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

by Fletcher, Christian

  Hannigen tottered as he stood but managed to keep his balance and grab hold of the metal handrails at the rear of the warship. We were going to have to climb up the guardrails to reach the deck. It was only distance of around four feet but I didn’t see how we were going to manage to get the zombies onboard with us.

  Hannigen pulled on the guardrails so the small boat bumped against the steel, back end of the warship.

  “Okay,” Hannigen whispered. “Get your asses up there while I hold us steady.”

  McElroy, McPherson, Dunne, McDonnell and Duffy silently clambered up the guardrails and dropped onto the quarterdeck. I went to stand to start the climb but Smith stuck out his foot to stop me.

  “I need you to come along with me,” he whispered.

  “Why? Where the hell are we going?” I muttered.

  Smith didn’t reply. He glanced up at McElroy on the quarterdeck. “Me and Wilde are going to cause a diversion,” he whispered. “Don’t do shit until we start.”

  “What?” McElroy hissed. “What the fuck are you doing, Smith? I thought we were going to stick to the plan.”

  “We are but we’re not going to get out of here unless the Russians are preoccupied with a little trouble.”

  McElroy shook his head. “What are you going to do and how will we know when to start the ship’s engines and pull up the anchor?”

  Smith nodded. “You’ll know.”

  “Well, don’t be too long about it,” Hannigen growled, as he began climbing the guardrails.

  I sat back down, wondering what the hell was going on. Smith had totally diverted from our original plan and now the whole thing was veiled in confusion. The small boat drifted away from the warship and McElroy and his crew slipped away from the quarterdeck and into the shadows.

  “What the hell are we doing?” I asked.

  “Keep your voice down, kid,” Smith hissed. “I need you to row to that other ship. I’d do it but my hands are full of damn zombies.”

  Sighing in frustration, I shuffled myself into the center of the small boat and grabbed hold of the oars. I tried to maneuver us in the direction of the second warship but rowing the boat proved more difficult than I thought.

  “Where the fuck are you taking us, Wilde?” Smith seethed, as we drifted further out of the harbor.

  “This fucking boat ‘aint going where I want it to go,” I wailed, paddling furiously.

  “Keep the noise down,” Smith growled. “And stop splashing with those damn oars, will you.”

  I forced myself to remain calm and sucked in a few deep breaths. “All right, I can do this,” I muttered to myself.

  “Bet your ass you can,” Smith said, spitting out his words through clenched teeth. “Come on, let’s get down to business. Mac and his guys are waiting on us.”

  I knew the longer we stayed out on the water, the chances of us being spotted by the Russians increased. Also, the more time McElroy and his guys waited on the ship, the danger of being discovered became a daunting possibility, with every wasted second that ticked by.

  I paddled on each side of the boat in alternate strokes, trying to aim for the damaged warship’s stern. Somehow, I managed to row us towards the Russian vessel and I lifted the oars out of the water and let the boat drift to our destination. I heard voices speaking in Russian above us as we coasted nearer to the quarterdeck. Smith held the zombies firmly in place with their heads still dunked in the sea. They didn’t struggle and if they’d been living people, they would have drowned some time earlier.

  The small boat gently bumped against the Russian warship and I moved to the side to grip the guardrails. The boat lurched sideways and I stumbled across the deck, nearly dropping headfirst into the drink. I managed to grab the rails in front of me and steady the boat’s movement with my feet.

  Smith scowled at me and I knew he was thinking I was an asshole. He nodded to the ship and raised his head. I assumed he was motioning for me to hop over the guardrails. I reached down and grabbed the rope lying on the boat’s deck then tied a knot around the guardrails. Smith nodded at me again and I complied with his wishes and crawled up the guardrails then dropped onto the quarterdeck on the other side.

  Smith pulled the two zombies out of the water but still kept a grip on the back of their necks. He took slow, cautious steps in a kind of shuffling movement across the boat deck towards the guardrails.

  I waved Smith forward. He spun the male zombie around then thrust him forward at the guardrails and nodded at me. I sighed as I knew he was expecting me to haul the damn corpse up onto the deck. Through gritted teeth and avoiding the urge to grunt in exertion, I gripped the zombie under his arms and heaved him upwards through the guardrails. I nearly gagged at the stench of rotting flesh and filth, apparent even through the black ski mask I wore.

  I propped the male zombie against the wall facing me and hoped he’d stay in position. We repeated the process with the female zombie and thankfully, she was somewhat lighter than her male counterpart. Smith joined me on the quarterdeck as I shepherded the zombies into a dark corner.

  “Okay, what now?” I whispered.

  Smith held out the palm of his hand at me. “Hold on, I need to change,” he muttered.

  “What?” I sighed. “What are we doing now?”

  Smith pulled off his ski mask and tugged the rucksack off his back. “I’m going incognito again. I quite liked being a Russian.” He took the army officer’s uniform out of the bag and started to strip off the black combat clothing.

  “What am I going to be doing?” I asked.

  “Take off that damn mask and you could be a doppelganger for one of those Special Forces dudes that were hanging around back at that camp in Scotland.”

  I slipped off the mask and tucked it into my jacket pocket. “I doubt I look anything like a Special Forces guy,” I sighed. “Those guys were all beefed up and I’m a little on the skinny side.”

  Smith finished dressing in the Russian Army uniform and slapped me around the face. “Don’t worry about it, kid. There’ll be enough chaos and mayhem going on soon that they won’t even notice you.”

  “What does that even mean?” I sighed.

  “Just follow my lead and it will all work out fine, Wilde Man. Trust me.”

  I blew out a long breath. Trusting Smith normally led to a near death experience.

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Smith shouldered his rifle and sat his peaked cap on his head.

  “Grab those dead motherfuckers and let’s have a little fun,” he grunted.

  I shrugged and retrieved the placid zombies from the dark corner. They seemed to be happy to be led as though they were some kind of tethered livestock. I gripped the rope binding their hands behind their backs and shuffled them forward.

  “I want to get all those other refugees out of here,” Smith snorted. “Those poor bastards don’t deserve to be locked up in some fucking hell hole of a gulag for the rest of their miserable lives.”

  “How the hell are we going to manage that?” I groaned. “It’s going to be hard enough to pull this whole thing off as it is.”

  “Like I said, trust me, kid,” Smith mumbled. “Come on. Let’s get this party started.”

  Smith led and I dragged the two undead along between the two of us. The male zombie became a little agitated and made a few noises. Smith turned and poked at the sack so the hessian material entered the zombie’s mouth.

  “Shut the fuck up,” Smith whispered.

  Smith quietly opened a door hatch leading inside the interior of the ship. I squinted in the bright light reflecting off the white wall panels lining the long corridor in front of us.

  “It should be feeding time around now,” Smith said. “We’ll drop off our friends for some supper.”

  Smith led the way along the corridor, taking a few dog-leg turns. I saw movement up ahead but the guy in blue coveralls didn’t take notice of us. He ducked into a doorway off of the corridor. Smith motioned with his head towards the doorway.
We carried on moving along the corridor until we were a few feet from the entrance.

  “That’s the dining hall in there,” Smith whispered and nodded with his head. “The Russians are banned from taking any firearms into the mess hall. We’ll send our pals in there for some dinner of their own.”

  He took out his knife and moved behind the two zombies.

  “We’re going to have to be real quick here,” he muttered. “As soon as they’re free, push them through the doorway.”

  Smith hurriedly slashed through the rope binding the zombie’s hands, then cut the rope around their necks and pulled the sacks off their heads. The undead made groaning sounds as though they were awakening.

  “Go, go,” Smith urged.

  I directed the zombies forward. The female reacted to the new surroundings first and made a series of shrill shrieks while I shoved her through the doorway. The male started to turn as he was aware of my presence but the screams from his female counterpart, along with shouts of alarm from people in the dining hall caused him to want to investigate. He turned back to the doorway and stumbled inside the room.

  “Okay, let’s go,” Smith whispered.

  “Where to?” I asked.

  “We haven’t finished our little game yet. Some more shit to do.”

  Smith turned and hurried down the corridor in the opposite direction to where we came from. I jogged after him feeling relieved we’d now shed our undead pals but still nervous about our predicament. The sounds of terrified screams from the dining hall echoed along the corridor as we headed away. Smith strode up a staircase and we met two Russian sailors hurrying in the other direction. A hubbub of noise filtered from above us and more military guys charged down the staircase, heading towards the dining hall. Smith’s little distraction was obviously working.

  We kept moving up another staircase on the next deck level and Smith led the way onto the ship’s bridge. Nobody occupied the dark room and I gazed around at all the complicated equipment and control panels. Smith moved to a desk where a bunch of maps and charts were sprawled across the surface.

  “Get anything you can find that’s burnable,” he barked.

  I looked around and saw some books with embossed Cyrillic’s on the front, sitting on a desk in the corner. I gathered up the paperwork and logs and turned around towards Smith. He held the charts and map in a pile and stuffed them below a big black chair in the center of the room. I handed Smith the books and he shoved them on top of the paper pile. Smith took out his Zippo lighter and flicked on the flame.

  “It’s a little cold in here, don’t you think?” Smith muttered. “Maybe we need to warm the place up.” He held the lit flame to the maps and charts and books and we watched as the whole pile caught fire. Smoke quickly filled the room and the smell of melting vinyl from the chair wafted from the fire. “Okay, let’s move.”

  I followed Smith down the staircase and we hurtled along another corridor. Smith ducked into another room off the corridor. I followed him inside and saw the place was filled with rows of filing cabinets. Smith opened one up and took out more paperwork. He lit up the paper and opened more drawers, setting fire to each one in turn. I followed suit, opening filing cabinet drawers and lighting up pieces of paper. Within a few seconds, the whole room was ablaze and filling with smoke.

  “Let’s go,” Smith said, between coughs.

  We rushed through the corridor and Smith led the way out of a side door to the upper deck. Smith made his way to a locker on the port side of the ship, which faced the dark harbor. He pulled out a green Jerry can that made a slopping sound as he moved it.

  “Fuel for the boats,” Smith whispered. “Let’s have some fun with this stuff.”

  Smith popped open the cap on the Jerry can and hurried towards two small, gray boats sitting in cradles at the side of the deck. He smothered the boats with fuel from the can and I held my nose against the stench of gas.

  I physically flinched when a loud siren blared from a speaker behind me. The sound made a monotonous high pitched tone that seemed to blast right through my head.

  “Fire alarm?” I shouted to Smith, pointing at the amplifier.

  Smith shrugged. “Probably,” he grunted, taking out his Zippo lighter.

  He tossed the Jerry can into the boat nearest us and flicked the flame. He held the lighter slightly above the deck and the flame ignited the gas, sending a plume of flame hurtling towards the boats.

  “That’ll stop them coming after us,” Smith said. “Okay, I think that’s enough to keep them occupied a while. Let’s go get the refugees and join Mac and his guys.”

  We moved across the deck and ducked into the doorway a fraction of a second before the boats roared into a flaming inferno. I followed Smith down the staircase and saw Russians running up and down the corridor, barking orders at each other. The passageway was filled with smoke and I couldn’t help coughing and retching against the acrid cloud. The fire alarm still belted out its repetitive, two tone racket and the whole ship seemed to be in a state of utter chaos.

  We turned a corner and saw a staircase leading down to the lower decks where the remaining refugees were held. Three Russians ascended the staircase with their backs to us, which didn’t worry me. Smith and I had blended in amongst the Russians and nobody paid us any attention due to the bedlam going on all around.

  As soon as the three Russians stepped onto the deck and turned to face us, I knew our luck had run dry.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chernakov’s eyes widened when he caught sight of Smith and I. At first, I hoped he wouldn’t recognize us but judging by his astonished expression, I knew he’d identified us. He moved into our path and stopped around two feet away from us.

  “You two,” Chernakov growled, reaching for his sidearm. “I know you are responsible for what is going on here.”

  Smith reached for his handgun and I knew we didn’t have time to pull our rifles from our shoulders. Chernakov’s two chaperones were dressed in light green combat gear and they also moved their hands to their gun holsters around their waists.

  Smith was first to draw his weapon but he didn’t fire. He aimed the handgun at Chenakov’s chest but it still didn’t stop the two remaining Russians to draw their own firearms and point them directly at Smith and I.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Chernakov spat. “Put the gun down. You can’t escape now.”

  “We’ll see,” Smith muttered. “How about you guys put your guns down or I’ll shoot your boss man in his fucking face.”

  The two Russian soldiers simply stared at Smith with poker faces. They either didn’t understand or ignored the threat. My hand hovered above my gun holster at my waist. The sheathed knife sat on my belt next to the Taurus handgun and I wondered which weapon would be easier to draw.

  We stood in a kind of Mexican stand-off for what seemed like hours but in reality, it can’t have been longer than thirty seconds.

  The sound of somebody clumping up the metal staircase distracted the tension. A small, rotund man, dressed in a white t-shirt and dark blue pants rushed up the steps with his hand clamped over a bloody wound on his forearm. He sweated profusely and looked as though he was going to burst into tears. The man jabbered incessantly in Russian, repeating the same phrase over and over again.

  I noticed Chernakov’s eyes flicked from staring at us to the wounded man. The other two gunmen didn’t divert their gaze from Smith and I. The wounded guy spotted Chernakov and made a beeline for him while wailing constantly. The man’s action seemed to take Chernakov by surprise. He shuffled backward under the force of the jabbering man’s lurch towards him. The wounded guy made a biting movement with his mouth and nodded at his bleeding forearm.

  “He’s been bitten by a zombie,” Smith growled.

  The two Russian gunmen seemed to understand and stared at the wounded guy with a look of horror etched on their faces. They took a step backwards away from the jabbering man.

  “Get away from me you diseased fool,”
Chernakov yelled, shoving the wounded man between us.

  The bitten guy wailed and stumbled forward. He stood between me and one of the Russian gunmen. I decided it was time to make a move. Death or glory.

  I quickly pulled my knife from the sheath and shoved the wounded guy at Chernakov with my free hand. The wounded man stumbled into Chernakov and knocked him backwards.

  I seized the moment and leapt at the Russian gunmen to my left with the knife blade held outwards. I heard a gunshot but didn’t feel any pain. I clattered into the gunmen and tried to stab him with the knife. He reacted quickly and gripped hold of my wrist that held the knife. His handgun fell to the ground and slid across the vinyl floor tiles as we fell over. I grunted trying to bring the knife blade down into the guy’s chest. But he was strong and held my wrist tightly, stopping any downward movement.

  Smith ducked down and fired two shots, hitting the second gunmen in the chest with both rounds. The Russian yelped and toppled backwards onto the floor.

  Chernakov responded by pushing the wounded guy at Smith. The injured man wailed as he bundled into Smith. Smith staggered backwards under the force and also lost the grip on his handgun, dropping it to the floor. Chernakov gritted his teeth and leapt at Smith, trying to wrap his hands around Smith’s throat. The two of them fell sideways against the wall and rolled onto the floor. Smith’s right arm was pinned behind his back and Chernakov delivered a couple of swift blows to the side of Smith’s head.

  I pushed down with the knife, straining with the effort. The Russian guy beneath me obviously knew he had to try something or he’d be skewered. He raised his head slightly and then butted me hard in the face. An explosion of pain rattled through my head and I was rocked backwards by the blow. I lost my grip on the knife and felt the back of my head smack against the wall.

  When my senses returned, I heard somebody shouting.

  “Get the gun, get the gun,” Chernakov yelled at the bitten guy.

  The wounded guy staggered over to the Russian soldier’s handgun lying on the floor.