The Left Series (Book 6): Left On An Island (41 page)

“Why the hell are you bunch of ugly fucks down there?” I groaned. There always seemed to be a damn fly in the ointment.

I reached around my back and pulled the Glock from my waistband. I aimed the handgun along with the light beam, down through the hatch and at one particular, long haired female zombie wearing the remains of a dark business suit. I hesitated before I let fire. The rounds could possibly cause all kinds of damage down there in the basement if they ricocheted out of the zombie’s skulls, possibly wrecking this damn compressor I was supposed to be starting up. Not only the damage, but the noise could attract all kinds of unwanted attention. I still didn’t know where the sniper was and I wasn’t certain if the building contained more hordes of undead. I was going to have to come up with some other plan.

The fruit knife was only useful for close quarters combat and the baseball bat would be ineffective from above the hatchway. How the hell was I going to do this? Another damn conundrum.

I glanced around the room and at the shelves of cleaning products. The mops were long enough to reach down the ladder but what was I going to do, mop their faces to death?

I thought for a moment, turning off the flashlight and moving toward the line of mop handles sticking out from their metal buckets. I slipped the flashlight into my side pocket of my cargo pants and lifted the nearest mop out of the bucket. The stench of old dirty water attacked my senses and I squeezed out the gray tendrils of the mop head on the bucket’s side drainer.

The metal part of the mop head was attached to the wooden handle by a single screw at the side. I took out the fruit knife and loosened the screw with the blade. The whole mop head fell off after a few turns, landing back in the bucket and splashing me with stagnant water.

“That’s just great,” I seethed, spitting dirty water from my lips.

I wiped the rancid sludge from my face and studied the wooden, four foot long mop handle in my hands. The end that had fitted into the mop head was tapered into a point, almost sharp like a spear. I used the fruit knife to whittle the point a little more until it was a spike.

“Looking good,” I whispered, feeling rather pleased with myself. Now I had a suitable weapon to attack the undead from above.              

Chapter Seventy-One

I swapped the knife for the flashlight from my pocket and turned it on, shining the beam down through the hatch. The undead still swarmed around the bottom of the ladder, swatting the air above them. I weighed up the angles and tentatively took a few steps down the first set of ladder rungs.

It wasn’t a particularly pleasant job I was faced with and I never relished clearing away swathes of undead. I hooked my left arm, still holding the flashlight, around the top rung, ensuring I kept the light shining down into the basement. I gripped the mop handle in spear mode. I stabbed in a downward motion at the nearest undead guy to the ladder. He took the sharpened point straight through the left eyeball. The blow caused a squelching noise and the zombie slumped to the ground. My mop/spear weapon seemed to work.

I continued stabbing downward at rotting heads. It literally was like shooting fish in a barrel. I was careful to aim for the eyes and soft tissue around the heads so the weapon wouldn’t get stuck in the harder parts of the skull.

The bodies fell, some on top of one another at the foot of the ladder. The last guy standing snatched at the wooden pole and almost wrenched it from my grasp. I managed to regain control of the weapon and stab the spike through the zombie’s right temple. He slumped forward, his face hitting the base of the metal ladder and causing a dull clanging sound. I let the spear go, still inserted inside the undead guy’s head. My right hand and bicep ached from the tight grasp and all the stabbing and withdrawing.

I climbed down the ladder, hopped across the pile of dead bodies and shone the flashlight around the basement. In total, four bulky generators stood near the side walls to the left and right, two on each side. The machinery was covered in a thick layer of dust and rotten body parts and corpses littered the recesses of the basement. The faint smell of diesel was only slightly distinguishable through the stench of death, sweat and stale human waste.

A narrow caged door stood behind the generators to the left and a red sign marked ‘
Diesel
’ in white lettering hung at a crooked angle above the entrance.

I stepped slowly towards the caged room and saw the door was bolted but had no padlock securing the lock. I glanced through the caged door front and recoiled when a face loomed up from the dark on the opposite side of the mesh. The milky white eyes and peeling skin hanging from a snarling face told me the guy was one of the undead. Another face lower down, beside the first guy scowled and growled at me from the other side of the caged door. I heard more noises that sounded like metal gas or diesel containers being knocked around inside the room. Obviously, there were more than just the two undead at the door inside the diesel store.

I knew I couldn’t hang around down in the basement for long. It would only take those ghouls a few minutes of rattling and shaking at the caged door to loosen the securing bolt. I didn’t need to start the generators and hopefully wouldn’t need any diesel to start the compressor. I spun around, shining the flashlight around the floor space. I had to
find
the damn compressor first.

I searched around but couldn’t see anything that remotely resembled a compressor. I started to think I’d read the manual wrong and the public address system must have been operated in some other way. I kept an eye on the diesel storage room door. More of the undead crowded behind the caged mesh, rattling and clawing at the door. Surely the compressor couldn’t be kept inside that room? If it was, I’d have to forget the whole idea.

I shone the flashlight between the side walls and the generators. I saw nothing on the left side but a small, elongated blue colored piece of machinery caught my eye. I moved closer into the gap between the generator and the wall, shining the light over the section of equipment. It had a caged fan on one side and a lawn mower sized engine on the opposite side, above the tank shaped object.

Another manual with laminated pages hung from one corner of the frame. I snatched up the manual and blew off a layer of dust, scanning the typed text with the flashlight. I didn’t have time to read every word so I skim read through the pages. The machinery was definitely the compressor and seemed to be what I was looking for.

I followed the instruction for starting operation, priming the fuel pump and pulling the cord at the side of the engine, just like you’d start a lawn mower. The engine spluttered but didn’t fire up. I tried again with the same result.

I unscrewed the small cap on the gas tank and shone the flashlight inside. The chamber was three quarters full of pinky liquid. Perhaps the diesel was spoiled and the damn thing would never start. I replaced the cap and tried again. Still nothing.

I went back to the manual and flicked through the pages, looking for something like a troubleshooting guide. It simply stated to ‘
consult your dealer or a trained specialist if you encounter difficulties while using this equipment.
’ Not what I was hoping for.

I sighed and glanced back over at the diesel storage door to check the undead were still penned inside. The lock still held but it was only a matter of time before they broke out. I turned back to the manual, deciding to go through the start up procedure again but a little more thoroughly this time. It mentioned something about using a choke slider lever, which I hadn’t applied when trying to fire up the engine. I remembered I also hadn’t pressed the ‘
all call
’ function on the PA system in the reception booth back in the lobby. I could do that later, I decided. I found the choke lever and turned it up to the instructed level then pulled the starter cord once again. The engine coughed but frustratingly didn’t start.

“Come on, you son of a bitch!” I growled. “Fucking start, goddamn you.”

I breathed heavily, fatigue kicking in once more. Sweat ran from my forehead and dripped onto the compressor. I gripped the starter cord, waiting for a little energy to return to my body.

“Please, start this time. Just start, please,” I muttered.

I tugged on the cord again. Nothing happened. The sound of groaning from the undead inside the diesel store was all I heard. I felt the red waters of rage rise within me.

“Start, you piece of shit!” I yelled, repeatedly pulling the cord while hunched over the damn machine.

The engine spluttered a few times, belched out a puff of black smoke then inexplicably fired up into life. The rumbling noise filled the basement interior and the compressor vibrated against the side of the larger generator.

I released the starter cord and toppled backward, landing on my backside on the concrete floor and wincing at the pain from my injured buttock. I guessed that was karma paying me back for my fury filled outburst.

The damn compressor was running but didn’t sound right, as though it was spluttering and struggling to keep going. It had taken me long to get the thing started so I wasn’t going to allow it to peter out without a fight.     

Chapter Seventy-Two

I scooped up the flashlight and the manual from the ground beside the compressor and flicked through the text again. One line stood out from the laminated page. ‘
Ensure to
turn off choke lever after engine is running
.’

The engine spluttered and sounded as though it was about to cut out. I dived across the floor and felt for the choke lever. I wrenched it to the left and the engine whined at a higher pitch and at a faster pace.

I breathed a few relieved sighs and sat with my back leaning against the cool brick wall for a few seconds. I tossed the manual across the floor and rested my eyes for a few moments. Sleep wanted to take me into the land of unconsciousness and I had to fight to avoid the temptation of drifting off.

A sudden crashing sound, loud enough to be heard above the rumbling compressor caused me to snap open my eyes. I flicked the flashlight towards the far side of the basement as I slid myself upwards against the wall.

The caged door to the diesel store hadn’t only been wrenched open; it lay in a mangled heap on the floor in front of the entranceway. The undead had torn the door from its hinges and were plodding across the basement floor with their grimacing, snarling faces firmly fixed on me.

“Ah, fuck,” I hissed.

I didn’t have many options so I drew the Glock from the back of my waistband, aiming the barrel at the approaching undead. I glanced across the basement to the ring of faint light surrounding the ladder at the far side of the room. I had to try and make it across the floor space.

I switched off the flashlight. The light beam was only attracting the undead to my position. My eyes had become accustomed to the gloom and I’d have to move at speed with free hands to clamber up the ladder and get out of harm’s way in time.

I slipped the flashlight into my pocket, took a deep breath and darted from behind the generator, heading for the ladder. The undead in the center of the basement roared and took swipes at me as I rushed to the circle of light. I felt the rush of air against my cheek as undead hands came close to tearing at my skin.

I almost reached the ladder when my foot rolled across a limb from a spread-eagled corpse that I’d speared to death earlier. I lost my balance and fell forward, hitting a soft, squishy surface. I rolled around onto my back and saw two zombies rapidly approach from the gloom. I aimed the Glock and fired, then moved target and fired again. The rounds echoed loudly around the basement. My first shot was good and dropped the zombie where it stood. The second shot only winged the other ghoul, hitting it in the shoulder but still managing to send it crashing against the side wall.

The undead surged from the darkness, moving forward towards the light at the foot of the ladder. I scrabbled backwards, tripping and stumbling across corpses and feeling with my free hand behind me for the ladder rungs. My fingers touched against something metallic and I realized it was the side frame of the ladder. The undead closed in, reaching out for me but stumbled, as I’d done over the feet and hands of the corpses around the base of the metal steps.

I gripped the frame and hauled myself closer towards the ladder. I took a gamble and turned away from the cluster of undead. Glancing back over my shoulder, I estimated I had around three seconds to crawl up the rungs and get away from the grasping hands.

Gritting my teeth, I gripped the ladder, pumped my legs against the rungs, knocking my knees against the horizontal metals bars. It was one of those moments when I expected to feel the intense pain of a bite somewhere at the back of my legs.