The Last Five Days: The Complete Novel: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (20 page)

* * *

I
t was only
a five-minute walk home, but Winston felt as though he had run a 5k. He stood on the front porch for a minute to catch his breath. A memory of carrying Marianna across the threshold into their home for the first time washed over him, followed by a flood of tears. He remembered the day they married. The way Marianna took his breath away when he saw her in her wedding dress. The way she looked into his eyes when she said "I do." Winston used the good memories to numb the pain Judas was inflicting on his body. The hunger was the worst part. It was a constant need like a toothache that just wouldn't ease up. His love for his wife was the strongest thing in his life, yet it wasn't a strong enough Novocain to kill the hunger. Winston knew what was going on with his body. He wasn't sure if it was a blessing or a curse. He learned, from that day at Luther's Diner with Dr. Byrd, those infected craved flesh for the keratin. That knowledge didn't make the hunger any less and there was no way he was going to give in to it. Most people infected with Judas didn't understand its motives. Winston did. He wasn't going to allow the virus to turn him into its slave. He looked at the two empty rockers where he used to spend summer evenings with Marianna talking about dreams and the future. She wanted to move to the beach. Winston didn't mind the idea, but he wanted to move to a place that had seasons, all four of them. Marianna didn't care much for the cold. She wanted Florida. He wanted to go north. He smiled. They were robbed of the future, but nothing, not even death, could take away the past.

Winston opened the front door. "Honey, I'm home." He used to say those three words every evening when he came home. Marianna would reply with a smug "Great" before smiling and wrapping her arms around his neck. He would give anything to smell the lemongrass scent of her shampoo again. Winston sang the chorus of Bread's "Everything I Own" as he opened the drawer in his nightstand and took the two bullets. He emptied the clip from the Colt on the bed. Winston had designated two bullets for him and Marianna. It had to be these two bullets. He loaded them into the clip and sang the chorus again as he walked to the spare bedroom. Winston placed his hand on the door. "Honey, you awake?" There were a few moments of silence before a bang against the wood followed by scratching. "I know you're hungry. I am too."

Winston removed one board from the door. He sat on the floor, wrestling with thought that he was going to have to shoot his wife in the head. Even though she was dead, he wasn't sure he could do it. If she killed him before he could shoot, she would walk the world suffering. That would haunt his afterlife no matter what it consisted of. He took a deep breath and removed another board. "I'm saving her," he told himself as he removed the last boards. Winston placed his hand on the brass door knob and sang "Everything I Own" through the door. He took a deep breath and turned the knob. He eased the door open and saw his wife. Marianna's skin was pale gray. Her cheeks and eyes were sunken in. She was skeletal and almost bald. Winston cried, "I'm sorry, honey. I never should have let you starve." He extended his arm. Marianna lunged forward and sank her teeth into his skin. Her teeth were brittle and began to break, leaving sharp shards to tear at Winston's flesh. "It's OK, feed the hunger." The pain made it impossible for Winston to steady the gun as he placed it against his wife's head. His finger froze as he tried to pull the trigger. He closed his eyes. "You have to do this. Save her." He opened his eyes to see a small object land on Mariana's wrinkled neck. The room lit with bright white, which was followed by a bang. Scorching heat engulfed Winston and Marianna, and then everything went black.

M
igraines weren't
new to Janet Holiday, but this one was persistent. Usually a day or two of wallowing between the sheets would give pain the slip. Not this time. This was day five of the headache. Determined not to succumb, Janet got up, showered, put on some clean clothes, loaded her iPhone with a Curtis Mayfield/Funk playlist, and headed out the door.

A funk playlist seemed an odd choice for someone battling a week-long headache, but whenever she felt bad, funk was what she turned to. She hoped a little dose of "Pusherman" would be the right fix. Janet caught the 17 bus headed downtown toward the trendy stores. She liked this bus due to the eclectic bunch that liked to call it home. Janet herself was a bit out there at times. She settled into a seat at the back of the bus so she could observe everyone and plugged her ears with headphones. Janet watched a man stand up in the middle of the bus and begin to recite poetry. She watched his mouth, trying to read his lips while Kool and the Gang's "Jungle Boogie" serenaded her ears. As the song faded out, she heard the words Hell and repent. Janet paused the opening chords of "Respect Yourself" and pulled the earbuds from her ears to listen to the man.

"Death, I looked you in your milky white eyes. I blinked and prayed for salvation before you darkened the skies. The government summoned you with all their lies. Now you steal souls, leaving no chance to say goodbye."

A faceless voice broke the prose. "Shut the hell up before I shut you up."

"Rage speaks volumes, ignored. It screams, leaving listeners abhorred. Rage taunts that normalcy will never be restored."

"I'm not going to tell you again. Shut the fuck up."

"Hunger, it feeds, never to be satisfied. I ignored it, I swear I tried. The hunger is so strong, I cried. Our government, it's all your fault because you lied."

"That's it." An older man stood up and started toward the poet.

The poet smiled. "Feed, I have no other choice. I am the dawning of the new generation, hear my voice."

The man swung. The poet grabbed his wrist. In a blur, he brought the man's arm to his mouth. His teeth tore through flesh to bone. Everyone else screamed and ran toward the front of the bus. Janet pressed against the exit door and jumped to the asphalt.

"What the hell was that?"

She ran away from the bus. The throbbing in her head matched every plant of her feet. The pain sent waves of sickness throughout her body. Janet stopped and vomited. Something shocked the nausea, numbing it. Hunger. Janet felt as though she was starving.

"What is happening to me?"

Someone bumped Janet, almost knocking her down. Heat scorched Janet's face.

"Fucking bitch didn't even say sorry."

Janet watched her hand reach out and grab the woman's hair. Janet moved in slow motion as if she was having an out-of-body experience. The terror on the woman's face as Janet threw her to the ground only stoked the rage.
This isn't me,
Janet thought before sinking her teeth into the woman's neck. The blood tasted bitter, but the flesh satisfied the hunger. Janet took another bite and screamed.

"I am the dawning of the new generation. Hear my voice."

"
T
hey damaged a few solar panels
, but there should be enough juice as long as you're not too long-winded."

"I'll be so glad when we can actually see the sun again on a regular basis."

"Yeah, you're looking a little pale these days. OK, camera is recording."

"I'm Melanie Carpenter. If you are watching this video, consider yourself lucky and heed the warnings I am going to give you. Two years ago, an outbreak started in Black Dog, a small community in southern North Carolina, and quickly spread across the country. A privately funded organization named ARMA created a biological weapon with the purpose of ending all war. What ARMA did was end the world that we knew. Cities crumbled. Our government fell. What remains is a vast wasteland of memories smoldering in the wreckage.

“The weapon is a virus called Judas. It has the ability to mutate whenever threatened. The virus' thirst for survival is unmatched by man. Originally, those infected with Judas died quickly. Before death, Judas put their organs in a type of comatose state to try to preserve the body until it could learn to co-exist. This caused the infected to turn into…well…zombies, for lack of a better word, and to crave keratin, a protein found in human skin. We gather Judas viewed this as a way to protect flesh while it found the perfect mutation. I realize it's difficult to imagine a virus that smart, but Judas is, and eventually, it found a mutation that allowed it to co-exist in a host without destroying it. The infected still crave human flesh, but they do not need it to exist any longer. The craving is a manifestation of Judas' need to replicate."

"Battery's fading fast. Remember long-winded is bad."

"The voice you hear telling me to wrap it up belongs to Dr. James Jones. He, along with Dr. Carolyn Swann, have been studying the physiology of Judas. The virus cannot infect everyone. Judas was spliced with a strain of 2009 H1N1. Those sickened during the 2009 H1N1 epidemic are immune to Judas. They are not carriers of the virus. This does not mean they are safe. For the most part, the infected function as normal people. But they are far from normal. The infected have one purpose…to feed the hunger. Flesh from the immune is the only way to satisfy it."

"Ten percent," Jones said.

"These days, it's almost impossible to spot someone infected with the virus. There are no milky eyes. Rage is the only true indicator and by the time you see it, it's too late. You must always assume the person next to you is infected. My advice to you is don't trust anyone, not even in your bloodline. Our goal is to unite with other survivors and eradicate the infected. There is no cure, but at least we have hope now. We've lived in this underground bunker for the last year and a half while we built a community that we feel is safe from the infected. Tomorrow, we test this by moving above ground."

"Five percent. Could go any second," Jones said.

Melanie smiled into the camera. "We are the survivors. We are the immune. And we are going to take our world back."

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T
he Last Five Days
: The Complete Novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.