The Left Series (Book 6): Left On An Island (12 page)

Power from the major grids had shut down long ago and I doubted whether this small village would have any kind of backup generators that still worked, if any at all.

“Let’s go back in the kitchen and see what we can find,” Smith said. “There may be a flashlight or something in there.”

“Okay,” I agreed. We slung the spear guns over our shoulders before trudging back through the entranceway into the small kitchen.

The room was almost totally dark and I could just about make out the closets hanging on the walls. Smith searched through the low standing closets, banging a few cooking pots and pans around.

“Shit,” he spat. “Keep an eye on those back doors. Fucking shit in here makes one hell of a noise.”

I took a glance out through the French doors and saw no movement in the back yard. At least the missing glass pane allowed some fresh air to waft through the house. 

Turning back to the kitchen, I thought I’d start from the doorway and make my way around the room, going through the drawers, wall closets and shelves. I found a gas cooker lighter almost immediately, a thing that produces an orange spark when you click the handle. I threw the useless object on the countertop. No need to try and light depleted gas ovens nowadays.

I opened a closet and reached around inside. I took out a few old recipe books and tossed them on the worktop. Next to come out of the closet was a china cup with some odd screws and nuts and bolts inside. I moved onto the adjacent closet where I found a few candles and a big box of matches on the top shelf.

“Hey, at least I’ve found us some illumination.”

“What?” Smith grunted.

“Some candles and matches. You think its okay to light one up?”

“Go for it,” Smith said. “This place don’t seem to have any windows in the front wall so nobody will see the light from the street.”

I tipped the odds and ends out of the cup onto the countertop and placed one of the candles inside. The first three matches I tried to light simply made a puff sound and failed to ignite.

“Use one from the center of the box,” Smith instructed. “They are less likely to be damp.”

I did as Smith suggested and the first match fired up into an orange flame. I hated it when Smith was always right. I held the match to the candle wick until it burned, casting the kitchen into an eerie yellow glow.

We resumed our search, ransacking the closets and drawers for anything of use.

Smith found the fridge but it only contained a few pieces of shriveled fruit, a half empty bottle of milk that looked like it had things growing in it and a couple of eggs probably not fit for human consumption. I found a few packets of dry goods, rice and pasta but totally useless unless we could cook them. I didn’t feel too hungry but I desperately needed a drink of some kind.

“Ah, what do we have here?” Smith muttered, rifling through the lower closet next to the fridge. He lifted two bottles, one glass, one plastic closer to the candlelight.

The plastic bottle was a soda brand I’d never heard of and contained a dark liquid. The glass bottle had a black label with fancy white writing on it, proclaiming to be the finest rum in the Caribbean.

“Let me try that soda,” I said, almost snatching the bottle from Smith’s hand.

“It ‘aint going to be pleasant, kid,” Smith said, releasing his grip on the plastic bottle. “I was going to mix that with the rum.”

“I don’t want any booze at the moment,” I sighed, unscrewing the plastic bottle cap.

There wasn’t a hint of a fizz as I took off the cap and the bottle was around three quarters full. The liquid sloshed around the plastic container but I decided to bite the bullet and take a swig. Did soda go bad? I didn’t know. The soda was flat and warm and tasted a little like cola but with a coconut twist. I didn’t care what it was; it tasted sweet and glorious and hit the spot at the back of my dry throat.

Smith opened the bottle of rum and took an equally long pull. How could he be necking back liquor when we must have sweated out ten pounds and were as dehydrated as fish lying all day in the sun? The man wasn’t human.

Smith held the bottle out to me. “Want some?”

I was easily persuaded. “Just a nip.” I took the bottle and drank a small sip. The rum burn did feel good going down but I didn’t want too much of the damn stuff or I’d collapse. For now, I’d stick with the non-fizz soda.

Smith found a couple of highball glasses in the next closet and made a half and half cocktail of rum and soda in each. He took his glass and handed me mine.

“Like old times,” he said and we chinked glasses.

I took another few sips and set my glass down on the countertop. Maybe I’d finish it later. I just wanted to get out of the wetsuit and find someplace to rest my weary bones.

Chapter Seventeen

Smith punched the air with delight when I found half a pouch of very dry rolling tobacco and some cigarette papers in one of the drawers.

“We got ourselves a party.” He quietly mimicked an adolescent voice like some dumb High School kid about to get shit faced for the first time.

I handed over the pouch and papers and watched as Smith expertly rolled two cigarettes by candle light. He handed me the tightly revolved, little white tube.

“Way to go, dude.” I unconvincingly continued the juvenile theme.

Smith struck a match and we lit up the two cigarettes. My first puff nearly choked me. The tobacco smoke was so dry and raw on my throat that I instantly reached for my rum punch to ease the coughing fit erupting from my lungs.

Smith simply carried on smoking his own cigarette as though it was straight from a fresh pack.

“Jesus, how can you smoke these damn things?” I spluttered.

“Don’t inhale like a normal smoke,” Smith explained. “Just take a short intake. Man, I’m getting to like these things.”

I tried a few puffs the way Smith had instructed and found the cigarette a little less stifling. I took a few more sips of the rum punch between puffs and my head started to spin slightly. Here we were, stood in the middle of some goddamn kitchen in the middle of fuck knew where and we were on the verge of getting smashed. No wonder so many things were wrong in my life.  

“What the hell am I doing?” I sighed, moving towards the small sink embedded in the countertop. I tipped the rum concoction down the drain and tossed the disgusting cigarette after it. I tried the tap but no water came out, it didn’t even make a sound. The water was gone. I dumped the empty glass beside the sink and leant against the countertop.

“Yeah, what the hell are you doing, kid?” Smith scoffed. “You’re wasting a perfectly good drop of booze and half a smoke.”

“Let’s just go check out that mezzanine shall we? I’m dead beat and I want to get out of this damn suit as quickly as possible,” I snapped.

“Okay, okay,” Smith said. “Who pissed on your campfire?”

I sighed and turned around to face Smith, my spear gun clanking against the worktop.

“Let’s find someplace to get some sleep for the night. That mezzanine looks a safe bet if it’s clear. We still got shit to do tomorrow. Remember the ship with all those people on it just stranded out there in the ocean?”

Smith jerked his head backwards and I thought I noticed a hint of dejection on his face, even in the dim candle light. 

“All right, I hear you,” he said quietly. “And no, I hadn’t forgotten those folks. Just my way of blowing off a little steam.” He finished the remainder of his drink in one long gulp, tossed the cigarette butt into the sink and nodded his head to the doorway. “Come on, let’s go check this fucking floor of yours.”

I followed Smith, carrying the candle in the cup and lighting the way. We both looked up at the mezzanine above the living room, trying to figure out a way of getting up there. I raised the cup, shining the candle light as close as I could to erase some of the darkness. Something lying on the floor between the gap in the safety rail and close to the edge of the mezzanine caught my eye.

“If we pile the chairs on top of one another we might be able to…”

I cut Smith dead. “Can you reach up to the top of the floor?”

“I guess so but I doubt I’ll be able to climb up without a foothold.”

I smiled and shone the candle over the wooden ladder, facing us sideways on. “You won’t have to climb up if you can reach that.”

Smith shrugged and then moved a chair directly below the floor. He stood on the chair, reached upward and began sliding the ladder to the edge of the mezzanine.

“Keep an eye out for sudden movement of any kind, kid,” Smith grunted as he slid the ladder forward and tipped it over the edge.

The bottom supports banged onto the linoleum and Smith checked it was going to hold our weight by thrusting down on the rungs.

“Seems okay,” he muttered and started to climb up.

He stopped halfway up the ladder and turned back. “Hand me the candle.”

I passed him up the cup of illumination. Smith set it down on the mezzanine, pulled the spear gun off his shoulder and continued climbing one handed.

“The Health and Safety police will be seriously pissed with you,” I said.

“Fuck the Health and Safety police,” Smith grunted as he trod onto the mezzanine. He turned and waved me upward.

I climbed the ladder and picked up the makeshift lantern. The mezzanine floor was around six or seven feet wide from the safety rail to the wall and around six feet high. Smith had to duck slightly to avoid banging his head on the ceiling. To our left, the floor was partially covered with piles of huge circular cushions with weird, brightly colored green, orange and yellow swirly patterns. An open closet stood further away to our right, with several racks and shelves lining the interior.

“Looks like this space doubles up as a bedroom,” I said, waving the candle over the stack of cushions.

“Looks like this place was some kind of trippy vacation commune if you ask me,” Smith grunted.

I followed him across the mezzanine floor and we bypassed the open closet. Layers of neatly folded clothes sat in piles on the shelves.

“Hey, Smith,” I whispered. “There is a whole pile of spare clothes right here.”

Smith grunted something I didn’t catch and carried on walking around the circular floor space. I knew he wanted to check the floor was clear before we decided on anything.

We completed our circuit around the mezzanine, only finding a few empty suitcases and day sacks in a pile on the opposite side. Smith poked around the cushions with the tip of his loaded spear, while I held up the candle beside him.

“Okay, it’s all clear up here,” Smith confirmed. “We can get out of these damn rubber suits now.”

“Thank god for that,” I sighed, placing the cup candle at my feet.

Smith and I leaned our spear guns against the curving wall and stripped off our wetsuits. The cool night air felt incredibly invigorating as it wafted over my sweaty torso. My underwear was drenched in sweat so I pulled them off and tossed them over the side of the safety rail.

“Jeez,” Smith snorted. “The Health and Safety police would throw your ass in jail for having shit catchers in that kind of state.”

“Oh, ha-ha, hilarious, man,” I snorted, making my way to the open closet.

I pulled out a pink towel from one of the shelves and rubbed myself down. The material smelled slightly musty but the aroma was probably better than mine. I picked up a turquoise t-shirt and a pair of long navy blue shorts and shook off the layer of dust on the top. I tried on the clothes and they were slightly baggy on my skinny frame. The shorts had a string at the waist so I tied it up so they wouldn’t slip down. I picked out a pair of black canvas deck shoes that were slightly too big but decided they would do for the moment. That was me, dressed and all set.

Smith groaned as he studied the closet. “I really can’t be assed to look for clothing. Probably none of it will fit me anyhow.”

He pulled out a bright green, silky woman’s bathrobe from one of the shelves and wrapped it around himself, tying it at the waist.

“That suits you down to the ground, man,” I said, stifling a laugh.

“Yeah, screw you, funnyman,” Smith retorted. “At least I don’t look like some kind of middle aged golf caddy.”

We both laughed and then yawned simultaneously.

“Time to hit the sack I think,” Smith mumbled.

My thoughts suddenly turned to our friends marooned on the warship. “We’ll have to get up at first light,” I said. “We have to find some way of getting rid of that sniper.”

Smith yawned again as he nodded his head. “Leave it with me, kid. I’ll sleep on it. Don’t worry, we’ll find a way. There’s always a way.” He staggered towards the cushions and slumped on his back into the center of the pile. He muttered something inaudible and within a few seconds he was snoring.

The combination of dehydration, booze and fatigue seemed to have caught up with Smith. I’d never seen him zonk out like that before.

I placed the candle down on the floor and lay down on my side at the edge of the cushion pile, a couple of feet away from Smith. I shut my eyes and let my breathing slow. We were safe for now but I dreaded to think what horrors we’d have to endure when daybreak finally came.

Chapter Eighteen

I’d been so exhausted that the usual, routine nightmares had taken a night off from haunting me. But when I awoke, it was with an upright jolt. I wondered where the hell I was for a few seconds, until my memory kick started. The island, the small house, the mezzanine floor.

I glanced upward and saw the clear, pale blue dawn sky radiating through the skylight. To my right, Smith was still in exactly the same position he’d been when he zoned out the previous night. The bright green gown with black flecks was still wrapped around him. I glanced to the left and saw the cup minus the candle, which had burned out sometime during the night.

I yawned then stretched, feeling better for a nights rest. I pushed myself up from the cushions, still aching in places I never realized were attached to me. The wooden mezzanine floor creaked slightly as I stepped off the layer of cushions.

I gazed over the safety rail and down into the living room. The place looked totally different in daylight. The windows in the side wall didn’t allow much light into the room but the skylight above provided an ambient glow. Black and white pictures and paintings of old sailing ships in or around a scenic harbor hung sporadically hanging around the walls. A few dark wood cabinets, which I hadn’t noticed the previous night stood close to the walls on either side of the room.

Smith was probably right. The house and all the dwellings around it had the look and feel of vacation homes for those lucky enough to afford a second property on a Caribbean island.

I glanced across the mezzanine floor at the pile of empty cases and wondered what had happened to the former occupants of the house. Maybe they weren’t here in the first place when the world went to shit. Or perhaps they’d gotten away just in time before the island was overrun with the frenzied dead. Realization kicked in. The former owners were either dead or walking around while dead. There weren’t many left on the planet that still functioned as living, breathing human beings.

A sudden noise jolted me from my inner musings. It sounded like wood squeaking, as though somebody was jumping around on a loose floor board. I held my breath and listened. The noise came again. It seemed to be coming from the floor below, somewhere beyond the living room.

I heard a whispery groan and then a familiar guttural grunt. Shit, the dead were coming.

“Smith,” I hissed, moving quickly back to the stack of cushions. “Hey, Smith, come on, wake up, man.” I kicked the cushion at his side.

Smith rumbled and then his eyes blinked open. He took a while to focus on me. His expression was one of confusion.

“What’s up, Wilde Man?” he croaked, reaching for the pouch of stale tobacco.

I nodded to the floor below. “We got incoming hostiles, by the sound of things.”

Smith rolled a smoke and lit it with a match. He rubbed his face before hauling himself to his feet. The upper room soon filled with the smell of dry cigarette smoke. We leaned our elbows on the top of the wooden safety rail and listened. The moans and grunting and groaning increased in volume, as though there was more than one undead individual in the area. In fact, it sounded like a whole bunch of them were surrounding the place.

The sound of wood creaking and splintering echoed through the living room. Smith and I exchanged concerned glances.

“Sounds like they’re busting their way in,” I whispered.

“No shit,” Smith grunted, tossing his roll-up over the side of the guard rail. He turned and moved to the rear wall, picking up both spear guns. He tossed mine to me and I caught it one handed. Smith picked up the two spare spear containers and handed me one.

“How many rounds you got?” he asked.

I looked in the top of the quiver and counted. “Five.”

“I got four. Not enough ammo to stem a stampede of those goddamn things.”

The crashing and tinkling of breaking wood and smashing glass reverberated around the walls of the mezzanine. It sounded as though the undead had battered their way through the French doors in the kitchen. I could only assume they had seen us when we entered the property boundaries and taken all night to figure out opening the gate and where we’d gone. I remembered the missing glass pane Smith had taken out from the door and the intention to replace it, which we hadn’t carried out.

The first of a bunch of grotesque figures lurched into the living room, stumbling across the floor, snarling and snorting with every step. The creature was previously a female, with long frizzy black hair and a dark complexion. The facial features were hideously distorted in a permanent grimace, caused by the fact that most of the flesh around the chin and cheeks was torn away. More of the undead followed the scowling female, spreading out into the living room with their arms outstretched and hungry for blood. I roughly head counted around twenty ghouls and more were visible in the small hallway, all jostling for space in the cramped interior.