The Left Series (Book 2): Left Alone (21 page)

Smith slowed the Navy boat to a crawl and drew alongside the yacht. My vision rippled and I felt I wanted to die. Drops of rain flecked my face as I glanced to the heavens and let out a loud, frustrated scream.

“That motherfucker’s crazy,” Headlong wailed at Smith as he stepped from the wheel house. “Don’t let him near me.”

“Shut the fuck up, asshole,” Smith grunted. He flung a rope onboard the yacht. Tippy hooked the lopped end around one of the yacht’s bollards.

“Are you going to help or stay pissed off with the world forever?” Smith asked me.

“I think I’m going to be permanently pissed off with the world and every shitty person who’s left in it,” I replied, with a sneer.

Smith sighed and pulled the ropes around the bollards so the two boats were close together.

“We’ll take this boat, Tippy,” Smith called out. “It’s faster and better armed. Grab all your gear and toss it onboard.”

Tippy nodded and flashed me a worried glance. She was obviously worried about my diminishing sanity.

“Just ignore him,” Smith said. “You better be real quick grabbing your gear. I’ve got a feeling we’re going to have company real soon.”

Tippy nodded, still looking worried. “Who’s he?” She pointed to Headlong.

“Some worthless jerk that’s going to show us where to go in New Orleans to get our friend back,” Smith growled.

“He’s bleeding. Was he bitten?”

“No.” Smith shook his head. “No zombies where this guy’s been holed up. You better hurry, Tippy.”

Tippy scurried off down below deck and returned less than ten minutes later. Smith glared at me when she had gone. I returned his gaze and lit another smoke. We dumped the two bodies that Smith had shot with the hunting rifle over the side and I slumped onto a bollard, keeping a lookout further up river. Smith opened the hatch to the lower deck, holding the rifle at the ready.

“It’s clear down below,” he shouted.

Tippy tossed a few bags over the side of the Navy boat then reached out and handed Smith a cardboard box full of tins of food.

“Is that everything?”

Tippy nodded. “I’d packed some stuff ready, in case I had to make a quick getaway.” She suddenly looked surprised like she’d just remembered something. “Oh, let me go and get the little dog.” She scurried back to the control room and came back with Spot still tied at the end of his rope leash. She lifted him up and handed him to Smith.

“Okay, quit moping and come and get your dog,” Smith said to me.

I moved across the deck and took Spot from his arms, then turned to the lower deck hatch.

“Keep an eye on that piece of shit while I take him below deck,” I said, pointing at Headlong.

“No, let Tippy take him,” Smith ordered. “I need you up here to steer the boat while I man the machine gun.”

I stopped and waited as Smith helped Tippy clamber from the yacht and over the side of the Navy boat. I handed her the leash as she caught her breath on the deck.

“What are you going to do with him?” She pointed again at Headlong. “He needs medical attention to that leg.”

Smith shrugged and I looked to the deck.

“Let me put a bandage on that wound or he’ll bleed to death before we reach New Orleans.”

Smith nodded and slipped the rope between the two vessels. Tippy rummaged through one of her bags and took out a roll of heavy duty bandage and tape. I tied Spot to a cleat and covered her with the M-16 while she applied the dressing to Headlong’s leg wound. Smith U-turned the boat and headed back up river. Headlong groaned and gritted his teeth as she tightened the bandage.

I turned to check our position and recognized the bend in the river where we’d moored the dinghy near the slaughterhouse.

“You better get below, Tippy. Those guys will probably still be on the river bank and they’ll be pissed at us for taking their boat,” I said.

“Oh…okay,” she muttered and slightly adjusted the bandage.

Headlong moaned and rested his head against the deck with his eyes closed.

“Are you going to leave him here?”

I nodded. “We can’t risk letting him down below with you.”

Tippy forced a slight smile then shuffled towards the deck hatch. She untied Spot’s leash and held it tight in her hand.

“Just sit tight below until we get by those guys,” Smith said to her as she opened the hatch.

“I hope we make it okay,” she wailed and the worried look returned.

As soon as Tippy shut the hatch, the first bullets rattled around the Navy boat deck. The assault from the river bank had started.

Chapter Thirty-Six

I ducked behind the gunwale with my back to the protective steel as the small arms rounds clattered into the side of the boat. The remaining shit kickers had obviously regrouped and rearmed themselves. I hoped those guys didn’t have any real heavy armor. Smith must have wasted most of them with the 20 mil but a few still remained, hiding in the woods and hell bent on ambushing us and stopping our progress up the river.

“Take the wheel, Wilde,” Smith screamed above the twangs of bullets hitting the upper deck steel structure.

I knew Smith was going to let fire with the 20-mil again. I could steer the boat as I wasn’t experienced with a heavy duty weapon. We kept low and swapped places. I ducked behind the wheel and peeped through the front window.

Smith checked the gun and cocked it. Metal ammunition boxes lay either side of the weapon mounting. Smith opened up, cutting through the trees on the river bank with the heavy ammo. Branches and pieces of foliage dispersed in rows along the shoreline under the hail of 20-mil rounds.

The firing from the river bank ceased as the guys in the woods obviously dived for cover or succumbed to their fate. Smith stopped firing but continued to train the muzzle along the shore.

“Keep us on a steady course in the center of the river,” Smith commanded.

“Yes, sir,” I yelled back, flicking my forehead in a mock salute.

Smith shook his head and returned his gaze to the gun barrel and the river bank. I thought I better stop pissing him off or I might be next in line to take one of his bullets. We carried on up the river in silence, the dipping sun projecting a red glow across the water while we left the slaughterhouse behind.

Smith clicked on the 20-mil safety catch and sauntered over to the wheel house. He stood in the doorway and lit a smoke.

“You got a problem with me, Wilde?” His words were croaky and the tone was confrontational. He was bigger, stronger and more ruthless than I was so I felt I wasn’t capable of rising to his challenge.

I sighed. “No, I’m sorry if I got a little cranky back there.”

“We all have bad days, kiddo,” he said, exhaling smoke. “Some days it’s hard to keep it together with all this shit flying around.” His tone was more soothing now.

I was glad he accepted my apology.

“How’s the guy doing on the deck?” I nodded towards the glass.

“He’s copping some zees, right now. He’s probably going to be as sore as hell when he wakes up.”

“Well, you did throw him out of a window into a tree,” I said, smirking.

Smith looked at me and sniggered. I was glad we had our shared sense of humor back. He leaned forward to the console and flicked on the navigation lights.

“What if anybody sees us?” I asked.

Smith sighed. “So they see us. Zombies will have a hell of a job climbing onboard and I don’t think those shit kickers will bother us again. It’s been a long day. I don’t about you, kid but I could do with some rest myself.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, stifling a yawn. “Are we going to moor up for the night?”

“I’d rather keep going but we’re all dead beat. We need some sleep and can get going again at first light. Give it another fifteen minutes to put some distance between us and that damn slaughterhouse.”

“Okay,” I agreed. “Do you know how to anchor up this crate?”

“Sure,” he muttered. “I’ll be back in a while. I’m just going to check on Tippy down below.”

Smith walked out of the wheel house into the increasing dusk towards the lower deck hatch. He was briefly illuminated by the light as he opened the door and stepped through it. I gazed up to the clear red-orange sky and wondered what new perils awaited us in New Orleans.

The remnants of civilization moved slowly by in the shape of shadowy husks of buildings along the banks. Insects chirped in the long grass and birds swooped low on the water, ready to return to their nests for the night. My world was calm and peaceful, for a while anyway. 

Smith returned to shatter my tranquility, after what seemed much less than fifteen minutes.

“Ready to drop anchor?”

“Okay,” I said.

Smith took over the controls and slowed the boat to a crawl. I followed him out onto the deck and watched as he slowly let the anchor chain uncoil from the rotor drum out into the water. He recoiled in the slack chain and stopped the lever when he was satisfied.

“That should hold us for the night,” he said.

The clanking chain awoke Headlong, who murmured lying on the deck.

“What are we going to do with him?” I asked.

“Leave him there for a while,” Smith said. “He ‘aint going nowhere. You and I’ll take four hour watches on deck. We’ll keep an eye on him.”

“I’ll take first watch,” I volunteered, eager to repeat the recent serenity I’d enjoyed earlier.

“Okay,” Smith agreed. “Let’s go and eat first. Tippy has done some cooking down there.”

Smith cut the engines and we walked back across the deck. I led the way through the hatch and down below deck. Tippy had been busy cooking us a stew in the small galley. The smell of cooking vegetables and meat made my stomach rumble in hunger. Sometimes I forgot about how little we ate when we were constantly dodging the undead and shit kicker’s bullets.

I sat opposite Smith and Tippy at the small table and tucked into the stew, which tasted wonderful. Spot had his own little bowl and slurped hungrily on the deck. I sat back and let my stomach acids go to work on the meat and vegetables.

“That was great,” I sighed, smiling. It had been a long time since my belly felt full.

Tippy looked suitably pleased with herself as Smith took a second helping. “It was always Simey’s favorite,” she muttered, then looked away as her eyes filled with tears. 

“I better take some upstairs for shit for brains,” I said, rising to my feet.

I searched the closets, took a metal bowl and filled it with stew, then slung the M-16 over my shoulder. I noticed a flashlight hanging from a hook on the wall and slipped it into my cargo pants pocket.

“See you in four hours,” I said to Smith, as I made my way up the steps and opened the upper deck hatch.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Smith called as I stepped outside into the night.

I rolled my shoulders as I walked across the upper deck. My neck felt stiff and the aches and pains and bruises caused by the tumble out of the slaughterhouse window then through the tree, were spreading throughout my body now the adrenaline rush was finally subsiding.

“Hey, Shithead,” I called across the deck. “Got some food for you. Not that you deserve the steam off a zombie’s shit.”

No answer came from the guy. I stopped and squinted in the darkness, hoping he wasn’t hiding behind one of the vents or structures ready to ambush me.

“Hey, Headlong?”

Still no answer. Maybe he was still sleeping or he’d bled to death. I slipped the M-16 off my shoulder and pointed the barrel into the darkness, cautiously stepping further forward across the deck. I put the bowl of stew on top of a waist high locker and gripped the rifle in both hands. The eerie silence was only broken by the sound of jumping fish plopping in and out of the river water. I took the flashlight from my pocket and flicked it on. The light beam flashed across the deck and I scanned the area where Headlong lay when Smith and I had gone below deck. A blood stain the shape of a ‘T’ pooled on the deck where Headlong had lain.

“Shit! Where the fuck has he gone?”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

A loud splash from the river caused me to swing to my left. The noise was too loud and ungainly to be a leaping fish. I shone the flashlight across the water and saw a head and an arm rise from the surface then sink beneath the swell. I couldn’t tell if it was a zombie or Headlong trying to make a swim for the shore.

The figure bobbed to the surface once more and gurgled a pathetic cry.

“Headlong?”

The figure floundered in the water, around twenty feet from the boat.

“Help me,” he spat, between coughing out mouthfuls of river water.

“Shit, what are you doing?” I really didn’t give a damn if he drowned but I knew Smith needed him to guide our route into New Orleans.

I slung the rifle around my shoulder, set the flashlight down on top of a waist high vent so the beam shone into the river and searched around the deck. I found a boat hook pole that was probably around fifteen feet long and cast it into the water like a fishing rod.

“Try and grab the end of the pole.”

Headlong coughed and paddled towards the hook. He went under again and I thought for one moment he wasn’t going to resurface. His head reappeared a few seconds later and he choked and coughed out more water.

“Swim for the pole, you bastard,” I yelled.

Headlong curled his fingers around the hook and gripped the wooden pole with his other hand. I dragged the boat hook back inboard and Headlong moved through the water towards the boat. I gripped hold of him under his armpit and hauled his soaking body onto the deck. He lay on his back gasping for air and coughing his lungs out. I spun the flashlight around so the beam shone across the deck, allowing us some light. I didn’t trust him and he could still try and jump me in the pitch dark.

“What the hell where you thinking? Trying to escape in the dark in the middle of a river with a leg wound?”

I looked at his hands and saw he’d somehow managed to cut through the duct tape and free himself.