The Left Series (Book 1): Leftovers by Christian Fletcher

time to go back upstairs and rummage in the dead zombie’s pockets for a key that may or may not have been there.
    “Okay, we’ll smash the window and start a fire and run through to the camper,” was my next bright idea.
    I put the cans of glue on the floor and ran back to the aisles of tool racks and selected a long handled lump hammer. I rushed back to the front of the store and bashed the glass with the mallet. Smith splashed a pool of brush cleaner on the floor and set it ablaze. The zombies on the outside recoiled from the flames. The glass in the window cracked where I’d hit it but didn’t break.
    “Oh, shit. It’s fucking safety glass,” I yelled.
    Batfish steered the VW camper further into the store’s parking lot. I smashed at the glass again and again until bits and pieces of the pane fell onto the ground outside. Flames lapped around my ankles as I thumped the glass panel and watched Batfish start to circle the lot. Some of the zombies were more attracted to the vehicle and gave a lumbering chase.
    “Ah, fuck this,” Smith sighed and drew the Desert Eagle. He kept firing at the window pane until it gave way and crumpled inwards from the frame.
    I hurled the lump hammer at the small crowd of zombies gathered outside and scooped up the cans of spray glue. I jumped through the smashed window with the ends of my pants alight by my ankles. Zombies rumbled in the darkness and lurched towards me. I didn’t have time to put out my burning pants and fumbled around my pocket for a lighter. Smith jumped through the gap and splashed the looming zombies with the brush cleaner. I retrieved my lighter, sprayed the glue and held the flame to the dribbling nozzle. The glue sparked up into a jet of flame and caught the vapors of the brush cleaner. The zombies lit up like burning effigies that looked like the popular pastime in Middle East countries. The air filled with the stench of solvent and burning flesh.
    Batfish had passed us and almost completed her lap of the parking lot. If she left us now, we were dead. More numbers of undead surrounded us, attracted by the illumination of the flames, engine noises and general commotion.
    “Let’s move,” Smith growled while I flapped at my burning ankles.
    We hurried across the car park beating off and dodging the zombies outstretched hands. Smith used his baseball bat to fend off the undead as he’d exhausted his supply of brush cleaner and the rounds in the Desert Eagle clip. I continued using the spray glue and lighter routine, being careful not to drop any solvent on my smoldering pants.
    Batfish slowed the vehicle to a crawl as she reached the edge of the parking lot. At least she was giving us a sporting chance but the VW was still about thirty feet away with a growing number of zombies covering the ground between us. The van was surrounded by around ten zombies and I heard Eazy going to work with his Smith & Wesson hand gun.
    The flame spluttered and died and I threw down the last can of spray glue. The VW was pulling out of the parking lot and I knew we only had seconds left before they were gone for good. The route back into the store was cut off and we wouldn’t have had time to board up the broken window before the zombies made their way inside the building.
    “Run for it, Smith,” I yelled.
    I turned and ran and ducked and pushed, like I was a football player back at High School. Hands and nails clawed at me as I weaved my way through the throng of undead. Survival instinct only works for short periods and I didn’t want to overstretch my luck.
    I drew close to the van and saw the side door slide open. Rosenberg’s upper body appeared out of the interior and everything seemed to roll into slow motion like a rerun of a sports incident.
    Rosenberg was screaming the word, “RUN,” over and over but it sounded like a deep blurred groan to me. His mouth opened and closed in big broad movements, his eyes wide and terrified. Gun shots were peeling off