Free The Left Series (Book 5): Left On The Run by Christian Fletcher

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