LEFT AMONGST THE CORPSES
By Christian Fletcher
Copyright 2017 by Christian Fletcher
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living, dead or undead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Christian Fletcher.
Also by the author –
Leftovers
Left Alone
Left On The Brink
Left In The Cold
Left On The Run
Left On An Island
Before The Dead Walked
Green Ice – A Deadly High
War Memorabilia
Operation Sepsis
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“The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?”
- Edgar Allan Poe
CHAPTER ONE
I sat on the edge of the riverbank with my bare feet dangling in the cool, flowing water. Mosquitoes and other flying beasties buzzed above my head and across the river’s surface. The dusty, cloying air felt as though I was breathing in a combination of sand and powdered mud. I wiped sweat from my forehead and watched a red plastic bag negotiate its way through static chunks of rock and rusty tin sheets jutting from the water.
I gazed a few yards further down the river and saw the remains of a crumbling stone bridge on either side of the banks. Tall, spiky weeds and long grass surrounded the faded, beige colored stone foundations. I wondered how many people had trudged across that bridge before it had succumbed to the ravages of time. Like the human race, the structure had collapsed due to lack of concern and considered maintenance.
The sky above the wrecked bridge was gray and overcast but the air seemed thick and humid. The weather was on the turn on the tiny Caribbean island of Saint Miep. Gone were the bright sunny days where the temperature was so high you were wise to stick to the shade. The stormy, hurricane season was threateningly imminent.
I liked this spot on the riverbank. It was quiet and tranquil and allowed me time to think. I’d stumbled across the area while we were on one of our many search and destroy missions over the past few months. It felt good to get away from all the bickering and bullshit and opinionated politics of all the other survivors. I needed to distance myself from Smith, O’Neil, McElroy, Chernakov, Wingate, Batfish, Chandra and the rest of them on occasions. Life was intense, I got that but I didn’t need people on my back and trying to decide what I should be doing and what was best for me the whole time. Sometimes I needed to get away from it all. The river to the west of Saint Miep was the perfect setting for a piece of serenity.
Clearing the island of undead hadn’t been as straight forward as we’d planned a few months previously. Making our home in the Caribbean had thrown up all kinds of problems. Zombies lurked amongst the forests and overgrown fields, the rocky beach crags and abandoned towns and dwellings. The undead were everywhere. I knew it was a risk to venture out on my own but I figured if I was careful, I could outrun, out maneuver or take down any zombies that caused a threat. I always took a loaded handgun and several spare magazines with me.
We were slowly eliminating the undead and I had no doubt we’d one day achieve our aim of a zombie free island in the future. But there was always the risk of the infected being washed ashore or drifting sea vessels packed with undead landing on the island. Nowhere was one hundred percent safe, which was a fact of life in the new apocalyptic world.
The threat of the Russian military and the return of the South American militia still hung over us from former skirmishes. Neither had shown up yet and I sincerely hoped it stayed that way.
We continued to use the requisitioned but immobile Russian warship as a base, working our way across the island during the daylight hours while attempting to eradicate the undead. The ship wasn’t an ideal form of headquarters as the bows were twisted and wedged firmly into the underwater reef surrounding the island’s south coast. The huge vessel stuck out against the landscape and could easily be spotted by any passing ships. We’d be a sitting duck against any attacks from the sea.
Smith and I had returned to the big house outside the resort village on a couple of occasions, to raid the cellar for supplies. I remembered how we’d sat at the neon lit bar plotting our attack on the coastal castle occupied by the South American militia with Freek, Lowie, Tony, Shaun and Dan. The guys had been holed up in the house and were an international music band when the world was normal. Those guys’s had helped Smith and me but all of them were no longer in the land of the living and what was left of them had been buried side by side in the ground. Smith, myself and a few volunteers made sure they all had a decent resting place near the forest outside La Bahia Soleado, the port town on the north side of Saint Miep.
Batfish seemed to be progressing well with her pregnancy. She was showing now with a firm but definitive bump in front of her. We’d talked about the baby, her baby, my baby, our baby and us. It was a bizarre situation. We’d been nothing more than friends before the conception and were nothing more than friends since. She wanted the baby but didn’t want either me or herself forced into a meaningless and insincere relationship. We could raise the child as loving parents but the pretence of living as a family was a step too far. I’d agreed wholeheartedly. We didn’t have to play at being a couple. It was a great feeling to be a father in waiting but I knew bringing a newborn child into the world was going to be a constant worry.
I sighed at my predicament and swatted away a mosquito flying too close to my nose. Sweat rolled down my back and I felt my t-shirt sticking uncomfortably to my chest. I pulled off the shirt and used it to wipe the sweat from my face. I tossed the white t-shirt alongside my discarded ankle boots beside a rock to my left. The urge to immerse myself in the cool river water overwhelmed me. I unstrapped my gun belt, removing the holstered metallic black Glock 17 handgun and spare magazines and placed them next to my scuffed tan boots, my crumpled pack of cigarettes and the sweat damp t-shirt.
I slid down the bank on my backside, ruffling the back of my khaki short pants and allowing myself to slip into the water. The river was deeper than I thought and I soon found myself up to my chest in the water. I dunked my hand below the surface and proceeded to shower my sweaty head with a cupped palm. The water was gloriously cool and invigorating as the undercurrent rippled around my body. I leant back and allowed myself to float without my feet touching the sand and stones lining the river bed.
I drifted along with the current, breathing slowly and listening to the gurgling sounds of the river. I cleared my mind and felt the tension lift. I allowed myself to relax and it was as though my body suddenly released all the pent up emotion from the past few years. My stomach unclenched and my arms and legs didn’t ache any longer. I pushed away images of the horrors I’d witnessed threatening to flash through my mind like an old eight millimeter movie reel. I didn’t want to replay those scenes of death and mutilation. I forced them out of my thoughts and cleared my mind. I closed my eyes, simply letting myself loosen up
and decompress, floating aimlessly in the river.
Not even my alternative self could invade my tranquility.
I allowed myself to think of the future. Who knew what was in store? Maybe we could make it work on the island and in a year or so, the walking corpses would all be gone. All the threats left in the world would have disappeared. It was possible we could be living on Saint Miep without worry, with plentiful crops, fruit from the forest and fish from the sea. A working community with downtime for barbeques on the beach and relaxing weekends.
A positive vision of the future felt good. The gloomy cloud of insanity and depression seemed to be finally lifting off me.
CHAPTER TWO
Something solid bumped against my back, causing me to cease moving with the current. Whatever the object was blocking me, it wasn’t moving or trying to bite me so I let the moment pass. I enjoyed my new found relaxation too much to be worried. It was probably only a rock or a protruding log, stuck fast against the river bed.
I thought I heard the sound of hushed voices from somewhere to my right. Almost immediately, something hooked around one of my belt loops and I felt myself being dragged through the water. Reality suddenly kicked in, I felt a wave of panic and my eyes snapped open.
I thrashed around in the water, trying to plant my feet on the river bed. Two young, thin, dark skinned men with shoulder length jet black hair stood on the bank. They were dressed only in short pants and expressions of shock and horror engulfed their faces. One of the men held a wooden handled boat hook, which was attached to my belt loop at the opposite end. He let go of the handle and jumped backward, wide eyed in fright. I struggled with the boat hook, trying to wrench it free from my pants. I heard myself scream in frustration before the belt loop tore away from the seam of my shorts.
The twisting momentum caused me to spin around, splashing under the water. I gripped the boat hook and forced myself upward. I caught sight of a dozen or so twisted rotten corpses, half submerged and tangled together in the center of the river. Now I knew what had stopped me moving along with the current.
I screamed again in revulsion. The corpses weren’t moving but their sudden emergence had abruptly rocked me out of my calm state. My head span and I tried to focus on the two guys on the riverbank. I briefly wondered if they’d killed whoever the corpses were in the river.
The kid to the left stood rigid with an expression of abject terror on his face, the guy to the right was fumbling in the front of his waistband. I saw he was reaching for the butt of a handgun inside the front of his short pants.
The kid freed up the revolver with his right hand. The handgun was a kind of old fashioned, metallic black snub nosed weapon they used to use in old black and white police movies. Survival mode kicked in. The only item I could defend myself with was the boat hook in my hands. I spun the shaft around so the hook end pointed up the bank. The kid yelled something I didn’t hear as he raised the handgun, the barrel moving in my direction.
I knew the feeling of a loaded firearm being pointed at me and it wasn’t a good one. I jabbed the metal, double hook towards the kid’s gun hand. The impact caused his hand to jolt sideways and a deafening bang echoed around the riverbank. The unmistakable stench of cordite hung thickly in the air. The kid with the gun fell backwards out of my view. The guy on my left wailed, his face crumpled and he turned and ran into a thick clump of trees behind the riverbank.
I stood for a few seconds in a hunched stance, gripping the boat hook and wondering if the gunman was going to attempt another attack. The river gurgled around me but I thought I heard another kind of choking sound at a slightly different tone. I crept forward through the water, keeping the boat hook raised and out in front of me like some kind of medieval lance. I reached the riverbank and crawled up the muddy slope.
I took a glance over the top of the bank and saw the gunman lying on his back amongst the reeds and long, dry grass. He thrashed around, holding both hands against his throat. I hauled myself up the bank, keeping the boat hook firmly in my grasp.
I cautiously moved closer to the prone gunman and saw blood seeping through his fingers. The handgun lay next to him in a patch of brown grass. He was no longer a threat, his life was ebbing away. I’d got lucky. I bent down and scooped up the firearm, then clicked on the safety before tucking it into the back of my waistband. The kid’s eyes were wide in terror and shock as he tried to stem the flow of blood from the gunshot wound to his throat. He gurgled and it sounded as though he was trying to speak.
“Not the smartest move to try and pull a gun on me, friend,” I said. “Did you kill those people in the river?”
“We…we…thought you… hurt or dead,” the kid croaked. “We…try to…help you. Mean you…no harm…You scared me…why I…drew gun…Please…help…me.”
The kid lifted his right hand and raised it towards me. His eyes rolled up into his head and his hand flopped down into the grass. The words he’d uttered suddenly computed in my mind. The two kids hadn’t meant to hurt me and probably hadn’t killed the people dumped in the river.
“Shit!” I spat, tossing the boat hook aside. I crouched down over the kid and put my hands over the wound in his throat. The round from the handgun had entered the left side of his neck and exited at the base of his skull. Blood still dribbled from the wound but had slowed. I felt for a pulse or a heartbeat but found neither. I tried CPR but the maneuver only caused more blood to flow profusely from the gunshot wound.
I stood up, gripping the sides of my hair. A terrible crushing sensation overwhelmed me.
“What have I done?” I screamed. “What the fuck have I done?
I whined and bellowed, trudging in slow circles around the kid’s corpse. Rage, guilt and self-loathing on a scale I’d never experienced burned through my whole being. Tears welled and stung my eyes. The kid had survived all through the zombie apocalypse and now he’d been killed in a stupid, needless and totally avoidable incident. I considered pulling out the snub nosed revolver and blowing my own brains out. Only the thought of seeing my child for the first time stopped me. I knew this moment would haunt me until my last living day. How had this happened? I looked at the kid’s blood spattered face. He couldn’t have been older than eighteen years old and now his life was over before he’d had a chance to progress in the world.
“You need to get out of here, pal,” a voice said from behind me.
I drew the handgun from my waistband, flicked off the safety and spun around, raising the revolver to the source of the voice in one fluid movement. My alternative self stood in front of the trees. He was dressed unusually normally in a black t-shirt and faded denim jeans, looking as sad as I felt. The skin on his face was dull and gray like that of a corpse.
Without thinking, I fired twice at that drained and dreary looking face, the mirror image of mine, wishing the rounds would rip through my own skull. Of course, the bullets didn’t blow my alternative self away. Instead they passed straight through my hallucination and zipped into the trees beyond.
“What are you doing?” my other self gasped, shaking his head. “Put that thing away before anybody else gets killed.”
“It’s too late,” I wailed. I lowered the gun to my side and I couldn’t hold back the tears. A sorrowful lump in my throat threatened to choke me. “What have I done?” I repeated.
“Listen, Brett,” my alternative self barked. “You need to go back up river, get your shit and high tail it back to that fucking ship. You got me?”
“Why?” I groaned. “Why do these kinds of things keep happening to me?” Remorse and regret tore at me from inside.
“Listen, buddy. It was an accident. Just a stupid accident, okay? If I saw you all weird and wild looking with long hair and a big beard, I would have probably drawn a gun on you too,” my other self explained. “But if you don’t get out of here pronto, that other kid is going to come back with a whole bunch of other guys and they’ll do some bad shit to you that’ll make you wish you were never born.”<
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“I do wish I was never born,” I muttered. “Let them come and do bad shit to me. I don’t care. I deserve it.”
“Brett, you’ve got to snap out of it. I know it’s a shitty situation but these things happen. Remember that kid you went to Brynston High School with that got run down by a car and killed?” He tapped the side of his head. “I can’t remember his goddamn name.”
“Michael Epson, I remember him,” I said. “He was my friend.” The image of a youthful boy with a mop of sandy hair and a big toothy grin flashed through my mind.
“Well, think how the guy felt who was driving the car. It wasn’t his fault but the wheels went right over that kid, crushing his body and breaking his back. It wasn’t that guy’s fault, he was just driving one second, maybe thinking about going home to his family and a minute later there’s a busted up kid lying under his car. Shit happens, man.”
I sighed deeply and glanced at my alternative self. His eyes were wide and pleading. I didn’t realize I pulled that particular facial expression. Michael Epson was the happiest kid I’d ever met, always laughing and cracking jokes. I remembered he wanted to be a construction worker, like his dad. Then one Spring day, when most of our year were sixteen, he didn’t come back to school and we were told by the High School Principal that Michael had been killed in an automobile collision. A terrible end to such a young life. All those ambitions and hopes and dreams crushed in an instant. But my alternative self was right. These awful things did happen but it still didn’t make me feel any better. In that moment, I sympathized with that guy, whoever he was, who had crushed poor Michael beneath the wheels of his automobile.
“All right,” I said, bending to pick up the boat hook. “Let’s get far away from this place.”
CHAPTER THREE
I trudged back along the riverbank towards the spot where I liked to sit. My alternative self plodded silently beside me. I hadn’t realized I’d floated so far downriver. In my inner calm, I must have fallen into a kind of trance and drifted further than I’d first thought.
The Left Series (Book 7): Left Amongst The Corpses Page 1
