The Left Series (Book 7): Left Amongst The Corpses

by Christian Fletcher

  The undead occupying the front lawn glanced at us and growled, raising their arms. They staggered forwards but Smith and I moved swiftly, dodging their outstretched clutches. We hurried along the pathway and out into the open ground. More undead shuffled along the roadway and turned in our direction.

  “Keep going,” Smith whispered.

  We rushed along the pathway, pushing over any zombie that came too close. The sound of the rain battering down partially masked the noise of our footfalls on the pathway slabs. The clubhouse was insight up ahead and I sincerely hoped the undead hadn’t breached the rooms inside. We’d turned off all the lights when we’d left the place earlier but hadn’t locked any doors.

  Smith stopped at the corner of the building and peeked around the corner to where the front door stood. I hustled behind him, plastering my back against the wall and breathing heavily. A few undead followed our route along the pathway and closed in on our position. We couldn’t stay put for long.

  “How’s it looking?” I asked.

  Smith ducked back from the corner and rested his back against the brick wall.

  “There’s a few of them out front,” he said. “We’re going to have to go inside through the front door, grab the weapons and make an exit out through those glass doors in the bar.”

  “Okay,” I agreed. “Let’s just hope there aren’t too many of them around the back.”

  “Roger that,” Smith muttered. “Let’s keep moving real quick and get out of this place.”

  “I was wondering when you were going to say that,” I said. “I kind of feel we’ve outstayed our welcome.”

  Smith smirked and snorted a slight laugh. “Glad to see you’ve still got your sense of humor, kid.”

  I returned his smile. “Fuck, we’ve been in some scrapes.”

  “We sure have but the thing is, we’ve always managed to get out of them.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know how. You know our luck’s going to run dry one day, don’t you?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Let’s just run with it shall we?”

  “We don’t have any other choices,” I sighed.

  “Choices died when the world went to hell, kid,” Smith said. “The only choice we have now is living or dying. You ready?”

  I shrugged. “As I’ll ever be.”

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  Smith moved stealthily from the corner of the building. I stayed close as we hurried alongside the clubhouse exterior wall. At first, I thought the undead hadn’t noticed us but a female with long, wet hair plastered against her head noticed us and emitted a throaty rasp. The others were alerted and turned in our direction. Smith and I carried on towards the front door but the zombies clustered together and moved towards us.

  We slipped through the double doors and turned the interior locks to secure the front of the building. The undead spread themselves across the outside of the glass panels and immediately began battering their hands against the panes. The front doors and windows wouldn’t last long as a barrier so we’d have to hurry.

  “You think any of them got inside here?” I yelled, backing away from the entranceway.

  I turned when I didn’t receive an answer from Smith but he was already gone. I guessed he’d hurried to the locker room to retrieve our rifles and the SMAW rocket launcher.

  “Shit!” The front window had already cracked under the intense pressure from the undead smacking against the glass outside. It wouldn’t be long before the whole panel gave way.

  I guessed it would be a good idea to get out of sight from the pack of ghouls and not give them any incentive to bust their way inside. The problem was they knew Smith and I were in the clubhouse and wouldn’t let up until they’d gotten hold of us. That was the problem with the undead, they never gave up.

  I turned and scooted towards the locker room, nearly running headlong into Smith as he emerged from the doorway. He shoved a rifle at me.

  “It’s all ready to go,” he said, as I took the Armalite from him and spare, loaded magazines. “I’ve got the SMAW. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  I turned my head back to the main entranceway when I heard the sound of glass shattering. A huge crack ran from top to bottom down the front widow and a small triangular shaped section of glass had already broken away. The door rattled in the frame and shook inwardly, as though it was going to buckle at any second.

  “Like you just said – let’s get the fuck out of here,” I muttered.

  We moved at speed through the foyer and into the clubhouse bar room. Faint daylight from the impending dawn shone through the sliding glass doors, providing enough gloomy light for us to see our way across the room.

  I rushed to the big plate glass panel and studied the outside world. The rain had eased but a thick fog seemed to be rising from the ground. I couldn’t see as far as the tennis courts but didn’t spot any undead in the near vicinity. I turned to see where Smith was.

  “It looks all clear out there but there’s a heavy ground mist…what the hell are you doing?”

  “Just grabbing us some supplies,” Smith responded. He stood behind the bar loading a few bottles of liquor into his backpack.

  “Jesus, Smith. We haven’t got time for that,” I barked.

  Smith zipped up his backpack and slung it across his shoulders. “You never know when you might want a little pick-me-up,” he said, grabbing the near empty bottle of bourbon we’d left on the bar counter earlier. He popped off the lid, took a long swig and offered me the bottle. “Put a little lead in your pencil and a bit of Dutch courage.” He flashed me a wink.

  I shrugged and took the bottle, tipping it back against my lips. It felt a little weird knocking back liquor at dawn but I had to admit, I enjoyed the burn sliding down my throat and hitting the inside of my guts.

  The noise of smashing glass caused me to stop my early morning booze session. I turned and dumped the bottle down on a nearby table. The undead were breaking in and would soon be swarming all over the clubhouse interior.

  I pointed to the sliding glass doors. “Let’s go,” I muttered. “Now, Smith. No more fucking around.” I surprised myself at my authoritative tone. Smith had had his entertainment, now it was time to get serious.

  I slid the glass door aside and was met by a fresh smell of the dawn and falling rain. Smith slapped me on the shoulder indicating he was ready to move. I nodded in reply and we stepped through the doorway and into the drizzle and the mist.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  The low lying mist shrouded the routes and pathways around the tennis club and I felt totally disorientated. Smith and I kept close, shoulder to shoulder as we plodded through the fog. Several figures with thrashing arms loomed close and growled hysterically before they were swallowed up in the mist.

  It felt as though Smith and I were being surrounded and hunted down like prey. We could hear the moaning of the undead all around us but had no clue as to a ball park figure on their numbers. Their sounds seemed to be coming from everywhere but I knew that couldn’t be the case. There had to be a route through them.

  With the butt of his rifle, Smith batted away a ghoul who lurched out from the fog and came too close for comfort. I felt a hand swipe my shoulder, turned but didn’t see anybody there. Even the undead were disorientated but still knew we were somewhere in the fog.

  “Any ideas on which way it is to the gates?” Smith muttered.

  “No,” I sighed. I was following Smith’s lead and hoped he’d get us to the exit. “I don’t even know which direction we’re heading.” I looked down and saw paving slabs beneath my feet. “We’re still on a pathway but I have no fucking clue where it leads to.”

  “We might as well have damn blindfolds on,” Smith groaned. “We just need to get to the fence. Then we can follow it to the gate or at least try and climb over the top.”

  “This is total madness, Smith,” I sighed. “What the fuck are we doing here?”

  “Fucked if I know, kid,” Smith said. He su
ddenly swerved left and clobbered another zombie with his rifle butt.

  “They’re getting closer,” I whined. “For all we know, we’re surrounded by those bastards.”

  “Just keep moving,” Smith warned. “We stop now and we’re toast.”

  We moved close to a couple of thick bushes and a palm tree with low hanging branches. I stumbled forward and realized I’d nearly fallen over a high curbside. I studied the ground beneath my boots and saw a hard blacktop surface.

  “Hey, Smith,” I whispered. “I think we’ve found the road.” I glanced up when I didn’t get any kind of reply. I thought Smith was right alongside me but I couldn’t see him. “Smith?” I hissed. “Where the fuck are you?”

  A low growl came from behind my right shoulder. I spun around and saw a half rotten, gray face leering a few inches away from mine. What remained of the lips curled back, revealing yellow teeth poking at odd angles inside black gums.

  “Shit!” I took a backward step and twisted my rifle in one jerky movement. The top of the butt collided with the zombie’s chin and sent the creature reeling back into the mist. More groans and growls drifted through the fog and I knew I was probably in the center of a whole bunch of undead. Where the hell had Smith got to?

  I didn’t have a choice. I had to move quickly and stick to the road I stood on. Which way though? My brain was swimming and as foggy as the landscape around me. If I chose the wrong direction I’d end up back at the lock-up near the house. If I chose the right direction to get out of the tennis club compound I’d probably encounter more large groups of zombies. Ah, fuck! What was I going to do?

  Whatever I decided, I knew I couldn’t stay where I was. That ugly fuck that had tried to attack me was going to come for me again very soon. I tried to think rationally. The bushes had been on my right when I’d watched Burland crash into the gates. Logic told me I should turn to my right and head in that direction.

  For once in my life, I made a split decision and stuck with it. I turned right and marched forward, listening for any sounds of rapidly approaching footfalls. I gripped the Armalite rifle, knowing I’d have to use it more like a club than a firearm. I didn’t have to wait long. A long haired, freaky looking ghoul came directly at me from out of the mist. I twisted and slammed the base of the rifle butt fully into the zombie’s face, somewhere near the bridge of its nose. A brief spray of blood turned the mist red for a second before the ghoul vanished from view.

  I felt cold, tired, miserable and totally alone. Even my alternative self had seemed to have given up on me. I hated to admit it but I’d have even enjoyed his company.

  The road seemed to be endless, with ghouls popping out from the fog at me every few yards I walked. I decided I’d shut myself inside the lock-up and wait it out for a few hours if I was heading in the wrong direction. There was enough food in there to keep me going for a while until the mist disintegrated into the ether.

  Finally, I saw a structure of some kind looming up in front of me. Pale daylight glowed slightly through the mist and through the crisscrossed structure. I blew a small sigh of relief when I realized I was closing in on the fence line. At least I was making progress but I was still out in the open with a whole bunch of undead around me and there was still no sign of Smith.

  Even if the fog lifted, it was helping as much as hindering me. I couldn’t see the undead but they also couldn’t get a fix on my position. I had to find my way out of the compound and put some distance between me and the undead and the house of horrors.

  The mist seemed to swirl around me as I shuffled to the left and made out the wrecked gates a few feet directly in front of me. I plodded forward, aware of growling undead in close proximity. I could hear them and see blurred shapes shuffling through the fog.

  I moved towards the gate on the right side, which was bent inwards due to the impact of the car Burland had drove at it earlier. I could just about see the bulky shape of the vehicle lying on its side beyond the entranceway. Several ghoulish figures still trudged around the car. Burland was probably nothing more than raw meat. I crept through the open gateway and stopped. Should I wait for Smith or carry on going? I couldn’t decide. Any kind of delay in getting the hell away from there could prove fatal on my part.

  I quickly decided I’d have to press on without Smith. I wasn’t abandoning him. He was big and ugly enough to take care of himself. I was out in the breeze with my ass hanging out as Smith would have said.

  I didn’t like it but I turned away from the compound and silently padded along the road and hoped Smith would catch me up sometime. Or maybe I’d never see him again.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  I kept glancing back behind me as I hurried along the road, half expecting to see Smith emerge from the fog with a big grin on his face. I saw only the odd flashes of undead, walking corpses trudging aimlessly through the mist. I just hoped Smith was okay. If he was, he’d find his own way back to the port town. If he wasn’t, well…I hoped he’d gone quickly.

  I ensured I stayed on the road and stopped moving every time I sensed a zombie in front of me. I’d let the undead cross the road before I carried on. They sensed human flesh somewhere in the foggy landscape but couldn’t quite locate it. Obviously the haze was disorientating them as well.

  It felt like I’d walked for miles before the fog finally began to lift. Little by little, I saw the trees belonging to the outskirts of the forest to my left and hilly, sandy ground to the right. The road remained straight, dividing the two separate landscapes but I guessed it either led back to the airport or towards the port town. I knew I’d be able to get my bearings a little better once the mist totally lifted. I could either stick to the road if it wasn’t too populated by roaming corpses or trek across the land.

  The fog finally drifted away, giving way to a gloomy gray morning with light drizzle hanging in the air, which matched my dismal mood. My legs, back and head ached as I walked along the long, dreary road. Gone were the sunny days of summer and I wished for a little of the heat I’d complained so much about over the past couple of months.

  I couldn’t help mulling over my situation and I wished I’d simply come clean with Smith about why the island gunmen were after us. If I’d told him, McElroy and Wingate about the fatal accident on the riverbank earlier, I wouldn’t be alone and miserably wandering through a hostile landscape. There wouldn’t have been the need for Smith to drag me off with him into the wilderness to play the half assed detective and find out what was going on.

  What a selfish idiot I was. Why hadn’t I said anything? It was all too late to change things.

  I huffed and reached for my cigarettes. The pack was still in my jacket with a few bent and twisted smokes inside. I put one in my mouth but couldn’t find a lighter. Typical of my luck. Close but no cigar, or lighter either for that matter.

  A strong breeze whipped across the road, splattering me with loose, gritty soil and chilling me to the bone. I shivered against the wind and turned up the collar of my jacket.

  I thought about Dave Burland and Ralph Pinchbeck. At least Smith and I had made them pay and put a stop to their dreadful, despicable acts. No more kids would suffer at their hands.

  I came to a crossroads and stopped walking.

  “You can run on for a long time, run on for a long time, run on for a long time, sooner or later God’ll cut you down, sooner or later God’ll cut you down.” The words from the Johnny Cash song ran through my head. How true the lyrics were.

  A flock of black crows cawed amongst the tree branches to my left. I knew in past times in England the crossroads were places where criminals were encapsulated in things called gibbets, a high, erected cage where they were left restrained to be pecked to death by flocks of crows and birds of prey. The Caribbean, under European rule had also adopted the gibbeting procedure and as I stared at the large wooden ‘T’ shaped structure at the edge of the junction, I wondered if this thing had contained any poor wretches in years gone by. I studied the gibbet and tho
ught what it must be like to be hanging there, unable to move, just waiting for death. How cruel mankind was and maybe we deserved this atrocity of the dead coming back to haunt us. Perhaps this was our penance for totally fucking up the planet.

  An old church stood on the opposite side of the road. Big, white Christian crosses adorned the wooden exterior, shack like walls and a half logged fence marked the property boundary to an overgrown, weed ridden and grassy compound that was probably once a parking lot. Grave stones stood at odd angles amongst tall weeds and long, spiky grass to the right of the building.

  I shuffled across the road and thought how ironic it was to have a church on one side of the road and a gibbet on the other. A tall, carved wooden figure of Jesus Christ crucified on the cross stood to the left of the boarded up church doorway. A torn white bed sheet was wrapped around the bottom of the figure with words painted in red, emblazoned across the center. It read “Where are you now?”

  I looked at the figure of Christ, his eyes closed and the crown of thorns wrapped around his head. Where was he indeed? He was reverted to some obscure and ineffective carving outside thousands of abandoned churches all over the world. No religion now. Nothing. Only the returned dead and the few living, damned to fight for survival until they finally curled their toes up.

  “INRI.” I read aloud the inscription above Christ’s head. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

  A deep voice spoke firmly from behind me. “The letters stand for ‘Iesvs Nazarenvs Rex Ivdaeorvm.’ Latin language uses ‘I’ instead of the English ‘J’, and ‘V’ instead of ‘U’.” The accent was perfect, well spoken English but had a Caribbean tinge.

  I turned and saw a tall, thin black man with short graying hair. He stood with a slight stoop and was dressed in a padded, green colored raincoat, fawn cargo pants and a pair of brown walking boots. A bulky backpack was slung high across his shoulders and he held a thick wooden walking cane in his right hand. His dark eyes stared right into mine and he never dropped his gaze. I would have guessed he was somewhere in his mid fifties.