The Left Series (Book 2): Left Alone (35 page)

Headlong must have spotted us but thankfully didn’t give our position away by keeping eyes on us for too long.

“Take a look at this 20mm for a moment, won’t ya, Sammy,” I heard him say.

The four men moved towards the Navy boat forecastle, which took them slightly out of sight of the paddle steamer’s gangway.

Headlong’s diversion gave us a few seconds respite but we still had to lift the damn heavy box over the cord. We could have tried to untie the tight knots but would have been too time consuming.

“Lift the box and rest my end on the rope,” Smith hissed.

I nodded and strained again to lift the container. I resisted the urge to grunt and groan and we somehow managed to lift the box on top of the spiraled rope. Smith hopped over the makeshift barrier and waved me on to do the same. I had to be quick and felt a little queasy when I looked down beyond the gangway at the river below. The tide would surely drag me downriver into zombie territory if I put a foot wrong and tumbled into the brown, flowing water.

Smith held the cash box in place while I puffed and panted and somehow hauled myself over the cordon and the heavy container without toppling into the drink. I guessed our allotted time was nearly up, as even Headlong couldn’t talk time consuming bullshit forever. The morning mist had all but cleared so we didn’t even have the cover of the elements to shroud us.

We slid the box across the top of the roped cordon and took the strain again. Smith held the side handle with his back towards the box and I held on with both hands. The container dangled between us, level with Smith’s butt and my crotch. The thin, round metal handle dug into my palms and fingers.

At worst, we’d be spotted but we could at least use the hand guns in self defense. The downside to that scenario was the noise of a gun battle ensuing on the docks would alert every one of Lazaru’s henchmen in the French Quarter. We weren’t sure of the exact number of foot soldiers he had at his disposal but Headlong had earlier mentioned something about a small army. We’d definitely be outnumbered and certainly out gunned.

I glanced over my shoulder back at the Navy boat and saw Headlong, Sammy and the other two guys standing on the upper deck, staring out into the river. I calculated we had a few more seconds before one of them turned around and saw us.

We silently hustled along over the flat ground, heading towards the small clump of trees. The container was awkward, bulky and generally a nightmare to carry in a hurry. I thought I was going to drop the box before we hit the cover of the trees and Smith was stepping faster than I could manage.

I couldn’t hold the handle any longer and the box slipped from my grasp as we reached the tree line. The metal on metal rattle of the guns inside the cash box echoed across the flat ground. Smith and I went to ground and I hoped the long grass growing between the trees would provide us with cover from sight from the dock.

We lay still, listening for alerted voices raising the alarm. It seemed like we waited an hour on our faces with spikes of grass poking up my nose but in reality, it was probably no more than a couple of minutes.

No sound of approaching footsteps across the asphalt flat ground came. No sound of voices of inquisitive dock guards drew near. We heard a hubbub of chatter still drifting from the Navy boat, although the conversation was undecipherable.

Somehow, Headlong had bided us some more time. The guy was still a despicable dipshit but he’d saved our asses this time.

Smith crawled through the grass, dragging the box behind him. I edged forward, doing my best to shove the container as I moved towards the trees. Smith shimmied himself around the base of a thick tree trunk and pulled the box next to his waist. I crawled into the space alongside him. We peeked around the tree trunk to assess our situation.

Headlong and the other three guys still stood on the Navy boat’s upper deck in a kind of circle. Our accomplice had somehow managed to position the dock guards so their backs were facing us and Headlong could see our progress from his position.

“Let’s move, quick and silent,” Smith whispered. “Are you okay?”

I nodded but in truth I was beat. My hands, biceps and shoulders throbbed and my fingers were red and sore. I braced myself to carry the heavy box the distance between us and the truck. We lifted and shifted and I tried to block out the pain pulsing through my upper body.

Loose stone chippings crunched beneath our feet as we approached the building next to the parked truck. I hoped we were now out of earshot from the Navy boat. We didn’t want to blow phase one of our operation now we’d come this far.

I breathed a sigh of relief when we rounded the corner of the building and saw the truck still parked where we’d left it. We dumped the box down at the side of the truck and Smith slid the door open. I flapped my sore hands in the air, trying to relieve the pain.

“One more lift, Wilde Man,” Smith said. “I know this thing is a bitch but we got to get it inside.”

I primed myself for one more torturous haul up of the box. We grunted and puffed and lifted the container into the truck interior then slid it across the floor to the rear end.

“Please don’t make me do that ever again,” I panted.

We waited for Headlong, leaning against the outside of the truck, sweating in the humidity and smoking a well earned cigarette. I let Spot have a brief comfort break but didn’t take him off the leash. Ten minutes later, we heard someone crunching across the loose stones behind the building. I took a peep around the corner and saw Headlong hobbling towards us.

“What the hell were you ass clowns doing? I saw you a couple of times and when you dropped that box I had to spin a few yarns to those guys or they were going to come over there and take a look.” Headlong was less than complimentary about our stealth skills.

I felt the red waters of anger rise within me. “We still got the job done and picked up what we needed,” I hissed.

“Yeah, well you did a good job too,” Smith said, more calmly. “What did you tell those guys?”

“I told them there was a lot of traffic movement around today, patrols moving around. Lazaru has patrol vehicles on the prowl, also ferrying guys to and from the check points. I said the noise was probably just a truck rattling by and thankfully they were probably coked up enough to believe it.”

“All right, let’s get a move on, guys.” Smith kind of wafted his arms in a motion that told us to get back onboard the truck.

We used the same order of operation as before, with Headlong driving and Smith and I hidden out of sight in the back. Headlong turned right and drove away from the docks back towards the inhabited area of the city. He gave us a running commentary and pointed out various city landmarks like Jackson Square and the French Market.

“Ever think about changing careers to a tour guide?” Smith asked sarcastically.

Headlong sniggered. “Too late for that. I’ve never had a job-type-job in my life and I ‘aint going to start now.”

“That figures.” I assumed he’d spent most of his adolescent life in various correctional institutions before the outbreak.

Headlong told us he was going to take the route north and east along Decatur Street then head north along Esplanade Avenue until we reached the top end of Bourbon Street. He explained the city safe boundaries ran to Elysian Fields Avenue to the east, up to St Claude Avenue to the north and North Rampart Street to the west. The streets were securely barricaded with check points and regular patrols.

“It’s the shitty end of the stick,” Headlong added. “Those guys on the check points don’t seem to last long. They get bit or piss someone off and get shot. Not too much to do out there on the city limits except for shooting zombies through the fence, drinking and gambling with the other fellas. You soon get bored of that.”

I had no intention of becoming one of Lazaru’s border patrolmen but I knew one or all of us were going to face that particular career option if our plans didn’t work out. We took the left turn down Esplanade Avenue with everything going according to plan when Headlong suddenly stamped on the brake.

“Ah, shit!” Headlong barked from the cab. “We got a God damn patrol vehicle flagging us down.”

Chapter Fifty-Seven

“Just stay calm in the back and let me do the yapping,” Headlong instructed.

He slowed the truck to a crawl and I took a peek through the windshield. Two black guys in shades and dressed in dark blue flak jackets stood in the center of the road in front of a silver colored SUV, parked horizontally across the road. They both held short stocked, semi automatic rifles and one of them held out the palm of his hand towards us.

Headlong brought the truck to a halt a few feet in front of the SUV. The two men approached either side of the truck cab. Headlong buzzed the window down and flashed the guy an unpleasant smile.

“All right, guys?”

The guy at his window didn’t reply.

“What’s up?”

The second guy tapped the passenger window with the barrel of his semi auto and Headlong buzzed down the glass pane. Smith moved himself and sat on top of the cash box. The patrol guy removed his shades and peered into the interior.

“What are y’all doing driving across town?” The guy on the passenger side demanded. “This is the meat wagon, right? What are you doing driving around this way?”

“These two are new in town and going to start check point duty real soon,” Headlong said. “Sammy asked me to show them around some of the town to get their bearings a bit, you know?”

“All right, but don’t go near the fence line at Elysian Fields, we’ve had a report of a breakthrough and some zombies are on the loose.”

“Shit, that’s bad news,” Headlong said. “We won’t be going anywhere near there, then. That’s for damn sure.”

“What you got in the box the big guy is sitting on?”

Headlong audibly gulped. “Ah, just some shit those guys brought in with them, nothing of no interest.”

Alarm bells would start ringing if these guys saw the contents of the cash box. I tried a different tact to try and diffuse the situation.

“Hey, do you guys know where I can offload a K of coke?”

“What?” The passenger side guy screwed up his eyes in confusion.

I hoped my plan was going to work as I pulled out the bag of white powder from the front of my pants. Smith gave a slight groan as I held out the bag for the patrol guys to see.

“What the fuck is that?” Passenger Guy squawked. “Give that shit here.”

I handed over the bag and he snatched it from my grasp then smelled the residue on the outside.

“This shit is real. Where did you get this?”

“I found it on a yacht back down river.”

“All right, I’m confiscating this shit. Some motherfucker will kill you on the street for carrying this much snow on you. I’m doing you a favor, asshole.”

I pretended to look disappointed and admonished.

“Now, go on, get the fuck out of here,” Passenger Guy yelled. He put his shades back on and slipped the coke bag inside his flak jacket.

“Can you move your ride?” Headlong asked.

“Fuck you, bump over the sidewalk.” Passenger Guy flapped his hand at us. “I can’t believe it, motherfuckers bringing in big bags of snow,” he screeched at his companion.

Headlong didn’t hang around and bumped the truck up the high sidewalk, even though the bottom of the front fender scraped on the concrete. He drove around the SUV and we carried on along Esplanade Avenue.

I let out a relieved sigh and felt in my jacket for my cigarettes.

“I’m not even going to ask why you took that bag of coke,” Smith muttered, shaking his head.

“You got any more of that white stuff, boy?” Headlong called from the cab while glancing at me via the windshield mirror. 

“Sorry, no. I was saving it for a rainy day.”

Headlong huffed his disappointment and his eyes returned to the road. In truth, I didn’t know why I took the bag, maybe for recreational use at a later date, if and when we ever got away.

“I’m guessing those patrol guys won’t hand in their haul?”

“Nah,” Headlong bleated. “They’ll keep it for themselves and snort it or sell it on under the table someplace. No chance they’ll report seeing us.” 

Headlong pulled the truck over on the corner where Esplanade Avenue met the top of Bourbon Street. He cut the engine and clambered into the rear compartment. His eyes widened when Smith opened the cash box.

“You boys got a good haul off that paddle steamer.” Then he sniffed and shrugged. “Damn shame about that bag of coke though.”

“Forget about that, right now,” Smith said, with his game face well and truly on. “We need to stay sharp and focused for the next few hours. We’ll leave the truck here and work our way across Bourbon Street.” He handed out a bundle of notes and a hand gun to each of us. “Don’t get too flash with the cash and don’t go waving your shooters around.”

“Do you want us to split up or stick together?” I asked.

“Three sets of eyes would be better in different directions but given our precarious situation, we better stay as a group. Everyone cool with that?”

Headlong and I both nodded in agreement.

“Then let’s get searching.”

I tied Spot to the back of the passenger seat again and Smith slid the cash box into the shadows next to the rear doors. We bundled out of the truck, Headlong locked the doors and we took to the street.

The first half dozen blocks along Bourbon Street consisted of residential and private dwellings that were of no interest to us. Some places were occupied and some looked as though they hadn’t been inhabited for a while. It was hard to gain an accurate demographic of city populations, whether folk were dead, moved away, now a member of the undead or had simply upsized and moved into a bigger and better unoccupied accommodations.