The Left Series (Book 3): Left On The Brink (33 page)

“Hello, Chief. This is me, Brett Wilde. I’m sorry I got myself into this situation and…”

“That’s enough,” the ringleader snarled.

“All right, I hear you. My name is Chief Petty Officer Cole of the United States Navy,” he explained. “The man you are holding is a noncombatant civilian and has no bad intentions towards you.”

“Give us what we want or we’ll cut off his head,” the ringleader roared into the radio. He was obviously losing patience with the situation.

I imagined Smith padding the aircraft floor like a caged tiger, ready to pounce. I hoped the outcome was going to be favorable. A sniper would be able to take out the ringleader on top of the hill but I knew they wouldn’t risk opening fire. I couldn’t see much with the damn hood over my head and knowing my luck, I’d probably stumble in front of a stray bullet.

“Okay, don’t do anything hasty,” Cole responded. “I’ll dispatch a medical team to meet you outside the aircraft. We’re coming out now.”

“Don’t forget our food and weapons, as well,” the ringleader reiterated. “We’re coming down the hill now and don’t forget your man will be executed if we see any armed response units
or intimidation of any kind.”

“All right, please remain calm and I’ll do my best to meet your demands,” Cole responded. I was glad he seemed compliable with these crazy guys.

My arms were pulled behind my back and my wrists were bound together with some kind of restraint that felt like a cable tie. I was shoved roughly from behind. My feet stumbled on the wet grass and my forward momentum caused me to topple over. I landed head first and pain exploded through my brain under pressure of the fall. My teeth clattered together and I thought I was going to pass out. I rolled over and over, feeling the dampness of the grass and soil through my clothing. The sunlight flickered bright and dark through the hessian as I rotated. 

I came to a stop and lay motionless on my back amongst the cool, soggy grass. My head and wrists ached like never before. The stench and debilitating claustrophobia caused by the sack over my head made me feel nauseous to the point of swallowing down my own vomit.
The consequences of puking inside the hood were too disgustingly horrific to consider.

I lay for a few minu
tes before I heard trudging sounds through the grass. I was violently grabbed by the front of my shirt and hauled to my feet. Hands spun me around and shoved me forward. I stumbled but regained my balance this time. The ground had leveled, which meant we were at the foot of the hill.

“Don’t let him get too far ahead,” the ringleader ordered.

A hand gripped my shoulder and I was pulled backwards. Again, I felt the M-9 muzzle ram into the small of my back. The pace slowed but my legs still felt like rubber. I hoped the blow to the head and subsequent tumble down the hill hadn’t fractured my skull. I wanted to throw up so badly. Hot saliva seemed to be flowing from my mouth down into my throat. I swallowed it away and took in deep breaths, almost craving the fresh air outside the hood.

I was brought to an abrupt halt by the h
and on my shoulder. The handgun was removed from my back but a sharp pain on the right side of my head told me the ringleader was holding the M-9 at my temple. Presumably, he wanted to show the military guys he was armed.

We waited for what seemed like an eternity.
It took all the strength I could muster to keep myself standing. I ached all over, I was cold, tired and felt extremely sick.

“Okay, here they come,” the ringleader said. “Be ready if they try anything.”

Eventually, I heard the sound of approaching footfalls, wading through the long grass.

“Don’t come any closer, stop there,” the ringleader ordered.

The footfalls ceased.

“Okay, just take it easy,” I heard Cole’s deep voice. “This is Lieutenant
Arleta, United States Navy and Corporal Wingate of the U.S. Army Medical Corps. They’re going to take a look at you. Who are you people?”

“That’s none of your business, mate,” the ringleader snapped. “We just want to be treated then we want to be left alone. I don’t know why you Yanks came here. There’s nothing here for you.”

“Take the bag off of the kid’s head.” I heard the welcome tone of Smith’s voice.

“Don’t you go giving me orders, chummy,” the ringleader snarled. “Just remember, I’m the one holding a gun to his head. I used to be a soldier too. I know how these things work.”

“How do we know it’s him under there? For all we know, it could be anybody,” Smith calmly said.

“Oh, all right, if it makes you fucking happy.”

I felt the hood being lifted and then it was torn off my head. The hessian material had stuck to the congealed blood on my scalp and I winced in pain as the sack was ripped away. The bright sunlight caused me to blink furiously but the fresh air was heavenly. My vision adjusted to the daylight and I saw the welcome faces of Chief Cole, Smith and two other people I recognized from the flight. One was the pretty blonde girl who Cordoba was talking to earlier. She looked concerned and I saw Smith baulk at my appearance. The other guy was tall and looked a little like an Italian mobster. He wore combat fatigues but his hair was slightly longer than the normal military buzz cut style and slicked back away from his forehead. He was around his mid-twenties, with dark skin and sharp brown eyes. I guessed he was Lieutenant Arleta, and he too had an expression of anxiety on his face.   

“You okay, kid?” Smith muttered, staring me straight in the eye.

I nodded and felt ashamed. What an idiot I’d been for wandering off in the darkness. I only had myself to blame for the current predicament but I had also put the rest of the crew’s lives in danger.

We stood around a hundred feet to the right side of the C-17. I could make out the dark recesses where the cockpit windows had been smashed.
The ringleader still held the M-9 to my head and shuffled around behind me. “Where’s our food and weapons?” 

“All in good time,” Cole answered. “Let’s let the medical team take a look at you first.”

An uncomfortable silence followed and nobody moved for a few seconds.

“Rogers, you go first and I’ll keep the prisoner covered,” the ringleader ordered.

Rogers reluctantly trod forward towards the medics. Smith scowled as he caught the unpleasant stench of aged grime and body odor as Rogers moved closer.

“Okay, what’s the problem?” Arleta asked. His accent
was pure New York City.

Rogers moved his hand towards the sack hood and slowly pulled it from his head. The faces of the four people in front of me all showed the same horrified expression and I joined them in the silly face pulling competition when I caught sight of Rogers’ facial features.

Chapter Fifty-One

Rogers looked as though he was suffering from the bubonic plague. The skin on his face was red and blotchy where it wasn’t covered in white, bulbous pustules. His matted hair had fallen out in patches, his lips were dry and cracked and his eyes looked rheumy and yellow. I took a glance at Smith, whose eyes were wide in shock. Rogers’ mouth hung open and his eyes darted between the medics and the ringleader behind him. He looked sheepish and embarrassed by his shocking appearance.

“What the hell happened to you guys?” Cole asked, incredulously.

“We were at a place called Porton Down, not far from here,” Rogers explained. “It’s some sort of military base where they research chemical warfare.”

“You don’t need to tell them about that,” the ringleader cut in.

Rogers glanced behind him then turned back to Cole, Smith and the medics. “I was working on the site as a contractor when the outbreak started. I used to be a painter and decorator, for fuck’s sake. Look at me now.” He laughed in a phlegm induced wheeze. “The military tried to use some sort of chemical weapons to kill off the walking corpses but it didn’t work and a few months later, those of us who had survived started to look like this.” He pointed at his face.

“Too much information, Rogers,” the ringleader yelled.

“Is your skin like that all over your body?” Wingate asked.

Rogers nodded. “We’re all covered in these boils or abscesses or whatever the fuck they are.” His eyes looked sorrowful as he glanced back at the ringleader then returned his gaze to the medics. “Can you cure us?”

“Do you know what kind of chemical weapon they used?” Arleta asked.

Rogers shook his head. “As I said, I was just a painter and decorator.” He turned and pointed at the ringleader. “He might know
. He was in the army there at Porton Down.”

“Any ideas, friend?” Cole barked.

“What does it matter? I want you to cure us.”

“Shit, Chief. We’re going to need bio hazard suits on before we touch them,” Wingate hissed. “We shouldn’t even be this close to them.”

“I heard that,” the ringleader snapped. “No suits, you take a look at us here and now.”

Now I was worried these guys had contracted some kind of terminal, contagious disease and I had been close enough to them to be infected.
I exchanged nervous glances with Smith. He nodded slightly that I interpreted he was telling me to keep cool, he had a plan. I returned the nod.

“Okay, I’ll take a look at you,” Arleta sighed.
He took out a pair of surgical gloves from his medical bag and slipped them over his hands.

“Sir, are you sure you should?” Wingate warned.

“Somebody has to,” Arleta muttered. “We’ve all got to go sometime.”

He moved slowly towards Rogers and studied the pustules on his face.

“What kind of weapons did they use against the zombies?” Arleta asked, touching the infected areas.

“You call them zombies?” Rogers laughed. “I didn’t think of that. The military used gas bombs
, mainly but they didn’t seem to work. The army held them off to start with, using all kinds of guns but then they just kept coming and coming and eventually we were overrun. A few of us got out of the base and we’ve been living rough ever since. We thought the stones at Stonehenge might have some sort of answer.” He shrugged. “I don’t know like an ancient biblical thing.”

Rogers seemed to have regained some kind of normality. The way he talked was more
logical and coherent than before and I hoped the ringleader would follow suit and put the gun down. My nerves were in shreds.

“This looks like some kind of radiation sickness,” Arleta muttered. “I can’t do much until I know what sort of chemical was used on you.”

“Wrong answer,” the ringleader yelled. He stepped to my right side, raising the M-9 to my temple again. “You cure us or I’ll shoot him and then I’ll shoot all of you.”

“That ‘aint going to happen,” Smith said curtly. “This is your last chance to put the gun down.”

“Or what, you smart assed Yank?” The ringleader turned his head to look at Smith. I was sure he was scowling under his hood. “I’m the one holding the gun and I call the shots. You’ll do what I say.”

“This isn’t going to play out well for you
, if you don’t drop that shooter,” Smith reiterated.

I didn’t know what he was trying to do. All he seemed to be doing was riling the crazy guy, which was likely to get me shot.

“I told you, I’m the one with the gun,” the ringleader roared. “Now, shut the fuck up or I’ll shoot him in the head.” He hopped around, spreading his weight from one foot to the other, as though he needed a pee.

I wished Smith would be quiet. He was going to get me killed at this rate.
Wingate, Arleta and even Rogers, all had worried expressions on their faces. Both Smith and Cole stood side by side, remaining stone wall calm.

“Okay, last chance,” Smith continued. “You’ve got ten seconds to drop the gun or you’ll regret it.”

The ringleader swung his gun hand around and pointed the weapon at Smith’s head. “I told you to shut the fuck up,” he yelled. His voice croaked in a high pitched wheeze.  

“Ten…nine…eight…” Smith counted down.

“When you’ve finished counting, I’m going to shoot you in the face, mate,” the ringleader seethed. 

What the fuck was Smith doing? Maybe he was counting on the fact the guy was shaky and his aim would be all to shit. It was a hell of a gamble.

The ringleader laughed insanely as Smith continued to count down. I knew Smith was cool in pressure situations but he didn’t seem to give a shit that he had a loaded gun pointed at him. I’d fired one shot from the magazine at the zombie in the woods the previous night, so the guy had enough rounds in the M-9 to shoot all of us dead. Smith, as always, was cool as a cucumber. I caught a brief glimpse in his eye that told me he had a plan up his sleeve.

“Two…one.”

I heard the whip of a bullet pass by, a few inches from my face.