The Left Series (Book 1): Leftovers (16 page)

He drove through the park quickly, slowing the van at the speed humps. Nobody spoke and I hoped Batfish or Julia wouldn’t turn around and see the mess in the back of the vehicle.

More zombies crawled from the caravans and seemed to multiply in number every minute. They staggered towards the campsite road and held stiff arms and fingers in our direction as we drove past.

The VW passed under the welcome sign when Rosenberg shrieked.

“The dog! Oh, shit, we forgot the freaking dog.”

Smith stamped on the brake and brought the van to a halt. He tilted his head so it rested on the wheel.

“We aint going back there for a fucking dog,” he growled.

“Where did you leave him?” I asked.

Without thinking, Batfish turned to look at me and saw the bloody mess in the back.

“Oh, Christ,” she wailed, turning back with her hands covering her face. “Those evil bastards.”

“I last saw the dog in the pavilion,” Rosenberg wailed. “I fed him a tuna fish sandwich. He seemed quite happy and then Eazy noticed the zombies around the van.”

I felt like punching Rosenberg for his stupidity. That poor little pup had survived a horrific car wreck only to be devoured by a bunch of dead, unhappy campers. What would the deprived mutt be thinking right now? “Thanks a bunch, guys. Rescue me then dump me.” I remembered how upset I was when my dog got run down, when I was a kid in London. I decided I couldn’t leave him.

“We’re going back to get him,” I said to Smith. “Me and Rosenberg.” I gave Rosenberg a steely glare. I knew Rosenberg was about to protest but he knew I was pissed. “Drop us here and you carry on to that little wood we stopped at earlier,” I said.

“That’s fucking suicide, Wilde man.” Smith sighed. “You’ll be trapped in that square.”

“We’ll double back and get the pup. Then we’ll take one of these RVs and meet you back at the woods.”

“I can’t stop you. It’s your call,” Smith turned to look at me. “But I think you’re a fucking idiot.”

“We won’t be long,” I said, resting a hand on Smith’s shoulder. “I promise.”

“Just don’t get dead,” Smith snorted as I opened the camper side door.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Rosenberg continuously apologized while we made our way back into the campsite. We skirted around the perimeter grounds, out of sight of the caravans and RVs. An outdoor tennis and basketball court surrounded by a high chain link fence lay directly ahead of us.

I wasn’t sure what to expect. I had my Beretta already drawn and hoped by some miracle my aim would drastically improve. I wondered how long Smith had used a hand gun and the amount of hours it must have taken to be such a good shot.

Rosenberg clutched his wooden club he’d found back at Buddy’s Bar. He followed me around the back of the chain link fence. I didn’t know if zombies could smell living humans or their senses worked on noise. I thought it best to still keep silent and out of sight as much as possible.

I stopped when we were level with the tennis court net and looked for a route into the center of the campsite which didn’t take us by rows of vehicles. The Pavilion Square was deliberately designed in the center of the whole park, unfortunately for us. Whichever direction I looked, I couldn’t see a sneaky back route to the square. No zombies milled around within sight but I knew they were there. I heard Smith’s words in my head, “That’s fucking suicide, Wilde man,” he’d said. Too damn right is was.

Maybe I had let my emotions get the better of me and what if the pup was already dead? This escapade would all be for nothing. I racked my brains. We had to think of a plan. Whatever we did, we needed an escape vehicle.

An RV on a corner plot stood slightly forward from the rest of the vehicles in the row. The vehicles were parked in a large circle centering on the Pavilion Square.

“Denny, can you drive an RV?” I asked. A risky plan formed in my mind.

“I never drove one before but I can try,” he nodded.

I told him my half-baked idea then we made a dash for the RV. Several flaws in my plan included the RV being locked or not having the keys in the ignition. We managed to reach the RV without being spotted. I tried the driver’s door and pumped my fist when it opened. The second floor in my plan popped up. No keys in the ignition.

“Shit,” I hissed. “We’ll have to find another vehicle.”

“Hang on,” Rosenberg whispered. “The keys may be in the back someplace.”

“Denny, we don’t have time to…”

Rosenberg either didn’t hear me or wasn’t listening. He opened a small door in the side of the RV and climbed aboard. I went inside the driver’s door and through a door at the back of the cab. The living quarters stretched back around twenty feet past a galley, bunk beds and lounge with what I guessed was a separate enclosed bathroom to the left. The interior smelled of pungent air fresheners and everything was neat and tidy. The vehicle was obviously the former owner’s pride and joy. We stooped down and tried to stay away from the windows.

“You search for the keys and I’ll check that bathroom,” I whispered.

I held the Beretta ready and quickly pulled open the small door. The bathroom was empty. A small toilet sat next to the shower.

Rosenberg held up a red fobbed ignition key when I emerged from the bathroom.

“Look what Denny found,” he sang with a daft grin on his face.

“Where was it?”

“In the top drawer over there,” he pointed to a dresser by the bunk beds. “It’s the spare master key.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” I said. “Okay, let’s get this thing started. You sure you’re clear on what to do?”

Rosenberg nodded.

“Okay, let’s go,” I said. “And Denny, don’t fuck this up!”

He nodded again.

I slipped out of the side door and heard him lock it behind me. Already, the plan was going haywire. I didn’t tell him to lock the door. I knocked to tell him to keep the door unlocked but he didn’t hear. The RVs engine fired into life.

“Oh, shit,” I spat. The plan was ten seconds in and already going to rat shit.

I dived underneath the caravan next to the RV and waited for Rosenberg to pull out of the plot. I lay in the grass in the shadow of the caravan waiting to see if we could flush out the zombies. Rosenberg pulled away in the RV and headed for the kid’s playground. I crawled to the edge of the caravan and looked up and down the space between the next row of stationary vehicles.

No zombies occupied the space. I crawled from my hiding place and sprinted to the next row of caravans and dived underneath the nearest one. I just hoped none of the zombies would smell me. I crawled to the edge of the caravan and sprinted through the space.

I heard Rosenberg sounding the RV horn in the distance. Surely, the zombies would hear the noise. I waited, one minute, then two. Then I heard the familiar moans and trudging footsteps dragging through the grass.

The zombies appeared, trudging towards the sound of the blaring RV horn. I lay flat and still, holding my breath. One small sound could alert the zombies to my whereabouts. I waited until they passed and crawled out of my hiding place.

I used the caravans and RVs as cover until I saw the Pavilion Square. I crouched between two caravans and maneuvered so I could see right through the middle of the cobbled area. The bodies of the zombie’s Smith and Eazy shot earlier still lay on the ground. Two zombies staggered around the fountain looking like they weren’t able to navigate their way out of the square.

The pavilion door still hung open and I tried to see any signs of movement inside but the interior was too dark. Something crashed over in the caravan next to me. I looked up at the window and saw a young girl of about fourteen moving around inside. She hobbled on unsteady legs and I knew she was trying to get to the window. She’d spotted me. Time to move.

I took a deep breath and sprinted from my hiding place. I stopped at the edge of the square and stuffed the Beretta into the back of my waist band. I unsheathed the bent golf club that had been my weapon of choice since all this mess started. Silence was the key in this situation. I was only going to use the hand gun if I had to.

The two zombies somehow sensed my presence and turned in my direction. One gave a loud moan I thought sounded like Chewbacca in the Star Wars movies. I hoped it wasn’t some kind of warning cry to alert more zombies.

The Chewbacca zombie stumbled forward and fell into the fountain. He thrashed around but couldn’t get out. One down, one to go. I ran up to the other zombie that looked as though he’d been a camp ground maintenance man in his past life. He wore denim dungarees and sported an unfashionable pudding basin haircut.

I remembered how Pudgy Face had used the golf club on the zombie outside my apartment. I had to ask myself if it really was only yesterday this shit started. It seemed like I’d been running around, scared shitless for about ten years. It took me three swipes to dismantle the maintenance man zombies’ skull.

I moved quickly to the open pavilion door and took a peek inside. My foot clipped something metallic in the doorway. I looked down and saw the pry bar Eazy must have used to break in. I smiled and thought how I was hanging around with gunmen and burglars. I picked up the pry bar and slid it into the rifle sling on my back. It may come in handy later on.

The pavilion was semi dark. I looked around the vast dining area and saw no signs of movement. I tried to whistle for the dog but my mouth was too dry. I could have done with another one of those cold Millers.

“Spot? Here boy,” I hissed.

Nothing moved. I slowly stepped into the pavilion. Empty chairs and tables covered most of the floor space. It was the kind of furniture you see in fast food joints, chrome legs and light, fake wood surfaces. Large stainless steel canopies covered the food serving area to the right. A low stage adorned with unlit multi colored lights stood to the left.

A few discarded sandwich wrappers and paper plates lay scattered on a table in the middle of the pavilion. I thought that must have been the spot where Rosenberg and the others ate their lunch. I crept over to the table and took a look. No sign of the pup still there. I hoped he would be sitting on one of the chairs, wagging his tail with a daft look on his face.

“Spot? Here boy,” I called again.

This time I heard a noise.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Something clanged behind the food serving area. I held my breath. Very slowly, I crept forward towards the source of the noise, holding my golf club at the ready. The shadows were almost pitch dark behind the counter. I looked up and down the rows of hot plates and half empty food shelves. I craned my neck and peered over the top of the counters. I couldn’t see any movement.

A swing door to the kitchen stood behind the serving area, slightly to my right. I made my way along the line of the stainless steel facilities and through a gap between the cash tills. I stopped outside the kitchen door and listened. Silence.

I slowly swung the door open and jammed it with my foot. The kitchen was in total darkness. I listened again. What was that? Something slid across the floor inside the dark room.

I scrambled around in my pants pocket for the pen light I’d taken from the hardware store. Thankfully, I retrieved it, turned it on and held it between my teeth. I inched further into the dark kitchen. The door swung shut behind me. The pen light cast only dim illuminated arcs and I couldn’t see more than five feet in front of me.

Something scraped behind me. I swiveled and raised the golf club. A zombie dressed in chef’s whites flashed into the light beam. He stood by a large refrigerator stuffing raw meat into his mouth. The light beam alerted him to my presence and he turned from the fridge and lumbered towards me. I readied the club and clenched my teeth harder around the pen light.

The zombie chef came within range and I went to swing. The club didn’t move forward, something held it back. I turned my head and saw the face of another zombie standing behind me in the dim light. The zombie was female with her hair in bunches at the side of her head. She held the end of the golf club and moved closer towards me.

The female zombie opened her mouth to bite. She was about a foot away from my face. I twisted, let go of the golf club and backed away from the two zombies. I didn’t know if they could see in the dark. I held the pen light in my hand and drew the Beretta from my waist band. I wished Smith was with me to help.

The female zombie still held the golf club and came at me first. The chef zombie still chewed on the raw meat in the fridge. I took off the safety and fired a shot that went horribly high and wide. The bullet clanged off the stainless steel canopy above the stove burners. I aimed lower and fired again. The shot was too low and hit her in the stomach.

I backed away until I hit the far wall behind me. Nowhere left to run. The female zombie dropped the golf club and reached out for me. I put the pen light between my teeth again, keeping the beam on the female zombie. I kept the Beretta in my right hand and used my left arm as a horizontal rest like I’d seen in old black and white British war movies when I was a kid.

I aimed for the center of her nose and took the shot. The bullet still went high but hit the zombie high in the forehead. Her legs buckled and she disappeared from the light beam. I shone the torch over her to make sure she was totally dead. She lay motionless on her back with a pool of blood and brain spreading around her head.

Now it was time for Meat Face. I swung the light around to where I thought he would be. I couldn’t see him anywhere. Then I felt something grab my ankle.

I quickly moved sideways and fell over the corpse of the female zombie. The pen light fell out of my mouth and rolled across the kitchen floor. I felt teeth gnawing at my bootlaces. I had to take the shot even if I shot myself in the leg. I groped in the dark and felt the zombie’s matted hair. I jammed the muzzle against the side of his skull and fired. The noise echoed around the kitchen. The body went limp but thick, sticky slime splattered all over me. I felt it land on my face and heard it splatter over the floor. I made sure I kept my lips tightly shut. Digesting zombie blood was as bad as being bitten.