The Left Series (Book 5): Left On The Run

by Fletcher, Christian

  Batfish followed close behind me, making small whimpering noises every time I axed a zombie out of our pathway.

  I’d always said, the undead posed no problem if you had a decent weapon and they were separated in small numbers. It was when you were faced with a whole swarm of them in an enclosed space that you were going to run into difficulties.

  I managed to quickly cut a path through the straggling undead, to the section of fallen fence. The remaining zombies I’d dispatched had all seemed to be either young when infected or those with limbs too badly decayed or eaten to be able to maneuver with any great ease. You also had to ensure those kinds of zombies were properly terminated; otherwise they could easily grab your leg and start taking lumps out of you.

  More of the undead roamed around the waste land. They’d obviously lost sight of the others and didn’t know in which direction to head. The zombies were spread out thinly and the brambles sprouting from the ground hampered their progress along the flat terrain.

  I took a glance behind us and saw the undead who had followed us from the dockyard still gave chase. We could easily put some distance between us if we kept moving at a fast pace.

  “Spot still okay in there?” I asked, as we trod across the fallen fence on the ground.

  “He’s always okay in there,” Batfish sighed. “It’s his second home. Now I know what it’s like to be pregnant, carrying this damn weight around the whole time.”

  Trudging across the waste land was slow and heavy going. Not only did we have to avoid the straggling numbers of zombies, causing us to deviate from our direct route slightly, the debris and clumps of thick brambles also hampered our progress. The undead also became snared up amongst the foliage so their approach was sluggish. We wanted to avoid any time consuming confrontation if possible so we decided to give the ensnared, ragged ghouls a wide berth.

  The waste ground petered out onto an overgrown footpath. We cautiously followed the pathway, keeping a vigil for any undead ready to spring out from the undergrowth. I brushed clumps of tall growing nettles and spiky thistles out of our way with the axe blade. Some of the foliage was battered down in places and I noticed a steady stream of footprints in the remainder of the snow on the ground.

  “This pathway has definitely been used recently,” I said quietly to Batfish. I thought I sounded like I was attempting to be some kind of North American trapper from the 1800’s.

  “No shit, Tonto,” Batfish murmured. She obviously wasn’t impressed with my impersonation of a frontiersman.

  The footpath led us to a wide roadway, which was probably one of the main driving routes to the dockyard. The road glistened in the sun with the melting snow, revealing the blacktop beneath. A sidewalk ran each side of the roadway and several abandoned vehicles sat at the curbside. A few lone zombies milled around the roadway or around the stationary cars. They gazed in our direction and began lumbering in our direction.

  I looked for more footprints but it proved difficult. Many sets of boot prints were imprinted in the remainder of the snow and it was impossible to detect which were old or which were from Smith and the rest of the refugees.

  Batfish freed Spot from the harness around her waist and set him down on the ground. It was just as well he was set free as he stooped down and did his business on the sidewalk, as dogs so love to do.

  “Which way now then, Davy Crockett?” Batfish asked, glancing at the approaching undead.

  “I don’t know,” I sighed, totally stumped in which direction to head. “If we take a right turn, surely that would take us back to the dockyard. I don’t think they’d have gone that way.”

  I couldn’t understand why Smith and the others hadn’t waited for us. I guessed they’d thought we’d either been caught by the Russians or brought down by the undead. Either way, I thought Smith would at least have wanted to make certain and he alone would have doubled back to check.

  “Okay, so let’s go left,” Batfish said. “We should move quickly before our new found friends start to get snappy.” She nodded towards the zombies stumbling towards us.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” I muttered, also taking a quick glance over my shoulder, back down the footpath. “I guess some of those following us are going to come down that pathway real soon too.”

  We took the left turn, moving at a brisk, half running pace to evade the zombies shuffling our way. I gazed into the distance and saw a few dull gray, concrete high rise tower blocks standing to the right and the ruined city center to the left. Which direction would Smith go I asked myself? I really couldn’t come up with an answer. We’d head along the road and make a decision depending on what kind of obstacles cropped up along the way.

  Batfish, Spot and I walked further along the road and a row of low standing, small brick buildings stood on the opposite side of the street. I could see large groups of undead roaming around, further down the road. I pointed them out to Batfish and we slowed our pace.

  “Maybe Smith and the others got trapped someplace,” I whispered. “Oh, to still have a working cell phone.”

  Spot started growling at the zombies up ahead and Batfish had to crouch and place her hand on his head to silence him.

  “Look Brett, I don’t know what’s going on but we’re hanging with our asses in the wind by moving around out here in the open,” she sighed.

  “I agree,” I muttered. “I’m totally bewildered with the whole situation. We seem to be chasing ghosts. It’s as though they all just completely disappeared.”

  “It’s going to be dark in an hour or so,” Batfish said, staring at the lowering sun. “We should seriously start looking for some safe place to hole up for the night.”

  “Okay, but I don’t like the look of those buildings opposite,” I said. “They look too small and too easy for the zombies to breach. They haven’t seen us yet but I’m sure they’ll catch our scent sooner rather than later.”

  “What do you suggest?” Batfish asked.

  The truth was, I didn’t know what to do or where to say to go. Belfast looked as though it had suffered badly during the apocalypse and I wasn’t sure if we weren’t the only living people left in the city. Nowhere throughout the urban landscape would be safe.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  As I was mulling over our situation, the decision on where to go was made for us. I frowned when I noticed a figure, clad in all black, complete with ski mask, pop out from one of the low standing buildings and duck behind a beaten up car.

  “Did you just see that?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t about to endure another bout of hallucinations.

  Batfish shook her head. “What?”

  “Some dude just came out of one of those buildings and hunkered down by that beat up old Ford,” I said, pointing to the red vehicle.

  “Listen Brett, it’s been a long day and I know you’re a little stressed and freaked out but I think…”

  “Psst…hey you two,” a voice hissed from the opposite side of the street.

  Batfish and I remained silent for a moment, listening out for the voice again. Spot heard it too and began rumbling. Batfish crouched to silence him again.

  “I told you I saw something,” I muttered.

  “Keep quiet,” Batfish admonished.

  The figure rose from behind the car. The head and shoulders were only visible behind the Ford’s trunk. I noticed a weapon sling around the figure’s left shoulder. He or she furiously waved us forward towards the car. Batfish and I hesitated to move, unsure who the figure was and why they wanted us to approach.

  “Come over here and hurry it up, will you,” the figure hissed again. His voice was definitely male and had the accent of a citizen of Northern Ireland.

  “Who are you?” I called out.

  The figure physically winced. “Keep your voice down and get over here if you want to stay in the land of the living.”

  “Come on, Brett,” Batfish muttered, stepping forward off the sidewalk towards the car.

  I grabbed her jacket to h
old her back. “What are you doing?” I rasped. “We don’t know who the hell this guy is. He might be hostile.”

  “I’m going to get totally hostile if we have to stay out here much longer,” Batfish growled. “Now, man-up and let’s go. Can’t you see the guy is trying to help us? If he was hostile, he’d have shot us up by now.”

  She had a point but it still didn’t stop me feeling a little apprehensive. I shuffled alongside Batfish, feeling queasier with every forward step.

  “Come on, quickly before you get spotted by the dead,” the figure whispered.

  Batfish quickened her pace and I kept up. Spot reluctantly walked alongside us, pulling backwards on his leash. He too was obviously nervous of the black clad figure.

  We rounded the bashed up Ford and the figure stood up straight. He was a tall man, broad chested and I could see he had a muscular physic even through his black jacket and black combat fatigues. An old style, Soviet AK47 Kalashnikov assault rifle hung around his waist, attached to the brown leather sling across his shoulders. I didn’t know much about firearms but the weapon was unmistakable by the curved magazine, positioned to the front of the trigger guard. I’d seen that type of assault rifle used in plenty of movies to know what model it was. He was also armed with a handgun, tucked in a leather holster around his waist.

  The big man took a quick glance further down the street to check on the clusters of zombies still wandering around the area.

  “Okay, it looks like we’re in the clear,” the man muttered. “Follow me.”

  He led us through the doorway of one of the small buildings, standing behind the wrecked Ford.

  I hesitantly stepped into the gloomy room beyond the threshold. The place looked as though it was once a small family home. We moved swiftly through what used to be the living room. Patches of the drywall ceiling had collapsed onto filthy, upturned and broken furniture. A heavily blood stained, dark green couch sat on the opposite side of the room and a flat screen TV, with a cracked screen still clung on the wall. Beige wallpaper peeled in curls from the graffiti strewn walls. Debris, broken glass and a few discarded kids’ toys lay strewn over the dirty lime green carpet. I trod on something that made a high pitched squeaking noise, presumably one of the toys and received a stern glare from both Batfish and the man in the ski mask.

  We trod through the living room, our feet squelching across the sodden carpet. I guessed the roof must have been leaking, as I noticed drips of water plopping down from the holes in the ceiling.

  The man in the ski mask led us through a very small kitchen that was equally dilapidated. Green algae grew sporadically over the side of the refrigerator, which lay at an angle, leaning on its side against the countertop. All the closets and drawers hung open and cutlery, pots, pans and various cooking utensils lay scattered on the grimy vinyl floor.

  A thin layer of mold covered the kitchen window that looked out onto the backyard of the property. We followed the man through the open back door and into the small yard. Snow still covered around half the ground space and a little kid’s bicycle stood forlornly and forgotten next to a wooden paneled fence surrounding the backyard.

  I narrowly avoided garroting myself on a low hanging, nylon string washing line that ran from the wall at the rear of the house to one of the fence posts at the side of the yard. I found it slightly strange how certain things stayed how they were, yet others collapsed with neglect. That nylon washing line would still probably be hanging in the yard until the house finally crumbled to the ground. Then it would lie under a pile of bricks forever, never to have a pair of socks or pants pinned to it again.

  We followed the man through the yard and he headed to an open gate in the center of the wooden fence, positioned directly opposite the rear wall of the house. He slowed his brisk pace and leaned his head through the gateway, checking both directions were clear.

  “Okay, come on,” he muttered, waving us forward.

  We followed him through the gate and found ourselves in a narrow alleyway with a bumpy gravel surface. Clumps of snow filled the potholes and loose bricks lay scattered across the path. The man turned to the left and we trailed after him across the uneven ground. He turned slightly and pulled the ski mask up over his face. His eyes were dark, almost jet black and his jaw was prominent and wide. His nose was slightly squashed and he had the look of a heavyweight boxer about him.

  “Apologies if I scared you with the mask,” he said quietly, with a distinct Belfast lilt. “We’ve found the dead have more difficulty in picking us out if we’re wearing all black.” He turned back to survey the alley ahead, treading cautiously but assertively forward.

  I wondered who the ‘we’ he referred to consisted of.

  My mind whirled with numerous questions I wanted to ask but knew we had to keep the noise to a minimum. I felt Batfish was too trusting with this guy. We didn’t know who he was or what kind of place he was leading us. My past experiences with remaining survivors since the apocalypse hadn’t exactly been a wonderful experience. I’d been injected with mescaline in New Jersey, imprisoned in a sweaty, wooden cell in New Orleans, beaten and nearly killed by diseased psychopaths at Stonehenge in England, almost burned and stabbed by a deranged murderer in a castle in Scotland, blown up in a Glasgow pub and captured by the Russian military.

  This new guy would have to forgive me if I wasn’t entirely trusting.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  The guy stopped walking and stood still and silent at the mouth of the alleyway. Batfish, Spot and I also halted behind the big man. He glanced left and right along the narrow street running horizontally in front of us. More small houses lined the street in a terraced row. A few zombies aimlessly staggered around the road, around fifty feet to our left. The dwellings were constructed of gray bricks and all looked uninhabited with smashed windows and front doors hanging open or missing completely. I noticed lines of bullet holes scarred into the brickwork at the front of the houses.

  “So much devastation. What happened here?” I muttered.

  The guy in front of us turned and put his index finger to his lips. Batfish flashed me a stern glare.

  “You might want to pick up your wee dog,” the guy whispered. “We have to cross this street and we’ll need to move fast.”

  “Where are we headed?” I blurted, unable to contain my apprehension any longer.

  “To a relatively safe place,” the guy growled, obviously pissed off with my patter. “But to keep it from being relatively safe, we have to avoid being followed by dead people. You understand me?” His eyes burned with anger as he quietly admonished me.

  “Got it,” I mumbled and looked away, avoiding his steely glare.

  Batfish scooped Spot up and I heard her sigh slightly as she hid the dog away in her waist harness once again.

  “Ready?” the guy asked.

  Batfish and I gave a brief nod and we set off across the street in a tightly confined pack, moving quickly in a stooped stance. We carefully avoided the loose bricks and debris littering the roadway. All the while, the guy leading us kept glancing towards the undead further up the street.

  A male zombie with long greasy hair spotted our movement and emitted a series of low grunts before lumbering in our direction. The rest of the undead, picking up on the long haired ghoul’s lead began heading our way.

  “They’ve seen us,” I hissed.

  “We’ll have to give them the slip,” the big guy in front of me rumbled.

  We hurtled through an open doorway of a house in the center of the terraced row. The layout was similar to the last home we’d moved through and equally as rundown. I glanced up at the sagging ceiling but tripped on something on the floor inside the gloomy living room, causing me to stumble to my right. I was aware of the axe in my hands and knew I had to avoid landing on the blade. I let the weapon tumble from my grasp with the intention of retrieving it once I’d regained my footing. The damp carpet stunk of mold and algae as I skidded across its surface.

  “Fu
ck it,” I spat, when I bashed my elbow against a broken wooden chair frame.

  The pain shot up my arm and continued its unwanted journey into my shoulder blade. I knew I didn’t have time to allow for the pain to recede or to feel sorry for myself. The axe lay on the floor slightly in front of me and I reached across the carpet to grab the handle.

  I gasped when a bony hand tightly clamped hold of my wrist. Something groaned in the gloom to my left and I saw a body slithering out from beneath a wooden table. The face loomed out of the murkiness and it was the stuff of nightmares. Only thin strips of rotting flesh remained on the skull and the eyelids had either been torn away or had totally decomposed, making the eyeballs look huge and bulbous. The remaining hair stuck up and outwards in wiry, matted clumps.

  I tried to pull my hand free but the blow to my elbow had left my arm and shoulder feeling numb and lifeless. The ghoul opened its mouth and clattered its teeth together in anticipation of taking a chunk out of my forearm.

  I instinctively made a kind of whimpering sound as I tried to pull myself away from the hideous zombie’s snapping jaws. I heard the sound of hurried movement and a shadow loomed over me.

  “Mind yourself now,” the Northern Irish guy nonchalantly muttered.

  I turned slightly and saw the butt of his AK47 hovering above my head. I rolled to my right as far as I could, hoping the ghoul wouldn’t take a bite out of me as I did so. The guy brought down the rifle butt with force, the solid wooden base crunched into the side of the ghoul’s skull, making a noise like timber cracking.

  The bony fingers went limp around my wrist and I swiftly pulled my arm away from the withered hand.

  “Catch yerself on, yer wee feckin’ eejit,” the guy growled at me. “Now, stop faffin’ around and get yerself on yer feet.”

  “Right,” I muttered, nodding as I reached for the axe and hauled myself upright.

  I didn’t exactly understand what the man had just said but got the gist that I was a fool and to stop messing around and concentrate on what I was doing.