The Left Series (Book 4): Left In The Cold by Christian Fletcher

wall.
    “What happened to them?” I asked.
    “All dead,” he croaked and glanced downwards. “All gone now, even the poor dog.” He seemed far away and lost in his own thoughts.
    I struggled to recognize the emaciated creature standing in front of me compared to the smiling father and husband in the photographs. I felt a pang of sympathy and sorrow for the guy and for what the world had become. Contagious diseases and particularly this current, undead malady had a cruel sense of humor. Loved ones came back from the dead and tried to kill you. How spiteful this virus was. Not only had people mourned the loss of their friends and families but they had to kill them all over again once they reanimated.
    “Who are you?” I asked him.
    The guy didn’t answer for a few seconds and seemed as though he was in some kind of depressive trance. I glanced nervously at Smith, who leaned back against the wall and returned a slight shrug.  
    “They used to call me Bill,” the guy muttered. “Bill McLeod. I used to be a farmer until everything died.” He suddenly looked scared and turned to the window. “They’ll be coming soon. No doubt about that.”
    “There’s nobody there, Bill,” I said, trying to sound reassuring. “There’s nobody left in the village. You said so yourself.”
    “Who were the bodies in that other room?” Cordoba asked. “Did you kill them?”
    Bill’s head snapped around to look at her. “I had to, lassie,” he mumbled. “They would have eaten me, so they would. The police came around to try and arrest them for biting other folk but they bit him too. I had to put an end to him as well. All got very messy. But that was a long time ago now.” His eyes glazed over and he returned to his trance like state once again. “How many years have I been here?”
    I glanced at Smith again. He made a twirling motion with his finger around his temple.
    “The guy is a serial fruit-loop,” Smith said. Wingate slapped Smith’s thigh with the back of her hand.
    “The epidemic has only been around for about eight months, Bill,” I tried to explain.
    He turned to me with an incredulous expression on his face. “Eh? No, it’s been years, you.”
    “It probably feels longer to him because he’s been on his own for so long,” Wingate whispered. “I’ll take a look at him when he’s calmed down a bit. It’s probably a big shock for him to see some other people.”
    “Well, I don’t know about you guys but I’m going to have a drink,” Smith said and made his way across the room to a glass fronted cabinet. He opened the door and took out a green bottle of Scotch and a couple of tumbler glasses. “Anybody going to join me?” Smith asked as he poured himself a generous measure of whisky.
    “Go on then,” I sighed. “I could do with a slug to warm me up.”
    “It’s just a fallacy that alcohol warms you up, you know, Brett,” Wingate said.
    “Who gives a crap?” Smith scoffed, pouring out a second measure of Scotch. “Wilde Man and me owe a lot to alcohol for keeping us alive this long. Some of our best moments have been when we’re stinking-assed drunk.” He flashed me a wink as I took the glass.
    Despite what Wingate said, the whisky did seem warming and I enjoyed the burn on my lips and as it slipped down my throat.
    “Just don’t overdo it, guys,” Wingate warned. “We need to keep our wits about us.”
    “I’ll have a small one,” Batfish said. Smith poured her a measure and handed her the glass.
    “What about you, Wild Bill?” Smith asked the strange guy. “Are you going to take a slug of the hard stuff?”
    Bill didn’t answer. He was too busy staring out of the front bay window.
    “See? I told you they’d come over here if they saw you,” he muttered, pointing towards the glass frame.
    “What the hell is he talking about now?” Smith groaned.
    “I think he’s serious,” Cordoba whispered. “There are people moving around out there.”
     
     
     
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