The Last Five Days: The Complete Novel: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller

"
T
his morning
, I shot Harry in the head," Winston Fleming confessed loud enough for anyone listening to hear. He took a sip of lukewarm coffee and looked around the diner. Usually, there was a wait for a seat, but not today. Winston had his pick of seating. He chose the booth beside the south exit. This was prime real estate. It gave the best view of Black Dog Lake. There was a mysticism that went with the lake. In superstition, the Black Dog was a mythical creature said to roam the streets at night. But there was nothing ominous about this Black Dog except for the occasional morning fog that hovered over the water.

Winston spent at least three mornings a week at Luther's Diner. The coffee was hit or miss, but the bacon never disappointed. Before Luther died, he used to joke that it was the years of grease that gave the bacon that extra flavor you just couldn't get anywhere else. Every morning, Winston wanted the booth with the view of the lake. He never was early enough to get it, and he didn't have the time to wait. If he wasn't at the office by nine, he would get stuck with the cold calls no one wanted. Winston was a sales executive for the
Black Dog Times
. The calls no one wanted were the absolute worst — no budget, indecisive, call me back tomorrow. An extra thirty minutes of sleep always trumped the view of the lake, even though Winston longed for the best seat at Luther's. This morning, Winston got the booth.

The lake wasn't large, but it more than made up for the lack of size with aesthetics. The sun lit the changing leaves, turning the water into a vibrant light show of reds and yellows. It was a perfect morning, except that Winston had killed his neighbor less than an hour earlier.

"Shot him right between the eyes," Winston said, sipping more coffee. In his mind, he was trying to desensitize the violence. But the image of the back of Harry's head opening up and painting the white shed with chunks of grey matter and blood couldn't be erased. "At least it was outdoors." That was all that mattered at this point. Keep the mess outside.

Winston sat the coffee mug on the table and spun the Colt 1991 series on the checkerboard tablecloth by its barrel. It was as if he was playing a demented version of Spin the Bottle, but in this case, he wouldn't kiss the person the barrel pointed to. He would kill them. Before the first murder, ending someone's life seemed a big deal to Winston. Who was he, or who was anyone, to decide when another person should no longer be allowed to live in this world? After the first kill — a random stranger on Seventh Street — the question pressed against Winston's chest like the tap-dancing foot of an angry elephant. The pressure eased a bit after the second kill — the new guy at Carter's Drug Store. After the third kill, Winston's own mortality gnawed at him. He didn't want to die. He was only forty-three. The average life expectancy was around seventy-eight. Winston had a lot of living left to do, but the world had other plans. His actions cut drastically into his life expectancy.

He took another sip of coffee. Usually, Vera would have stopped by the table three times by now for refills. Maybe she had taken ill. It seemed a lot of people in Black Dog were sick. It was a small community and not out of the question for a virus to strike a good portion of town.

The world tossed Winston a curve ball and now killing was a part of his survival. Pointing the gun at another human and pulling the trigger was some heavy shit. But there was no room for hesitation. Winston's new philosophy was “Aim between the whites of their eyes and fire.” He could massage the guilt from his memories later. He had gotten pretty good at reasoning out the killings, but Harry's death clung to Winston like tension in his shoulders. Harry was the first person Winston shot that he knew personally. Last month, Winston and Harry spent a Saturday afternoon in Winston's man cave watching Auburn upset Alabama in college football. And just mere minutes ago, Winston put a bullet in his good friend's brain. No matter how many ways he deemed it necessary, it didn't feel right.

Winston stared out the window at Ticker Evans walking the boat dock. Ticker paced to the left, and then to the right. His body language suggested he was lost, even though he took his boat out every morning to fish. Everyone in Black Dog knew Ticker. Everyone loved him. Ticker wasn't his real name. He earned it after his third heart attack nearly thirty years earlier. Winston didn't know Ticker by any other name. He picked up the Colt and pointed it at the window. "Maybe I'll shoot you today, Ticker."

Winston was never the violent type. When he was a teenager, he played his share of first-person shooter games, but he never entertained the thought of shooting a living, breathing human. The keywords were living and breathing. Harry was neither living nor breathing in a medical sense when Winston shot him. Harry was alive, but he wasn't.

Things started getting weird a few weeks ago when two fishermen fell ill after a day on the lake fishing for brown trout. When their conditions worsened, Dr. Shepherd didn't have the means to care for them. He put a call in to Memorial Hospital. The hospital refused to admit the fishermen, but Dr. Carrie Byrd from the CDC showed up the next day. It was too late.

At first, Byrd suggested no funerals. Her suggestion was met with resistance. Byrd caved but demanded the bodies be burned. Even in death, the two fishermen weren't fond of flames. They rose from their slabs, tore Arnie Horwitz limb from limb, and tossed the parts into the cremation chamber. The scene was plucked straight from zombie horror, but two dead fishermen walking the streets discredited the notion of fiction. Modern medicine classified them as dead, but dead people do not think. They do not rip the living to shreds. And they sure as hell do not cook the bodies.

Things became a blur after that. The United States Military set up base outside of town limits. Tanks formed a roadblock at the "Black Dog Welcomes You" sign. Helicopters flew overhead twenty-four hours a day. At night, the skies lit with beams from helicopter spotlights. No one was leaving Black Dog, and no one wanted to come to the town. Panic took over and a group of about ten residents decided they wouldn't be prisoners to the government. This was the United States of America. Land of the free. Winston watched soldiers mow down the townsfolk as they stormed the barricade. After an "All Clear" sign, a man wearing black protective gear stepped out from behind the soldiers and motioned them back to their positions. The cold, calculated action meant one thing. The military wasn't protecting Black Dog. They were protecting the world from Black Dog.

Ticker stumbled and fell to his knees. He was old but not this uncoordinated. Ticker was sick. He got to his feet and swayed to the left, catching his balance just before falling off the dock into the water. Normally, the sight would make Winston cringe, but this time, he was pulling for gravity to take care of the situation so that he wouldn't have to. Shooting Harry brought doubt into Winston's mind that killing was the right thing to do. Winston didn't claim to have much knowledge of science, but it didn't take much to know this was either a virus or bacteria making people sick. People recovered from illnesses. Well, some people recovered. Winston couldn't live with himself if there was a cure. There was no cure for a bullet to the head. The deaths would always haunt him.

"Is it murder if someone is already dead?" Winston asked himself, swishing the remnants of coffee around the porcelain mug. He stopped to read the inscription. "Luther's Coffee, keeping people alive since 1965." Winston laughed. He looked around the diner again. Empty. Shards of broken glass collected on the welcome mat. Winston felt bad about the damage, but the door was locked, and he didn't have a key. Breaking and entering was a long way down the list of his crimes. There was nothing left of the life he knew before sickness fell on Black Dog. He craved a good old cup of Luther's coffee as bad as an addict needed his next fix. Winston's coffee wasn't as good as the pot Vera used to make, but there was just enough comfort to give him hope that all was not lost. He got up to get another cup when the bell just above the door rang. Winston turned to grab the gun. The dead were fast. He needed to be faster.

"Whoa, don't shoot."

Winston ignored the plea and put a white-knuckle grip on the Colt. He aimed it at Dr. Byrd.

"I was just hoping to have a word with you. It's Winston, right?"

Winston pointed the gun at Byrd's head. "Do the dead talk?" He wanted to punch himself for asking such a dumb question. Dead people didn't talk. And if they did, they sure as hell wouldn't tell the truth.

Byrd laughed. It was accompanied by a slight cough. "Honestly, I'm not sure."

That was the only answer Winston would accept. He lowered the Colt. "Sorry, you can't be too careful these days. Would you like some coffee?"

"No thanks. If it's OK with you, I'd just like to have some good old human-to-human conversation." Byrd took a seat in the prized booth. She watched Ticker fumble along the dock while Winston poured another cup of coffee.

"Is he sick?" Winston asked, taking a seat across from Byrd.

"Probably."

Winston noticed Byrd's fingers twitch. The bones in her hand looked like piano keys being played by a phantom. "Nervous?" he asked.

Byrd looked at her fingers. She placed her other hand on them. "A little. My training didn't prepare me for this type of outbreak."

Winston nodded and sipped the coffee.

"Are you infected?" Byrd asked. Her top lip quivered. She rolled it under her bottom lip and kept it still with her teeth.

"Not yet." Winston sat the mug down. "What is happening here?"

"I wish I knew. My team will not respond to any of my messages. No offense, but Black Dog isn't the most technologically advanced place. There's not even a light microscope here." Dr. Byrd chuckled.

"People are dying, but they aren't staying dead."

"Not the scientific name for it, but yeah that's going on," Byrd said.

"Zombies?"

"Not like the kind George R. Romero dreamed up."

The muscles in Dr. Byrd's right thigh started to contract. She massaged her
rectus femoris
as it rippled under her skin. Her toes seesawed in her heel as they pressed into the linoleum floor. The ball of her foot ached, sending a stabbing pain through the arch. She winced.

"Are you OK?" Winston asked, noticing the discomfort.

Byrd sighed as the pain subsided. "This just has me stressed."

"We're not getting out of here, are we?" Winston sipped the coffee again and placed the mug on the table. He ran his thumb around a silver ring on his finger, waiting for the obvious answer.

Dr. Byrd ignored the question. "You married?"

Winston looked at his ring. "Ten years."

"Is she infected?"

Winston thought back to the first time he met Marianna. Her shoulder-length blonde hair drew him in. He was never much of a blonde-type guy. He preferred brunettes, but Marianna's smile froze him. The moment she said hello, Winston knew she was the one he would spend the rest of his life with. They married on the boat dock on a beautiful May afternoon. He looked at Ticker, who had fallen again in the very spot Winston said "I do" to the love of his life.

"She's sick."

"Where is she?"

Winston closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. It was something his mother used to do when he told her he had a headache. Marianna first complained about not feeling well two days earlier. The sickness progressed to the point where she had stopped speaking. Last night, she lunged at Winston, narrowly missing his neck with her teeth. He shoved her in the spare bedroom and locked the door.

"She's at home."

"Is she still alive?"

Winston recalled the cloudy white film covering his wife's ocean-blue eyes.

"I don't know."

"Has she tried to harm you?"

The rage on Marianna's face as she lunged at him flashed through Winston's mind.

"No."

Winston had no other choice but to lie. He saw what the military did to the people trying to escape. He didn't know what Byrd would do if he told her the truth. Would she kill Marianna like he did Harry? It was possible. Marianna was off limits. If there was a cure, she would get the treatment. The only reason Winston was still alive was to save Marianna.

"She will," Byrd said.

"If she does, I'll handle it." Winston placed his hand on his Colt. "Is there a cure?"

"There is no cure for death. Once you're dead, you're dead."

Winston pointed out the window. "Tell that to Ticker."

Byrd coughed again. This time, it wasn't so slight. It was a deep, dry cough. The force caused a trickle of blood to escape her left nostril. Winston noticed it and tried to hand her a napkin.

"Don't touch me."

"I'm not sick." Winston dropped the napkin on the table.

"But I am."

Winston reached for his gun.

"Don't shoot me. Not yet, anyway."

Winston wrestled with her plea. Byrd wasn't dead. You could reason with the living. He thought back to the kid on the bike. Winston walked right by him without one thought of shooting the kid. It would have been the end for Winston if the bike didn't make a clang when it hit the pavement. Winston shot the kid just before he attacked.
Right between the eyes
, Winston thought. His thoughts were so cloudy, he wasn't sure if he was referring to the kid or sizing Byrd up. Winston brought the Colt closer but didn't aim.

"Have you shot anyone?" Byrd asked.

Winston hesitated. The faces flashed in front of him like haunting ghosts. A slap of nausea punched his gut. He belched, leaving a sour taste followed by a burn. Winston covered his mouth and cleared his throat. He looked at his hand to make sure there were no crimson specks.

"It's OK if you have. You shouldn't feel guilty about it. They were no longer human."

"But what if there is a cure?" Winston asked.