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

by Fletcher, Christian

  “Shoot him, shoot him,” Chernakov shouted as he wrestled on the floor with Smith.

  My head jerked backwards as the Russian soldier planted a punch which connected with my cheekbone. I fell against a red fire locker and my legs buckled beneath me. I tasted blood in my mouth and felt a warm trickle oozing from my nose. I had to take some course of action or the Russian guy was going to beat me to death.

  The wounded man picked up the gun and studied it.

  “Shoot this man, now,” Chernakov yelled, then barked out orders in Russian.

  The wounded man opened his mouth and pointed the barrel between his teeth. He pulled the trigger and the back of his head exploded, sending a bloody mass splattering against the white wall behind him. His lifeless body slid down the wall and he remained in a sitting position with small pieces of brain and skull rolling down his back.

  “Idiot,” Chernakov roared.

  The Russian who was beating up on me turned around at the sound of the gunshot. I knew I had a fraction of a second to react. Not enough time to pop open my gun holster, take out the weapon and cock it before he was on me again. The door of the fire locker next to me had opened after I’d smashed into it. A cylindrical fire extinguisher sat inside the locker and I grabbed hold of it. The Russian turned back to me after the wounded guy has slumped to the floor. I pulled out the pin on the fire extinguisher handle and aimed the nozzle at the guy’s face.

  The fire extinguisher made a weird sucking noise when I depressed the lever. A jet of soapy white foam splashed into the Russian guy’s face and he cried out in surprise. I forced myself onto my feet and wielded the fire extinguisher above my head. I brought the metal object down forcefully so the end connected with the top of the Russian’s head. As metal connected with bone, it made a satisfying clanging noise.

  The Russian groaned and staggered backwards. I took a pace forwards, holding the fire extinguisher to my side. I swung it around in a roundhouse movement, connecting the round end with the Russian guy’s temple. He let out a sighing sound before he toppled over to the floor. I lifted the extinguisher again and was about to bring it firmly down to finish off the unconscious guy at my feet but stopped when I heard a grunt from behind me.

  Smith and Chernakov still wrestled on the floor. Chernakov was on top of Smith and he’d somehow managed to seize the knife from Smith’s belt. Chernakov grunted in exertion as he tried to stab Smith in the neck. Smith held Chernakov’s hands in a tight grip and struggled beneath him. The knife blade edged slowly downwards and closer to Smith’s jugular vein.

  I saw my own knife lying a few inches from my right foot. I dropped the fire extinguisher and scooped up the knife. In one fluid movement, I hurled the knife at Chernakov. He cried out in pain and arched his back as the blade sunk into his flesh, slightly below his left shoulder blade.

  Smith jerked Chernakov’s wrist around and I heard an audible crack of bone as the knife slid from his grasp. Chernakov yelped again, his face screwed up in pain. Smith jammed the palm of his hand beneath Chernakov’s chin and rolled over onto his side. Chernakov fell off Smith, landing heavily on the floor. He squirmed around, making little whimpering sounds and trying to reach for the knife handle to pull it out of his back.

  Smith stood up and scooped up his handgun and the knife, lying a few feet from him.

  “Are you going to finish him off?” I asked, nodding at Chernakov.

  Smith tilted his head to the side. “No, he’s coming with us.”

  “What?” I barked, wiping blood from my nose.

  “We need a guy who can read nautical charts and knows how a nuclear ship runs. Chernakov is our guy.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, he’s army, not navy,” I protested. “What the fuck would he know about nautical charts and how a ship runs?”

  Smith shrugged. “He must have some idea how it all works. He’s the Commander in Chief of this whole damn operation.”

  “I think we’re making a big mistake here,” I sighed.

  Smith bent down and took Chernakov’s sidearm and searched him for more weapons. He then tugged the knife from Chernakov’s back. Chernakov roared in pain and squirmed on the floor. Smith wiped the blood off the blade and handed me back the knife

  “Quit fucking crying like a baby, Chernakov,” Smith growled. “You’ll live. Now, get the fuck up, you’re going on a little journey.” Smith kicked at Chernakov’s feet as he spoke.

  I noticed the air was becoming hazy and the smoke seemed to be increasing.

  “We better make tracks, Smith,” I muttered. “That little fire of yours looks like it’s spreading rapidly.”

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  “You’re right,” Smith said, glancing around at the smoke. He crouched down and hauled Chernakov to his feet. “Come on, Sweetheart. Let’s get you ready to go.”

  Chernakov groaned and slumped forward against the wall, looking like a beaten man. A daub of blood from the knife wound smeared across the vinyl wall behind him. Smith took off his backpack and pulled out a field dressing bandage and another hessian sack. He pulled the sack over Chernakov’s head and bound his hands behind his back with the rope. Smith then crudely applied the field dressing to the wound on the Russian’s back.

  “That’ll slow the bleeding a little,” Smith muttered.

  “What about the other refugees?” I asked. “We should get them out of here before that fire spreads below the decks.”

  “I hear you but I need to check whether the cavalry are on their way first,” Smith said.

  I wasn’t sure what he meant but followed him as he led the way along the corridor. I kept hold of Chernakov’s arm and steered him along behind Smith. We turned the corner and Russian sailors and soldiers scurried around in all directions, oblivious to our bleeding and battered faces.

  Smith led the way up the staircase and towards the hatch door to the upper deck. The night air was refreshingly cool and clear and I gulped in huge breaths. I heard anxious shouts from above us and saw the orange glow of the fire on the upper boat deck. Several guys doused the fire with hoses and fire extinguishers but it was going to take them some time to completely tackle the blaze.

  Smith leaned on the guardrails and we saw two long, boats approaching, crammed full of more Russian military guys.

  “The cavalry are on their way,” Smith muttered. “Those guys are most of the crew from the ship we want. Just like I predicted, they’ve come along to lend a helping hand against the fire and the zombie problem. Mac and his guys should be starting their operation right now.”

  I was slightly wary we were going to be spotted by the incoming boats and shrunk back into the shadow of a recess, beneath the overhang from the boat deck above. I dragged Chernakov along with me into the gloom.

  “Look, Smith, we better get a move on if we want to get out of here in one piece,” I warned.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Smith sighed. “But we have to wait for those guys to dock alongside and get out of the boats before we can leave. We won’t all fit in that silly assed little boat at the quarterdeck.”

  We watched from the shadows as the Russian military guys came alongside the warship and scrambled up the netted rope ladder. They set to work, running about the decks and trying to fight the fires we’d lit.

  “Okay, you wait here and keep our pal company and I’ll go fetch the rest of the refugees,” Smith instructed. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  “What if somebody sees me?” I wailed. I felt slightly worried and vulnerable left alone on the upper deck with a hooded hostage. “And what if he tries anything?”

  “Cut his throat and throw him overboard if he tries to escape,” Smith growled. He moved from the cover of the shadows and towards the hatch door that lead to the interior of the warship.

  I watched him move along the walkway and inwardly groaned. I desperately wanted to get off the damn ship and get going. I was sick of the noise of the wailing siren blasting out. My face ached from the blows I’d receiv
ed from the Russian soldier and wondered if the guy would wake up anytime soon and raise the alarm.

  Chernakov moaned in pain and muttered something inaudible beneath the hessian sack over his head.

  “Just keep the fuck quiet, will you,” I growled.

  I still wasn’t convinced that bringing Chernakov along was a good idea. Kidnapping the guy was only going to bring a whole load of trouble down on us.

  The blaring fire alarm suddenly cut out and I was grateful for the silence. The shouts of the Russians trying to extinguish the blaze on the boat deck reverberated around the harbor. In between the shouts and yells, I was aware of a humming sound from across the water. Then I heard a continuous clanking type noise as though something heavy was rattling along at a steady speed. I took a chance and emerged from the shadows and moved cautiously to the guardrails. I leaned forward and saw the anchor chain on the other warship glistening with water and the big, heavy shackles were rising out of the sea. The humming was also emitting from the ship and a slipstream of water churned from the stern.

  I realized McElroy and his guys had successfully turned over the ship’s engines and were now in the process of raising the anchor.

  “Shit, hurry it up, Smith,” I muttered to myself.

  I nervously hopped from foot to foot, waiting for Smith and the rest of the refugees to make an appearance.

  “Come on, god damn it,” I sighed.

  The sound of heavy footfalls on the deck above caused me to shrink back into the darkened recess. I was worried that one of the Russians would spot what was going on across the water on the other ship and raise the alarm.

  I didn’t know what was taking Smith so long. Surely he realized we were on a strict time limit if we wanted to successfully complete the bizarre and almost suicidal mission.

  Eventually, I heard the door hatch clunking open and breathed out a big, relieved sigh. At last, Smith had finally showed up with the others. My relief was brief when I heard the sound of muted voices speaking in Russian.

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  I slid back deeper in the shadows, pressing my back against the wall. I slipped on the ski mask before putting my left hand on the sack over Chernakov’s head and felt down to try and cover his mouth. I drew the sheath knife again with my right hand and hoped I wouldn’t be forced to use the weapon. Using a firearm on the upper deck would only alert more Russians and totally give away my position, compromising the whole operation.

  Two shadowy figures came into view along the walkway. They were both tall and thin and looked like they were dressed in coveralls. They didn’t wear hats and I assumed they were part of the navy crew. They stopped directly in front of the recess I was hidden in and leaned over the guardrails, staring out to sea. One of them said something I didn’t understand but he pointed out to the other warship. His tone became wary and I knew he’d spotted the anchor chain rising from the sea. I had to do something. I couldn’t let him raise the alarm or we were all screwed.

  I was no commando and I didn’t enjoy close combat or killing people but I knew I had to stop these two guys. I glanced at Chernakov. His head was lolling around, dipping towards his chest. Maybe he was unconscious or dead but I didn’t really care. I had bigger things to worry about.

  I decided I’d have to leave Chernakov where he was and hope he didn’t wake up and start hollering. I crept from the shadows with the knife held at the ready by my side. The two Russians engaged in a conversation while staring out at the other warship. I knew they’d soon figure out what was going on and rush away to find some assistance.

  The two Russians were similar in height and build and I knew I’d have a tough time taking them both out so I had to ensure the first one I attacked was eliminated in quick time. I went for the one to my right first. At least that way I could block the path of the other guy if he tried to run back to the door hatch.

  I sprang forward, reaching around the guy’s face with the knife. I angled the blade so it was horizontal and positioned below his chin. Smith had taught me that the throat was one of the most vulnerable parts of the body.

  I drew the knife along in a quick arc and heard a sickening, slicing noise. The guy gurgled and his hands immediately went to his throat. I heard the sound of something pouring into the sea below and briefly thought the guy was vomiting into the water. Then it hit me that it was his blood splashing onto the water’s surface. He slumped forward and I let him fall to the deck beside me.

  Now, I had to eliminate the other guy.

  He didn’t notice what was happening at first. He turned and called the guy’s name before he noticed me. I lunged forward, trying to stab him in the neck. The guy made a high pitched shriek of terrified shock and leapt backwards, swatting at my knife. I felt the blade pierce his hand and he yelped in pain. The guy was making too much noise and would alert more of his comrades if he carried on. I hurriedly slashed with the knife and caught him on top of the shoulder. Another wounding blow but not enough to silence him.

  The Russian seemed to process what was going on and bravado replaced the element of shock and surprise. I didn’t expect or anticipate his next move. I was so busy trying to figure out my own strategy that I forgot he may attempt a counter attack. He growled and ran at me, grabbing me in a bear hug. The forward motion of the guy caused me to lurch backwards and I tripped over the dead or dying guy lying on the deck.

  I landed hard on my back with the Russian guy on top of me. When things went wrong, they really did screw up big time. I managed to keep a grip on the knife but felt the guy tightly gripping my wrist. He tried to thump my hand against the deck to make me release the knife. I fought back, wriggling beneath him.

  I was butted in the face in my previous scuffle so I thought I’d try the same trick on this guy. I brought my head forward but didn’t connect properly with the guy’s face, only delivering a glancing blow across his forehead. The butt also twisted the mask on my face, obscuring my vision.

  I thrashed around and felt the stinging pain as the Russian punched me in the face a couple of times. Then I felt a steely grip around my throat. I gagged and couldn’t breathe and I made a series of gurgling noises, which sounded too gruesome and horrific to be emitted by me. My tongue lolled from my mouth and I started to feel dizzy and weak. I tried raising the knife again but the grip on my wrist was too strong and I felt my energy fading fast.

  I wondered if it was all meant to end like this. Onboard some Russian warship in Belfast harbor. At least, I would never be a zombie. Maybe I could take some satisfaction in the knowledge I’d never come back to eat or infect other living people.

  I could see the silhouette of the guy on top of me from one of the eyeholes in the ski mask. He grunted as he squeezed my throat with one hand, trying to crush my wind pipe.

  I was on the verge of blacking out when I saw another silhouetted figure loom behind the guy who was succeeding in strangling me. The second figure leaned forward and grabbed my attacker, wrapping both hands around his head. The Russian’s head jerked sideways and I heard a crack, almost as though somebody had broken a tree branch.

  The grip on my throat loosened and I coughed continuously, trying to take in huge gulps of air. The looming figure shoved the limp Russian through the guardrails and I heard a splash from the sea below.

  A big hand grabbed the front of my jacket and hauled me onto my feet.

  “You’ll live, tough guy,” Smith rumbled, slapping the side of my head. “We need to move.”

  I pulled the ski mask up above my face and saw a line of faces standing behind Smith. I recognized a few of them as the refugees we’d left onboard when we’d escaped.

  “Sorry, I was so long, kid but these guys took some convincing to tag along,” Smith explained. “Looks like you had yourself a blast while I was gone.” With the toe of his boot, Smith nudged the corpse of the guy whose throat I’d slit.

  I tried to speak but the sound I emitted was like a combination of Donald Duck and Yoda.

 
; I pointed across the water to the other warship and Smith followed my gesture.

  “All right. I got you,” Smith said. “We need to make tracks, guys.”

  I pointed into the recess and Smith nodded. He stepped into the shadows and hauled Chernakov to his feet.

  We crept along the walkway at the side of the ship, towards the boats tied alongside. The Russians on the deck above us still battled the blaze, spraying water and foam at the spreading fire. The glow of the flames illuminated the side of the ship with a flickering orange hue.

  Smith led the way and pointed down at the life boats. The refugees hesitantly climbed down the ladder and stumbled onboard, anxiety and apprehension was etched on their faces. We maneuvered Chernakov down the ladder but he fell the last few feet down onto the deck of the life boat.

  My throat felt dry and sore while I climbed down the ladder and I hoped I hadn’t suffered any permanent damage to my larynx.

  Smith ensured all the refugees were safely onboard before he untied the securing ropes and hopped into one of the boats.

  “Go, go,” Smith whispered, pointing to the oars at the side of the boat.

  I felt weak and nauseous but still managed to summon some energy to assist with the rowing operation. The second boat trailed in our wake as we headed towards the other warship. I heard shouts from the burning ship behind us but didn’t turn around. I presumed we’d been spotted but maybe the Russians were too busy fighting the fire to concern themselves with us.

  A few gunshots rang out and I heard the zip of the rounds near my head. The water plopped beside me and I knew the Russian’s aim was getting closer. Two refugees on the boat behind us cried out in pain and they slumped in their seats. A female screamed and everybody onboard the boat ducked down.

  “They’re shooting at us,” a male voice yelled from the boat behind.

  “Keep going,” Smith barked.

  We rowed behind the stern of the burning ship so we were out of the line of sight from the boat deck. I turned to our destination and saw Hannigen and the other black clad figures standing on the forecastle securing the anchor chain, which they’d successfully dragged up from the sea bed.