The Left Series (Book 5): Left On The Run (8 page)

A light green Mitsubishi Shogun SUV rounded the bend at speed, behind the rear of the Range Rover. The Mitsubishi skidded slightly on the snow but the driver soon regained control and the vehicle headed towards us, rapidly closing in.

“Get in, Brett,” Batfish yelled from the backseat.

I stood my ground and reached inside my jacket for the M-9. The SIG Sauer was still held firmly in my left hand. I lowered my chin, glaring at the onrushing SUV. A guy with a shaved head and dressed in a gray hooded top leaned out of the back window, brandishing a pump action shotgun. He aimed and I waited a beat until the vehicle was in range. I bit my bottom lip and raised both handguns.

I’d never fired two firearms simultaneously before but the effect was totally exhilarating. I aimed the M-9 at the guy with the shotgun and the SIG at the windshield on the driver’s side. I heard the boom of the pump action shotgun but the mass of pellets rattled through the snow on the sidewalk to my right. Rounds from the M-9 tore through the guy in the gray hoodie and he rocked backwards before tumbling out of the vehicle and rolling through the snow. Rounds from the SIG peppered the Mitsubishi’s windshield, crunching through the glass in a horizontal line from left to right, producing several large holes surrounded by chipped cracks. I continued squeezing each trigger in-turn, in quick time, with every round penetrating the SUV’s interior. The Mitsubishi lurched to its left, while reducing in speed. The tire on the driver’s side bumped up the curb and the front grille crunched against a street lamp, around ten yards in front of me and to my right. The horn sounded in a continuous, long bleep.

I took a couple of tentative forward steps towards the immobile vehicle, with adrenalin still coursing through my veins. Holding both handguns out in front of my body, I rounded the vehicle towards the driver’s side window. I had no idea how many rounds I still had inside the magazines but figured they must nearly be empty. The driver slumped forward with his head against the steering wheel and I noticed a hell of a lot of blood coating the interior of the Mitsubishi. I took a glance in the passenger seat and a guy with long hair and a beard sat with his head tilted back and blood running from two bullet holes in his left cheek. Another guy sat motionless in the rear passenger seat. He was older, around forty with a big belly and dressed in a short black leather jacket. The guy’s eyes were closed and several bullet holes spread across his chest. I glanced around, further down the street and saw the guy in the gray hoodie lying face down on the road by the sidewalk, with blood pooling around him.

“Way to go,
Clint fucking Eastwood
.”

Smith’s voice startled me.

I gasped and turned, resisting the urge to aim the handguns in Smith’s direction. I was still pumped and ready to fire at anybody. Smith held one of the M-16 rifles across his waist. He slung the weapon on his shoulder, opened the Mitsubishi driver’s door and shoved the dead guy backward so his head disengaged the horn. 

“You did great, kid, really fucking great but we really should be moving along,” he said, gesturing to the Range Rover.

Maybe now, I’d redeemed myself in Smith’s eyes and I wasn’t such a worthless piece of shit after all. I knew I’d have to remain fully loaded in mean motherfucker mode if I was going to assist in a successful conclusion to save Cordoba’s life.

Chapter Twelve

Jimmy provided Smith with driving directions as we fled the scene of carnage in the snow laden suburbs of Bellahouston. I was squeezed between two piles of rucksacks at each side of the rear compartment.

The ‘Airwave’ radio squawked again in the glove box and Smith glanced down and pointed in the direction of the noise.

“Do me a favor and turn that damn thing off, will you, Jimmy?”

Jimmy nodded and opened the box, taking out the radio. Smith snatched the device off him and turned a knob on the top of the handset. He buzzed down the side window and was about to toss the radio out into the snow but relented a second later.

“May come in handy at some point,” he muttered and tossed the radio back into the glove box.

Jimmy guided us through more snow laden streets until we arrived at a main thoroughfare littered with abandoned vehicles at the roadside. The long since discarded line of motors, of all shapes and sizes were completely covered with snow and looked like some kind of huge serpent, dipping in and out of the flurry. Smith bypassed the line of traffic, driving between the gridlocked rows. 

The road signs were of no use, as they too were smattered with a layer of white ice and snow. Jimmy had to rely on memory alone, which wasn’t altogether reliable. I wondered how long he’d been away from Glasgow City, holed up in Connauld Castle as a virtual inmate. Smith sighed as he drove slowly in a circle around a roundabout, while Jimmy tried to figure out which exit lane to take.

“Which damn way, Jimmy?” Smith seethed. “We’re driving around on the perimeter of Bellahouston Park. I don’t particularly want to run into those guys again because they are going to be super pissed with us right now. They’re almost certainly hunting us down and sooner or later, we’re bound to run into them if we don’t put some distance between us.”

“Okay…okay, Smith,” Jimmy stammered. “I’m trying to think here,
dinnae
break my bollocks, man.”

Smith mumbled something inaudible as he changed down the gears.

“How much juice is in this thing?” I called from the back.

Smith glanced down at the dash. “Enough,” he muttered. “Unless we have to drive around this damn roundabout until sundown, that is.”

“Ah, got it,” Jimmy barked. “Take the second exit to the right.”

“You sure?” Smith sighed.

“I’m fucking positive, man. I remember now. It’s been a wee while since I’ve been around this way. You know how it is, aye. All this snow and shit makes it difficult to see where to go, you know.”

“Okay,” Smith said, taking the expressed route.

“This way will take us onto the M8 and over the river to the hospital.”

We drove along a three lane road with more abandoned vehicles cluttering each side of the thoroughfare. Smith slowed the Range Rover when we came to a junction with sets of unlit traffic lights dotted around the sidewalks on each side of the road. One of the traffic light columns was bent at a forty-five degree angle and a small truck was firmly lodged against the base of the pole. The driver’s door stood open and a layer of snow had blown inside the interior, carpeting the cab.

“Looks like he did’nae want to stop at the lights, eh?” Jimmy said, pointing at the crashed truck.

Smith remained impassive.

“It was a joke, you know.”

Smith sighed. “No time for joking around, Jimmy. This is a god damn serious situation we’re in here. Which way now?”

“Take a right at the lights,” Jimmy said, with a hint of dejection.

Smith briefly nodded and took the turn, driving around two collided vehicles where the roads crossed. I wondered what kind of pandemonium had hit this place when the undead outbreak took hold. Scores of zombies would have been running amok along the roadways, vehicles smashing into each other and the uninfected not knowing what to do or where to go until the inevitable carnage occurred. A few people had remained physically unscathed at every place we’d been since the epidemic. Most of the survivors seemed mentally scarred and hostile towards us, almost as though they resented anybody else living through the real life nightmare. I was no psychologist, but I reckoned everybody left alive in this post apocalyptic world were suffering some sort of survival psychosis. Maybe becoming one of the undead was the way things were supposed to go. It was the living who now carried the curse of constant fear and alienation. The chances of living diminished dramatically with every sunrise.

“Govan, the place I used to live is no far from here,” Jimmy commented. “I reckon the whole area has gone to shite now.”

“Pretty much everyplace has gone to shit, Jimmy,” Smith mused.

Smith dodged around clusters of cars, city buses and trucks, which were either simply abandoned or had been involved in multiple collisions. The underlying snow made driving at speed impossible as we edged onto the motorway. Smith drove a few hundred yards down a declining slip road until we were on the M8 itself. A high, corrugated fence stood to our left, bordering the motorway lanes and the area beyond.

“Looks like they used the barriers from the central reservation to build that fence,” Jimmy said, pointing out of his side window. “That’s where Govan is, on the other side of the barrier.”

“Sorry, Jimmy, this ‘aint no sightseeing trip for old time sake,” Smith said. “We got to get to that damn hospital.” He turned his head slightly to the backseats. “How’s she doing back there, Wingate?”

I craned my neck over the back of the seats to take a look at Cordoba.

“She’s still stable but her breathing is labored. She’s unconscious right now but we need to get her some specialist help real soon.” Wingate shook her head, looking flustered. “Smith, if I have to operate on her…I mean…I’m a combat medic, I’m no surgeon. I can’t perform miracles.”

“Nobody is saying you are, honey,” Smith said. “We just have to do our best to get her help. That’s all we can do.”

I worried for Cordoba. I sincerely hoped she was going to be okay but logic suggested otherwise.

Overpasses above us were crammed full of snow covered stationary traffic, forever marooned in a never ending jam. Their occupants had either fled the scene, been eaten alive or were now members of the living dead.

Smith navigated his way around the immobile vehicles blocking the lanes. He drove on the shoulder, a few inches from the tall barrier and took a few scrapes, losing the wing mirror on the passenger side against the metallic bed of a construction truck. I kept my eye on the vehicles and surrounding landscape tailing in our wake, looking for any more survivors or roaming zombies. The motorway seemed devoid of any life whatsoever. The lines of traffic on the opposite lanes were totally gridlocked. I guessed more people were trying to flee the city than get back into it when the epidemic broke.

We drove onwards a further few miles, with the motorway snaking to the left. Snowy suburbia gave way to high rise buildings, flanking each side of the lanes. The barrier to our left was built higher the closer we came to the city center. Smith changed down a gear and I heard the engine whine as the Range Rover started to climb an incline. I moved my head to look to our front and saw we were driving up the bridge over the river. I glanced downwards and saw the Clyde either side of the bridge. The river still flowed and the water rippled across the murky, dark green surface.

“Ah, shit!” Smith hollered.

I felt the Range Rover slowing and turned my attention to the windshield. I shared Smith’s exclamations when I saw the barrier on the side of the motorway had been extended to cover both entry and exit lanes over the bridge. A wall of corrugated iron sat across the road in front of us.

Chapter Thirteen

“Those guys sure did a number on sealing up their side of the city,” Batfish groaned. “What the hell do we do now?”

Smith brought the Range Rover to a halt a few feet from the barrier. He sighed and slumped back in his seat. “How the hell did they manage to pull this job off? They can’t have blocked this road up on their own.” He turned his head left. “Any other routes around to the city, Jimmy?”

The expression on Jimmy’s face looked one of hopelessness. “Well, yes there are but I don’t know how long it would take and I don’t reckon we could even get onto the roads. You seen that barrier blocking any way to the north. We’re fucked.”

“Let’s take a closer look at this damn blockade,” Smith said, opening his door. Cold wind briefly howled through the Range Rover interior before Smith shut his door.  

Jimmy got out and hurried alongside Smith. Wingate sighed and tilted her head back against the headrest, brushing her hand over her face. Cordoba groaned and squirmed on the backseat. Batfish slumped with her head against the side window, watching the river flow below.

“Is there any chance we could take a boat across the water?” Batfish asked. “It looks like some kind of Marina down there to the left.”

I twisted my head for a better view. A pair of buildings with snow covered canopies sat beyond an almost empty parking lot beside the river. I looked along the river bank but couldn’t see any boats of any kind.

“I can’t even see a dinghy down there, let alone a boat to cross over to the other side,” I groaned.

“Just a thought,” Batfish sighed.

I turned back to the front and watched Smith and Jimmy try to dislodge one of the lengths of the iron barrier. The wind rattled over the Range Rover, rocking us from side to side. Smith and Jimmy staggered in the howling gale, struggling to keep standing. They shook their heads and hurried back to the car.