The Last Five Days: The Complete Novel: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (4 page)

Winston froze mid-stride. "He's not alive. Why the hell am I worrying about this?"

Even though Winston's death toll was up to seven, it was still hard for him to believe the people he shared his life with were dead, but not dead. He looked around for anything that could be used to put Ticker out of his misery. Winston couldn't bring himself to push the old man over the dock.

Winston was about five feet from the dock when Ticker saw him. The old man started for Winston. Slow, staggered strides that resembled zombie movement reminiscent of horror movies. Winston kept walking in Ticker's direction. He still didn't have anything that could pass for a weapon other than the Colt. He could use the butt of the gun if it came to that. Winston hoped it didn't. The gun was a present from his father who had passed away nearly ten years earlier. It held sentimental value, but if it came down to it, Winston would do whatever it took to save his life. He was confident in his ability after poking his best friend's eyes out.

Ticker coughed. The dead don't cough. A moment of relief comforted Winston. He ceased his search for a weapon. A spittle of blood dangled from Ticker's lips. He cleared his throat and spit.

"Ticker?" Winston asked, stopping to wait for an answer.

"Winston? Is that you? I can't see too well. Musta left my glasses at home."

"It's me. What are you doing out here, Ticker?"

Ticker looked over his left shoulder, then his right. "I don't know. Last thing I remember is watching
The Price is Right
. Watch it every morning." Ticker coughed again, more violent, more angry. Blood trickled out his nose. He wiped it on the sleeve of his flannel shirt. "I think I'm getting sick, Winston."

"How long you been feeling bad?"

"Started feeling a sour stomach the other night. It's weird. I feel hungry, but it's a taste for something I've never had. I don't know what it is."

Keratin
, Winston thought. He resumed search for a weapon. Ticker was infected. He had all the symptoms. If Byrd got her dying wish, Ticker would cease to exist on the dock. Until there was a cure, she was right. Winston knew what he had to do. Ticker wasn't poised to attack, but it could come at any time. He couldn't leave Ticker wandering on the dock. The only certainty was that Ticker would hurt someone.

"Heard of anything going around, Winston?"

He doesn't know
, Winston thought. "How long's it been since you left your house, Ticker?"

Ticker cocked his head as if he were counting the days in his mind. "Three. Maybe four days."

How the hell did he get sick?

A boat drew their attention away from the conversation. It slowed about thirty feet from the dock. Winston wasn't a boat expert, but it looked similar to a small response boat used by the US Coast Guard. It only resembled the Coast Guard in shape. This boat was shiny black with no markings.

"Step away from the boats. Leave the dock immediately." The male voice had a hint of static as it echoed. "That was your only warning. We are under direct orders of the United States Military. If you do not vacate the dock immediately, we will use lethal force."

Winston held up his hands and started backing away. Ticker faced the faceless voice and started toward his boat.

"What are you doing?" Winston asked.

"Doris is mine. I'll be damned if anyone's gonna tell me I can't be with her."

Ticker had named his bay boat after his wife Doris. He bought the boat with money he had saved to travel cross country with Doris before she was diagnosed with lung cancer. After her death, Ticker chose to buy the boat and name it after the love of his life.

Winston couldn't tell if Ticker referred to Doris the boat or his wife. It was possible the sickness made those infected hallucinate. Byrd didn't mention hallucinations, but maybe this virus affected people differently. The thought of watching Ticker murdered on the dock shook Winston. Watching someone die wasn't the same as taking someone's life who was trying to take yours. The moral rules brought upon by this infection were complicated. Just five minutes earlier, Winston was looking for anything he could use as a weapon to take Ticker out, and now he was going to try to save his life.

"Ticker, they aren't playing. Come over here with me."

Ticker ignored Winston.

"Ticker. They are going to kill yo…"

A loud bang caused Winston to stumble over his feet and fall backwards. The side of Ticker's head exploded in a way that looked like a volcano erupting. He crumbled to the dock. Winston turned his head away from the horror and scooted behind a row of trashcans. He waited for another shot. Anticipation mixed with silence made his stomach flutter. The trashcans wouldn't stop bullets. The only other cover was the boats and there was no way Winston was running for them. He would be dead before he got to the dock.
No one is leaving here alive.
Byrd's words poked Winston. As much as it pained him, he could only wait it out.
If I'm quiet, they'll think I ran away,
he thought. Winston peeked through a slight gap between the trashcans. A man dressed in a black biohazard-type suit paced the boat, stopping every few feet to scan the area through binoculars.
They'll leave soon. I just have to stay quiet.
Before the thought could completely register, Winston's watch chirped. He placed his hand over his wrist to muffle the sound before common sense stepped in and assured him there was no way anyone on the boat could hear the alarm. It was one; this alarm warned Winston that he had an hour before his daily progress report was due. Winston despised the report. It was an insult, but necessary, thanks to several people at work who weren't as productive as Don Reynolds thought they should be.

Winston eyed the gap in the trashcans again. The man still paced. Was the boat a permanent fixture now? It was possible. The town was surrounded. If the military was "protecting" all borders, the lake was surely one of them. Winston couldn't stay hidden. Darkness would come before he knew it. Winston didn't want to be outside at night.

"Turn away from the dock now."

The words sent a chill through Winston. Something grabbed his ankle and dragged him from his hiding spot. He turned to see Cliff Peterson, the town postman, pulling Winston's leg to his mouth. Winston was too concerned with the boat. He forgot that he was still in a war zone. Winston jerked his leg, trying to free it from Cliff's grasp. The movement only succeeded in bringing Winston farther into the open. He planted his foot on Cliff's knee, buckling it just as a gunshot rang out. The bullet missed Cliff's head as he fell next to Winston. Another bullet ricocheted off the pavement next to Winston's head. Cliff grabbed the collar of Winston's jacket, tearing it to the sleeve. Winston pulled away, and the sleeve peeled down his arm. He slipped away from Cliff and backed against a trashcan. A bullet pierced the can next to him.

"I'm not dying here, goddammit."

Cliff crawled toward Winston, who planted his feet on Cliff's shoulders and kicked with everything he had. The force lifted Cliff above the trashcans. A bullet hit him in the cheek, destroying his face. Winston struggled to gain purchase and ran in a zigzag manner toward the diner. When there was enough safe distance between him and the shooter, Winston stopped, put his hands on knees, and started to cough. Terror gripped him. He ran the back of his hand under his nose, feeling for blood. Nothing but sweat. Winston let out a sigh and headed for home.

Winston's house was within walking distance of Luther's Diner. As he walked, he noted the carnage. Windows broken, doors knocked in, and bodies strewn over lawns. Black Dog was a beautiful place to live and now it was a graveyard. Winston passed Harry's house. He closed his eyes and saw his old friend mowing his lawn, stopping to give a wave. He opened his eyes and saw Harry lying in the spot where Winston shot him. For a moment, Winston thought about burying his friend. Giving Harry a proper burial seemed the right thing to do. Winston's body didn't agree. Every joint cursed him. Winston was falling apart, but he refused to accept that he was infected. He made a promise to his wife that he would save her. Winston never broke his promises. He stepped onto his front porch and gave one last look to the neighborhood before going inside.

Winston flipped the light switch. He was thankful when the living room lit up. Eventually, there wouldn't be electricity. He locked the door, double checking the deadbolt, before taking a seat in his recliner. Winston grabbed the remote just as he did every day after returning from work. Satellite television was something else Winston was thankful for. The world was ending, yet he could still catch the afternoon news. It took a few seconds for his older television to warm up before a picture appeared on the screen. Usually, the sound preceded the picture, but there was silence. Winston pressed the volume button on the remote. No sound. A black screen appeared. White writing appeared on the screen as if someone was typing.

If you are seeing this alert, you have been deemed to be in the hot zone. For your safety and the safety of others, we ask that you stay inside your homes. Do not attempt to leave the hot zone. All borders are protected by the United States Military. Deadly force has been authorized for those who do not follow these instructions. We understand that you are confused and scared. The United States Government along with the Center for Disease Control are working on a cure. Until there is a cure, those inside the hot zone must follow these rules explicitly.

Winston changed the channel. Every channel started out as a black screen and then white writing appeared with the same message. After five channels, the television turned off and the lights went out.

"There goes the power." Winston rested his head on the back of the recliner and closed his eyes. Marianna's scratching and banging against the spare bedroom door drew his attention.

"I love you too, honey. Now try to get some sleep."

T
he power went
out about five last night. Melanie Carpenter hoped the darkness would be brief. The last time she was in total darkness was when lightning hit a transformer over the summer. The black lasted a few hours, even though it felt like an eternity. She couldn't be sure, but given the sliver of light invading the crack in her closet door, it was probably about seven in the morning. Maybe Melanie could get a little sleep once the sun was out. Her body needed it. She ached. Insomnia wasn't new to Melanie. It was something she had dealt with since college, but absence of light made sleep impossible.

Melanie hadn't always been afraid of the dark. The fear began one night during her senior year at NYU. She was walking home from coffee with friends when two men robbed her just a few blocks from her apartment. Something gnawed at Melanie, telling her not to walk down that alleyway. She didn't listen. Melanie had walked the path before. One light attached to the wall beside the back entrance to a donut shop usually scared the darkness away, but it was out. Melanie's gut told her to find another way home. The steady rain convinced her that the alley was the quickest. She never saw the men's faces, only the clown masks. Both were tall, well over six feet. One had a gun. The other had a hunting knife. Melanie wouldn't have known this, but the man told her explicitly how easily the knife could gut a deer. Whenever she saw deer, gooseflesh raced up her forearms. Whenever Melanie was forced into total darkness, terror paralyzed her.

The robbery was the main reason Melanie moved to Black Dog after graduation. There was no way she could walk the streets of a busy city and feel safe again. Small-town life was her security blanket. At least that was the case until two weeks ago, when she watched her neighbors killing each other and tearing flesh from bone with their teeth.

When the sickness reared its head, Melanie tried to leave Black Dog, but the cavalcade of military vehicles wouldn't let her pass. It didn't matter that her father was First Sergeant James Carpenter. This wasn't an "it's who you know" situation. If you were unlucky enough to be in Black Dog when the sickness hit, you weren't getting out.

Melanie opened the closet door. Her bedroom filled with sunlight. She stepped out into the room and rolled her neck, trying to alleviate the stiffness. Melanie shook her legs to get blood flowing again. Being cramped in the closet did a number on her knees. She walked to the window and peeked through the blinds. Black Dog never had a hustle and bustle feel, but now it was a ghost town. No cars. No bikes. No people.

Melanie sat on the edge of her bed. She looked at the phone, wishing it would ring, knowing there was no chance now that the power was out. For days, Melanie had wanted to hear Dean's voice. She needed to know he was all right. If Dean was alive, he would make sure nothing harmed Melanie.
If he was alive.
As each day passed, the likelihood of that being the case slimmed.

Dean Kurten was Black Dog's newest resident. He moved there about six months earlier to take a job at Tyler Construction. Black Dog was small, but it was growing, and Jonathan Tyler was doing well for himself as more people wanted the small-town life. Tiny houses were the "new" thing and Tyler could put up about four a month on land he bought just south of town.

Melanie met Dean one morning while having breakfast at Luther's Diner. The first thing that caught her eye was Dean's height. He was tall, about six-four. He had rugged good looks. Melanie chuckled under her breath when she thought of him as a real-life Brawny Towel Guy.

Luther's was packed as always and Melanie took the opportunity to offer Dean a seat at her booth. She was never the type to make the first move, but there was something about Dean that went beyond his height and looks. He gave off a "protective" type vibe. After breakfast, Dean asked Melanie if he could take her to dinner sometime. From then on, they spoke every day until a week ago. Melanie refused to believe Dean was dead, even though that was the only reason she could think of for him not calling. Phones had worked until last night.

A sharp pain pierced Melanie's left eye, leading to a dull ache in her forehead. She stood up and started to the kitchen.

"No power. No coffee."

Melanie rubbed between her eyes, trying to knead the ache away.

"I don't need caffeine. I need sleep."

Melanie returned to her bedroom. Exhaustion shoved her onto the bed. She closed her eyes.

* * *

W
inston Fleming stretched
his arms before pushing himself out of the recliner. He couldn't believe he had such a good sleep on the chair. He walked down the hallway to the spare bedroom. The door was boarded shut with scrap wood Winston picked up from Tom Collins's cabinet shop.

"The door's still there. That's a good thing."

Imprisoned behind the door was Winston's wife, Marianna. Small cracks in the door made Winston thankful for the extra protection. At some point, Marianna would break through the door. He sat on the floor and called out to his wife.

"How ya feeling, honey?"

A slam against the door caused Winston to fall back against the wall. Wood splintered. One of the cracks turned into a gap. Several smaller slams sounded like fists pounding against the door. A milky-filmed eyeball met Winston's as he eyed the gap. A memory of chasing Marianna on one of their weekend hikes washed over him. Marianna would hide behind a tree. She would look around the right side as Winston looked around the left. Then she would look left. Winston right. This went on for a bit until they would meet on the same side and kiss. Winston wanted nothing more than to kiss his wife. He inched closer to the door. An overwhelming smell of rot choked him. Winston placed his hands on the wood and kissed next to the gap.

"I'm going to save you."

A bang slammed the door into his face. The impact jarred his nose and forced him to bite his lip. A metallic taste of blood flooded Winston's mouth. He wiped his nose. The pool of blood puddled into the palm of his hand.

"You can beat me until I'm black and blue, but I'm not giving up on you."

Winston stood up, pressed his hand against the door, and left a bloody print. He went to the bathroom, opened the blinds, looked in the mirror, and inspected the damage.

"Well, it's not broken."

Winston ran his tongue over his teeth.

"No broken teeth."

He pulled his top lip up, revealing a gash.

"It'll heal."

Winston wiped his face with a towel and tossed it into the tub.

"No need to go to Luther's today. I guess I'll try to find Salk."

* * *

A
knock woke Melanie
. She was always a light sleeper, but she never hated it more than now. She needed rest. Another knock. Melanie tucked her knees and clutched the blanket. The sound of three shorter, rapid knocks bounced down the hallway. She put a pillow over her head.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

And then silence.

Melanie pulled the pillow from her face. She loosened her grip on the blanket and sat up in bed. Just as she relaxed, there was a tap on her bedroom window. She flung her body against the wall and covered herself with the blanket.

"Melanie, are you in there?"

"Dean?" Melanie lowered the blanket below her eyes. She caught a glimpse of Dean.

Dean tapped on the glass again.

Melanie tossed the blanket and ran to the window. She pressed her hand against it. "Dean. You're alive."

"Of course I'm alive. Let me in. It's crazy out here."

"Come to the door."

Dean was on the porch when Melanie opened the door. She stood on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around his neck.

"I was so worried."

Dean wrapped his arm around Melanie's waist, lifted her, and stepped into the house. He kissed her on the cheek. She grabbed his face and kissed his lips. Dean pushed away and held up a bag of donuts.

"Hungry? I got the last bag from Al's."

Melanie smiled. "I'd make coffee, but the power is out."

"We'll make do."

Melanie grabbed Dean's hand and led him to the kitchen. She noticed the bandage as she ran her fingertips over his knuckles.

"I'm fine," Dean said. "It's just crazy out there."

A smile chased worry from Melanie's face. She let go of Dean's hand and took two small plates from a cabinet.

"You want a jelly or chocolate-covered?" Dean opened the bag.

"Surprise me."

Dean closed his eyes and dug into the donuts. He pulled out a chocolate-covered. He held it up and smiled.

"Where have you been?" Melanie asked.

"I got trapped on a site. I was working with a couple guys when Tyler pulled up. He had this crazy look. I figured he was just pissed at Harold again for screwing up something on another job. Before I knew it, Tyler planted a crowbar into Jerry's head. He grabbed Harold and started biting him."

Melanie paused mid-bite into the donut. "Biting him?"

"Do you know what's going on out there?"

"I know there is some sort of virus."

Dean chuckled. "Oh, honey, it's not a virus. It's the end of the world."

Melanie dropped the donut onto the plate in front of her.

Dean grabbed her hand. "It's OK. I'm here now. I'm not going to let them hurt you." He rubbed the back of her hand.

"People are killing people?"

"Remember those two fishermen that died but didn't die?" Dean paused to laugh at the ridiculousness of his words. "I guess they had some kind of virus that makes people want to eat each other. I can't imagine human flesh tasting better than this jelly donut." He took another bite, hoping humor would lessen the fear of the words.

"Zombies are out there?" Melanie's voice was barely above a whisper.

Dean smiled and wiped jelly from his week-old beard. "They're not zombies. I'm not sure what they are, but no one's leaving their grave."

"How did you get away?"

"I thought about running while Tyler was preoccupied with Harold's forearm, but then I thought about you. I had to protect you. I picked up the crowbar…"

Melanie put her hand on Dean's arm. "It's OK. It was self-defense."

"I buried it into his forehead."

Don't think about moving or I'll bury a bullet in your forehead.
Melanie pulled away from Dean and got up from the table. She folded her arms and huddled next to the refrigerator.

"What's wrong, honey?"

Melanie didn't answer. The words "buried it into his forehead" brought back memories of the night in New York when she was robbed. One of the masked men put the barrel of a gun against her forehead and said, "Don't think about moving or I'll bury a bullet in your forehead." Every muscle in Melanie's body froze just as they did that night.

Dean walked toward Melanie. She cowered into a corner.

"I'm not sick, honey. What's wrong?" Dean opened his arms in a hugging gesture. "I'm not going to hurt you. I came here to protect you."

Dean extended his hand to Melanie. It only took a few seconds for her to shake the bad memory. She smiled and placed her hand in Dean's.

"I'm sorry. I don't talk about this a lot, but when I lived in New York, I was mugged by two guys in clown masks. One of them said something about burying a bullet in my forehead. That just brought back the memory."

Dean didn't say anything. He pulled Melanie to his chest and wrapped his arms around her.