The Left Series (Book 4): Left In The Cold (2 page)

The collective harmonious and collaborat
ive atmosphere soon evaporated and was replaced by an air of distrust and hostility.

The situation came to a head when a young army
Private, called Kendall was found dead in the cellar. Nobody knew if the guy had deliberately hung himself or if his death was by foul means. Whispers, rumors and hushed accusations were rife throughout the community. The poor guy couldn’t even have a decent burial due to the frozen ground beneath the deep snow outside. Kendall’s body was placed inside a body bag we’d brought with us and laid to rest on the roof terrace. We couldn’t risk leaving him on the ground outside in case the dead flesh attracted more zombies than we could handle.

The tension mounted over the course of the next two weeks, with tempers flaring and scuffles regularly breaking out between different fractions of the group. Inter departmental arguments surfaced, blatant racial and sexual insults were band
ied around with alarming frequentation. People wore loaded firearms in holsters and in their belts once again, after a prolonged period of not needing any weapons.  

The Glenross Hotel had rapidly changed from a relaxing sanctuary to a simmering powder keg that was ready to explode.

Chapter Two

The Glenross Hotel must have been used to regular power outages when it was up and running as a fully functioning business. Not only did the establishment possess a back-up generator but every closet and cubby-hole on the ground floor seemed to contain a bunch of candles of varying shapes and sizes. We tended to use these candles as a form of lighting to save on the diesel in the storage tank outside.

I sat in the extensive library, reading a survival book written by ‘
Ray Mears
’ in the glow of a lavender scented candle the evening the tension finally boiled over. I was due to meet Cordoba, Wingate, Smith, Batfish and Gera in the bar for a drink later on.

Ray’s book provided plenty of handy survival tips and useful information but it didn’t explain how to survive a zombie apocalypse. There was no ready-made manual for that particular situation, unfortunately.

I looked up from my book when I heard the wooden floorboards creak in the lobby outside the library and saw Smith and Wingate making their way to the bar. The two of them didn’t notice me sitting in my leather backed chair as they walked by. I finished the paragraph I was reading and snapped the book shut before hauling myself out of the comfortable chair.

“Catch you later, Ray,” I muttered, slipping the survival book in
to the side pocket of my combat fatigues.

I gave the front door a quick glance over as I walked through the lobby and skirted around the vacant reception desk. That front door was the weak spot in the hotel and I wasn’t
overly keen on the area being left unguarded. Anybody could retrieve the key from behind the bar and open the door, allowing the cold, zombies and hell knew what else inside with us. The way the tension was mounting, I didn’t think it would be long before somebody made a run for it.

We’d discovered a drunken air crewman outside in the parking lot the previous week. The door had been left wide open and the naval guy staggered around outside in the snow firing off rounds of his M-9 handgun into the night.

I didn’t usually patronize the bar room much anymore. The place made me nervous and reminded me of one of those Wild West saloons in those old movies.

Smith, Batfish and Wingate were already huddled around a large wooden table when I entered the bar. Gera stood behind the
counter with his back to me, mixing some drinks. The air was thick with a combination of candle and tobacco smoke. The usual crowd milled around the bar room, most of them in their permanently drunken state. I received a few harsh glares as I shuffled through the stone arch entrance to the bar. 

“Hey, Wilde Man,” Smith called out, waving me over to his table.
I returned a nod.

My feet clattered across the wooden floorboards and I heard a few hushed mutterings of disapproval from a bunch of guys sitting on stools near the counter. One of them said something to Gera but he shrugged off the obviously detrimental comment.
Some sections of the military guys had taken a dislike to Smith and I. Probably because we were civilians before society broke down.

Technically, nobody belonged to the military anymore.
No functioning organizations remained anywhere, as far as I knew. Governments, military establishments, police and any sort of law and order were all consigned to the history books for the time being.

Gera turned his head and flicked his eyebrows upwards as he saw me approach Smith’s table.

“Hey, Wilde Man, what can I get you?” he asked. “We’re having some ‘
Robert Burns
’ cocktails.”

“What the hell is in that?” I pulled a confused expression.

“Scotch, sweet vermouth, absinthe and orange bitters,” Gera recited, like he was proud of his knowledge of cocktail ingredients.

“Ugh, no thanks,” I baulked. “Sounds fucking disgusting. I’ll just have a bottle of that Scottish Ale, please.”

Gera pretended to be offended. “Hey, where’s your sense of adventure, Wilde Man? After all, we are in Scotland, the home of whisky.”

“Just the beer, thanks,” I sighed and moved towards the counter.

“And you being a Brit. You’re a disgrace to the country,” he mocked.

Gera shook his head and took a bottle of the brown Scottish Ale from the shelf behind the counter. He flipped off the top and set the bottle down in front of me with a smile on his face. I liked Gera; he was a big, jovial guy from New Haven, Connecticut and always enjoyed teasing me about my British roots. He was around six foot two
, with dark eyes and short brown hair with a dusting of gray at the sides. His nose was a little crooked from his boxing days in the Marine Corps and he had a big square jaw that hung open when he cracked a joke.

Batfish had chosen well in hooking up with Gera. He was sweet on her and she bossed him around in a non-aggressive manner. Gera seemed to like being dominated and took it all in his stride.

“He don’t drink liquor because he’s a faggot pussy,” a voice slurred to my left. I turned and saw a Marine, called Kaunas staggering towards the counter with a bottle of Scotch in his hand. The bottle was dark green and I could see that half the contents were gone, presumably down the guy’s neck by the way he was swaying.

Kaunas originally hailed from somewhere in the south, judging by his drawl. Rumors were rife that he’d had something to do with the young Private’s death in the cellar. 

“Just leave it, Kaunas,” Gera spat, with a warning to his tone.

Kaunas stopped in his tracks, tottering unsteadily. He was one of the worst culprits for showing aggression towards anybody who ventured into the bar. His blue eyes narrowed and his forehead creased as he tried to focus through the fog of alcohol. He took another slug from his bottle then stumbled closer and slumped across the counter beside me.

“Give me one of those damn cocktail drinks, will you, Gera?” he rasped.

“Haven’t you had enough?” Gera sighed.

“Never had enough,” Kaunas spat. “Just give me one of those, will you?

Gera sighed, turned and picked up one of the Robbie Burns cocktails he’d already mixed. He placed the glass on the counter in front of Kaunas. I guessed Gera was just trying to keep the peace.

“Do you want me to take some of those over to the table?” I asked, pointing to the filled glasses behind the counter.

Gera nodded and relayed the cocktails onto the countertop. Kaunas muttered something inaudible that sounded like a jibe of some kind then bent down and took a sip from his own glass. Gera flashed me a glance and shook his head in frustration.

Kaunas had simply seemed to have given up on life. He was in a permanently drunken state, staggering around the bar, hurling insults and getting into scuffles with anybody who objected to his behavior.
His blond hair was slightly longer than most of the other guys and he hadn’t shaved or washed himself or his clothes since we’d been at the Glenross Hotel. The most disturbing fact was, Kaunas had a little band of half a dozen or so guys that hung on his every word and remained with him in the bar as constant boozing companions.

I collected up the glasses and turned towards our table. Gera began mixing another cocktail to replace the one he’d given to Kaunas.

“What did that asshole want?” Smith rumbled, as I set the drinks down on the table.

I shook my head. “He’s just smashed out of his mind as usual and talking horseshit.”

Smith grunted and picked up his cocktail. Gera soon joined us with his own Robbie Burns and sat down alongside Batfish. I glanced at them and they looked good together. I felt a little emotional lump in my throat, chuffed that Batfish had found some relative happiness with Gera.

Wingate talked about some
of the horrific injuries she’d had to tend to at the start of the outbreak, in the days when medical attention was administered to bite victims. Sarah Wingate was a confident, attractive woman, who was probably in her mid-thirties. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand what she saw in a rough diamond like Smith. I sniggered to myself as I thought of all the scrapes him and I had been through, finally ending up in a Scottish hotel. The pathway through life led us on some strange journeys.

“Hi, Brett. What are you guys drinking?”

I swung around in my chair, recognizing the voice from behind me. Estella Cordoba stood a yard behind me and to my left. She looked as lovely as ever as she studied the contents of the cocktail glasses on the table.

“We’re
drinking Robbie Burns’s mixers,” Gera said cheerfully. “Do you want me to fix you one?”

“Sure. You going to budge over a bit, Brett?”

“Oh, sorry,” I stammered and shunted my chair over so Cordoba could sit down next to me.

She slumped into the chair and I was pleasantly surprised when she gave my thigh a brief but deliberate squeeze. I turned to look at her and she flashed me a sexy smile that made
my stomach flutter. We sat staring into each other’s eyes for a few seconds, savoring the moment. I didn’t know what the future held for Cordoba and I but I was determined to squeeze every last drop of pleasure from our time together.

The momentary, magic spell was broken when Gera put down Cordoba’s cocktail onto the table in front of her.

“Ah, thanks,” she muttered, as Gera sat back down next to Batfish.

The Robbie Burns cocktail received a mixed reception from everybody at our table.
I had a sip of Cordoba’s drink and likened the taste to the antiseptic mouthwash the dentist used to supply after rummaging around in my mouth. The others laughed at the facial expression I pulled after my sip.

“Not for you, Wilde Man?” Smith laughed as he spoke.

I shook my head and attempted to speak but the burn in my throat prevented me from uttering any words. Instead, I emitted a strange croaking noise that sounded like a dying frog. More laughter erupted around the table.

“You all go right ahead and laugh at the pussy,” Kaunas barked from beside the counter.

The laughter from our table instantly died down.

“Just ignore him,” Wingate said. “He’s being a total jerk again.”

Kaunas downed his Robbie Burns cocktail in one gulp then slammed his empty glass onto the wooden counter.

“What did you just say, missy?” Kaunas snapped, turning aggressively towards us. “What did you just call me?” He took a few stumbling paces towards our table.

Smith sipped his drink and carefully replaced his glass. “She was being generous by calling you a jerk,” he said. “I’d be more inclined to call you a fucking asshole.”

“What?” Kaunas pulled an incredulous expression as he staggered closer. “Did you just call me a fucking asshole?”

“That’s correct,” Smith snapped.

Kaunas’s posse of bully boys all rose from their chairs or stools with sneering expressions on their faces. I didn’t like where this was heading.
I didn’t like it at all.

Chapter Three