The Left Series (Book 5): Left On The Run (33 page)

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.

“Fuck 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.

Rubbing my sore elbow, I took one last look at the ghoul lying dead on the floor before I followed the big guy and Batfish through the living room. I’d seen some ugly dead bastards in my time since the outbreak but that particular fucker was worthy of a gold medal for hideousness.

We moved swiftly through the small kitchen at the back of the property, with our feet crunching on broken glass. I heard the howls, snorts and moans of the undead behind us, estimating they’d probably reached the front door. We’d have been long gone if it wasn’t for my lack of concentration in the living room.

The small backyard was overgrown with weeds and brambles but a beaten pathway through the center indicated a regular route through the undergrowth. We followed the guy across the yard and out through an open gateway. The guy closed the wooden gate behind us and gestured with a sideways nod of his head to a concrete walkway ahead of us.

We ran up the walkway in silence and once we’d reached the summit, I saw a huge tower block building looming into the skyline. An expanse of overgrown grass, poking through the remainder of the snow sat between us and the tower block. The guy glanced left and right, checking the vicinity was clear of undead, before proceeding across the grassy area.

Batfish and I trotted along, slightly behind the guy as we headed towards the tower block. I felt the rising sense of anxiety as we neared the tall concrete structure. The building looked dark and unwelcoming, with broken windows spreading across the lower levels. It looked as though the place had suffered a large fire at some point, as the window frames on the second floor were blackened and scorched. 

The guy led us to a steel door with flaking gray paint, positioned at the side of the building. He rapped twice to the side of a small, sliding partition behind jagged bars, positioned at the top and center of the door. The partition immediately slid open and a pair of dark, beady eyes peered out.

“You got them?” a voice behind the door queried.

“I got them and I also found those two stragglers the others were talking about,” our new found friend answered, briefly glancing at Batfish and I.

Several bolts clunked on the other side of the door before it swung open. A short, portly man with curly graying hair stood in the doorway. He was dressed in a set of ill fitting, green combat fatigues, which looked totally out of place on the guy. He would’ve been more suited to a pair of jog pants and a sleeveless t-shirt with a can of beer in his hand.

The big guy ushered us inside and I reluctantly stepped through the doorway. The portly guy slammed the door shut and replaced the heavy duty steel bolts, once we were all inside.

We stood in a wide lobby type room with faded white walls also coated in graffiti of varying colors. A sturdy looking, concrete staircase stood towards the rear of the lobby and closed chrome doors of two elevators sat to the right. A low standing coffee table with several dog eared magazines and books spread across the surface and a reclining armchair, with torn leather upholstery sat at an angle beside the exit door. I noticed a metallic gray locker standing opposite the chair, to the left of the doorway.  

The big guy reached into the top pocket of his jacket and tossed the other man a small cardboard box. Portly caught the box and smiled.

“Insulin for my diabetes,” he explained to us, tapping the box with his forefinger. “It’s hard to find any nowadays. My supplies are running dangerously low.” He spoke with the same Northern Irish lilt as the first guy. “Some good work there, Tom.”

The big guy pulled off his ski mask and tucked it into the side of his belt.

“I’m Thomas McElroy, by the way,” he said, proffering his hand.

Batfish and I both returned the shake. The guy shook hands with an extremely firm grip that caused the bones in my hand to crack.

“And this is Seamus Heath,” he said, gesturing to the portly, diabetic man.

We also shook hands and introduced ourselves. Batfish pulled Spot from her harness and set him down on the floor. Seamus crouched and petted the dog for a few seconds, with a wide grin on his face. 

McElroy clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Sorry I had to get a wee bit harsh with you out there but I didn’t want to see you get chomped.” He smiled as he spoke and I felt slightly more at ease for the first time since we’d met the guy.

“You had some trouble?” Seamus asked, with raised eyebrows.

“Ah, only had to lamp some ugly bastard back on Stratheden Street.” McElroy tapped his rifle. “Nothing we couldn’t handle.” He removed the AK47’s magazine and made the weapon safe, before placing it into the metallic gray locker beside the door.

“It’s tough out there, so it is,” Seamus said, shaking his head. “So you didn’t run into any of our Russian friends?”

McElroy shook his head. “Nah, I reckon they’ve nucked all they wanted from the city. They’ll be on their way soon enough.”

My head spun slightly. I didn’t know what angle these guys were coming from. They seemed friendly enough but I wanted to know why McElroy had led us to the tower block.