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

fourteen days? And they don’t have a bladder, so they’re constantly pissing and shitting themselves.” Smith babbled waving his free hand around and pulling a serious face like he was trying to convince a court room to pass the death sentence on the whole of the rat population. “They can also jump six feet into the air.”
    I giggled at Smith’s unfounded sincerity, not knowing or caring if his facts were true or not. The rat species would still inhabit our planet long after the human race died out.
    “We had rats in London too,” I said. “When I was growing up, we used to see them running around the tracks in the underground train stations.”
    “Fucking exactly.” Smith’s voice pitched a few octaves higher than normal. “Those fucking things spread the bubonic plague in Europe in the 1300’s, wiping out most of the human population.”
    “So?”
    “Well, duh! Look around you, Wilde!” Smith shrieked, waving his arms like a windmill. “History seems to be repeating itself, don’t you think?”
    I knew what Smith was getting at but his logic seemed a little skewed.
    “Rosenberg said this epidemic was a form of flu. Swine flu and bird flu mutated into some kind of fucked up virus. That doesn’t have anything to do with rats or the bubonic plague, Smith.”
    “How do you know that for sure?” Smith pointed at me with the end of the shot gun.
    “So you’re saying this whole zombie apocalypse was caused by rats?”
    “I’m just saying it’s a possibility.” He shrugged and thankfully slid the shot gun behind his head and horizontally along his shoulders.
    I shook my head.
    “That’s probably something we’ll never find out in our lifetime,” I muttered. “Are we going to have a look through this post office or stand out here all day arguing about fucking rats?”
    “All right.” Smith nodded and turned to the back door.
    The afternoon sun began to dip towards the horizon, casting long shadows across the garden. Smith led the way into the back of the post office. I guessed the former owners lived at the rear of the store and in the upstairs rooms.
    “Is there any food in the store?” I asked. “That fish soup or whatever the fuck it was left a bad taste in my mouth.”
    “Yeah, it was fucking disgusting. I think there’s some soda and candy. I didn’t have time to take a real good look around.” Smith led the way through the gloomy corridor towards the store.
    An overwhelming stench of damp and dust hung in the air.
    “You were in here for ages,” I argued. “What’s upstairs?”
    “Empty bedrooms. Nobody seems to have been here for a long time.”
    “Maybe they just moved on at the start of the outbreak.”
    “Well, if it was me, I’d have stayed put here,” Smith said.
    The corridor opened out into the store front, around twenty square feet in size. Sunlight squeezed through the gaps in the wooden shutters, allowing just enough light for us to see our way around.
    Free standing racks of post cards flanked the front door and the counter stood directly in front of the corridor. I imagined the hubbub of noise and chatter that once echoed through the store. Local people talking about the weather, the hurricanes, tourists and the cost of stamps, groceries and gas. All gone forever now.
    Smith mooched around the store, poking and prodding at boxes and racks of items on the shelves either side of the counter.
    I spotted a rack of potato chips and candy bars to the left of the counter. Not the healthiest diet in the world but we had to eat. I led Spot around the counter and pulled down a big pack of chips, opened it and tipped the contents on the floor. Spot snaffled up the potato chips, crunching each one in his teeth. I munched my way through a couple of chocolate candy bars that tasted a little stale but still edible. ‘ Beggars couldn’t be choosers ,’ as my mother used to say.
    I briefly thought about my estranged parents. I’d had no contact with my mother in London and