The Left Series (Book 2): Left Alone (38 page)

“Let’s try this way,” Batfish said, pointing to our left in the opposite direction I had come from.

“All right, I was heading that way anyway, before I heard the music.”

We set off down the gloomy, narrow street. Batfish and I walked side by side and the Cajun girls followed a couple of paces behind us. Only the faint glow of candle light in some of the occupied houses lit the street.   

“I thought you were just some fucking druggie wanting to score,” Batfish laughed. “I didn’t recognize you in that silly hat.”

“That was the idea; I didn’t want to be recognized. It was lucky you were playing that Pixies song otherwise I’d never have found you.”

“There’s not much by the way of entertainment in that house. I found some old, battery operated CD player and some crappy CDs. That was the only good track on a compilation album. I kept playing it over and over.”

“Get down!” I hissed, when the lights of a vehicle crossed a small street in front of us.

We ducked behind a dumpster at the side of the road. The Cajun girls followed suit without me having to encourage them. They obviously got the gist of what kind of trouble we were in.

The vehicle slowed and shone a flash light beam along our street but didn’t spot us. It moved on and we heard the whine of the engine recede.

We moved again and slipped down another side street.

“Hey you,” a voice called from a dark doorway.

“Keep going,” I mumbled and made sure the Cajun girls were still near enough to us.

A thin guy with long hair, wearing a
Black Sabbath
T-shirt, stepped out of the doorway across the street to our left.

“Hey, I’m talking to you, scumball,” the guy hollered.

“We’re not talking to you, shithead,” Batfish replied.

“How comes you got three women and I got none?” The guy sneered. “How about you let me have one of them?”

“How about you just back the fuck off, pal?” I growled.

“What about one of those nice dark skinned babes?” The guy crossed the street and headed towards us.

My hand moved to the butt of the Smith & Wesson at the back of my waistband. The long haired guy smiled and drew a big bladed knife from a sheath on his hip. I heard the Cajun girls whimper behind me.

“Do I have to persuade you?” He held the knife up into the dim light emanating from some of the nearby houses.

The flush of rage rushed through me. Six months ago, I’d probably have pissed my pants if placed in the latest scenario but now I was sick of these kinds of people and I was going to shit him up, good and proper.

I whipped the hand gun around my body, aiming at the guy’s face in one fluid movement. The smile immediately slipped from his face and I pressed the cold metal of the barrel against his forehead. He dropped the knife and it rattled onto the blacktop.

“I was only joking, man,” the guy stammered.

“You know what they say?”

“What?”

“Never bring a knife to a gunfight. Now, get on your knees.”

The guy complied and I kicked his knife down the street.

“Open your mouth and close your eyes.”

The guy squirmed but did as he was told. I shoved the barrel between his rotten, blackening teeth. He visibly shook and I actually thought about pulling the trigger. Another piece of shit, worth no more than a zombie, would be relinquished from the planet.

“Come on, Brett. We don’t have time for this,” Batfish hissed.

My rage subsided and I knew she was right. I withdrew the hand gun and gave the guy a stomp in the chest with my left boot. He made a sound like a deflating balloon and went over onto his back.

“You’re lucky, pal,” I growled, replacing the Smith & Wesson in my waistband.

“What’s happened to you, Brett? You’ve changed. Are you sure you’re okay?” Batfish spoke with a tone of genuine concern.

“I’ve just had enough of this shit,” I spat. “All we were trying to do was live a quiet life and survive and we get sucked into this dire, shitty world of depravity.” 

We hurried on, turning left and right but still not recognizing or discovering our intended route.

“Shit, this is taking too long,” I moaned. “We’re going to run into some kind of trouble if we carry on like this.”

I wondered what would be the worst that could happen if Lazaru’s men caught us. We hadn’t killed anyone. Maybe he’d still stick to his side of the bargain. But sooner or later, one of the patrols would discover the truck; they’d open it and find Spot, the stolen cash, guns and ammo. Headlong had the truck keys on him and Lazaru had already seen Spot and would recognize him again or at least one of his crew would. They’d link the stolen goods back to us and we’d be in even more shit. I dismissed the thought of any clemency shown by Lazaru as an unlikely scenario.

A street girl, smoking a cigarette, leaned against the front wall of a ramshackle house up ahead of us. I noticed she wore a watch on her right wrist as she raised the smoke to her lips.

“Hey, what time do you make it?” I snapped.

The girl nonchalantly turned her head in my direction and slowly glanced at her watch.

“It’s a quarter of midnight. Is it past your bedtime, honey?”

“Something like that,” I muttered.

Lazaru’s deadline time was rapidly approaching and we were still nowhere near the truck. He’d more than likely increase the numbers of his search party once midnight came and went. We were in breach of our deal at present and we’d completely scupper the whole thing when we didn’t show.

“Which way to Bourbon Street, darling?” Batfish asked.

The street girl dropped her cigarette and stamped it out. I didn’t know whether she was going to provide us with directions so I pulled out a bill from my pocket and handed it over.

“Take a left at the end of this street, then right, then left.”

My head spun. “We take those turns at the end of those streets?”

“Uhuh, you can’t miss it. Just follow the neon lights.” The street girl pushed off the wall and clumped away on high heels into the night.

I stood muttering to myself trying to remember what she’d said. My brain seemed fogged by stress and pictures of bad scenarios playing like a movie loop in my head.

“Come on, Brett. It’s not that difficult.” Batfish grabbed my arm. “Left, right, left.”

She led us forward and we threaded our way through the dark streets. The narrow roads opened out onto a wider, tree lined street. We took a left and the surroundings looked slightly familiar. I squinted at a signpost, trying to read what was emblazoned across it.

“Esplanade Avenue,” I whooped. “We’re nearly there.”

We moved on and we heard music pumping from somewhere in the distance, along with a glow of bright lights illuminating the nearby rooftops. I caught sight of the white GMC Truck still parked on the corner.

“The truck is still there,” I screeched, quickening the pace.

Batfish grabbed my arm and held me back.

“Hold on, Brett. What if it’s a trap?”

Chapter Sixty-Two

Batfish made a good point. What better way to catch everyone than to load up the truck interior with gun wielding goons?

“You hang back with the girls and I’ll take a walk by to see if anyone is inside,” Batfish instructed.

“Okay,” I agreed and ushered the Cajun girls into the shadows.

Batfish casually sauntered to the truck and peered into the driver’s side window. She let out a brief shriek and recoiled a few paces backward. I wondered if my worst case scenario was panning out and reached around my back for the hand gun. Batfish hurried back towards us.

“There are two guys inside the back,” she whispered. “I could only see one of them clearly and he looked like a real jerk. He waved a gun at me. Do you think he’s one of them?”

“It definitely wasn’t Smith?”

She gave me a ‘
do you think I’m stupid
’ look and I went on to describe what Headlong looked like.

She nodded. “That sounds like the guy I saw but I can’t be certain.”

There was only one way to find out. I’d have to take a look myself.
Shit or bust
.

I told Batfish to stay with the girls and crept towards the truck with my Smith & Wesson held at my side. I didn’t want to start an unnecessary shoot out if I could help it. The side window was slightly misted and I saw a flash of movement inside. I gently tapped the window with my gun and the door opened slightly. A gun barrel poked out, aimed at my chest. I held my breath, thinking worst case scenario again.

“You took your fucking time,” a voice hissed from the truck.

I sighed in relief. “Headlong, for the first time since we met, I’m actually glad to see you.”

“Come on, get in and hurry it up, will you?”

“Did Smith make it?”

“Sure,” Headlong rasped. “He’s sleeping in the back. We’ve been sat in here for hours waiting for your silly ass. Now, get in.”

“I found her, Headlong. I found Batfish!”

“Well, bully for you, kid. Keep your voice down and get in the goddamn truck, will you?”

I turned and waved to the shadows where Batfish and the Cajun girls were hiding. They tentatively emerged into view and I hurriedly motioned for them to get a move on.

“It’s okay, it’s cool,” I hissed.

Batfish quickened her pace and I slid open the side door. The noise of metal sliding on metal caused Smith to jolt awake and he drew his hand gun in one lucid movement. I held my hands beside my head.

“It’s all right, Smith. It’s only me.” I was glad to see Spot was still inside the truck.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Smith rapidly blinked the sleep from his eyes.

I didn’t reply. Batfish moved between me and the open side door. Smith blearily blinked again, probably wondering if he was still dreaming.

“Batfish…?”

“Smith!” Batfish’s shriek was a little too loud.

Spot went crazy, barking and wagging his tail, trying to leap at Batfish.

“Spot! You’re still alive. Ah, hello, baby.” She bent down, hugging and kissing the small dog.

Smith crawled out of the truck and wrapped his arms around Batfish, hugging her tight. He noticed the two Cajun girls standing on the sidewalk.

“Who are they?”

“They were locked in the same place as Batfish,” I explained.

“Look, you’re all making my heart bleed,” Headlong interrupted. “Don’t you all think we better have our High School reunion out of sight of the street?”

“Yeah, right,” I said and ushered everyone inside the rear compartment.

I slid the door closed and turned to Smith. “What’s the plan?”

“The first thing is to get away from here,” Smith said, crawling into the driver’s seat. “It’s a fucking miracle nobody’s found us yet.”

He fired up the truck and turned the headlights on low beam.

“It’s gone midnight,” he said, glancing at the dash clock. “We’ve missed our deadline. They’ll be out hunting us in force now.”

Smith bumped the truck down the curb and pulled out onto the main road. He avoided the left turn down Bourbon Street and kept heading north. The headlights from a vehicle heading our way from the opposite direction prompted Smith to take a right. He snaked around the streets, glancing in the side mirrors to check we weren’t being followed.

“Any idea whereabouts we are, Headlong?”

Headlong clambered into the passenger seat and looked out into the urban sprawl.

“Haven’t got the foggiest. You lost me back there when you turned off Esplanade.”

“We didn’t have much choice. Do these patrol guys have any means of communications?”

“I’ve seen them with some kind of walkie-talkie type things but Sammy once told me they were unreliable.”

“Everything is unreliable,” Smith snorted. “What are the chances of getting through one of those check points and taking a gamble driving through the city?”

Headlong shook his head. “Chances are worse than zip. If the guys on the check point don’t shoot us, the zombies will get us, for sure. I took a trip up to the barricades one time I was here and the whole place is swarming with those fuckers trying to break in. They know there’s fresh meat inside these walls.”

“What’s our best route out of here?”

Headlong grunted and snuffled like a hog. “Best way and the only way out of here is back by the docks. It’s guarded twenty-four/seven but usually only by three guys.”

“Will they increase the numbers of guards if they think we’re heading there?” I asked.

Headlong shrugged. “Maybe, but I don’t see any other way we can get away.”

“We have to find our way there first,” Smith sighed, spinning the steering wheel to maneuver around a rolled vehicle.

Smith turned onto a main street and a pair of headlights from behind us glared in the side mirrors. The glare became brighter as the vehicle rapidly closed the distance between us.

“Shit! That looks like a patrol SUV,” Headlong barked.

The pursuing vehicle flashed its headlights, following a few feet from our tail.

“We pull over and we’re dead,” Smith said.

The SUV pulled out from behind us and accelerated alongside to our left. The SUV passenger window slid down and the black guy, I’d earlier bribed with a kilo of cocaine, yelled at us to pull over. He leveled his semi automatic out the window and fired a warning shot over our roof.

“Hang on, everybody,” Smith bellowed. “It’s time to take evasive action.”

He swung the truck down a narrow side street to our right. We rocked to one side of the interior; the Cajun girls shrieked and clung on to me as we skidded across the metal floor. The SUV’s brakes squealed but still gave pursuit. A couple of bullets clanked into our back doors.

“Shit, we’ve got to lose these guys,” I wailed.

“I’m fucking trying.” Smith gritted his teeth and took a sharp left but still couldn’t shake the chasing vehicle.

Smith steered around abandoned vehicles, rubble and disused dumpsters at speed, snaking through the urban streets. I couldn’t see the speedometer and didn’t really want to. I was sure we were going to crash any moment. The SUV took random pot shots at us when we were in range.

“It’s difficult to hit a moving target from a vehicle,” Smith shouted, above the roar of the truck engine. I didn’t know if he was trying to calm us or convince himself.