The Left Series (Book 1): Leftovers by Christian Fletcher Read Free Book Online

look like there’s anybody here.” My slim hopes of seeing Pete and Marlon were quickly quashed.
    Smith climbed over the wooden counter running the width of the room. He rummaged around under the counter and lifted something into the air. I moved a step closer and saw he held an aluminum baseball bat.
    “A quieter weapon,” Smith smiled and imitated an NBL batters stance. He carried on looking under the desk and slapped an old fashioned, wooden police style baton on top of the counter. “Here’s one for you, Rosenberg.”
    Rosenberg moved forward and snatched up the wooden club, gripping it with both hands and circling the weapon in nervous arcs. Smith opened the cash register and took a wad of notes from the trays. He lifted a bottle of bourbon from the shelf and set it down on the counter. He took three bottles of beer from the fridge and unscrewed the tops and handed one to me and Rosenberg. I drank mine down in three long gulps. Smith smiled and handed me another.
    “Look guys, I don’t think it’s a good idea to get smashed with those zombies about to break in here any minute,” Rosenberg said, setting his untouched beer on the counter.
    “Okay, he’s right,” I muttered. “Throw me a couple of packs of smokes,” I said to Smith. He asked me what brand and I shrugged. Brands and choices were something we were going to have to get used to living without. And as for quitting smoking, well…that was on hold.
    Rosenberg suddenly shrieked and began clubbing something on the ground. An undead, old guy of about seventy with thin wispy hair and stumps for legs, clung to Rosenberg’s pants. Rosenberg didn’t hesitate and clumped the head to a bloody pulp.
    “Can we please go now?” Rosenberg begged. His face was shocked and pale white. He obviously still hadn’t come to terms with what was happening to the world yet. I understood his job had been to save lives, not destroy them.
    Smith loaded his pockets with cigarettes and a full bottle of bourbon. I led the way to the bathroom where we could finally wash the zombie blood from our hands and faces.
    “We better be quick in here,” Rosenberg was still panicking.
    I couldn’t blame him. We didn’t know how many zombies were around outside or if any of them were inside the building. I remembered the bar had upstairs rooms called ‘function areas.’ The rooms were often used for pot smokers, illegal gamblers and illicit sexual encounters. The stairway was partitioned off from the main bar, towards the far end by some wooden double doors. I wondered if any zombies were stumbling around the stairway or in the upstairs rooms.
    The bathrooms were situated through a set of glass paneled doors, at the end of a corridor running along the right side of the building. I led the way and stopped when I heard the tinkling of shattered glass.
    “They’ve broken into the bar,” Rosenberg hissed. “We better hurry.”
    We peered around the male bathroom door with the logo ‘Buddy’s Chaps’ etched onto a small wooden sign in the center. Nobody appeared to occupy the bathroom that stunk of stale piss, raw sewage and blocked drains. I checked the line of three cubicles to the left and to the rear. Smith checked the traps to the right. All were clear of people alive or dead but the pale blue tiled walls and floor were covered with dark blood and excrement. Clouds of flies buzzed back and forward between the traps.
    “Jesus, it smells like a zombie took a shit in here and crapped himself inside out,” Smith coughed as he spoke.
    “We better be quick,” I said. “Keep an eye on that door, Rosenberg.” I knew it wouldn’t be long before the zombies stumbled through the bar after us.
    “At least the stink of shit will disguise our scent,” Smith said.
    Smith moved to the row of sinks and washed his face and neck. I did the same and was shocked at my reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror. I looked pretty much like a zombie myself. Blood and guts splattered the