Free The Left Series (Book 3): Left On The Brink by Christian Fletcher Page B

were traveling at twenty-seven miles an hour.
    “That’s with my foot right down on the gas,” Smith muttered, flashing me a glance. “I daren’t try and change gear in case it won’t engage. I think it’s in third.”
    “We might get lucky when we hit the main gate. Somebody might have left their keys inside a vehicle,” I said in vain hope.
    Smith shook his head. “The batteries will all be flat by now , if they’ve been standing unused all this time.”
    “I don’t want to have to get back to the boat on foot,” I sighed. “We can’t carry that damn ammo box all the way back here.”
    “Don’t talk too soon, kid,” Smith huffed. “We’re not even at the river yet.”
    The Mustang juddered onwards on the scenic road and through the darkness. I wondered how far we had to go to reach the main gate, remembering the undead crowd that had trapped us on the way in. We couldn’t rely on Milner and his crew to come and save us again. They’d be busy packing the plane, excitedly anticipating a fresh life in pastures new.
    The tree-lined route looped around the base perimeter. I saw an empty assault course with vines and weeds growing the height of the thick wooden poles that formed the structures of the climbing apparatus. Partially overgrown signposts pointed the way to nature trails and the various buildings which shaped the main base hub. A few rabbits scurried across the road in front of us, returning to the safe confines of the woods to our right. We saw the odd zombie milling around between the trees, turning and moaning at us as we drove by.
    I pointed to a faded sign on the roadside that read the main gate was one mile away.
    “Let’s just hope we get there,” Smith grunted.
    “I hope that whole bunch of zombies isn’t still there. No way will we be able to plow our way through that lot in this crippled thing.”
    “You’re full of optimism, aren’t you, Wilde?” Smith sighed. “We’ll figure something out. We always do.”
    That was my main worry. Our luck had to run dry sometime and with an escape from the zombie infested country only minutes away, I hoped irony wasn’t going to play a cruel hand in our situation.
    My breathing rapidly increased as we neared the main gate. I leaned with my head at a crooked angle towards my side window, trying to peer around the roof pillar as I couldn’t see through the splintered windshield glass. Smith struggled to turn the steering wheel to the right off the ring-road and back onto the main thoroughfare. The car’s lone, wonky headlamp picked out the overhanging canopy above the abandoned security offices. There was enough room for our battered vehicle to pass by the immobile vehicles lined up on the entrance and exit road but I could make out some shuffling shapes milling around the canopy.
    “Ah, damn it, Smith. There are still a shit load of those bastards still w andering around out there,” I groaned.
    “We don’t have a choice,” Smith muttered. “Keep your weapon drawn and fire if you have to. The bag of spare ammo is on the backseat. You better grab it and keep it handy in case we need it in a big hurry.”
    I swiveled around in my seat and grabbed the day sack from the rear and placed it between my feet. The Mustang emitted another rasping splutter as we approached the main gate. Several ambling human forms shuffled out of the shadows in front of us, anticipating our arrival. The undead still had some sense of improvisation as far as prey was concerned. It was hard to miss the sound of the rattling vehicle in the still night.    
    “Here we go,” I muttered, steeling myself for the inevitable onslaught.
    “I’m going to keep us heading through, hold tight,” Smith said, sounding determined.
    I didn’t share Smith’s resolute optimism. The Mustang seemed like a coffin in waiting. Something I was so impressed by less than twenty minutes previously, now felt like a death trap. We edged closer to the security canopy, meeting the