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

by Christian Fletcher

  “So, the inscription would read Jesus Nazarenus Rex Judaeorum. The English translation is ‘Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews.’ Now you know.” The guy nodded at me then nodded at the crucifix in front of the church.

  I felt slightly irritated at my ignorance and at the guy’s intrusion into my private musings.

  “Well, I’ll sure sleep better at nights knowing that,” I scoffed.

  The guy finally broke his gaze and turned to the figure on the cross. “I somehow doubt that,” he said. “But it’s always good to know your history.”

  I sighed, coming to the conclusion that I shouldn’t mock the guy. He obviously didn’t mean me any harm or he’d have whacked me with his walking cane when my back was turned.

  “The trouble with history is there’s no future in it,” I joked, trying to lighten the mood.

  The man returned his gaze to me and smiled. “You can obviously look after yourself. I can see that with all the weapons you’re carrying and the way you’re dressed but you have the aura of the lost sheep that’s been separated from the flock. You also have the look of a haunted soul.”

  “You could say that,” I sighed. “You’re kind of right on both accounts.”

  “You also have an interesting accent. One that sounds like you’re far from home,” the man said, raising his eyebrows. “Are you British or American, friend?”

  I shrugged. “Bit of both. Well, technically Irish American but I was born and lived in London for a few years when I was a kid before moving to Pennsylvania in the States.”

  The guy nodded. “A well traveled man. What brought you here to St. Miep?”

  While I appreciated the guy’s genuine interest, I really couldn’t be assed to relay my whole sorry story since the apocalypse had begun.

  “Ah, it’s a long story,” I sighed. “I don’t want to bore you with the details.”

  The guy jabbed the end of his cane into the soft ground. “In case you didn’t realize, that time doesn’t have the same meaning as it used to. I have all the time in the world, friend.”

  My irritation returned. I didn’t like being quizzed on my history and I didn’t like being called ‘friend.’ I wasn’t his damn friend. This guy had never met me before.

  “That’s very kind of you but I have to be someplace else,” I said. “It was good to meet you mister…?”

  “Kline,” the guy said, moving a step closer and proffering his right hand. “My name is Jericho Kline.”

  I returned the handshake. “I’m Brett Wilde.”

  “It was good to meet you too, Brett,” he said.

  I nodded, half smiled and turned away, heading back for the roadway. The desire for nicotine returned and a thought went through my mind. I turned back to the man still gazing over the front of the church.

  “Say, Mister Kline, Jericho, whatever. You don’t have a lighter on you, do you?”

  Kline reached into a pocket inside his padded jacket, bringing out silver, petrol fuelled lighter.

  “Man, you’re a lifesaver,” I said, pulling out my crumpled cigarette pack.

  I put a smoke in my mouth and offered the pack to Kline. He shook his head, flashing me an admonishing glare.

  “Those things will kill you in the end, Brett,” he said. “You need the ability to light a fire but you don’t need those things.”

  I lit the cigarette and enjoyed the burn of smoke in my lungs. “You have to die of something, Jericho.”

  Kline ruefully nodded and replaced the lighter back in his inside pocket. His gaze went back to the church building and a melancholy expression engulfed his face. “I used to be the pastor of this church before the world turned. I come by the place from time to time to see if it’s still standing.” He turned his head and fixed that firm gaze on me again. “You talk of dying? I have seen so much death from people I knew. People who thought they would be saved because of their faith.” He sighed. “I couldn’t tell them any different. I told them to keep believing. My own faith wavered but it is still strong now. We have to keep the feeling of hope, Brett.”

  I turned away from his stare, studying Christ on the cross. “And where did their faith get them in the end?” I asked.

  Kline shuffled on his feet and looked to the ground, as though he felt uncomfortable. I felt a little sorry for the guy.

  “So, that’s how come you know all about Jesus then?” I asked, trying to change tact. “You used to be a man of God?”

  “Yes,” Kline replied in a whisper. “I still am a man of God.”

  I could have gotten into a debate with him about religion but the time wasn’t right. After all, I didn’t want to knock anybody’s faith or hope for the future. We all had to have something to cling on to.

  “Which way is to La Bahia Soleado?” I asked, pointing up and the road.

  Kline looked up at me with sorrow in his eyes. “It’s that way,” he said, indicating the route to the right of the crossroads with his walking cane. “Is that where you’re heading?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I’m supposed to meet up with some of my people there.” I glanced down the road. “We came out here to get some supplies but it didn’t quite work out the way we planned.”

  “Nothing ever does, my friend,” Kline said. “Sometimes it works out better or sometimes worse. It’s how we cope with the change of the situation that counts.”

  I puffed my last tug on the smoke and toed it out under my boot. “It feels like I’ve been doing that for a very long time now.”

  “I can walk with you some of the way if you wish,” Kline suggested. “I’m a good listener if you want to unburden yourself with some of your troubles.”

  “You can if you’re sure you want to,” I said. If I was honest, I’d be glad of the guy’s company. He seemed to have an air of calm and sense about him in a world gone totally bat shit crazy.

  “Very well,” Kline said, with a hint of a smile. “We shall walk the road together.”

  “And you also have a lighter for my smokes,” I said, grinning.

  Kline laughed softly and ushered the way from the churchyard to the road. I led the way and Kline followed behind until we reached the road. We walked side by side gazing into the gray overhanging clouds in the distance.

  After the horrors I’d witnessed at the tennis club, I felt at ease with Jericho Kline and began to recount the journey I’d undertaken across the world and finally ending up in St. Miep. He was right; he was a good listener and didn’t interrupt or judge whatever I’d done. He spoke about his troubles and the life he’d led, almost as a traveling hermit, since the apocalypse. It almost felt like I’d found a new friend.

  We walked and talked for what seemed like a long time. We stopped walking and talking when we heard the unmistakable chatter of gunfire in the distance.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  I scanned the close ground for any signs of movement. A wooded area stood to the right of the road and barren rocks and sandy hills sat to our right. The road curved away to the left, beyond the tall rocks and in a downward slope. The gunshots came from somewhere in the woods. I was reluctant to leave the road again and wanted to press on but the gunfire was a cause for concern.

  “How far to the port town, Jericho?” I asked, in a low voice.

  “Not far, a couple of miles. Maybe three at the most,” he replied. He looked a little scared and I could tell he was apprehensive about continuing our journey. His eyes widened and he glanced from side to side across the road. He hunched down slightly and started backing up.

  “You going now, Jericho?” I asked him.

  “Whoever is firing those shots is not going to be friendly,” he said. “I wish you good luck, my friend.” He kept moving backwards, gathering pace with every step before he finally turned and strolled briskly along the road, back the way we’d come.

  I wanted him to continue onward with me and nearly shouted for him to come back. Yelling would only have alerted the gunmen, whoever they were and I couldn’t risk doing tha
t. The possibility the shooters were hostile was high. And what were they shooting at anyhow? A whole bunch of zombies could be heading my way at any moment.

  Shit! I’d have to carry on alone and hope I found Smith somewhere along the way or with some luck on my side I’d run into McElroy and Wingate. And now Jericho, the guy with the cigarette lighter was running out on me. Christ, what a mess.

  I decided I’d bypass the shooters in the woods and try to carry on trekking along the road. I hadn’t run into any undead and I figured I could reach the outskirts of the town in less than an hour if I remained unhindered. It was still morning so I’d have plenty of daylight time to figure out a way through the town when I finally got there.

  Setting off at a jogging pace, I hurried alongside the shaded area below the trees to my right. The gunfire seemed to be getting louder and I heard raised voices echoing through the woods. More gunshots rang out after a brief lull and I didn’t know whether to continue or go back. Either way I’d be spotted and probably mown down by the gunmen.

  I turned and saw a narrow gap between the rocks a few feet further up the road. I ran full pelt and scurried like a fleeing animal between the large gray rocks. The gap inclined and gravel and small stones crunched beneath my feet. I hurried around the side of the rock on the left and sank into the shadow it cast. Ensuring I was still hidden from sight from the road, I peered around the angle of the large rock.

  Around twenty men dressed in the remnants of tatty, dark green combat clothing retreated from the woods. They scurried almost backwards, aiming their rifles into the trees and jabbering amongst themselves in Spanish. All of them looked thin, disheveled and undernourished, their clothing was dirty and sweat stained and they all had rough, unkempt beards. They looked like what was left of the South American militia we’d encountered in the castle up on the cliff tops some months previously. We hadn’t seen any more of them for a while and presumed they’d fled the island somehow. By the look of them, they’d been living rough and trying to survive from day to day.

  The militia men carried packs on their backs that didn’t look too bulky or heavy. Obviously their supplies were running low. I wondered who their skirmish was against. Whoever they were battling with seemed to be achieving the upper hand. A few of them crouched beside the tree trunks at the edge of the road and fired a few rounds back into the woods. A return of gunfire caused them to hunker down. One guy was showered with wood chips from rounds spraying into the tree. Another guy squealed, blood and entrails pouring from a wound in his guts. He’d copped at least a couple rounds in the stomach. The injury was an immediate death sentence.

  Clearly it wasn’t the undead they battled. It was a whole fucking army.

  The militia men fled down the road as dozens of islanders swarmed forward through the trees. Most of them carried various types of firearms but others held machetes, scythes, long knives, wooden clubs and other weapons capable of killing a human.

  The militia guy who’d been showered in wood chippings from the spray of gunfire wasn’t so quick to rise to his feet. An islander aimed a big silver handgun at the militia guy and fired one shot. The militia guy screamed as the round blew out his left kneecap and he crumpled back to the ground amid a pool of blood and shattered bone, his face screwed up in agony. He was immediately surrounded by at least half a dozen big guys without handguns but still carrying weapons of death. They beat, hacked and stabbed at the grounded militia guy until his screaming ceased.

  Ah, shit! What the hell had I started? It looked as though the once peaceful islanders had decided to strike back against the invaders on their soil. They weren’t going to put up with us or the South American militia or anybody else fucking around on their island. They’d probably been through enough shit and the pot had finally boiled over. It looked as though they’d decided to come out of their hiding place en masse and wipe out the invaders on their shores. I wasn’t certain but I felt as though by me killing that kid on the riverbank had been the final straw for them. They’d had enough and were going to kick back.

  What had I done?

  I’d inadvertently caused an all out war on St. Miep and now I was stuck out all on my own in the center of it all.

  “Oh, well played, Brett! You’ve really excelled yourself this time, pal!” I heard my alternative self say inside my head.

  I waited for the islanders to disperse. They regrouped at the edge of the woods beside the road and then pursued the fleeing militia at a steady pace. I didn’t know how many they totaled in number but it seemed a lot. Maybe one hundred armed guys and around twenty armed women. They all had a pissed off manner about them and anybody that they didn’t like the look of was going to get slaughtered in a horrible way.

  I glanced at the poor wretch by the trees who had been a living, breathing human only a few minutes ago. He was now reduced to an unrecognizable pile of pulp, blood and crushed bone.

  Ah, Christ! This was worse than the undead. I hoped Smith, McElroy and Wingate wouldn’t run into the mob along the way. They’d be in big trouble if they crossed paths.

  I slipped out from behind the rock and stood in the center of the road. Now what was I going to do?

  I couldn’t continue along the road in case I caught up with the island mob and there was nothing but an overrun tennis club and a derelict church behind me.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  I’d never wanted a cigarette so badly. Yes, that was the answer to all my problems. Just smoke. It was the only thing I could think of to do.

  I moved closer to the woods, bypassing the pummeled corpse and the militia guy who was shot in the guts. One of the islanders had put the guy out of his misery by shooting him in the head. My target was a discarded black colored backpack lying a few feet from the roadside. I just hoped they’d be a lighter amongst the meager possessions inside.

  I opened the bag up and tipped out the contents over the wet leaves and fallen pine needles on the ground. A few items rattled from the backpack, a small number of strips of dry meat, a can of dog food, a bottle half full of brown liquid, a folding knife with a blue handle, which I took and a crumpled box of matches. Jackpot!

  I slipped the knife into my jacket pocket, took out a smoke and stuffed it between my lips. I tried to light the matches but most of them were damp and didn’t even flare. I took one from the center of the box. It lit and I didn’t breathe until my cigarette was burning at the tip. I flicked out the match and inhaled the cigarette smoke. It felt great but didn’t solve my problems.

  What to do and which direction to head? Staying put was not an option.

  I smoked the cigarette down to the butt and crushed it out underfoot. With the nicotine craving over, I had to ask myself now what did I do?

  “Hey, you,” a voice in accented English barked. “Raise hands over head.”

  “Ah, you got to be shitting me?” I groaned. I’d taken my eye off the ball and allowed somebody to creep up on me.

  I lifted my arms at the side of my head and turned towards the source of the voice, which came from somewhere behind me. I couldn’t see anyone at first and thought it was my alternative self playing a game of silly assholes. Then I noticed a ragged figure emerge from a thick bush and aiming a handgun at my face. The thin man brandishing the firearm was clad in the militia green combats, although the material of his pants and jacket was riddled with holes and tears. He slowly and apprehensively approached me and I noticed the skin on his face above a bushy beard was blistered and sun burned.

  “You think it good to rob the dead, eh?” he said. His voice was hoarse and like a rasp.

  “I only took a box of matches for my cigarette,” I protested, only too aware my predicament had just got a whole lot worse. The guy must have hidden it out and waited for the island mob to pass.

  “Well, I prefer to rob the living.” He wheezed something between a laugh and a cough and I noticed the blackened teeth beyond his lips.

  This guy was half a zombie already.

  “Y
ou got a nice rifle on your back and you have a sidearm too. Put them on the ground in front of you and then you take off the pack too,” the guy commanded. “Do it real slow. One bad move and pow! I blow your head off.” He thrust the handgun barrel at me for emphasis.

  I sighed and briefly gazed at the heavens. This was turning out to be a really shitty day. The guy was going to rob me and probably shoot me anyhow.

  “Okay, maybe we could team up and try and get back to the port town together?” I suggested. More in vain hope than an actual proposition. This guy wasn’t going to let me go anywhere.

  “I think, no,” the guy said, shaking head. “You put down your weapons now.” He pointed a gnarled finger to the ground in front of me.

  I couldn’t think of any kind of plan or anything to say to stall for time. And what would the outcome be if I even managed to stall time? Nothing seemed in my favor. When your luck is down it really sucks and keeps on shitting on you from a great height, right when you think it can’t get any worse.

  “Do not forget to move real slow,” the guy reiterated. “I shoot you dead if you try and…”

  I heard a loud gunshot and blood spattered across my face. The militia guy jerked sideways to his right and slumped onto the ground. Blood and brains poured from the side of his skull. I stared disbelievingly at the man’s twitching corpse for a few seconds. What the hell had just happened? Did the guy’s handgun blow up in his face?

  “It seems like saving your sorry ass is becoming a lifetime habit, Wilde.”

  I wiped the blood and brains from my face with my jacket sleeve and turned my head to the woods. Smith stood beside a tree trunk with the barrel of his Russian handgun still smoking and pointing in the dead militia guy’s direction.

  I breathed a long sigh of relief and reached for my pack of cigarettes. My relief soon turned to annoyance. But it was fucking good to see Smith again.

  “Where the hell did you get to?” I snapped, tossing the cigarette pack to Smith.