The Left Series (Book 2): Left Alone (23 page)

“What about us, Smith?” I sighed. “What the hell are we doing?”

Smith lit a cigarette and offered me his pack. I took one and lit the tip. Smith exhaled smoke across the control panel.

“I don’t know, Wilde Man. I really don’t know. Maybe sometime our luck is going to run dry. We’ve had a good innings by surviving this far so maybe we’re heading for a fall.”

I shook my head and gulped down a lump in my throat. “If we go down in New Orleans, we’re still going to go down fighting, right?”

“Abso-
fucking
-lutely, kid.” Smith gave me a wink. “First, we’re going to take out this Headlong bastard, get control of the boat again and try and get to Batfish.”

A thought suddenly occurred to me. “Would it make much difference if Headlong wasn’t in control?”

Smith gave me a quizzical look. “What do you mean?”

“Well, he said to me when we were out on the deck, he thought we were going to kill him anyway. He could jerk us off and lead us into some kind of trap in New Orleans and we wouldn’t know the difference where we were going, right?”

Smith shrugged. “I suppose there’s no way of guaranteeing he’d lead us to the Trader’s place without trying to shrug us off somehow.”

“But he’d definitely take us there if he thought he was in control.”

“Yeah, so you’re saying we should play it like a double bluff. Let him lead us there and then do our thing?”

“I know it’s a risk but at least we’d be sure to get where we’re trying to go.”

Smith rubbed his stubbly chin. “Hmm…I like your way of thinking but can we be certain this jerk is reliable. He could just think ‘
fuck this
,’ execute us and go on to New Orleans on his own.”

“He needs us at the moment, Smith. He’s crippled, he needs Tippy to keep his wound clean and he needs us to operate the boat. He can’t do it on his own and he knows it. Plus, and I hate to admit it, but from what these sick fucks were talking about back at that damn slaughterhouse, every living human now has some kind of sexual commodity. He’d get some kind of reward for delivering us to the Traders.”

“So, let me get this straight - we play along with this guy until we get to the Trader’s place with no weapons and try and make a stand when we get there?”

I nodded. “I think if we try and jump him, he’s going to end up dead or making a break for it and that would leave us empty handed and going into the city blind. Without any inside info would leave us trying to find someplace in a city overrun with undead. Needle in a haystack syndrome.”

“I hate that phrase,” Smith growled. “But I can see the logic in what you’re saying. We should start to hit the outskirts of the city at around noon, I reckon. Maybe that’ll give us time for a revaluation on the situation.”

“Okay,” I agreed. I knew Smith wasn’t totally convinced with my half-assed plan, and I wasn’t totally convinced myself but I felt we’d messed around too long and couldn’t afford any more lengthy delays. Batfish could even be dead so our trip may well prove pointless anyway.

As I steered the boat, an image of my old pal, Pete Cousins back in Brynston, Pennsylvania, surfaced in my mind. He was a gambling man and I presume his addiction had ultimately led to his downfall. In my mind’s eye, he was laughing and talking to me.

“Your chances of pulling this off in New Orleans, Wilde? If I was a bookie, I’d give you odds of around 100-1. No chance at best.”

I remembered Pete meticulously studied the odds of every sport and betting situation going. I just hoped he was wrong on this occasion.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Smith strolled around the deck in the early morning light, studying a map and chain smoking while mulling over my plan. I knew he was torn. He hated being dictated to by some asshole like Headlong – someone he could easily overpower and make pay for his noncompliance. On the other hand, my suggestion made sense. Let him think he was winning and one step ahead in the game. I realized the plan was going against Smith’s total philosophy but we had to try to be a little subversive in our approach. The only stumbling block was our weapon situation. We had the flare gun but that wasn’t going to be enough.

Smith burst back into the control room with a lit cigarette in his mouth, hunching over a map.

“We’re coming up to a Naval Air Station. Maybe we should stop there and see what’s going on.”

I was hesitant. We came across a bunch of military renegades at Newark Airport in New Jersey before we entered Manhattan six months previously. The situation hadn’t gone well.

“Are you sure about that? Last time we encountered military guys, you got shot and I got drugged, remember?” I was sure the injection of mescaline I’d received at the Airport had some bizarre, long-term effect on me and helped cause my hallucinations.

Smith pondered over the map for a moment. “Maybe you’re right,” he muttered. “But let’s keep the Air Station in mind. We may have to head there at some point if the shit hits the fan in the city.”

I had a horrible premonition that things were bound to get heavy in New Orleans.

Tall, chain wire fences were torn open in places where people had either cut their way in or tried to escape to our left of the river bank. Several wandering zombies meandered a few feet inside the fence. One or two were dressed in remains of work clothes. I thought the area around a military establishment would have been a safe haven but it would take only one infected person to spread the disease. Then, trying to flee the base if it was in lock-down would have been virtually impossible. I remembered how difficult it was for us to get away from Newark Airport while being held by a renegade military faction.

“Looks like your Air Station was overrun, Smith.”

Smith gazed out of the window, studying the remains of the fence line. “I really thought they’d be somebody left there.”

“Maybe they’re all hidden away, living inside quarantined buildings,” I suggested.

“Maybe,” Smith muttered. His thoughts were somewhere else.

A flashing red light on the control panel and an audible warning alarm broke the silence.

“What the hell is that?” I shouted over the noise.

Smith took a look at the control panel and pressed a button, silencing the alarm.

“We’re low on diesel, that’s the warning alarm.”

“Have we got enough to reach the harbor?”

“Depends on where we’re headed. The river runs right through the city. New Orleans is a big place, you know.” Smith brushed by me and headed to the door. “Whatever we’re going to do, we better let his Lordship down below know. He’s in charge; he can make the fucking decisions.”

He ducked out of the door and strolled across the floor to the lower deck hatch. I slowed the boat to a crawl to try and conserve the diminishing fuel supply. Smith reappeared on the upper deck few seconds later, followed by Tippy and Headlong, who still carried the assault rifle and hobbled along with the aid of his make-shift crutch. They headed towards the control cabin with Headlong muttering and cursing.

“You can see the warning alarm for yourself, dipshit,” Smith said, pointing to the flashing light on the control panel as they burst through the door. “Fucking guy thinks we’re jerking his chain,” he said to me with raised eyebrows.

“Watch your mouth, you schmuck,” Headlong growled. “Remember who’s got the fucking gun.” He took a glance at the flashing warning light. “Fucking retards were supposed to keep this tub gassed up.”

“They obviously forgot,” I said, with a hint of sarcasm.

“Well
obviously
,” Headlong mocked. “Thing is, what are we going to do about it?”

“Where did your mob keep the diesel?” Smith asked.

“Back at the old slaughterhouse, of course,” Headlong snapped. “We got gallons of marine diesel back there. Too far to turn back now.”

“Well,
obviously
,” I mimicked.

“Don’t get smart with me, friend,” Headlong threatened, thrusting the rifle barrel in my direction.

“Have we got enough fuel to get where we’re going?” Smith asked. “We’re not far from the city limits according to the map. You’re the only one who knows the location.” He pointed at Headlong.

“Where are we? Where’s the damn map?”

Smith turned to the counter top and picked up the map. “We’re right by the Naval Air Station, here.” He placed his finger on our location.

Headlong leant on his crutch and snatched the map out of Smith’s hands. He studied the distance from our position to the undisclosed destination and shook his head.

“No way will we make it up there,” he said. “We’ll need to get gas from somewhere and I reckon they’ll be some in that there military camp.” He pointed out the window to the battered fences.

“That’s an air station,” Smith said in a slow tone like he was talking to an idiot. “This boat runs on marine diesel, not aviation fuel, understand?”

Headlong sniffed, ignoring Smith’s mockery. “Still should have a diesel dump for the trucks and stuff. This boat will still run on regular diesel.”

“The place is crawling with zombies,” I protested. “It’ll be a suicide mission going in there.”

Headlong let out a wheezy laugh. “And guess who’s going in to get the gas?”

Smith and I exchanged glances. No prizes for guessing that he and I would have to go on a diesel hunt without any guns.

“That’s right, fellas.” Headlong smiled and nodded. “You two get the pleasure of going on a shore side trip.”

“I don’t suppose you’ll let us take any weapons?” Smith sighed.

“Nope.” Headlong shook his head. “I guess you guys will have to improvise. And you’ll have to be quick. The little lady can stay on the boat and keep me company. My leg still hurts like a bitch. I think it’ll need a new strap up.”

Tippy let out a little horrified groan. Inwardly, I was screaming in terror. Yet another kamikaze mission beckoned and this time we didn’t even have so much as a catapult to defend ourselves.

Chapter Forty

I steered the boat to the river bank behind the dilapidated fence, trying to get as close as possible. I remembered the flare gun in the map drawer and briefly thought about going for it. But even if we overpowered Headlong and took his weapon, our situation wouldn’t change too much. We’d still be low on diesel and still not know where Batfish was.

Smith lowered the anchor from the winch on the deck and waved for me to cut the engine when the boat was around one hundred feet from the river bank. Headlong took command of the operations while sitting in the chair at the back of the cabin. He ushered me and Tippy outside when the engine noise died down.

Some of the zombies inside the fence line were trying to squeeze through the gaps in the wire. They’d already noticed our approach and were on their way to greet us when we stepped onto dry land.

The Navy vessel was equipped with a small, rigid boat that was mounted at the stern. We were going to use the boat to cross the river to the shore and I hoped the craft was in good working order. It also had to be capable of carrying several diesel containers, if we made it for the return crossing.

Headlong shouldered the M-16, shuffled over to the 20mm gun and swung the barrel around to the river bank.

“I’m such a nice guy, I’ll even cover you with the cannon,” he chortled, before opening fire at the zombies by the fence.

Tippy jumped with a start at the booming noise of the heavy machine gun. I covered my ears with my hands. Brass shell cases rattled onto the deck and zombies tumbled down the river bank, their dead bodies splashed into the water. Some floated face down with rotten brain matter spilling from severe head wounds.

Smith walked across the deck shaking his head. Headlong stopped firing the 20mm and let out a haughty belly laugh.

“See those fuckers rolling down the hill? Man, that was funny.”

“Thanks to you, all the zombies in the vicinity now know we’re here with all that damn noise,” Smith huffed. “They’ll be making their way towards the fence.”

“Best you get over there and get the diesel real quick, then,” Headlong snapped. He then swung the M-16 off his shoulder and pointed the muzzle at Smith. “And don’t get any ideas about trying to sneak any guns onboard when you get back.”

Smith snorted. “
If
we get back, you mean.”

“Just get going, will you. You’re starting to piss me off.”

Smith shook his head again and moved towards the small boat at the stern end.

“Come on, Wilde,” he barked. “Let’s go and get ourselves killed.”

I followed him to the boat and we both clambered inside.

“You’ll have to lower us down,” Smith said to Headlong.

Headlong grinned and moved to the winch. The wire cables creaked as he lowered the boat so the ribbed hull touched the water. Smith uncoupled the large metal hook supporting the weight on four wire strops at the center of the boat. He moved to the controls and turned the ignition key. The boat’s propeller at the rear end whined and then churned in the water.

“Keep us covered with that 20mm,” Smith yelled up to Headlong.

Headlong nodded and said something I didn’t catch due to the noise of the boat engine. Smith steered us to the river bank and then cut the engine. We hauled the boat forward so the hull rested on the marshy bank.

“I hope that boat holds in place,” Smith muttered. “We may have to get out of here real quick.”

I felt my stomach churn as we clambered up the steep, grassy river bank. I had a bad feeling about this little expedition. Smith crouched amongst a clump of trees as we reached the summit and took a peek over the top of the bank.

“The coast looks clear,” he hissed.

I glanced back down the bank then to the Navy boat across the water. Headlong gave me a mocking wave and I expected him to holler some obscenities to really rub it in.