The Left Series (Book 3): Left On The Brink by Christian Fletcher Read Free Book Online Page A

noticed two young looking military personnel, a man and a woman, sitting at separate control consoles. They both wore black headsets with the narrow frames pressed over the center of their heads. They talked softly into the microphones in hushed tones.   
    “Okay, guys, let me explain.” Chief Cole rubbed his hand across his chin as though he was at pain to tell us what was happening. He pointed to the three guys still huddled around the desk. “This is Captain Remmick, First Lieutenant Novak and Major Capaldi of the Air National Guard and the flight crew of that big old bird out there on the runway.” Cole pointed to each one in turn as he recited their names then gestured towards the window at the aircraft outside.
    The three men moved slightly away from the desk and nodded in acknowledgement but showed no expression of welcoming emotion. Their faces remained grim and determined, as though they were slightly frustrated at our distraction.
    Capaldi was the oldest of the three men, around his mid-forties. He was tall and thin with a prominent hooked nose between hooded eyes and a shock of gray hair. The Major looked as though he hadn’t slept for a month.
    Novak was probably the youngest, maybe in his late twenties. He was shorter than Capaldi and his bright blue eyes seemed alert as his gaze flicked between Cole and the three of us opposite him. First Lieutenant Novak had short brown hair and a closely cropped full beard and moustache.
    Captain Remmick looked as though he’d been a football jock in high school, with a big square jaw and military style buzz cut that I always associated more with the U.S. Army or the Marine Corps. He wasn’t what you’d term tall but still maybe close to six feet but he was broad-chested and the sleeves of his greenish military fatigue shirt strained against powerful biceps and forearms. Remmick was probably in his early thirties and had the grizzled demeanor of someone who was permanently pissed off with the world.
    “These guys are from the 172 nd Airlift Wing Squadron, based in Jackson, Mississippi, not too far from here,” Cole continued.
    Capaldi took half a pace forward. “We only just had enough aviation fuel to travel the distance here,” he said. His voice was soft and nasal. “It was only around 160 miles but we really struggled. Our airbase at Jackson is completely overrun. We had a tough time even getting up in the air. The whole operation took months of planning and we lost many good guys trying to even reach the fuel dump. We landed here a few hours ago in the hope we could find some more gas. That’s when we bumped into Chief Cole and the rest of his people.” He jabbed a thumb in the Navy Chief’s direction.
    I racked my brain and tried to remember where I was a few hours ago and why I hadn’t seen the huge aircraft overhead. I realized I was probably half drunk in some sleazy nightclub in the center of New Orleans at the time. They may have flown around and bypassed the city’s airspace anyhow.
    “There are only eighteen of us left from Jackson,” Remmick interjected. His voice was deep and loud as though he’d been used to speaking to large numbers of people. “While we didn’t have much fuel, we did have communications still up and working. Incoming messages were sporadic but we finally managed to keep regular comms with an air traffic control center in Scotland.”
    “Scotland?” Smith repeated.
    “Yeah, a British Royal Air Force base called Prestwick in Ayrshire, Scotland,” Capaldi continued. “They said it took them a long while, but basically they’ve managed to clear the infected personnel from the country. They’ve locked down the border with England and keep the major ports well guarded.”
    I thought of Lazaru and his fragile barriers guarding what remained of the uninfected area of New Orleans. It didn’t take much for the undead to break down those protective blockades.
    “We explained our situation to the British military and