The Left Series (Book 3): Left On The Brink (43 page)

“I won’t say anything,” I said. I was inwardly shocked, the mighty Smith suffering with nerves?
But then again, we all had our breaking points. I knew I had been on the brink of insanity for a long while. We were all probably suffering all kinds of mental dysfunctions.

“Come on, Wilde.” Smith flicked away his cigarette butt and clapped me on the shoulder. “Let’s tell the others we’ve found the fucking aircraft and get ready to move the fuck out of here.”

We clambered back onboard the bus and Smith told Cordoba, Milner and Batfish we were in the right location. The three of them slumped in their seats, sighing with relief. Milner and Cordoba volunteered to cross the ground between us and tell the rest of the military people we were moving out. Smith, Batfish and I were happy to let them do so. They also wanted to break the news about Chief Cole to the remaining crew. They were all military guys and girls so we let them get on with it unhindered. Smith handed over the flashlight and pointed out the direction of where the plane was located. Milner and Cordoba trudged away across the field and were swallowed up by the darkness.

“Geez…what a day,” Smith sighed, slumping across the seats. “I feel like I could sleep for a life time.”

“We’ll have to go over there and get that ammunition box,” I groaned. The thought of lugging the heavy crate the distance between the aircraft and the bus filled me with dread.

“Ah, yeah, I forgot about that,” Smith moaned.

We waited inside the bus until Milner, Cordoba and some of the other crew returned, carrying all kinds of equipment. Smith and I returned to the aircraft and retrieved the damn ammunition box containing wads of cash, spare handguns and extra ammunition. It took us the best part of twenty minutes to drag and heave the thing across the field.

The military guys and girls packed what they could into the baggage compartment at the side of the bus, which was a big, long closet beneath the seating aisles.
Some of the crew seemed subdued; presumably at the sad news of Chief Cole’s passing. Landri and Mignon clambered onboard, giggling with the pair of Marines, who’d taken a shine to them. They handed Spot over to Batfish and sat at the rear of the bus.

Spot was so pleased to see us, his whole backside wagged along with his tail.
I thought again of those poor, wretched animals inside the cages back at the military base. Should we have let them loose? Probably, but we couldn’t have taken the risk. They may have been infected by some horrible, contagious disease.

An hour had easily ticked by when the bus was filled with as much tinned food, spare ammunition and clothing as would
comfortably fit inside the cargo hold and the center aisle. We had to abandon plenty of equipment back inside the C-17 and good luck to any survivors who found it.

Kauffmann
had retrieved some maps from the aircraft cockpit and volunteered to take the first driving shift. Cordoba and Milner happily agreed and took a double seat behind Batfish and myself. Smith already slumbered peacefully in his seat across the aisle opposite us. He sat leaning against the window, with the pretty medic, Wingate, perched in the seat next to him. I wondered if she was sweet on Smith, as she’d leapt directly into the seat when she boarded the bus. I smirked to myself and let the rumble of the engine gently vibrate through my body.

A subdued cheer rang through the bus when
Kauffmann pulled the bus away from the roadside. The air conditioning was warm and I felt my eyelids drooping. The last thing I remember before sleep took hold of me was the first glimmer of dawn on the horizon.

I awoke several hours later. The bus headed along a three lane road that had blue and white signposts overhead. A sign on the embankment at the side of the road told me we were a few miles from the city of Manchester. The road was heavily congested with abandoned and wrecked vehicles in the center and right side lanes.
Kauffmann still drove and did his best to slalom in and out of the stationary traffic.

Spot curled himself
up on Batfish’s lap and the pair of them snored lightly in the depths of slumber. I glanced to my right and saw Wingate snuggled next to Smith, sleeping with her head rested on his shoulder. Her arm was around Smith’s chest and the pair looked like a couple. They seemed happy and contented, temporarily absent from the evils of the world.

My eyes fluttered and sleep took its hold again. I must have been unconscious for another few hours before I awoke.
The smell of cooking food roused me from my slumber a second time. I blinked away the sleep from my eyes and realized the bus was at a standstill. Kauffmann was no longer in the driver’s seat and the side door stood open.

I gazed out of the window and saw half the crew huddled around a portable stove, like a large barbecue grill. Smoke billowed above their heads and my stomach rumbled as I sniffed the aroma of cooking food. Spot lifted his head and Batfish woke as I brushed by them.

“Looks like lunch or dinner time,” I said, nodding towards the open door.

“I’m starving,” Batfish groaned, stretching her arms above her head.

We clambered out of the bus, rolling our necks, shoulders and backs. The sleep had been good and long but now the muscles were objecting to moving in different positions again. Cordoba, Milner and Kauffmann already tucked in to the burgers, sausages and steaks on offer and we were soon joined by Smith and Wingate. The bus was still on a reasonably clear stretch of the three lane road, parked on the shoulder.

As the fog of sleep cleared from our heads, we
ate, chatted, laughed and joked between us. It almost felt like we were on some sort of vacation, taking a tour around the U.K. in a bus. I suddenly thought of my mother in London and my happy mood slipped away. Maybe I should have taken a detour and tried to find her. But I knew from bitter experience, trying to find one person in a huge city was virtually impossible. My thoughts turned to my Dad onboard that yacht in Battery Park Harbor.

My bubble of depressive gloom burst when Smith talked loudly across me.

“So where are we, exactly?” Smith asked Kauffmann.

“We’re on the M6 motorway, just outside a town called Carlisle, which is around twenty mile
s from the Scottish border,” Kauffmann answered cheerily.

“Wow,” I gasped, pleasantly surprised. “We’ve come all this way without any incidents?”

Kauffmann laughed. “We came across a few zombie situations along the way but we managed to get out of them pretty quickly. The route was congested with immobile vehicles around the cities but we worked it out okay. You guys have been spark out most of the way, right?”

We all nodded and mumbled in agreement. It wasn’t often that
the world’s troubles passed me by. We spent another fairly pleasant twenty minutes or so chatting and eating before we boarded the bus once again. The guys who had cooked the food packed away the equipment and stowed the remaining food in the cargo hold. Kauffmann said he was okay to continue driving and refused the offer of a break.

We drove the final few miles, counting down the remaining distance with an excited air of anticipation. Scotland at last. Images of kilt wearing guys
, welcoming us to their homeland with bottles of whisky and playing the bagpipes ran through my mind. In reality, I expected some sort of heavily fortified, military checkpoint stopping and searching vehicles crossing the border.

Another muted cheer sounded through the bus as we drove by a signpost saying “
Welcome to Scotland
.” No military checkpoints or welcoming bagpipe players stood on our route into the country. Only bleak, flat fields and the occasional abandoned car or truck surrounded us.

We sped by signs for Gretna, Dumfries and Lockerbie before the M6 motorway
became the A74. The whisperings became louder and an air of doubt about the zombie free area was confirmed when we saw an undead figure shuffling across the thoroughfare, around a mile in the distance.

“What is going on?”
Kauffmann yelled and thumped the steering wheel.

“What’s the place called where we’re headed?” Cordoba asked.

“Prestwick in Ayrshire,” Kauffmann snapped. “We’re still one hundred miles away but I don’t see anything around here that fills me with much confidence.”

“I hope we didn’t come all this way for nothing,” I sighed.

My previous good mood was long forgotten and replaced by a feeling of impending doom.

Chapter Sixty-Nine

The sun began to dip on a day that I had been asleep for most of. I felt uncomfortable and watched wisps of snow blow against the bus window as
Kauffmann turned off the motorway onto the A71 road, which signposted a place called Kilmarnock.

The route bypassed Kilmarnock and another place called Irvine.
Kauffmann followed the signs for Prestwick Airport but nobody seemed excited by the prospect we were nearly at our intended destination.

The sunlight faded and the snowfall increased, blowing across the road in a sideways motion. I looked around the interior of the bus and all I could see was grim, deeply concerned faces.
Kauffmann muttered under his breath as he drove, swinging the bus around deserted roundabouts on the road.

“Are you okay, Brett?” Batfish asked. “You look worried.”

“I am,” I sighed. “It doesn’t quite fit the utopia we were promised, does it?”

Batfish glanced out of the window at the gathering blizzard.

“No,” she mumbled. “Are we ever going to stop running, Brett?”

I flashed her a fake smile. “Of course,” I lied, trying to sound convincing for her sake. “We’ll get there one day soon.”

“I’m sick of this lifestyle, Brett,” she groaned. “It seemed exciting at first. Scary but exciting, not knowing if we were going to survive on a daily basis. But now it’s just a grind. Do you think I’m weird for thinking like that?”

I shook my head. Batfish had always been a little weird but what went on inside people’s heads was their business. Christ, if I told her all about my other self and the ghosts I kept on seeing, she would never speak to me again.

Kauffmann
continued onwards until we arrived at the gates of the Prestwick Royal Air Force Base. A sign and a military emblem welcomed us. He stopped the bus in the entranceway and the headlamps shone down the road into the camp. The gates stood open and no sentries came out of the gatehouse to meet us and ask us what we were doing. No lights shone from the Air Traffic Control Tower or anywhere else around the base. No patrols roamed the grounds and there was no sign of life, period.

A lone zombie wandered through the snow, crossing the road up ahead. He wore the remains of a blue Air Force
uniform and turned towards us when he noticed the headlamp beams.

“Ah, no!”
Kauffmann screamed and lowered his head onto the top of the steering wheel.

He began to sob uncontrollably and I couldn’t say I blamed him. I felt sick and my stomach churned to reiterate the fact.
I heard sighs of exasperation and plenty of profanities behind me.

“There is no utopia,” I groaned. I glanced over at Smith and he sat
hunched with his forehead in his hand. I didn’t know if he had a headache or was generally as pissed off as everybody else.

Cordoba stood up and shuffled towards
Kauffmann. “Go and have a rest, I’ll take over the driving for a while,” she said.

Kauffmann
rose from the driver’s seat and I had to look away as he brushed by. The guy was utterly devastated like so many other people on the bus. I hauled myself out of my seat and shuffled across Batfish sitting in the next seat. I moved close to Cordoba as she perched in the driver’s seat. I felt partly responsible that I’d talked all my party into coming to Scotland with such zest and now the whole plan had been a dead duck. I didn’t know how long the base had been overrun but it looked like it had been deserted for a while. Maybe Capaldi and his crew were either bullshitting us or listening to old prerecorded messages and hoped there was somebody left in Prestwick.

Cordoba took a brief drive around the base just to check if we could see any signs of life or any survivors. We didn’t see a living soul, only plenty of staggering undead. Dark, empty buildings and shadowy roadways spread throughout the military establishment. The only recognizable article that proved the place had once been inhabited was a sign taped to a glass door panel from the inside. Cordoba slowed the bus so we could read the sign on the interior of a one storey, brick building, situated near the runway. Large black scrawling on the piece of paper or card read “
Building Unoccupied - Save yourselves – Run to the hills!
” I immediately thought of the
Iron Maiden
song and didn’t know whether the warning was heartfelt or slightly sarcastic. Cordoba looped around the airstrip and back out of the base exit road.   

“Where to now, Brett?”

“Anyplace but here,” I sighed, picking up the map on the dash. “How are we for gas?”

Cordoba glanced at the controls.

“We don’t have much,” she murmured.