“I haven’t got much spare ammo for this,” he roared as he tucked the rifle butt into the crook of his shoulder. “Make all your shots count.” He let off a few single shots, dropping zombies with every round.
The corridor soon filled with cordite smoke and the air became stuffy and thick. My throat was dry and I could barely see the approaching mob through the swirling haze. I was forced to wait until I had a view on a target before I could fire the next shot. The delay allowed the zombies to gain ground but firing blind and wasting vital ammunition would have been an extravagance I couldn’t afford.
We kept dropping the front runners in the crowd but more kept coming behind them. I don’t know why, but I thought of that old British movie, ‘Zulu,’ as the mass of undead continued to descend on us. Although, I doubted the British Army had found themselves fighting off reanimated corpses, back in 1879.
The booming sound of Jimmy’s old shotgun discharging reverberated around the corridor. I felt as though my teeth were going to shatter as I clenched my jaws together in a combination of concentration and grim resolve.
Fallen bodies littered the passageway directly in front of us but the sprawling mob still advanced, stumbling and stepping over their terminated counterparts.
“Shit, the whole damn population of Glasgow must be coming at us,” I screeched.
“Just keep aiming and dropping those fuckers, kid,” Smith yelled back.
“I’m out of ammo,” Jimmy shouted above the crack of gunfire. “We’re never going to make it out of here.”
My M-9 clicked empty and I immediately fumbled through my jacket for a replacement magazine. Smith continued firing but I knew his own ammunition supply was dwindling rapidly. We pressed ourselves up against the double doors behind us. Batfish slid the gurney to one side of the doors with Wingate positioned slightly in front of the trolley.
I finally reloaded my Beretta and felt in my jacket for the SIG Sauer so I could pass it to Jimmy. He glanced at me with a wide-eyed expression of terror and panic. His face was ashen white and his mouth hung open. I pulled out the spare SIG handgun from my jacket and held it out for Jimmy to take.
Jimmy shook his head. “It’s no good, Brett. We have to try and get through them and get back to the exit. We’re not going to live if we stay here, no matter how many we shoot.”
“Just take the damn gun, Jimmy,” I spat.
My attention was diverted by a withered hand, swatting the air a few inches from my face. I twisted and fired a round, which burst through an undead woman’s skull.
“I’m going to go fer it,” Jimmy wailed, turning his shotgun over in his hands so he gripped the metal barrels.
“Don’t you move, Jimmy,” I growled. “There’s too many of them. You’ll never get back to the exit point on your own.”
The others seemed oblivious to Jimmy’s dilemma. They continued to stand their ground, aiming at the front runners in the undead crowd. I knew Jimmy was panicking and the primeval, fight or flight part of his brain was screaming at him to flee the scene, no matter what the consequences. I saw him take a step forward and by his body language, I knew he was psyching himself up for bolting for freedom.
“Don’t do it, Jimmy,” I warned and went to grab his jacket with my left hand.
Another encroaching zombie, with a mop of long dark hair, diverted my immediate attention and I was forced to aim at the pale green face lurching at me. I fired once and the long haired zombie folded into the shadows.
I turned back to look at the space where Jimmy stood but saw only a swirling mist of cordite smoke.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“What are you doing, Jimmy?” Batfish screeched.
My gaze turned from my immediate surroundings to the corridor space to my front. Jimmy screamed a war cry, bludgeoning zombies out of his path with the heavy shotgun butt. I ceased firing and Wingate and Smith followed suit, worried a stray round might hit Jimmy.
The seething, undead crowd’s attention was turned solely to the young guy attempting to break through their ranks. Gnarled hands reached for him and the zombie horde surged in his direction, slightly to our right.
“Oh, Christ! What is that asshole doing?” Smith gasped.
“He’s trying to make a break for it,” I yelled. “He’s going to get himself killed.”
“You think?” Smith spat and fired a few rounds at the zombies closest to Jimmy.
Jimmy swatted away grasping hands and snapping jaws with the shotgun and I thought for a few glorious seconds that he was going to make it through the hostile crowd. The undead surrounded him and blocked his route. No matter how much batting and bashing he dished out, the undead wouldn’t quit their relentless surge.
“Jimmy, no!” Batfish squealed.
I saw a gap to the left of the corridor and briefly considered suggesting trying to get beyond the crowd as they swarmed over Jimmy. But even if we did escape, Cordoba would still need urgent medical treatment. Then I considered leaving her in the corridor on the gurney and making a run for it myself. I immediately felt callous and cruel for thinking I should simply leave my companions to a grisly fate.
“Smith, do something to help him,” Wingate screamed.
Smith responded with a few more killing headshots but it wasn’t enough to stem the undead tide. He tried edging a little further into the corridor but the danger was too close for comfort.
“I can’t get near to him,” Smith yelled.
Jimmy screamed in a high pitched tone and I saw his face screw up in agony, obviously from a bite somewhere on his body. He’d stopped swinging the shotgun around because he simply didn’t have enough room to maneuver the weapon. I felt helpless and incredibly sick when I saw a skinny man in a hospital gown tear a strip of flesh away from Jimmy’s face with his teeth. He wriggled but couldn’t shake off the multitude of hands grasping and clawing at him.
“Aw, no, not Jimmy,” Batfish wailed.
“Ah, shit, Jimmy, what did you do?” Smith barked. “There’s only one course of outcome here.” He aimed the M-16 and I knew he was going to put Jimmy out of his agony and make sure he didn’t come back as a member of the undead.
Jimmy’s screams became more like gurgles and he sunk from our view.
“I can’t even get a clear shot,” Smith shouted in frustration and lowering the rifle slightly.
“Oh, my god, Jimmy,” Batfish howled, holding her hands to her face. “Why the hell did you do that?”
If she was expecting Jimmy to answer her, then she’d be waiting a long while. Poor Jimmy lay somewhere beneath a scrum of undead, all vying for a piece of fresh meat. I felt numb and nauseous at the same time and couldn’t quite process what was panning out in front of me.
A clanking sound behind me snapped me back into reality and I turned with my M-9 directed at the source of the noise. I saw a worried looking, little Asian guy poking his head through a small gap between the double doors. His brown eyes were wide in shock and his gaze flicked between me, Smith and Cordoba on the gurney.
“Are you infected?” he asked quietly. His voice contained a hint of an Indian accent.
Smith lowered his rifle and turned towards the guy. He barged through the double doors, knocking the Asian guy backwards onto the floor.
“Come on, let’s get inside,” Wingate said. “Help me with the trolley, will you.”
Batfish and I grasped the sides of the gurney and wheeled it through the double doors. I turned and looked down the corridor. Already bloodied zombies stood from the huddle and began shuffling towards us. I didn’t suppose poor Jimmy had been much of a meal for so many undead. The skinny kid had allowed us a few seconds respite and for some reason the Asian guy had decided to open the doors.
“Make sure you lock the doors,” the Asian guy pleaded. He sat up, pointing to the entrance. “No dead people can get through there but you have to keep those doors locked.”
I closed them up and saw a dead latch in the center. I engaged the lock and turned into
the room. Smith shouldered his rifle then bent forward and grabbed the Asian guy by the throat. I watched without compassion as Smith shook the guy like a ragdoll.
“Why didn’t you open up earlier, you piece of shit?” Smith growled. “We lost one of our guys out there because of you.”
The Asian guy emitted a series of gurgled shrieks, probably in fear of his life.
Wingate stepped forward and grabbed Smith’s arm. “Stop it, Smith. You’re going to kill him,” she yelled.
“Too damn right,” Smith snapped.
Wingate wrestled his arm away and Smith snorted before releasing his grip. His face was fixed in an expression of pure, burning anger.
“Jimmy would still be alive if he’d let us in here sooner,” Smith seethed, pointing to the man on the ground.
The Asian guy coughed and spluttered, his face creased in pain as he rubbed his throat.
“He was probably scared that we were infected, like he said,” Wingate tried to explain.
I had to admit, I didn’t care for the guy lying on the floor and it wouldn’t have bothered me one iota if Smith had choked the bastard to death.
Wingate dragged Smith a few paces away from where the Asian guy sat. “We’re all upset about Jimmy but he made his own decision. That guy didn’t force him to try and run through all those creatures.” She pointed to the Asian guy. “He opened the door and we’d probably all be dead right now if he hadn’t done that.”
Seemingly to reiterate Wingate’s words, a bloodied hand slapped against the circular window in the door.
Smith huffed and hung his head to his chest. “It still don’t make me feel any better.”
“None of us feel great about it but we have to try and help Cordoba right now,” Wingate said. “That has to be our priority not taking retribution out on this guy.”
“Sarah?” Batfish called to Wingate.
We turned to Batfish and saw her bent over the gurney with her fingers against Cordoba’s neck. Her face was pale with a look of deep concern.
“You better come take a look at her. I think she’s stopped breathing.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Wingate let go of Smith’s arm and strode across the floor towards the gurney trolley. Cordoba’s head was turned to the side, facing us. She was pale and her complexion had turned almost blue, looking very much like a lifeless corpse. Batfish took a step back away from the cart as Wingate hunched over to check over Cordoba. I rubbed sweat from my face, feeling both exhausted and traumatized. Whenever I thought the situation couldn’t get any worse, it inevitably did.
Wingate snapped her head around to face the Asian guy. “Have you got a working defibrillator anyplace on this unit?”
The Asian guy coughed, still rubbing his throat. He tried to speak but only emitted a croak.
“Have you got a fucking defibrillator?” Wingate shouted.
The Asian guy nodded and hauled himself to his feet. “Yes, this way,” he croaked and pointed to a corridor to our right. “It will be no use for her if she’s bitten though.”
“She’s not fucking bitten, you moron,” Smith seethed. “She’s been shot.”
The Asian guy glanced nervously back at Smith and nodded. “Okay, follow me.”
“Try and jerk us off in any way, I’ll shoot you dead,” Smith growled and went to remove the M-16 from his shoulder.
“Stop it, Smith,” Wingate admonished. “Come and help me with this cart instead of threatening to shoot people.”
I clicked on the safety and shoved my handgun into my jacket before moving to the cart and taking a position by Cordoba’s feet. Wingate and Smith gripped the bars along the sides. We followed the Asian guy along the corridor, moving by a series of empty rooms on each side. Batfish released Spot from the harness around her waist and the two of them followed at the rear with the little dog trotting along to keep pace.
The Asian guy stopped beside a door and gestured inside the room. “This is the trauma room. All the equipment is in working order,” he said.
We bundled the gurney inside the wide room. A large window in the far wall provided light but open slatted blinds covered the pane. Various medical machinery stood on wheeled carts, scattered at angles around the room. The air seemed thick and stifling and smelled of sweat and death.
“Any chance we can open the blinds to let in some more light?” Wingate asked.
“I’m afraid not,” the Asian guy stammered with a quick glance in Smith’s direction. “If the infected see us from outside through the window, they’ll more than likely swarm around the area and eventually break the glass.”
“Okay, I guess we’ll have to work with what we’ve got,” Wingate sighed.
“I am a doctor…or I used to be a doctor,” the Asian guy muttered. He composed himself and tried again. “My name is Doctor Chandra Yadav and I would like to assist you in any way I can.”
“You can begin by jump starting the defib, Doc,” Wingate instructed. “We need to get her heart going again.”
“Yes, of course,” Yadav said, nodding and rushed to a machine at the side of the room. His nervousness seemed to ebb away and he asked Wingate about Cordoba’s injuries as he turned on the defibrillator.
I studied the Asian doctor as Wingate explained our situation. He was small and wiry, around late twenties at a guess, with a mop of jet black hair cut short around the sides, as though he’d given himself a haircut every few weeks. I wondered how long he’d been cooped up and locked away in the hospital and if he was alone in the building. My questions would have to wait though. He was too busy doing his medical thing with Wingate alongside him.
“You say all this equipment is in working condition?” Wingate asked, when she’d finished her debrief.
“Yes,” Yadav said, nodding. “I keep replacing the equipment with the backup batteries so we are fully operational in case of emergencies such as this. I must apologize deeply in delaying you access but I’ve had so many infected people trying to get in here over the past few weeks or months or however long it has been.”
“You here alone?” I asked.
Yadav briefly glanced away from Cordoba and in my direction. “Unfortunately, yes I am now. My last living companion died three days ago. He had terminal lung cancer before the infection spread and I tried to keep him alive as long as I could. There used to be twenty-eight of us left alive but sadly that number has quickly dwindled. The people either left the hospital or died trying. None that left here ever returned. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a patient to attend to.” He turned back to Cordoba on the gurney cart.
“I think what he means is, give us some room to work, guys,” Wingate said, nodding towards the door.
“Don’t worry, there are no infected on this ward. The area is totally secure,” Yadav added as he moved some machinery trolleys closer to Cordoba.
“Got anything in the way of food?” Smith asked.
“Yes, there is some canned food and water stored in the refectory down the hallway.” He nodded to the right side of the door.
“All right, come and find us if you need us,” Smith said. He gestured to me and Batfish to follow him.
Spot trotted behind us through the doorway. Batfish sighed loudly as she closed the door on the trauma room. We walked slowly along the corridor, heading in the direction that Yadav had indicated.
“What are her chances?” Batfish asked.
Smith shook his head. “Not good, best guess – 75-25 against. I just hope that damn doctor is some kind of miracle worker.”
I knew Cordoba didn’t stand much of a chance of survival and tried to brace myself for the almost certain bad news. We’d seen so many people fall along the wayside since the apocalypse began. Both good and bad people had come a cropper but Cordoba was definitely on the side of good. I was going to miss her badly if she didn’t make it.
“Were you seriously going to kill the guy?” Batfish asked.
Smith shrugged. “I don’t rightly know. With all th
e adrenalin pumping, Jimmy getting himself killed. It was all kind of fucked up and I guess the rage took over.”
“Poor little Jimmy,” Batfish sighed.
I shook my head. “I told him not to run. I told him to stay put. Why didn’t he listen?”
“The kid obviously got spooked,” Smith said. “When your brain’s all scrambled and the bullets are flying and the shit’s hitting the fan, it’s easy to go a little gaga in the heat of the situation.” He twirled his hand around beside his head.
“I doubt any of us would have made it out of that corridor alive if that Yadav guy hadn’t finally opened up,” I mused, gazing at the floor and mulling over the scene in my mind.
“I guess we’ll never know for sure, kid,” Smith muttered.
“Is this the place he was talking about?” Batfish asked.
I glanced up and saw she was pointing to a gloomy room with a wide entranceway to our right, which slightly resembled a café. No windows illuminated the space but I could still see inside the room from the light provided by the high windows running along the corridor walls.
“Let’s take a look,” Smith said. Batfish, Spot and I followed him inside.
Shadows masked most of the interior but I noticed a countertop running along the rear wall, directly facing the entry point. The counter was stacked with large tins and plastic water bottles in separate, neatly spaced piles. Out of survival instinct and sheer habit, I glanced around the rest of the room with a hand on the butt of my M-9. The walls were a shade of burgundy and several tables, surrounded by aluminum chairs, stood in vertical rows throughout the floor space.
“Looks all clear in here,” I said.
“Didn’t you hear that doctor guy, Brett?” Batfish said, backhanding my bicep in light admonishment. “He said the area was free of zombies.”
“Yeah…well, forgive me but I’ve become kind of a cynic in my old age,” I muttered.
Spot ran between the tables, sniffing the ground and cocking his leg against the chair legs. Smith marched towards the countertop and squinted as he studied the stacks of tins.
The Left Series (Book 5): Left On The Run Page 10
