The Last Five Days: The Complete Novel: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (16 page)

Richie felt something grab his ankle. He jerked his leg, kicking the comforter off the bed.

"No need to be scared. I'm here to guide you."

"Where?"

"To the afterlife."

Richie pressed his fingers against his neck to register his pulse. It was slow, but he was alive.

Jason laughed. "You're not dead yet. But soon, death will call your name."

Richie sat up and ran his hand through his sweat-soaked hair. "The dreams. You weren't trying to kill me. You were there to guide me."

Jason laughed. "Kill you? Never, brother."

"What's wrong with me?"

"The greed and selfishness of a few will be the end of the world. The infection is spreading. You're sick, brother."

"How..."

"How's not important. You're going to document everything that happens to you, and when the time is right, I'll be back to rescue you."

"This isn't real."

"I'm sorry, brother, but it's very real."

Something tickled Richie's top lip. He swiped at it with his finger. Blood.

"It's just starting. I'm not going to lie to you. It's going to be painful, but you have to document everything. This is your purpose."

Richie lowered his head. A dull ache, like thumping from a distant drum, vibrated behind his eyes. He took a few deep breaths, but breathing increased pressure in his temples, which were beginning to throb from him hanging his head. When Richie looked up, the image of his brother wavered. Light ripped apart Jason until there was no sign of him.

"This has to be a dream." Richie swung his legs to sit up on the bed. Dizziness swirled around him. A sudden urge to vomit slapped his senses. The odor of garbage wafted through the air. The trash can was empty, but there was no denying the smell of rotten food. A sour taste followed the smell, and then a burning in the back of his throat. Richie's mouth watered. He tried to fight it, but the need was too strong. He turned his head and vomited beside the bed. The sound of regurgitation seemed amplified. The intensity of each dry-heave and every cough grew stronger. Richie plugged his ears as he vomited again. Coldness hugged him. His cheeks became clammy. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. Richie rocked back and forth until the nausea subsided. The pounding in his head eased a bit, but each thump rattled his bones. He gripped the side of the bed and stood up. For the first few seconds, the room swayed. Richie closed his eyes and thought,
Get it together. There is no way you can be infected.
He walked to the door, which was guarded by two soldiers. He tapped on the glass. The soldier to his right pointed behind Richie to a two-way radio placed in a chair.

Richie took each step as if he were a baby learning to walk. "Right foot, then left." He repeated it over and over until he got to the chair. Richie picked up the radio. "This is Dr. Richard Kincaid. Can anyone hear me?"

After a few seconds of dead air, a voice spoke. "How ya feeling, kid?"

"James, is that you?"

"Unfortunately. I tried to blow this shithole. Did you know they have us surrounded by armed guards? This sure as hell isn't the small town hospitality I read about."

Richie mumbled a laugh that turned into a cough. He tried to muffle it with his hand.

"I'm on my way to see you, kid. Don't even think about giving me whatever it is you've contracted."

"Come alone." Richie spoke barely above a whisper.

"Didn't catch that."

"Come alone. Being in this bubble is embarrassing enough. I don't want to feel like a zoo animal on top of it."

"Hey, I'll trade places with you. At least you have a real bed."

Richie tossed the radio on the bed and fell back into the chair. Weakness filled his joints. Pain danced along his spine.
What's wrong with me?
Maybe something I ate. Maybe the flu. There is no way this is Judas.
Richie tried to convince himself, but the weakness was different than anything he had felt. He knew what happened to the human body when trying to fight off invading microbes. This wasn't like that. This felt as though something was draining him of life — a microbial vampire. He lowered his head between his knees. The daggers of pain jabbing his neck were too much. It was too hard to hold his head up, and he didn't have the energy to fight. The taste of the vegetable soup he had for dinner the night before hit his throat with a burning sensation that made it feel raw. Richie smacked his lips, trying to scare away the taste, but it grew stronger. "I'm never eating vegetable soup again."

"Kid, you have to press the button on the radio if you expect me to hear you. I'm not good at reading lips. I'm thinking you said, 'Get me the hell out of here,' but that's just a guess."

Jones’ words startled Richie. He nearly fell from the chair but grabbed the bed to regain balance.

"Are you really sick?" Jones asked.

Richie didn't try to stand. He reached across the bed and grabbed the radio. "I don't feel all that great."

"This is idiotic. I'm not going to talk to you through this radio. I'm coming in." Jones reached for the door. One guard blocked the door. The other one grabbed Jones' forearm.

"Sir, we have strict orders to let no one in there."

"It's a good thing," Richie said. "You shouldn't come in here."

"What's going on, Richie?"

Richie thought for a moment, choosing his words carefully. The sight of his brother at the foot of the bed flashed through his mind. He couldn't think of any logical reason he could be infected with Judas, but this was presenting just as Dr. Byrd had noted. Nausea, headache, hypersensitivity. Richie rubbed under his nose. The middle knuckle on his index finger turned crimson. Another sign. Richie swiped at his face in a shameful attempt to hide the blood.

"Kid?"

"I think I'm infected with Judas."

"That's not possible. We've been here less than 48 hours."

Richie thought back to everything that happened within the last two days. He hadn't been in contact with anyone infected. There was no instance where he could have been infected with the virus, but somehow, he was now a host. With each breath Richie took, he felt as though something was fighting him for control of his mind. Something wanted control, and it wasn't going to stop until it had it. "This isn't a normal sickness."

"There's no way."

Richie tried to stand. It took a moment, but with help from the back of the chair and the bed, he was able to without falling over. "The symptoms. Everything that Byrd described, I have..." He paused. There was no hunger for flesh yet. That revelation gave Richie a glimmer of hope that he wasn't infected, but whatever it was gnawing at his mind washed away that belief. It was only a matter of time before the virus went into full survival mode. Richie couldn't explain what was happening to him, but it was as if he was observing the virus at work as it tried to secure the host. Judas had complex thought patterns. It knew it killed the host and killing the host severely decreased its chance of survival. Craving flesh was only a bandage on a bigger wound. Judas was much worse than anyone could image. "...Those people weren't dead."

"What are you talking about, Richie?"

"Judas thinks by shutting down the human body, it’s buying time to find a way it can coexist within the host."

"Oh, shit." Jones thought back to the conversation with Swann about H1N1 neutralizing Judas. "Judas tricked her into thinking H1N1 destroyed it until it could find a way to coexist with it."

"What?" Richie asked.

"Nothing. How do you know this?"

"I can feel it. The virus is trying to save me by putting me into some type of coma. The problem is when the body shuts down, organs start to die. Making the infected crave keratin is Judas' way of keeping flesh from decaying while it finds the perfect mutation to coexist inside the host."

"I have to talk to Bob."

"It doesn't matter, James. Its hunger for survival is too strong. You won't be able to cure this. When threatened, it mutates. The only cure is isolation, and hope that all infected decay before the virus finds a way to coexist. If that happens, there will be no stopping it. They've created a virus that's smarter than us."

* * *

"
H
ow many do
you have left?" Melanie asked before sitting in the rocking chair.

Winston shook the pack of cigarettes. He peeled back a piece of aluminum wrapping and squinted. "Seven." He tossed one to Melanie.

"Think we can smoke ‘em all before this ends?"

Winston placed a cigarette between his lips. As he lit it, the sound of a helicopter pierced the otherwise calm fall evening. He peered over the railing. A camouflage helicopter with an American flag on the tail boom flew over Winston's house. Winston propped a leg on the railing. "If we chain smoke." He pointed to the helicopter.

Melanie stood up, walked to the porch steps, and watched the copter. "That's military."

Winston puffed the cigarette. "Yep." He handed the lighter to Melanie.

Melanie took a seat on the top step and blew a plume of smoke into the air. She watched the orange hue fade in and out as the cigarette burned. "What's the odds that helicopter is here to tell them it's time to go home?"

Winston laughed. "I'm sure they've figured out this thing has about ran its course in Black Dog, but they aren't leaving. They know we aren't sick. They're not going to walk away with us knowing their secrets."

"What do you think they are going to do to us? Maybe we'll get captured, and they'll lock us away in cages like research animals. Sounds fun, right?"

"There is no one out there brave enough to come get us."

"Well, that's going to make the last days boring." Melanie smiled.

Winston took another puff and chased it with warm water. "I'm OK with boring right now."

Melanie stood up and brushed dirt from her butt. She stepped over Georgie Howell's body and walked to the sidewalk before staring into the sky. The first hints of stars could be seen as night crept in. "Beauty has its blinders on."

"What?"

"The outside world has no idea what's happening here."

"That's a good thing. Byrd was right. This cannot get out."

Meanie turned back to Winston. "They're going to kill us, aren't they?"

"They'll probably try."

"I hate to say it, but dying looks like our only way out of this." Melanie dropped the cigarette onto Winston's walkway and crushed it underneath her tennis shoe.

"You know the one thing a survivor hates?" Winston asked.

"What's that?"

Winston smiled. "Dying." He stood up and stretched his arms. "It's going to get chilly tonight. I'm going to try to get the generator working." Winston brushed the cigarette against a glass ashtray. There was half a smoke left, and he was careful not to damage it. Winston picked up the gas can and started down the steps.

"Hey, Winston, I'm glad I'm here with you. I mean, I'd rather be on a white sand beach gazing at clear blue water while getting drunk on fruity drinks, but since I have to be held prisoner while a deadly virus runs rampant, I'm glad you're here."

"You're just saying that because your boyfriend turned out to be a mask-wearing serial killer."

Melanie smiled. "Well, yeah."

Winston laughed. "Get inside, it's getting dark. I'll be in after I get the generator going."

"
T
his is
the end of the world?"

Dr. James Jones didn't respond to Dr. Carolyn Swann's claim. Instead, he watched Dr. Richie Kincaid
scribble something into a notebook. Richie's hand was a blur as he fought to record his thoughts before he lost them.

"Why isn't he using the radio?" Swann asked.

"His throat is sore. Last time he spoke, he said it felt like he was chasing razor blades with gasoline."

"I don't even see how this is possible. He hasn't been close to anyone infected. H1N1 has limited range. There is no way someone coughed in that town and it spread to here."

"I know how the flu spreads, Carolyn. This has nothing to do with H1N1. It's the Frankenstein virus you created. We have no idea how it spreads," Jones said.

"It's not possible. It's just not."

"Well, Richie will call bullshit on that. He is sick, and I'm pretty sure from what he's been telling me, he has the virus. We'll definitely know when the blood comes back."

Richie stood up. The pain in his joints had subsided. His head still throbbed, but it was more of a dehydration headache than a migraine. The unrelenting hunger numbed his mind leaving only one thought — he had to eat. He walked toward Swann and Jones and slapped the notebook against the glass that separated them from him. Jones put on his glasses and read.

It's in survival mode. It knows if I die, it dies. It's shutting my body down to save itself. My heart rate is 30 BPM.

"Hang in there, kid. We're going to kick this thing's ass. Judas doesn't know who it's messing with."

Richie backed away from the window. His complexion was beyond pale and closer to a light gray. He sat back on the bed and began writing again.

"In the tests, Judas was weak. A strain of common cold could have immobilized it." Swann shook nervously as she bit her nails.

"Yeah, well, it's exceptionally good at playing dead." Dr. Robert Salk handed Jones a clipboard. "Richie's infected. It's worse than that. There isn't a trace of white blood cells. It's like Judas is rewiring his body. Without an immune system, there is no chance of a cure."

"How the hell did he get infected?" Swann asked.

Jones tapped on the glass to get Richie's attention and motioned for him to pick up the radio.

"I got some bad news, kid. Tony Romo tripped running onto the field and broke his collarbone again."

Richie smiled, but it quickly turned into a coughing spell.

"Sorry. Look, this isn't a surprise, but you're infected. Did you come in contact with anyone presenting? Think hard, kid."

Richie scribbled something onto the paper and held it up. In huge letters was the word
NO
.

"Is it possible there could be carriers who are not infected?" Jones asked.

"Anything is possible with this virus, but you would still have to come in contact with Judas. No one infected has been in this compound," Salk said.

"What about that guy who showed up a few days ago with info on Byrd?" Jones asked.

"He could be a carrier. He didn't present, but I had a containment suit. Mark had a suit. The guards had suits..." Salk paused.

"What?"

"Tom wasn't wearing a suit. Richie's had close contact with him."

"We all have," Swann said.

"I'm sorry, Carolyn. I need to speak with James alone for a minute. We'll be back."

Salk grabbed Jones by the elbow and led him away. Swann turned her attention to Richie, who was walking toward the glass again. He held the notebook up for her to read.

I'm so hungry and you look good enough to eat
.

* * *

"
W
hat's so
important you couldn't tell me in front of Carolyn? The secrets have to stop, Bob."

Salk looked over his left shoulder, then his right. Once he was satisfied they were alone, he pulled a cell phone from his blazer.

"I didn't think...why haven't you called for help?" Jones asked.

"One of Tom's henchmen gave it to me. Jim's daughter lives in Black Dog."

"Melanie?"

Salk nodded and sent a text. Not thirty seconds later, an armed guard rounded the corner.

"What's the shit, Bob? Are you setting me up?"

"Charles will help you save Melanie."

"Save her? How do you know she's even alive?"

"She was with that man who knew Byrd. I thought I recognized her, but it wasn't until Jim's call that I put it together."

"Wait a minute. Why aren't you going to save her?"

"Because you shouldn't be here. I need you to live and stop Judas."

"It can't be cured, Bob. You said it yourself."

"It can be contained."

"All right, so let's say I find Melanie, what then? Every way out of that town is blocked off."

"There is a crew on Black Dog Lake. The ones who had the same vision as Hendricks have been disposed of. Those left will help with the escape, but we have to hurry before Hendricks senses something is wrong," Charles said, reaching into a backpack. He handed Jones a containment suit.

"And what about you, Bob? Carolyn?"

"We deserve this. I'm going to make sure Tom doesn't realize you're gone. Carolyn will do her best to make sure Richie is cared for."

"Once this is over, promise me you won't go into hiding. I'm going to need your help. Carolyn's too."

Salk chuckled and smiled. "James, you know we're not getting out of this alive."

"Sir, we really need to leave before sunup," Charles said.

"Bob, you're a high-level turd, but good luck." Jones slipped the containment suit over his legs.

Salk turned to walk away. Charles grabbed his arm and handed him a Taurus Curve. Salk flipped the small pistol in his palm.

"Just in case you feel like shooting something." Charles nodded and turned to Jones. "You ready?"

* * *

"
T
here's
two pieces of bread left. I'll spread some peanut butter on them and we can pretend it's burgers. Big, thick, juicy cheeseburgers." Melanie scooped peanut butter onto a butter knife and spread it over the bread. She was careful not to tear the slice. "This would work so much better if it was toast. How can you not have a toaster?"

Winston didn't answer. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror and opened his mouth. Last night, his throat started to feel scratchy. Sunlight hadn't found its way to the bathroom window, making it impossible to tell if his throat was red. He didn't really need visual confirmation. The pain when he swallowed told him all he needed to know.

"Winston? You OK?"

"Yeah, just a minute."

"OK. I'm going to be on the porch. I left your double cheeseburger with bacon on the kitchen table."

Winston waited for the front door to close before leaving the bathroom. "I can't get sick." He sat down beside the door to the spare bedroom that imprisoned his wife. "I think I caught a cold, honey. Can you believe it? With all that's going around and I catch a cold. It's fall, though. I shouldn't be surprised. I always get sick…"

The bang against the door startled Winston and eased his mind at the same time. The virus hadn't given up on Marianna yet. Neither had Winston. He went to bed last night thinking today would be the day he said his final goodbye to Marianna. He closed his eyes, placed his head against the door, and listened to the faint scratches on the wood. She was weakening more each day. Putting a bullet in her head was the right thing to do. Winston hid two bullets in the drawer of his nightstand. One was for Marianna and the other had his name on it. But that was before he saved Melanie. He felt an obligation to her, to make sure she survived. Winston couldn't save Marianna, but he could save Melanie. He stood up and almost buckled at the knees from joint pain. Winston braced against the wall. "I don't have time for this." He took a deep breath and exhaled in an attempt to scare the pain away. It worked well enough for him to make it to the kitchen. Winston's stomach flipped over the sight of the lone piece of bread covered in peanut butter. The combination was never his favorite, but always a go-to when he needed to curb hunger. But not this time. He felt a slight burning in the back of the throat before several forceful dry-heaves wrenched his body. Once the convulsions ceased, Winston swiped a dishcloth from a hanger, poured a few drops of warm water from a bottle onto it, and wiped his forehead. He looked at the piece of bread again. The nausea crept back into his body. Winston turned away before the wrenching began again.

"You coming or what? It's actually a nice day today," Melanie said.

Winston walked by the kitchen table and cleared his throat. "On my way."

* * *

S
wann studied Richie
. His opinion that she looked like she would taste good didn't bother her. The thick glass between them provided enough comfort that her safety was secured. Richie didn't look like a monster with a penchant for human flesh. He looked frail, like a Stage IV cancer patient tired of fighting. But Swann knew if she opened the door, he would be on her like a hungry wolf. Watching Richie added salt to the wound inflicted by her Judas research. Richie was presenting just as the virus did when she introduced H1N1. Or maybe he wasn't. What if Judas was using him just as it did H1N1? Swann had an I.Q. of 172, belonged to the Prometheus Society, and yet she was outsmarted by a virus.

Swann placed her hands on the glass and whispered, "I'm sorry I did this to you."

Richie stopped writing and looked in her direction. A thin milky film coated his eyes. He picked up the radio. "Don't apologize. Stop staring at me and get to work. You have to contain this." His voice was raspy like a lifelong smoker.

"You can hear me?" Swann's voice was softer than the previous whisper.

"Yes. I'm becoming hypersensitive to all the senses. The pain is coming back. The hunger is unbearable. I know I said I wanted to document this, but it's too much. If you want to help me, then kill me."

"I..."

"Is what I'm hearing true? He's infected with Judas?" Tom Hendricks' voice was loud, almost a yell.

Richie covered his ears with his hands before burying his head under a pillow.

"Where the hell are Salk and Jones?"

"Right here," Salk said. "I wanted to check his blood again. I'm afraid it's true."

"How did he get sick in the safe zone?"

"We think it's possible to be a carrier without getting sick," Swann said.

"OK, well, he's sick so…"

"I believe that man we met with the other day is a carrier," Salk said.

"Winston? That doesn't explain how Kincaid got sick. He wasn't there, and we took precautions," Hendricks said.

"You didn't, Tom. You wouldn't wear a containment suit," Salk said.

"So, you think I infected Kincaid?"

"Right now, I can't think of a better explanation," Swann said.

"Tom, I need to get a sample of your blood and we need to quarantine you," Salk said.