The Last Five Days: The Complete Novel: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (5 page)

* * *

A
package
of smoked turkey was the last thing in the refrigerator. Winston grabbed it and tossed it into the freezer, hoping the temperature would stay cool long enough for him to get back with gasoline for the generator. He bought the generator after the summer storm that knocked the power out for a few hours but never took it out of the box. That was Winston. He was an impulse buyer. Most things seemed a good idea at the time he parted ways with his hard-earned cash, but after a few hours, the need lessened and the necessity took up space next to other essentials in his basement. Winston looked at a note on his phone — GET GAS FOR GENERATOR. It was dated exactly three months earlier.

"I'll get some gas, come back, get the generator started, and then go see Salk."

Winston grabbed a hoodie from the closet. Just as he was about to leave, he saw Marianna's iPod in a bowl next to the door where they kept their keys. Winston smiled, picked up the iPod, and flipped through Marianna's playlists. He stopped at one named DREAMING. The first song was "Leaving on a Jet Plane" by John Denver. Winston hated the song, hated John Denver. Marianna knew that, yet every chance she got, she sang the words to Winston. Usually, she only got to the first chorus before she smiled and kissed him, mimicking the lyrics.

Winston scrolled through the playlist. The first ten songs were by John Denver. Winston smiled, shook his head, and placed the earbuds in his ears. As John Denver sang, Winston closed his eyes and imagined Marianna dancing around the living room like a flower child from the sixties. She was a hippie. He wasn't. Winston's playlists were full of rock and metal, yet he would gladly listen to John Denver every day if it meant bringing his wife back.

Winston opened his eyes and grabbed his loaded Colt from the table.

"Be back soon, Marianna."

Winston froze at the first step on the porch.

"I don't have a gas can."

Winston never thought to buy a new gas can. He had to toss the metal gas can he inherited from his grandfather after rust ate through it. Of all the "necessities" he had to have, Winston never bought the one that he actually needed. He laughed. There were a few cans in Harry's shed. Winston doubted his old friend would mind if he borrowed them.

* * *

M
elanie sat
, with her legs crossed, on the floor. Dean was on a couch behind her, massaging her shoulders. His touch relaxed her. The flames dancing in the fireplace mesmerized her. Any other time, this would be paradise. This was the life Melanie dreamed of, well, except that she was a prisoner in her own home.

"How are we going to get out of here?" Meanie asked. "The military won't budge."

"Have you talked to your father? Maybe he can pull some strings."

"He said he would do everything he could to get me out. I haven't heard from him in a few days, though. I doubt I will, now that the power's out."

Dean pulled Melanie's hair away from her neck. He bent forward and placed a gentle peck on her neck. "I'll find a way to get out us out of here. They can't be everywhere."

Melanie placed her hands on Dean's. His words brought comfort. She believed him.

"Why didn't you tell me about New York?" Dean asked.

Melanie stood up and sat on the couch beside Dean. "It's something I'd like to forget. Of course, I can't forget it. But that doesn't stop me from trying. It's the reason I moved to Black Dog. I wanted to live in a safe place. A place where everyone looks out for each other."

"Did they catch the guys?"

"The cops shot one of them while he was robbing a convenience store. I don't think they ever got the other one."

"Well, you don't have to worry about that now." Dean leaned in and kissed Melanie's forehead.

Melanie laughed. "No, now I have to worry about people trying to eat me."

"I'm not that hungry." Dean playfully bit at Melanie's finger.

"Gross." Melanie pulled her hand back. "Is work the only reason you moved to Black Dog?"

They dated for about three months, but it finally dawned on Melanie that she really didn't know much about Dean. Most of their dates consisted of Netflix binges and make-out sessions. Technology was great, but there was something better about being by the fire, next to Dean, with no distractions. Maybe she thought she had a lifetime to get to know the man of her dreams. Given the recent situation, Melanie wanted a crash course on the life of Dean Kurten.

"Mainly for work, but I really needed a new start. My old life wasn't that great."

Dean shifted his body to turn away from Melanie. It was subtle but awkward. His past was something he didn't want to discuss, and Melanie didn't think the time was right to pry.

"Mine wasn't either." She smiled. "But, hey, now we have each other. Who cares if the world is ending?"

Dean forced a chuckle. "Looks like the fire is going to die." He shifted his eyes to the window. Smoky gray clouds bullied the blue sky. "I'm gonna grab some wood before the rain starts."

Melanie grabbed his arm. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"We have to stay warm. I probably should bring in as much as I can. Things like firewood are going to be more valuable than money if the power stays out."

Melanie knew Dean was right. They needed the wood. She couldn't help but worry that asking about Dean's life before Black Dog caused him to want to get some fresh air. She glanced at the fire. The flames were no longer dancing. They were dying.
It's just the fire
, she thought. "Take a knife from the kitchen."

A grin spread over Dean's jaw line. "What? You don't think I can handle any problem with these?" He flexed his arms. Dean's biceps rippled underneath the flannel shirt.

"I'm sure you can, Superman, but take the knife anyway."

Melanie never took her eyes away from Dean. Her stare followed him to the kitchen. He grabbed the biggest butcher knife from the drawer. Dean flashed it in Melanie's direction. Sort of a silent way of saying, "Are you happy?" She smiled.

Dean walked around the house to a woodpile. Melanie raced to the spare bedroom. She watched him stack wood in the bend of his elbow. Every few seconds, she took her eyes off Dean and surveyed the yard, looking for anything that could harm him. Melanie didn't like the hand life had dealt her. There was a very real possibility that she would die in Black Dog soon, but for now, as long as she had Dean, Melanie felt safe.

* * *

"
W
onder if anyone
tried John Denver’s music as a cure for insomnia?"

Winston chuckled at his joke as he rummaged through Harry's shed. It was a bit surprising that everything was disheveled. Winston never knew Harry to be disorganized, but there was no system to the storage in the shed. Winston swiped at a box for a leaf blower. When he connected, the box tumbled over, taking an empty box for a chainsaw and another one for a weed eater with it. Harry kept everything. When the dust settled, Winston spotted a red handle. He grabbed it and gave a tug. The can was wedged between a toolbox and a lawn mower. A lawn mower that hadn't run in years. Winston gave another tug and a box of screws fell from a shelf over his head.

"Dammit, Harry."

Something hit the shed loud enough to interrupt John Denver. Winston shifted from frustration to fear. He pulled the earbuds from his ears and crouched beside an old armoire doubling as a tool cabinet. Winston had the Colt. It was fully loaded, but he didn't have an endless supply of ammo. At some point, bullets would be scarce. He didn't want to draw unwanted attention either. Winston thought the best thing to do would be to hide and wait out whatever slammed against the shed.

Another bang sent vibrations through the metal walls. Flakes of rust fell from a small hole in the ceiling. Winston tucked his chin to his chest and stared at the rotting wooden floor, hoping to keep the rust out of his eyes. Then hundreds of small taps hit the shed like handfuls of gravel being tossed. The noise was continuous.

Rain
, Winston thought. He sat listening to the hypnotizing taps. After a few minutes, Winston had to fight off heavy eyelids. The sound of rain always made him sleepy. The pelting against metal only intensified the desire to sleep.

"I can't sit here any longer," he whispered.

Falling rain methodically tapped against the metal. The loud banging ceased, giving Winston confidence that it was only a dead limb from a tree. He walked to the door and peeked through the small gap. The door flung back, smacking him in the face. He stumbled over a row of paint cans and landed on his back. The pistol dislodged from his hand and disappeared in a pile of gardening tools. A grunt, then a blur above him caught Winston's attention.

Jimbo Brookside stood over Winston with a pickaxe above his head. Jimbo stood nearly six and half feet and weighed well over three hundred pounds. A bum knee was the only reason Jimbo wasn't playing football on Sundays. He was projected to be a first-round pick before he destroyed his knee in the Peach Bowl. There was no doubt Jimbo had pent-up aggression. He traded fame and a multi-million-dollar contract to work on his family's farm. From the look on his face, Winston knew Jimbo was about to release that aggression on him.

Winston grabbed a broken ax handle with both hands and straightened his arms just as Jimbo brought the pickaxe down on him. The ax handle held up under Jimbo's force. The pick stopped inches from Winston's face. Vibration stung Winston's hands and rattled the bones in his forearms. When Jimbo raised the pickaxe above his head again, Winston rolled to the right. The pick hit the floor beside him and stuck in the decaying wood.

Winston sprang to his feet and bumped into a workbench.

"Jimbo, it's me, Winston."

Jimbo ignored Winston and jerked the pickaxe from the floor, sending shards of woods toward Winston.

"You don't have to do this." Winston grabbed a shovel, hoping to spot the Colt.

"I don't know what's wrong with me, Winston."

Winston kicked a few rakes over while looking for the pistol. "You're sick, Jimbo. But you don't have to kill me."

Jimbo lowered the pickaxe to his side. "I don't want to kill anyone. I'm going insane."

"It's the virus, buddy. Why don't you give me the ax?"

Jimbo's eyes shifted to his side. "If I give it to you, you're going to kill me with it."

"I don't want to kill anyone either," Winston said.

"Is that what you told Harry before shooting him?"

"Harry was sick. I had no choice."

"You said I'm sick."

"Harry was a different kind of sick."

Jimbo looked at the pickaxe again. "I'm sorry, Winston. I can't give it to you." He flashed a smirk at Winston. "I can't give it to you because I need it to kill you."

Jimbo lunged at Winston, knocking him back against the workbench. Jimbo held the pickaxe in his right hand and wrapped his left hand around Winston's throat. Winston fumbled around the workbench, grasping for anything. Jimbo's grip tightened. This was different from Randy. Winston couldn't gouge out Jimbo's eyes. He couldn't reach Jimbo's face; his arms were too long. Finally, Winston felt a screwdriver. He white-knuckle gripped it and jammed it into Jimbo's forearm. The screwdriver went in at an angle. The head pierced the underside of Jimbo's wrist. Jimbo let go of Winston's throat and reached for the screwdriver. Winston rolled on his side and fell to the floor. He scrambled to the gardening tools to look for the Colt.

"That fucking hurts, Winston."

"Your hands around my throat weren't exactly a massage."

Jimbo examined his arm, turning his palm up and then down. Blood splattered onto his muddy boots and the wooden floor around him. The sight of the impaled screwdriver caused his head to go dizzy. Jimbo stumbled back, catching the wall just before falling. He slid down the wall.

"I'm really sorry, Winston. It's like I've got the devil in me."

Winston blindly ran his hand over the floor. After at least two splinters stuck in his palm, he tapped the handle of his gun. "It's not the devil. The sickness fills you with rage." Winston flipped over, back to the wall, and pointed the Colt at Jimbo. The hatred in Jimbo's eyes was replaced with fear.