Free The Left Series (Book 2): Left Alone by Christian Fletcher

onto the deceased zombie’s red shirt.
    “Did that relieve some stress?”
    “Oh, yeah,” Smith sighed.
    I wondered how many times Smith had put a hatchet through somebody’s head before the epidemic started. Killing seemed to come easy to him.
    “Let’s take a look inside.”
    I followed Smith towards the post office building. We climbed the front porch steps and I was grateful for the shade the overhanging roof provided. Smith leaned on the window shutters and cupped his hands around the gaps, trying to peek inside.
    “Can you see anything?”
    “Nah, it’s too dark and there’s not enough space to see inside. Let’s try around back.”
    We followed the pathway that led from the porch to a small picket fence marking the boundary between the store front and the owner’s private property. Smith opened a small gate and we moved towards the rear entrance. A steel plated door stood underneath a small overhead porch to the left of the building. The remains of a long since tended garden lay to the right. Clumps of overgrown grass were isolated amongst dry dusty patches where the plants or flowers had died and shriveled.
    A long, one story building with a corrugated tin roof protruded from the main construction of the post office at its far end, making the whole structure shaped like a letter ‘L.’
    Smith rattled the door and inevitably found it locked from the inside.
    “There’s no way of hacking that open,” he said.
    I studied the low level roof.
    “If we can get on top of that low level, we may be able to climb up the main roof and get in those top windows somehow.”
    Smith nodded. “It’s worth a shot.”
    I thought I’d try my hand at scaling the post office outhouse but Smith ushered me back. He slid a rusting, free standing barbecue next to the low building and hopped up onto the grill’s sides. The metal frame creaked under his weight. Spot let out a shrill whine as he watched Smith haul himself onto the corrugated, tin roof. Either Spot wanted to climb onto the roof himself or he was worried. The poor little guy had lost his best friend, Sherman today so I supposed he didn’t want anyone else to come to any harm.
    Smith’s boots clanked along the corrugated tin roof. He hacked the hand axe into the asphalt tiles on the main post office building and hauled himself up the steep incline. Spot and I stood in the heat of the sun, watching Smith climb the roof. It was slow going and I hoped the hatchet wouldn’t suddenly dislodge itself from the tiles and Smith would tumble down onto the ground. We couldn’t afford any injuries to exacerbate our shitty predicament.
    Finally, Smith reached the ridge of the roof and sat astride the apex summit. He wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand and lit a cigarette.
    “Good view from up here, kid,” he called down.
    “See anything interesting?”
    “Looks like there’s a small town further down the highway, maybe a mile or so.”
    “You still want to get inside the post office?”
    “Well, I’m up here now, kid so we may as well have a look inside. In my experience, most post offices have some sort of weapon to defend themselves from bandits. Especially in rural places like this.”
    “Okay, Smith. It’s your call,” I said.
    “I’ll go inside and let you in through the door.”
    “Front or back?”
    “Whichever one I can get open, kid.”
    Smith flicked his cigarette butt into the air and moved his leg over the roof apex so he was sitting on the tiles facing the front of the building. Spot and I walked back around the front and watched Smith shimmy on his backside towards the top of the roof window furthest to the left.
    He scrambled around the window frame and crouched on the sill. Spot rumbled and whined and shuffled backwards and forwards. I bent down and ruffled his head to try and calm him down.
    Smith peered through the window glass before smashing the pane with the hatchet. Shards of glass tinkled into the room beyond.