The Left Series (Book 6): Left On An Island

by Fletcher, Christian

  “Whatever,” Smith huffed.

  We moved around the curved perimeter wall, watching and listening for any sudden movement or sounds of the undead. I struggled to keep pace with Smith and let him carry on a few yards ahead of me.

  The unkempt side garden was overgrown with tall weeds and knotty vines that had probably long ago been flower beds or a vegetable patch of some kind. We moved around in a semi circle, close to the house wall until we reached the rear of the property.

  The rectangular shaped swimming pool was centered in the paved patio area. The water inside the pool covered around half the depth and resembled the texture of pea soup. A few white plastic chairs with a thin layer of mildew on the arm rests and backs of the seats stood at odd angles on the patio beside the pool.

  A sudden welcoming breeze rippled the long grass beyond the patio and I glanced into the back garden. I saw a big, stone built barn to the rear of the compound that I hadn’t noticed from the view on top of the house in the village. A clump of swaying palm trees stood to the right of the barn, obviously masking it from my previous vantage point. Two sturdy looking wooden doors in the barn’s front wall blocked any access and the roof had a row of skylights fitted amongst the surrounding orange tiles. The gravel driveway snaked around from the front of the house and led to the closed barn doors, at a distance of around two hundred yards from the back of the house.

  “You see that?”

  Smith mumbled something I didn’t catch. I turned back to the rear of the house and saw Smith peering through the darkened windows, cupping his hands against the glass. The spear gun was slung across his back once again.

  The rear of the big house was much the same as those in the village, only on a larger scale. The French doors were in exactly the same position as the smaller counterparts and I saw the units and appliances steeped in shadow behind the kitchen windows.

  “You see that barn over there?” I repeated.

  “Yeah,” Smith snapped. “I heard you the first time.”

  “Anybody in there?”

  “Not that I can see. Hand me that spear will you?”

  I complied and he took the spear, then repeated his breaking and entering technique by removing the beading from around the glass pane next to the handle in the French doors.

  “We better make sure we put the glass back in the frame this time,” I said.

  Smith didn’t comment. He simply handed me my spear back along with the loose glass pane. Reaching inside the gap, Smith clunked open the lock from the inside then turned the handle. The French doors opened outwards onto the patio.

  I placed the glass next to the wall and Smith turned to me with a wry grin on his face.

  “Let’s go investigate.”

  Whenever Smith gave me that look, I always knew trouble was around the corner.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Before we entered, I insisted we replace the glass panel. Smith huffed but complied, using the blunt end of the spear to hammer the beading back into place.

  We entered the gloomy interior and stood in a spacious kitchen, with a black and white checkered tiled floor and sturdy looking oak closets hanging around the walls. The countertops were dark gray granite and the cooker at the opposite end to the French doors was a big chrome beast that could have knocked up a banquet all in one go.

  Smith closed the door behind us but didn’t lock it in case we had to make a quick getaway. I smelled the faint odor of cooking, almost as though the facilities had recently been used. The kitchen looked spotless, not the usual dank, grimy and decrepit places we frequently encountered. I ran my finger over the worktop. There wasn’t a molecule of dust or grime on the surface.

  “You think somebody is still living in this place?” I asked in a hoarse whisper.

  Smith pulled an ‘I don’t know or give a crap’ face. He began searching through the closets and found a large, ribbed plastic container with a blue top. Colorless liquid sloshed around inside. Smith flipped off the lid and smelled the contents, quickly pulling his head away.

  “Don’t drink that. It’s turpentine or some shit.” He banged the bottle down on the countertop and continued his search through the closets.

  I turned and hobbled to a glass paneled door to the left of the cooker. The glass was smoked so I couldn’t see through the other side. I opened it quickly with my spear raised beside my head. No zombies or other monsters came looming out.

  I poked my head through the open doorway. A long hallway with a gray stone tiled floor led further into the house’s interior, with the front door and two more closed wooden doors standing on the opposite side. I was sure I heard a slight thudding from somewhere inside the house. The sound was almost like a base beat from a hip-hop tune. I listened more intently but the noise seemed to fade.

  Something crashing onto the kitchen floor caused me to swing around a little too quickly for my injured ankle’s liking and I winced in pain. Smith had managed to nonchalantly knock a china bowl out of one of the closets.

  “Are you intent on wrecking the place?” I groaned.

  “Just looking for something to eat or drink,” Smith huffed. “There’s got to be something left over in this goddamn place.”

  I noticed a big silver colored refrigerator standing opposite me and wedged between two wall closets. I hobbled over to it and pulled open the door. I was surprised when the interior light came on and saw the shelves were stocked with plastic cartons of orange juice and bottles of water. For a moment, I thought I was hallucinating. I touched the bottles and felt the condensation run through my fingers.

  “Smith,” I shouted.

  “What? I’m trying to…” He didn’t bother finishing his sentence. He rushed to the fridge and pulled out a carton of orange juice, tore open the top and poured the contents down his throat, spilling big splashes onto the floor.

  I couldn’t decide on water or orange juice. My throat was so dry it didn’t matter which. I plumped for orange juice and followed Smith in ripping open a carton and guzzling the heavenly liquid inside. The coldness against my parched throat was one of the best sensations I’d felt in a long time. My god, did it taste good.

  Smith tossed the empty carton to the floor and took another from the fridge shelf. I finished mine and took a bottle of water next. I took a few swigs and emptied the remainder of the bottle over my head. The sensation of ice cold water running down me was fantastic. I thought I’d never feel cold again after scampering around in that damn crop field.

  I wiped the combination of sweat and cold water from my eyes and remembered the others marooned on the ship out on the coast. They probably hadn’t gone through as much shit as we had but they were still stuck out in the middle of nowhere with a dangerous sniper studying their every move. Smith and I still had a job to do and we weren’t anywhere near completing it.

  “Let’s go look for some weapons,” I said, clearing my throat.

  “U-huh,” Smith rumbled, before gulping down the remains of his second carton of juice. “This place is big enough for an upper floor. We’ll go take a look.” He motioned sideways with his head, took a bottle of water from the fridge and splashed it in his face. “That’s pretty damn good.”

  “What the fuck do you think you are doing?” boomed a strange voice across the kitchen.

  I was so startled, I dropped my water bottle. Smith spun around, quickly slipping the spear gun off his back and aiming at the glass panel door in a flash of movement that surprised even me.

  “Don’t even think about it or we’ll shoot you both dead,” the voice commanded in accented English.

  I turned to my left and saw two guys standing in the doorway. They were both tall and their wild blue eyes stared intently like they meant business. The one on the left had a shaved head and wore red shorts and a navy blue t-shirt. The guy on the right had a spiky bleached blonde Mohawk and was dressed in dark green military style cargo pants and a white vest. Both were muscular and heavily tattooed with gold piercings sticki
ng from every perceivable angle on their faces.

  “Put down your weapons,” Mohawk ordered.

  I wasn’t going to argue. To match their scary appearance, they both brandished big chrome handguns. And they were pointed directly at us.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The four of us stood silently staring at one another for a few seconds. Mohawk looked a little twitchy and sweaty and I figured he was going to start pulling the trigger any second. Our one spear gun with one loaded round and the spear I held in my hand were no match for a couple of weird, psychotic looking guys wielding a pair of semi automatic handguns. It was a no win situation. I released my grip on the spear and let it clatter to the floor then raised my palms to face the two men.

  “Okay, now you, Big Man,” Mohawk said calmly. “Drop your weapon. You have one round in that spear gun. You can take your chance and maybe shoot one of us but I swear, whoever doesn’t take a gutful of steel will shoot you both dead.”

  Smith sighed. “All right, friend. You win.” He crouched and gently laid the spear gun onto the kitchen tiles. He stood upright, raising his hands by his sides. “We genuinely didn’t know anybody was here. We didn’t mean to cause no bother.”

  “You are American?” the guy with the shaved head asked.

  Smith nodded.

  “What the hell are you doing in Saint Miep?”

  Smith frowned. “Where?”

  Mohawk and Shaved Head exchanged incredulous glances.

  “You are aware of where you are, no?” Shaved Head asked.

  “Listen, guys, it’s been a pretty shitty day so far and we don’t want it to get any worse,” Smith said. “So can we just cut the macho bullshit. We just wanted a drink is all.”

  Mohawk and Shaved Head exchanged hushed words in a language I didn’t understand.

  “Did you come from the castle?” Mohawk demanded, stepping further into the kitchen. “Did you come down here to try and take us all out?”

  I stayed silent. I wasn’t sure what the hell was going on and decided to let Smith do the talking. I’d probably say the wrong thing and get us both shot.

  Smith grinned. “No, we ‘aint from the castle. We got a major fucking problem with whoever is inside that damn castle. They shot and killed one of our crew.”

  Smith explained our whole sorry saga, from the moment we left Northern Ireland to breaking into the guy’s house. The two gunmen exchanged glances at several points during Smith’s account of events.

  “…and so we saw the big house and we were hoping that we could find some gun totting German guys to help us get into the castle and take out those assholes inside the place,” Smith finished up and let the request hang in the air.

  Mohawk’s face screwed up in anger and he thrust his handgun at Smith. “We are not German, you stupid prick. We are Dutch.”

  “Whoa, sorry boys. My mistake.” Smith said. “Can we put our arms down now? I’m getting really tired.”

  Mohawk and Shaved Head ignored Smith’s request but exchanged more words in their native tongue and studied us over. They came forward towards us, still with their guns raised. Shaved Head looked through the French door windows and studied the ground at the rear of the property. I wasn’t sure what they had in mind and felt extremely concerned. They could just take us out the back doors and execute us on the spot, throwing our dead bodies into the rancid swimming pool.

  Mohawk held his gun one handed and roughly patted us both down while Shaved Head stood in front of the cooker, still covering us with his handgun. Both Smith and I didn’t have many places to hide any concealed weapons.

  When Mohawk was satisfied we were no threat, he scooped up the spear gun and the spare spear from the floor. He took a couple of steps back and studied the spear gun.

  “This is a nice weapon. I think I might keep it.”

  “It’s yours,” Smith said. “I’ll do you a trade. That spear gun for the HK you got in your hand.”

  Mohawk laughed. His face creased in strange places when he emitted a weird squeaking sound and I guessed he didn’t laugh that often.

  “I like you, American,” Mohawk said. “What is your name?”

  “Smith.”

  “Of course it is. And what is the name of your little silent bitch here?”

  I flashed Mohawk a stern glance. I might have been many things but I was nobody’s bitch. “My name is Wilde. Brett Wilde.”

  “Smith and Wilde,” Mohawk said, still smiling. “Sounds like the name of a gun from America.” He laughed again but I didn’t see his comment as amusing.

  The guy was starting to piss me off but he held a loaded gun so I couldn’t tell him what I thought. But on the flip side, he’d asked our names, which wasn’t normally a request from somebody about to carry out a nonchalant execution.

  “I see now why you thought we were German,” Mohawk said, waving his handgun around. “Because of the Heckler and Koch, a German made gun?” He frowned and all signs of previous mirth evaporated from his face. “It is an insult to associate us with Deutschland. I’m afraid we Dutch hate Germans even more than Americans.”

  “Hey, my mistake,” Smith said, shrugging. “All Europeans sound the same. Why do you hate the Germans? Is it a war thing?”

  I winced. Smith wasn’t doing a great job of keeping us alive. His intercontinental skills were somewhat lacking.

  “You got to admit though, the Germans make some pretty damn fine weaponry,” Smith continued. “Or at least they did before the world went to shit. Yeah, the Mauser and Luger were good, oh, and the Walther PPK, like James Bond used. Not to mention the Panzer tank. Wow, those suckers bulldozed their way right through Europe. And the MG42, what a machine gun that was.”

  Mohawk’s face twitched and his blue eyes bulged. I prayed Smith would shut the hell up and briefly wondered if the sun had fried his brain. The guy was rambling on and I could see he was pissing off our not so genial hosts.

  Mohawk sighed deeply. He moved behind us and nudged the fridge door with his hip to close it.

  “Smith, do me a big favor and stop talking, okay?” he said calmly.

  “All right,” Smith said, sounding dejected. “Only trying to make conversation is all.”

  I knew Smith well enough to recognize his tactics. In similar situations in the past, he’d tried to piss off our captors by insulting them to throw them off guard. People did strange things when they were riled and often showed themselves as vulnerable by making mistakes. They’d often try to get close to Smith to try and shut him up. That was when he could react and overpower them, take their weapon with lightning speed and turn the tables. But these Dutch guys were different. They were more professional and not so hot headed as some previous vanquishers we’d encountered.

  “Okay, we’re going to take you down into the cellar,” Mohawk said. “The others can then decide what to do with you.” He slung the spear gun over his back and motioned with his handgun towards the glass panel door that led to the hallway. “Keep your hands up,” he commanded.

  Shaved Head waved us forward with his handgun and I glanced nervously at Smith. Going down into a dank cellar didn’t seem to be a good situation for us. People got murdered in cellars the world over. But what choice did we have?

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Mohawk led the way through the house, with Shaved Head following behind Smith and I as we trudged along the hallway and through one of the doorways on the opposite side. The entrance led us to a spacious living room with cream colored walls, a black tiled floor and two large, chunky black leather backed sofas facing each other. A wrought iron spiraled staircase led to the rooms upstairs but Mohawk led the way to an open hatchway embedded in the floor in front of a wide bay window, facing the front of the property.

  The sunlight shone brightly through the window and I gazed out at the scene beyond. The undead still stood outside the fence, rattling and shaking the wire.

  Mohawk continued on, down through the hatchway and I saw a big wooden cover tha
t would close down on the stairway once we were in the bowels of the ground. I hesitated before moving onto the stone steps below the hatchway but Shaved Head waved me forward with a flick of his handgun. I glanced at Smith, hoping he’d pick up on my immediate concerns.

  Smith, as ever looked totally composed.

  We trod down the gray stone steps and I felt the air become cooler. Shaved Head pulled the wooden cover down after us and locked it in place with two big metal bolts. The light was dim as we trod down the staircase and Mohawk pushed through a door beyond a small walkway.

  The sounds of electro club style music boomed from somewhere beyond the doorway. Mohawk stepped through the entrance and Smith and I followed on behind. The cellar was very different from what I had expected.

  The whole room was lit by green, blue and yellow neon lighting, glowing from floor lamps and lengths of shiny strobe string, fixed to the walls and ceiling. The cellar was around thirty feet long by twenty feet wide, decked out with a white marble bar counter, which was backlit with more neon lighting in purple and similar black leather furniture to the sofas in the living room above us. Several large music speakers stood alongside the black walls and a DJ’s double deck turntable sat in the corner alongside a huge stereo system, with a bright green neon light shining directly above them. A loud baseline thumped from the speakers, causing the whole room to vibrate as we walked in.

  Three guys sat side by side in one of the big sofas and were all staring at a large projector screen on the far wall. The image of several scantily clad women bopping around on a beach someplace flashed across the screen. The three men were very different and didn’t pay us any attention as Shaved Head and Mohawk directed Smith and I towards them.

  Shaved Head continued pointing his handgun at Smith and I while Mohawk dumped down the spear gun and the spare spear beside the sofa. He then walked over to the stereo and turned the music right down.