The Left Series (Book 3): Left On The Brink Read Free

followed and I took a slow jog behind them , the flashlight and the M-9 in my hands. Smith was much bigger and fitter than Batfish and I. He was an ex-marine and an ex-New York cop turned gangster, so his three chosen professions required a high level of fitness. He was big and powerful with a special knack for survival. Even though he was in his early forties, he could still have given any teenage college jock a run for their money.
    Batfish had been overweight when I first met her in a shitty little Pennsylvanian town called Brynston, which seemed like a million years ago. Now, she was lean and reasonably fit. The black-dyed , Gothic-style, bobbed hairdo had been replaced by long, brown locks tied back into a pony tail. She wore a short black jacket and black denims with a pair of black work boots that would have been more suited to a construction worker. Smith and I still wore our military combat fatigues, which we’d acquired last time we visited the New Orleans Airbase.
    The spare ammunition magazines weighed heavily in the daypack on my back. I couldn’t keep up with the other two, who weren’t carrying anything but the clothes they stood up in. I took a quick glance over my shoulder and saw the undead crowd had changed direction and was still in pursuit. We headed north, searching for the highway, which would lead us to the Airbase. A few more zombies closed in from our left, moaning furiously in the moonlight.
    Another red flare illuminated the sky and the late night pyrotechnic show seemed to be attracting the whole undead population south of New Orleans. I thought about the thousands of grim, rotting faces pressing against the wire mesh fence line on the outskirts of the remainder of the city. We’d inadvertently destroyed that protective barrier and let the hungry hordes pour into the city. I briefly wondered if Lazaru, the gangland boss who ran the city and his henchmen had successfully repelled the zombie invasion. I seriously doubted it. There had simply been too many undead to handle.
    “Come on, Wilde,” Smith hissed at me. “Move your skinny ass quicker.”
    The grimace on Smith’s pale white face was evident in the moonlight. His spiky black hair ruffled in the night breeze.
    “Easy for you to say,” I grunted in reply. “You haven’t got an arsenal on your back.”
    “Quit whining, will you. Give me the damn bag if it’s too much for you.”
    Smith and Batfish waited until I caught them up. I nervously glanced to my left and saw more zombies approaching from the fields.
    “Come on, man. What’s the matter with you?” Smith scolded.
    “I’m done,” I sighed, slipping the daypack from my shoulders.
    Smith took the bag of magazine ammunition and swung the straps around his broad shoulders. I doubled over, panting heavily and wishing I was on some zombie-free, sun-kissed beach someplace.
    “I think I need a vacation,” I quipped.
    “Never mind a vacation, we just need to get moving, Brett,” Batfish squawked, surveying the numerous looming figures across the flat landscape.
    I stood straight and nodded. “I know.”
    “Are you okay? You’re not sick or anything?” Batfish sounded genuinely concerned.
    I did feel a little nauseous and incredibly exhausted but that was a normal state of affairs since the zombie apocalypse had taken hold of the world some six months ago.
    “I’m okay,” I sighed. “Just feeling a little zonked, you know? We always seem to be jumping out of the frying pan into the fire.”
    “You got that right,” Smith muttered, gazing across the field. He then raised his voice as though he was giving a command to a wounded trooper. “Listen, we got to move or we’re going to be eaten alive in this shitty field. You hear me, Wilde Man?”
    Right on cue, a nearby zombie emitted a long, vocal drone. The moan sounded something like a living person might release if they were told they’d been fired from their job and had their house and car repossessed all at the