The Left Series (Book 2): Left Alone (20 page)

“He’s coming with us,” Smith replied.

“What?”

“I’ll tell you all about it when we get out of here,” Smith said, moving towards the window.

I shrugged and shuffled backwards, keeping my weapon trained on the doorway.

Smith hauled the guy to his feet and pointed at the tree outside.

“Aim for that,” Smith commanded and shoved the guy out of the window.

I heard a muffled cry followed by the branches rustling and snapping.

“Do you think he survived the fall?” I asked.

Smith looked out the window and down to the ground. He turned his head and nodded to me. “He’s okay.”

A booming noise half deafened me and wood splinters exploded into the room. When the shot gun smoke cleared, I noticed a large hole had appeared in the center of the door. Smith leapt from the window into the tree. I scuffled onto the frame and took a look at the ground below. The height made me feel slightly giddy. I took a deep breath, slung the rifle over my shoulder and jumped towards the branches.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Every tree branch I made a grab for slipped through my fingers. I felt the assault rifle slip from my shoulder, brushed away from my body by the foliage. Twigs snapped under my weight and I saw the ground coming at me with rapid speed.

All the breath in my body was forced out in a millisecond when I hit the earth. I lay on my back rasping for air while a voice screamed in my head, telling me to get on my feet and move. The assault rifle clattered onto the ground a few feet from me but I couldn’t move to retrieve it. The duck taped guy rolled around next to the tree trunk, desperately trying to free his bounded hands.

The sun shone directly in my face. I glanced skywards and saw a big guy hanging one handed from a branch, dangling like a monkey around ten feet above me. He dropped and landed on his feet, only inches from my head.

“Get up, Wilde,” Smith growled, hauling me to my feet.

He picked up the assault rifle and thrust it into my hands.

“You looked good falling out of that window. Ever thought about becoming a movie stuntman?”

I grunted a reply, not in the mood for Smith’s baiting. He grabbed the duck taped guy and hauled him up. One of the shit kickers fired a couple of rounds at us from the window above. The bullets thudded into the earth, only a few inches from our feet.

We sprinted to the slaughterhouse wall, Smith dragging the duck tape guy alongside him. We shuffled along the wall towards the rear of the building. A guy dressed in gray coveralls, brandishing a big hand gun leaned out the window and took aim. I was already pointing the assault rifle up at the window and fired off a short burst. One of the rounds ripped through the guy’s forearm. He squealed, dropped his gun and fell back inside the room.

Smith cut the duct tape around the guy’s ankles so he could move him around quicker. We rounded the corner and ran through the woods along the back wall of the slaughterhouse.

“They’ll come out of the front door,” Smith said. “There’s only one way in and out of the building.”

“I knew that already,” I hissed. “Don’t forget I was the sucker who was locked up in there.”

“Head for the jetty,” Smith barked. “We have to get to that Navy patrol boat before they do or they’ll slaughter us with that heavy machine gun.”

I followed behind Smith as he ran while dragging the duct tape guy through the trees. We headed downhill from the bank to the river, leaving the claustrophobic slaughterhouse behind us. For all we knew, the shit kickers could be on the boat already, just waiting for us to hone into sight before they let fly with a hail storm of bullets. I hoped this wasn’t another one of Smith’s hair brained schemes that was going to lead us into even more danger than when we started. I knew he desperately wanted to find out where Batfish was but surely we could have found a less precarious method? That was Smith –
Gung Ho Forever!

We ran through the trees like GI’s fleeing from the onslaught of the Viet Cong in the 1960’s. Sunlight flitted through the overhead foliage, temporary blinding us with bright rays. Sweat soaked through my shirt at the front and back and my hair was wringing wet with my own perspiration.

Smith looked in his element, racing through the woods dragging his prisoner beside him. I was no military man. I could hold my own against a few shuffling zombies but to be honest, against an army of armed tough guys, I was way out of my depth. Every twig and dead branch cracking underfoot caused me to twist and turn in all directions, pointing my rifle in all positions the compass could accommodate.

Smith stopped behind a tree and took cover when the river was in sight. The late afternoon sun glinted on the top of the brown, muddy flowing water. I slumped against the tree trunk next to Smith’s with my back against the solid bark, gasping for air.

My throat felt and tasted like a dry, unclean stove and my guts churned like a washer dryer set on maximum heat. The duct tape guy sweated and gasped in air noisily through his nose as he sat slumped against the tree trunk between Smith’s knees.

“The boat is over there,” Smith whispered, pointing to our left.

I craned my neck beyond the tree and saw the gray patrol boat moored against a small wooden jetty beyond the tree line. A couple of guys trundled around on the upper deck oblivious to the chaos ensuing inside the slaughterhouse. I guessed they would soon be alerted when the rest of the shit kickers tumbled down the riverbank in their search for us.

“We need to move real quick,” Smith said. “We’re going to take that boat up to New Orleans.”

I nodded without asking why. Smith had hinted about the route we needed to take.

“We’ll need to head back down river for Spot and Tippy,” I said.

Smith squinted like he’d forgotten about our comrades but nodded in agreement.

“How many guys are on the boat?” I asked.

Smith shouldered his rifle and looked down the scope sight. “I can see two on the upper deck, don’t know if there’s any more down below. We’ll have to cross that hurdle when we come to it.”

Hollering and yelling from higher above the river bank caused me to jerk my head back into the woods.

“They’re coming, Smith.”

“I know. I’ll try and take out the guys on the upper deck with this piece of shit.” Smith leaned against the tree and steadied his aim.

I wiped the sweat from my face with the palm of my hand and kept a close eye on the tree line, looking for the marauding band of shit kickers, who would probably be armed to the teeth.

Smith fired two quick consecutive shots. I didn’t see if he’d hit his intended targets.

“Did you get them?” 

“They went down. I don’t know if they’re tagged. Okay, let’s move. Shit or bust.”

Smith roughly hauled the duct tape guy to his feet and shoved him forward. My legs felt stiff and aching as I stood up. I ran in a crouching stoop behind Smith. The open ground between the woods and the jetty was a prime spot to be gunned down by our pursuers.

A voice commanded us to stop from somewhere higher up on the river bank. We ignored the shit kicker’s demands and headed for the jetty. The rasp of automatic gun fire popped in my ears. Chunks of earth and clumps of grass flew into the air around us as we sprinted for the Navy boat.

The duct tape guy let out a muffled scream and fell into the turf. He rolled on his back with his face screwed up in agony. His right shin was a bloody mess with an open bullet wound.

Smith pulled him up and carried on towards the boat. I fired a blast of gun fire up the bank without sighting a target, just to try and bide us some time. Somebody returned fire and I swore I heard and felt a bullet whistle less than an inch from my left ear.

“Slip the ropes and I’ll start the engine,” Smith yelled at me through the noise of gunfire.

“I’ll try,” I whimpered. I wasn’t used to being shot at by gun crazed gangs and had to admit my ass was twitching like a rabbit’s nose. I’d have swapped my predicament to face a bunch of flesh hungry zombies any day of the week. 

Smith shoved the duct tape guy up the gangway and dived onto the upper deck. I ducked behind a steel bollard and lifted off the looped rope. Orange sparks cannoned off the bollard as bullets hit the steel and ricocheted around the jetty. I took a quick peek around the bollard during a brief lull in the gunfire. A whole bunch of crazy shit kicker dudes, led by Shaved Head, scaled down the river bank, dropping to the ground and firing their weapons every few yards. I roughly guessed we had around one hundred yards between us. The world record for a one hundred yard sprint was around ten seconds. I could more or less double that time to work out how long we had before the gang was on top of us.

The Navy boat engine roared into life but I still had to release the rope at the stern end. Smith steered the boat away from the jetty and I heard him yelling all kinds of obscenities from the upper deck wheel house. I couldn’t move to the stern bollard, I was pinned down by the rapidly approaching gunfire. Shaved Head and his mob closed in on the jetty, opening up at me with their rifles and hand guns. Bullets rattled against the bollard, chipping away at the white painted steel.

I rattled off a couple of rounds, dropping the sentry who had earlier punched me in the face. 

“No more ass for you, you fucking rat,” I hollered in pure retribution.

“Get this fucking boat clear, Wilde,” Smith yelled as bullets clattered against the boat’s hull.

The Navy boat churned water at the ass end; Smith was trying to break the stern rope using the engine power.

“I can’t move, Smith,” I shouted in reply. “These fuckers have got me pinned down.”

“Ah, for fuck’s sake,” Smith screamed. “Do I have to do every fucking thing?”

He stormed across the upper deck amongst the hail of bullets and marched towards the 20mm machine gun on the forecastle.

“Eat fucking lead and die, motherfuckers,” he yelled, cocking the gun and swinging the barrel around towards the river bank.

“Fuck me!” I screamed as Smith unleashed hell in the shape of 20mm rounds on the bunch of shit kickers.

Blood, guts, brains and bones spattered the river bank. 20 mil rounds were normally used as an anti-aircraft, anti-ship defense. The human body was torn to shreds against such ammunition. The noise of the gun rocked my senses and the sight of the obliteration was like nothing I’d ever seen before.

The grassy river bank was littered with body parts and bloody pulp. The gunfire against my protective bollard was now nonexistent but a few wayward single shots still rang from amongst the woods, causing plops in the river water.

“Are you going to release that rope or do you want me to do everything for you, Wilde?” Smith yelled.

I coughed amidst the cloud of cordite. “Okay, I got it,” I croaked.

I moved across the jetty to the stern and unleashed the rope, tossing the looped end onboard. I glanced back at the gory mess on the river bank before I hopped onboard the Navy boat. Not for the first time, I realized Smith was a psychopath but was glad he was on my side. 

Chapter Thirty-Five

The duct tape guy rolled around the upper deck in agony. Blood oozed from his leg wound. The expression in his eyes implored me to help him. I held the M-16 gun barrel at his face, not showing or feeling one iota of sympathy.

I felt like blasting his fat, ugly face off his skull but I knew Smith wanted him alive. This jerk was our key to Batfish’s whereabouts. I bent forward and ripped the duct tape from his mouth.

“What’s your name, you piece of shit?” I screamed.

The guy didn’t answer, just wailed in agony. Anger burned inside me. I wanted to beat this guy to a bloody pulp.

“I asked you a question, motherfucker.” I kicked the guy in the ribs and resisted the temptation to smash the M-16 rifle butt in his face.

“They call me Headlong,” the guy croaked.

“Who’s fucking “
they?”
dickhead? Your ass fucking, faggot buddies?” I wanted to torture this guy badly. Stamp on his fingers and his balls. Life was hard enough to survive without pricks like this still breathing. This piece of shit was a waste of air as far as I was concerned.

“Hey, kiddo! Don’t waste him yet,” Smith shouted at me as he strolled onto the deck. “We got to keep this jerk alive until we get to New Orleans.”

“They were going to fuck me up the ass, Smith,” I hollered. “Fuck knows what these disgusting, ass raping motherfuckers have done to Batfish.”

“Hey, hey, hey! Calm the fuck down,” Smith hissed, showing me the palms of his hands. “I need to steer this boat back to the yacht but I need you to be calm, okay?”

I bit the inside of my cheek until it hurt, staring at the pathetic creature that said his stupid name was Headlong. “Okay,” I spat and nodded in agreement.

I knew Smith was right but I was sick of worthless fucks making my life more difficult than it needed to be. I spat three times in the stupid guy’s face but wanted to stomp his skull with my foot.

Smith gave me a warning glance as he made his way back to the wheel house. At that moment, I didn’t give a fuck what Smith thought of me. He wasn’t the one locked up in that shitty cell with all the ghosts and guilt that I had to endure. I all honesty, I knew Smith didn’t give a shit who lived or died. He was going to save Batfish or kill anyone who stood in his way because he enjoyed the thrill of dangerous situations. That was all. I was along for the ride, becoming more pissed off with each unrewarding, blood spattered, death filled day.

I needed a cigarette and to get away from everything for a while. I mooched to the stern, leaving the asshole still squirming in pain on the deck. Smith steered the boat back along the river to where we’d moored the yacht. I sucked hard on my smoke; the tip became a glowing, red arrow in the fading sunlight. I flicked the cigarette butt into the river when the yacht came into view.

Tippy stood on the upper deck of the yacht aiming the pistol at us as we approached. Smith stepped out of the wheel house and gave her a wave. She dipped her head and I recognized the relief of her body language.