The Last Five Days: The Complete Novel: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (3 page)

"What you're really telling me is I'm dead."

Byrd's eyes shifted downward. She ran her fingertips over the mug. The sensation was similar to rug burn, only ten times worse. The sense of touch was becoming torture. She continued to trace the mug, hoping the pain would make her next sentence easier. "We all are going to die here." The pain didn't numb her words.

"I refuse to believe that. I'm going to fight. I'm going to find a way to save my wife."

Heat singed Byrd's face. It felt like opening a hot oven. Her ears burned. She couldn't see it, but she knew her cheeks were flushed. Something, she wasn't sure if it was the tone or the words, but Winston's response made her want to reach over the table and rip his throat out.

"Are you OK?" Winston asked, noticing a change in Byrd's demeanor.

She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. Beads of sweat caused her blonde hair to stick to the side of her face. "Tell Salk the fever makes your skin boil." Blisters bubbled on Byrd's hand like boiling water.

Winston reached for the Colt.

"I'll tell you when," Byrd said.

Winston saw rage in her eyes. He liked the conversation. It was something he was starting to miss. He wanted to honor Byrd's wishes, but soon she would be much stronger than him, even if she didn't realize it. Vera had held him down with ease. Byrd was taller and weighed about twenty pounds more. She was stronger. He placed his palm over the gun. "Do you want to hurt me?"

Byrd sighed. Her head fell back against the seat of the booth. She rested for a moment. "I want to reach over this table and tear your head from your shoulders."

Winston closed his hand around the Colt. "I appreciate your honesty."

Byrd laughed, and again, it turned to a cough. A spittle of blood landed on the table. A hunger nearing starvation possessed her. The smell of Winston's flesh taunted her like a desert oasis to a lost traveler. Her jaw twitched, sending pain down her neck. She bit down and began to grind her teeth. It took a moment to feel the tip of her tongue being severed between the teeth. But when it hit, convulsions raced through her body. Blood spilled from her closed lips. She looked at Winston. The film clouding her eyes made it difficult to see anything but motion. His movement led her to believe Winston aimed the gun at her. Byrd was losing cognitive function, but she still knew the key to survival was Winston's flesh. A gunshot to the head would be the end. The virus using her body wanted to live. It had the ability to think. She needed to tell Winston. Rage burned through her, erasing any desire to stop the virus. The only thing that mattered was its survival. She grabbed the table. "Now."

Winston hesitated.

Byrd lunged over the table, sending the coffee mug flying. Hot liquid smacked Winston in the face, almost as a wake-up call. He tilted his body and jammed the barrel of the gun against Byrd's cheek and pulled the trigger. Her body fell onto the table. The ringing in Winston's ear was worse than when Byrd shot Vera. Was it because the shot was closer or was he becoming hypersensitive? He shook the thought by pushing Byrd to the floor.

Winston sat in silence, hoping the ringing would subside. He looked across the booth at the empty spot. This was Winston's life now. The return on the investment of making friends was horrible. People he once called friends now wanted to kill him. He turned his attention to Ticker, who had regained his footing and was at the edge of the dock watching ripples in the water caused by the fall wind. Dead people didn't care about scenic views.
What the hell is this thing
? Throbbing on the side of his face interrupted Winston's thoughts. He felt his cheek. Feverish. "No." He remembered Byrd's words.
Don't get any on your face.
He was almost cheek to cheek with Byrd when he shot her. There was no way he didn't get any on his face. Winston rushed by Byrd to the bathroom. He stared into the mirror in silence. After a few moments, his laughter shattered the quiet. "Coffee." His cheek was red, not from blood, but burned from the coffee. Relief was overwhelming. Winston stepped into a stall to ease his full bladder. Just as he was about to flush the toilet, he heard the front door of the diner open. He reached for the Colt. The holster was empty. "Dammit."

Winston walked to the bathroom door. He pressed his ear against the wood.
Glass breaking under footsteps.
He surveyed the bathroom, first for a potential weapon. There was nothing but a plunger. Then for a hiding spot; the small square footage wasn't ideal. The two stalls would surely get searched if someone came in. One door made escape nearly impossible if Winston was confronted. He had to leave the bathroom. He listened. There was no denying the squeaky sound.
Kitchen doors.
Luther always complained about the doors. No matter how many times he oiled them, they still made noise. This was Winston's only chance. If someone was in the kitchen, the only other place to check was the bathroom.

Winston eased the door open, thankful there was no squeak. The diner was empty. Byrd and Vera lay where they fell, untouched. He stepped out into the open. Winston checked around Byrd's body.
No gun.
He bent down to look under the booth, when he heard the kitchen doors open. Winston dove under the table and pressed himself against the wall. He craned his neck in hopes of seeing who was there.

Black boots speckled with small crimson dots. Looked to be about a size twelve. Definitely a man. Blue jeans. More blood mixed with mud. He walked with purpose, stopping every few steps as if to search for something. What? Human flesh?

Winston's eyes darted left, right, up, and down, looking for his Colt. It was gone. The realization should have made Winston uneasy, but he felt comfort. Dead people do not shoot guns. The man in the diner was alive. Winston could reason with him. He was probably scared. The living needed to stick together. Winston released the tension in his shoulders. His next thought put up an invisible wall that kept him from introducing himself.
What if he has the rage?

Byrd had functioned normally up to the end. One moment she was talking about egg salad and the next she wanted to rip Winston's throat out. If she could have gotten her hands on the gun, she would have shot him.

I can't stay under here
, Winston thought. He fumbled around, looking for anything underneath the booth that could double as a weapon. He should have known there wouldn't be anything. Vera was immaculate with cleaning. Not even a crumb. His hand brushed against something that clanged on the floor.
Shit.
The man froze mid-step and turned toward the sound. Winston tried to hold his breath to maintain absolute silence, but his heart wouldn't cooperate. The thumping was loud. Amplified. Or was it? Maybe Winston's hearing was enhanced. Byrd's words invaded his thoughts again...hypersensitivity.

The man misjudged the noise. He stepped over Byrd's body and walked by the booth toward the front door. Winston grabbed for what had made the noise. It was a piece of broken mug, not big enough to do any damage to anyone. Winston had a pretty good arm in high school. If he got the right trajectory, he could throw the piece of porcelain behind the bar. If he missed, it would draw the man to him. Winston didn't have a choice. He lay on his left side, angled his neck awkwardly, and went through the throwing motion with his right arm. He wasn't happy with the range of motion, but he could probably get enough force behind the throw to make it to the bar. Winston took a deep breath and heaved the broken mug. It was a better throw than he hoped for, crashing against the wall behind a coffee pot.

The man walked in the direction of the crash, toes pointed at the bar. Winston slid out from under the table and started toward the door. He tripped over Byrd's leg. The man faced him. He had the Colt aimed at Winston.

"Don't shoot. I'm not sick."

A bullet ricocheted next to Winston's head. He pulled Byrd's body onto him as a shield. Another shot. Byrd shook violently as the bullet sliced through her, grazing Winston's arm. With everything he could muster, Winston flung his arms, sending Byrd's body at the shooter. Another bullet struck Byrd in chest. Winston scrambled to his feet to run to the door. A bullet hit the metal frame, causing him to fall back. He rolled on his shoulder. Another bullet hit the booth above his head. Winston dropped to his stomach and slid under the table.
One.
He did math in his head.
Harry. Vera. Byrd. He's shot at me five times. That makes eight. There's one bullet left.
It only took one.

The dirty boots inched closer to Winston.
Think. Think.
Winston's shoulder hit the leg of the table. It moved. The boots stopped. Winston saw dirty knees. The man was coming under the booth. Winston closed his eyes and kicked the underside of the table. It flew upwards into the man. Another gunshot.
He's empty.

Winston lunged forward, catching the man in the side. They tumbled to the center of the diner. Winston was first to his feet.

"Randy."

Randy Jacobs became Winston's first friend when his family moved to Black Dog thirty-five years ago. They remained best friends. Randy was Winston's best man at his wedding and now he was trying to kill him.

"It's me. Winston. I'm not sick, Randy."

Randy ignored Winston and rubbed his nose, smearing blood over his face. There was no doubt the force of the table had broken Randy's nose. It sat underneath his right eye.

"I'm sorry about your nose. You were trying to kill me."

Randy didn't speak. He aimed the Colt at Winston, who started second guessing his math. If he was off by one bullet, it was over. Winston closed his eyes. Randy pulled the trigger. Nothing. He looked at the gun, aimed it at Winston. and pulled the trigger.

"No bullets, Randy."

Randy dropped the gun, lowered his shoulder, and ran at Winston. He made contact with Winston's chest, lifting him a few feet in the air. Randy slammed Winston to the floor. Air escaped Winston's lungs, leaving little reserve when Randy wrapped his fingers around his throat. Randy's strength was unmatchable, but Winston's life depended on trying. He grabbed Randy's wrists, but he couldn't pry them from his neck. Winston tightened his grip. Randy had no pulse. His skin was almost hot to the touch. Randy was dead. Dead and yet he still knew how to use a gun. There was no freeing Winston from Randy's grasp. He had to find vulnerability. Winston felt his eyes bulging. He fought against losing consciousness. Winston didn't have long. He looked into Randy's eyes. A thin, milky coat covered his pupils. Randy blinked rapidly.
The eyes.

W
inston let go
of Randy's wrists and clawed at his face. Winston pressed his thumbs into Randy's eyes. The grip on his throat tightened. Winston pushed his thumbs deeper, creating a suction sound. Randy's fingers opened, allowing Winston to breathe. He gasped and lurched up, sinking his thumbs farther into his best friend's eye sockets. Randy became dead weight. Winston shifted his hips and tossed Randy off him. Winston sat up and wiped his thumbs on Randy's jeans before massaging his own throat. When his breathing regulated, Winston grabbed a stool, pulled himself up, and took a seat at the bar.

He eyed Vera below him. "I'll have the cheeseburger special." Winston laughed. Lines were blurred. He didn't know if the laugh and poor joke were out of relief or out of insanity. Winston never figured he would have to gouge his best friend's eyes out to survive. He doubted his decision. Maybe he should have let Randy kill him. This would all be over. The alarm on his watch chirped. Noon. Time to call Marianna. Winston set the alarm to remember to call Marianna every day at lunch. It wasn't like he would forget. The alarm was an insurance policy. Marianna was a high school biology teacher. Lunch was the only time she had to talk unless it was an emergency. Winston liked telling her that he loved her. That was the main purpose of the call, but there was no need now. She'd rather eat him than hear those three little words.

He tugged his cell phone from his back pocket, amazed that it held up through all the ruckus. Winston scrolled through his numbers, stopping on HOME. He glanced around the carnage in the diner. Three bodies. Blood splattered over the linoleum. Broken glass everywhere. For a moment, Winston felt proud surrounded by chaos. Proud that his love for Marianna was strong enough to help him face death again and again. He didn't care what Byrd thought. Winston was getting out of this alive and he was going to save Marianna. He dialed home, knowing Marianna wouldn't pick up. After seven rings, voicemail kicked in. Winston smiled as Marianna's voice soothed his ears. She was doing her best karaoke version of Lionel Richie's "Hello." Her voice cracked between laughs. After the beep, Winston said, "I love you, baby."

Winston picked up his Colt. Useless for the moment, but he had plenty of bullets back home.
Why didn't I bring another magazine?
he thought, holstering the gun. He went behind the counter and poured a cup of coffee into a to-go cup.
Styrofoam
. Winston held the cup at eye level, going over all the ways Styrofoam was bad for him. Bad for the environment. Before the virus, Winston was health conscious. It started around his fortieth birthday. He had gained weight and Doc Barnard diagnosed him pre-diabetic. A few years later, clean eating and exercise had given him a new lease on life. He looked at the cup and then stuck his finger through the hole in his jacket caused by one of Randy's shots. He felt down to the flesh. A little wetness. Not too bad. Not a lot of blood. A superficial wound. He would live. Winston eyed the cup again. "Screw it. There's too many things that will kill me." He walked to the door, gave the diner one last glance, and turned off the light.

There was no way of telling when the power would go out for good, but Winston didn't want to waste what little was left. He stepped onto the sidewalk in front of Luther's. A brisk wind slapped him. He took a sip of coffee and started toward Ticker Evans.

"How am I going to do this?" Winston neared the boat dock. Ticker hadn't noticed him yet. The easiest way would be to sneak up behind Ticker and shove him into the water. Ticker was old. His heart couldn't take much. He would drown. What a horrible way to go. Winston thought back to his childhood when a wave took him under and refused to let him up. He was only underwater for a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity, and the scar it left took a long time to heal. Drowning Ticker wasn't an option. Besides, the brain would still be intact.