shore that we’d driven passed in the RV earlier in the day. The sanctity of the RV seemed like a life time ago now. Maybe subconsciously we were sitting, unmoving waiting for someone to come along and save us. No natural leaders remained in our sorry little group. Maybe it was time for Brett Wilde to step up to the plate and take control of the situation for once.

  “Come on, Denny,” I commanded, standing up. “Let’s see if we can find anything to help us get this piece of junk started.”

  “I don’t know, Brett. I don’t know shit about boat engines.”

  “You have a look in those lockers at the back and I’ll check the compartments by the wheel,” I said.

  Rosenberg stood up and moved to the back of the boat. I moved to the compartments under the control panel and rifled through them. Julia moved to the middle of the seat, hugging herself. I didn’t think for one moment we could get the boat going but maybe we’d find something to help us, like a flare pistol or some food at least.

  “Oh my God, Brett, look,” Julia said.


  I turned to Julia and saw she was pointing towards the shore. I followed the line of her finger and saw countless numbers of zombies plunging into the river from the long platform on the New Jersey Ferry dock. Whether they were coming after us or simply aimlessly wandering into the water, I didn’t know. I did know we couldn’t let ourselves drift any further in their direction.

  “What about these?” Rosenberg asked from the back of the boat.

  I glanced at him and saw he held up two objects but my brain wouldn’t compute what the items were. I turned back to look at the vast numbers of undead spilling into the river.

  “Wilde! Get a grip, man. Take a look back at Rosenberg,” my inner self screamed inside my head.

  I did as my other self or whoever was taking command of my brain told me to do. Rosenberg held up two sturdy, wooden paddles or oars or whatever they were called.

  I bolted into action.

  “Okay, let’s go,” I screamed.

  I gestured to Rosenberg and he tossed me one of the paddles. I took the left side and he took the right. Rosenberg informed me that left was port and right was starboard in nautical terms. We paddled like crazy men and somehow managed to steer the boat away from the New Jersey Ferry Port.

  “Do you think we can get across the river?” Julia asked in hope more than expectancy.

  “Damn right,” I growled, determined to get to Manhattan now.

  We slowed slightly, due to fatigue when we thought we were a comfortable distance from the ferry port. I suggested we keep rowing to avoid drifting again. Luckily, the water was calm and not too difficult to navigate on. We closed in on the Manhattan side of the river to about five-hundred feet from the shore. I saw a grassy park with tall trees dotted around in front of high-rise buildings. Figures shuffled around the park, bumping into each other in that unwelcome recognizable, aimless gait. I hoped Manhattan of all places would somehow have been able to fight off the zombie epidemic. Now I realized it was the same everywhere. The spread of the undead had taken over.