Read The Left Series (Book 1): Leftovers for Free Online Page B

lot at Buddy’s Bar.
    The bar itself was a huge, square construction, built in colonial times and had seen several changes through the years. I remembered the place as an outdated 1980’s boutique some years ago. Buddy’s Bar opened in the late 90’s when the owner had knocked all the walls out and turned the downstairs area into one enormous room. The place had the reputation of a rowdy, rough and ready, 24 hour, music and booze venue. The cops always seemed to hang around outside, breaking up fights or busting some dumbass for drunk driving. I had no idea who Buddy was or if he even existed and I’d had some good nights in the bar in the past but hadn’t visited the place for a while. Pete and Marlon still loved it because it was always full of young, nubile chicks and always rocking.
    Today was different. I’d never seen the place so quiet. Several abandoned cars were dotted around the parking spaces. Several zombies roamed around the parking lot and outside the bar. Smith pulled around the lot and reversed back, stopping outside the main entrance. Rosenberg followed suit and nervously glanced at the zombies roaming outside. My guess was about twenty undead in total. I didn’t know if any more were inside the bar but it didn’t look very inviting. Shards of glass surrounded the shattered windows and the neon “Buddy’s” sign usually displayed above the front door, hung limp and unlit like someone had tried to pull it down. The exterior tables and wooden seating benches lay scattered amongst narrow flower borders and outdoor gravel pathways.
    “Still fancy that beer?” I asked.
    “We’ll take a quick peek inside. If those guys aren’t in here then I’m calling the visit off. I’ll come back some other time, maybe,” Smith said quietly.
    I looked at Smith and tried to read his expression. He was obviously having doubts about his debt collecting work and his future. I guessed the episode at the hospital made him realize he wasn’t invincible and just as vulnerable as the rest of us. He loaded a fresh ammo clip into the Desert Eagle.
    Smith jumped out of the car. I opened the door and looked around with caution. Rosenberg soon joined us. The guy was seriously spooked and didn’t want to be on his own for too long. Five or six ambling zombies started to stagger towards us, with hands outstretched and lowing in that familiar, monotonous moan. I readied the golf club in preparation of an attack.
    “Okay, let’s get inside and see if we can shut the door,” Smith whispered, trying not to alert more numbers of undead.
    “We don’t want to get cut off from the vehicles,” Rosenberg hissed.
    “We’re not going to be very long,” Smith promised.
    We stood back to back and edged our way to the front door. Buddy’s had a double doorway in a porch style, followed by another set of double doors leading to the bar. The porch doors hung broken and smashed from their hinges but the inner doors were still solid. I closed the interior doors as we scurried through and bolted them at the top and bottom. Smith fired a shot through the head of a lone male zombie who was stumbling around the bar, knocking over chairs and tables. No one else occupied the bar that stunk of sweat and stale beer. The dark wooden paneled interior was dim and unlit. I felt uneasy studying the dark corners where hungry zombies could be lurking.
    Rosenberg and I hurried away from the interior door when the slapping and banging sounds came from outside. The zombies had got to the door quicker than I expected and probably been spurred on by the sound of Smith’s gunshot.
    “That door isn’t going to hold them for long,” I said. “They’re going to be coming in through those broken windows soon.”
    “Come on, guys. Let’s go,” Rosenberg was physically shaking. “Is there another exit out of this place?”
    “We can get out of the fire doors through the bathrooms,” I nodded to the fire escape signs to our right. “It doesn’t