The Left Series (Book 5): Left On The Run (7 page)

“Got it,” I muttered while trying to raise Cordoba’s torso level with her legs.

We stopped shuffling towards the front door when we heard a shrill scream from somewhere upstairs.

Chapter Ten

I glanced at Smith then turned my attention to the staircase to our left.

“What’s going on up there, Batfish?” Smith called out.

She didn’t reply. We only heard muffled grunts and thudding across the ceiling above us.

“Shit, something is going on up there, Smith,” I whispered.

“No shit,” Smith snapped, lowering Cordoba’s body.

I followed his lead and gently touched Cordoba down onto the hallway floor. We turned to the wooden staircase, gazing towards the landing above.

“Batfish?” Smith yelled, as he climbed the steps.

I followed him upward, drawing my handgun in the process. More muffled cries came from a room to our right. The landing was lit by a skylight at a sloping angle in the roof. Long dead pot plants sat on top of a wooden set of drawers directly in front of the staircase summit. I clawed my way up the balustrade, listening intently for any more aggressive noises.

Smith slid the machete from his belt and nodded at the partially open doorway to our right.

“Batfish?” he called out again.

We heard another muffled shriek from the room we faced. Smith slowly pushed open the white painted door and trod cautiously inside. I followed him into the room with my M-9 held pointing to the ceiling and made ready to fire.

Batfish lay on her back on top of a double bed. An old woman, with matted gray hair and dressed in a pale blue nightgown straddled on top of her. The two of them wrestled with a white covered duvet between them.

At first, I thought the old woman was a fellow survivor but as we moved further into the bedroom, I saw her wrinkled face was missing a chunk of flesh on her left cheek. Her complexion was a dull gray and she had the milky white eyeballs that all the animated undead possessed.

“Get this old bitch thing off me,” Batfish yelled at Smith and me.

Smith glanced at me. “Don’t shoot, Wilde,” he instructed. “I got this one.”

He marched towards the bed and grabbed the old woman by her hair with his left hand, brandishing the machete with his right. I watched as Smith tossed the old woman like a rag doll to the floor in front of a set of built-in, white covered closets. The old woman sprung on her haunches, hissing at Smith as she looked up at him. In her former life, the old woman was probably some sweet old dear with a bunch of grandkids and spent her days pottering around her garden. Now, she was a monster and Smith didn’t hesitate in sending her to her final demise. He swung the machete in a sideways swipe, slicing off the old woman’s head in one fatal blow.

The severed head bumped onto the floor and rolled into the closet doors. The old woman’s few remaining teeth clunked together as her jaw still snapped open and closed. The headless torso slumped hard onto the floor with thick brown blood and straw colored liquid oozing from the neck’s stump.

“Christ, Smith, you sure do dig that whole head slicing off thing,” I muttered.

“It don’t kill them, though,” Smith said. “You still have to destroy the brain.” He stepped closer to the closet and stabbed the machete blade deep into the side of the old woman’s head.

The sound of steel puncturing through skull and brain sounded a little like the noise when you crack an egg on the side of a frying pan, slightly hollow with a batch of squelchy matter inside.

The old woman’s mouth ceased chattering and the grimace on her face remained still. Another reanimated human being finally shed of their terrible disease.

Batfish balled the duvet in her arms while she scrabbled on the bed, trying to get to her feet.

“Damn creature just jumped me,” she groaned. “She must have been in the closet or behind the door. I didn’t see her at all.”

“I know it ‘aint easy but we have to keep our shit together at all times,” Smith said, wiping the blood off the machete blade on a fury white rug beside the bed. “That’s how we’ve survived this long because we’ve kept our guard up. Let it slip for even a second and…” He ducked his head and jutted out his jaw. “You become a walking piece of crap.”

“Okay, Smith, point noted,” Batfish huffed, pushing herself from the bed. “If that’s the lecture over with, we better get downstairs and help move Cordoba.”

“I’m just saying…” Smith continued.

“You’re just saying the fucking obvious, Smith,” she snapped. “Now, hurry it up. I thought you wanted to get Cordoba to the damn hospital.”

Batfish led the way back downstairs where we reunited with the others in the hallway. Wingate huddled over Cordoba and Jimmy stood with his arms folded across his chest, leaning against the wall. He looked so pale and thin that anybody who didn’t know him would probably think he was some kind of narcotic addict.

“What happened up there?” Jimmy asked.

Batfish didn’t reply. She moved beside Wingate and covered Cordoba with the duvet.

“We ran into a little household pest,” Smith said, sliding the machete back into his belt.

“We need to get moving if we’re heading out to this hospital,” Wingate implored. “We’ve wasted enough time already.”

“Okay, let’s lift her again, Wilde,” Smith instructed. “Get the door, Jimmy and you better haul that corpse out of our way, otherwise we’ll trip over his dead ass.”

Jimmy nodded and rushed to the front door. He pulled it open and grabbed Scar Face’s ankle then dragged the body to one side, allowing us a clear route. Smith and I hoisted Cordoba in our arms once again and headed through the doorway. Batfish scooped up Spot and tucked him away in her jacket.

“Better move that dead guy by the gate as well, Jimmy,” Smith said, nodding across the front garden. “Wilde went on an old fashioned, Wild West killing spree out here.”

Smith smiled at me but I didn’t connect with the humor. My on/off girlfriend was all shot up and I’d just shot two guys who were basically trying to run away. One guy had practically surrendered but I’d still shot him.

I noticed the sky was the color of wet concrete, looking as though the low hanging clouds were ready to dump on us. We shuffled awkwardly through the garden gate towards the Range Rover, parked at the curbside.

“Open the back doors, Jimmy,” Smith instructed. “Anybody mind if I drive?” No one objected but nobody agreed either. Jimmy opened all four car doors and raised the tailgate hatch at the rear. “Okay, Jimmy, you ride shotgun as I’ll need some extremely detailed directions as to where the hell I’m driving to. Wingate and Batfish, you squeeze on the backseat with Cordoba and Wilde, sorry man but you’ll have to slum it in the tail with the backpacks.”

I shrugged and nodded, feeling a little pissed off with Smith continuously barking out orders. We slid Cordoba across the backseats then we removed our rucksacks and packed them into the corners of the rear compartment. Smith laid the rifles along the floor behind the front seats. Wingate and Batfish hopped into the back. Batfish allowed Spot to wriggle free from his harness and the little dog sat in the rear foot well. Batfish lifted Cordoba’s feet and rested them on her lap. Wingate allowed Cordoba’s head to rest across her thighs. Jimmy shut the backdoors and hauled himself into the front passenger seat.

I was in the process of crawling into the rear compartment when Smith’s sudden outburst ceased my movements.

“Damn it! No keys in the ignition,” he spat, stamping his foot on the floor. “You all hang here. Me and Wilde will go search for these god damn car keys.” He turned slightly in his seat.

I sighed and flipped open the rear hatch, ready to trawl around through the pockets of dead bodies.

“Keep the doors closed,” Wingate shouted. “Let’s try and keep Cordoba’s temperature stable at least.”

I complied with Wingate’s request and closed the rear hatch. Smith hopped out of the driver’s seat and was about to shut the door when he stopped. I moved around to the driver’s side. He glanced back into the cab when he heard a sound that I also noticed. It sounded like a squawk of static followed by a garbled voice.

“What’s that?” Jimmy asked.

“Open that glove box,” Smith said.

Jimmy released the catch on the compartment in front of his knees. The glove box cover hung open and we saw a walkie-talkie type radio lying inside. A small green light pulsed on the top of the radio and we heard a tinny voice through the in-built speaker.

“
Mac, this is Clarkie. We have nae heard from you for around twenty minutes now. Dinnae fret, man. A backup patrol is on its way to your location. Click the button if you can hear me.
”

“Shit,” Smith spat. “We’re going to get some unwanted company real soon.”

Chapter Eleven

“We need to find those car keys and real quick,” I whispered to Smith.

“No shit,” Smith muttered, closing the Range Rover door. “They must have called in to report they were checking out this place before they got out. Come on; let’s check out those dead guys for the keys.”

We rushed back to the garden gate, searching through the pockets of the guy in the combat jacket that I’d shot in the back. My mind flashed back to when I’d seen the Range Rover pass by the front of the house.

“Wait,” I said. “It wasn’t a guy in combats driving or Scar Face. It was one of those other guys.” The mental image of the car rolling by the gate became vivid. “I’m fucking certain it was that asshole around the back of the house who was driving.”

Smith glanced at me across the prone body between us. “You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

He nodded. “Let’s go.”

We scurried around the side of the house, stumbling and slipping in the snow. A sideways wind howled at us as we rounded the corner and ran across the back garden. The guy’s body was covered with a slight spattering of snow as we sunk to our knees beside him. We hurriedly rifled through his blood soaked puffer jacket, pulling out spare ammo magazines, a bottle of pills and a half empty whisky bottle but no car keys. I lifted the bottom of his jacket and felt through his trouser pockets at the tops of his thighs. My fingers touched on a hard bobble like object. I delved into the pocket and pulled out a fob containing a number of keys. One had a ‘
Range Rover
’ logo emblazoned across the top.

“Jackpot,” I said, jangling the key bunch in front of Smith’s face.

“All right, Wilde,” Smith whooped, snatching the keys then hauling himself upright. “Let’s get gone.”

I noticed the dead guy’s chunky black handgun lying on the ground by his side and partially covered with snow. I grabbed the firearm and studied it as I stood up.

“That’s a SIG Sauer P226,” Smith muttered. “I’m figuring these guys robbed some cop station armory someplace. That radio back in the car is an ‘
Airwave
’ model and I know that certain sections of cops in the UK use the SIG Sauer.”

“I thought cops in the UK didn’t carry firearms?” I said.

“Don’t you believe all that bullshit, kid,” Smith said. “Beat cops didn’t carry firearms but specialist units were armed with more lethal shit than a Green Beret. Anyhow, we better get back to the car.”

I kept hold of the SIG and bent down to pick up a spare magazine before we hurried back around front. Smith climbed into the driver’s seat and I opened the back hatch. I was about to climb aboard the Range Rover but stopped when I heard a rumble of a vehicle engine from the adjoining road to our right. The vehicle seemed to be approaching at considerable speed, despite the snowy conditions.

“They’re coming, Smith,” I yelled through the back hatch.

“Well, hurry the fuck up and get in,” Smith hollered in return. He gunned the Range Rover engine and I heard him slam the transmission into gear.

I hovered at the rear hatch, caught in two minds. If the approaching vehicle saw us driving away, they’d easily catch us with their faster momentum. Smith would take a few seconds to gather some speed, by which time the hostiles would be all over us. They wouldn’t stop their pursuit until they’d forced us off the road or shot us to pieces as they raced alongside. I decided it was time to make a stand.