The Last Five Days: The Complete Novel: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (8 page)

"You bitch."

Melanie stepped out from behind the car. Winston emerged from behind the shrubbery with the gun locked on Dean.

Dean dropped the gun. "You wouldn't shoot an unarmed man, would you?"

Without hesitation, Winston shot Dean in the chest. He stumbled and fell on his back. Winston fired another shot as he walked toward Dean. This one hit him in the side. His body jerked. Winston stood over Dean. Melanie stood next to Winston. Blood trickled from the corner of Dean's mouth. He fought to breathe, sending red speckles into the air like a geyser. He coughed.

"I didn't lie to you. I only had one bullet." The words were staggered between gasps.

Winston emptied the Colt into his hand. He counted five bullets.

"I didn't lie either."

Winston put one bullet in the gun and aimed it at Dean's head. Melanie grabbed his wrist.

"If I don't kill him, he'll just come back."

"I know." Melanie wrapped her hand around Winston's, prying his fingers from the gun. "Let me do it."

Winston let go of the Colt. "Are you sure?"

Melanie nodded. Winston stepped back.

"Don't think about moving or I'll bury a bullet in your forehead." Melanie closed her eyes and pulled the trigger.

Winston took the gun from her trembling hand. "You OK?"

Melanie smiled. "As well as one can be after nearly being murdered by her boyfriend."

Winston looked at the can. Gas poured into the street. It was getting dark. There wasn't enough time to find another can. It didn't matter. The day was shot. With cooler temperatures, the food in the fridge might last another day.
I'll get gas tomorrow
, Winston thought. Tomorrow.
Salk; that'll have to wait till tomorrow too.
Winston was learning that setting these next day goals would be the only thing to get him through the night as things got worse. He looked at his arm.

"Is it bad?" Melanie asked.

"I'm not too versed in gunshots, but it sure hurts like hell." Winston kicked over the gas can. "Well, it's getting dark. You don't want to be out here much longer."

"What are you going to do?"

"I have to get home to Marianna."

"Thank God, she's not sick. I was worried since I hadn't heard from her all week."

Marianna was the first person to befriend Melanie when she moved to Black Dog. Both creative minds, they shared a love for the arts and yoga. Last week was the first time in over a year that Marianna had missed yoga. Melanie worried about her, but figured it was just a cold or something.

"She's infected."

"I thought the infected were dangerous?"

"I locked her in the guest bedroom. They're going to find a cure. Anyway, I gotta go. You should get inside."

"Can I come with you?"

Winston didn't answer.

"You're going to need someone to help you with that." Melanie pointed to Winston's arm. "I was an ambassador in the Girl Scouts."

Winston smiled. "I have no idea what that means."

"I just don't want to be alone."

"All right. You can come, but the house is a mess."

Melanie rolled her eyes. They started walking.

"Do you really think they are going to find a cure for this?"

"You know that doctor from the CDC? She gave me some valuable information to give to Dr. Salk. I was going to see him today but got a little sidetracked." Winston smiled again.

"You got sidetracked? My boyfriend turned out to be a serial killer who's been stalking me since New York."

"Yeah, well, I had to shoot Jimbo Brookside."

"What's this world coming to, Winston?"

Winston fought hard not to say “an end.”
Stay positive,
he thought. "I don't know, but we're still here." He wasn't sure that was a good thing. The chance of seeing a cure was slim. The chance of ever leaving Black Dog was non-existent.

"So, what are we going to do tomorrow?"

Get gas. Talk to Salk.
"Tomorrow, we keep living."

N
icotine
—it's the sharpest double-edged sword. It calms...and it kills. Winston took a puff, pulled the cigarette from his lips, and watched the smoke. He used to be a heavy smoker, at least a pack a day. And then his grandmother died of lung cancer. Winston tried to give up smokes cold turkey, but the allure was too much. Finally, after a few nicotine gums, it stuck. Winston grew to hate the taste, the smell, and the control cigarettes had over him. He watched the smoke plume and whisk away into the slight breeze. Years of abstinence floated in the trail. This cigarette was like reuniting with a long lost volatile lover — so wrong, but for a few minutes, so right. The pleasure was worth the consequences.

"I didn't know you smoked," Melanie said, stepping out onto the front porch. She stretched her arms above her head, reaching as far as she could, and then inhaled fresh air. Surprisingly, the stench of rotting corpses was minimal. The virus had a way of masking decay.

Winston stopped rocking and shielded the cigarette from Melanie in act of shame. "I quit about fifteen years ago."

"Around five years for me. Got one to spare?" Melanie smiled.

Winston pulled a pack from his inside jacket pocket. "Lifted these from Jimbo yesterday."

He offered a cigarette to Melanie. She lit up and blew smoke into the air.

"How's the arm?"

"Better. Thanks for digging the bullet out. Did they teach you that in Girl Scouts?"

Melanie shook her head. "Nope, got those handy medical skills from
Grey's Anatomy
."

"I should have watched more television." Winston puffed again. "These things really are the devil." He held the cigarette out. Ashes fell to the porch from the burning tip.

Melanie put the cigarette to her lips without responding.

"I don't know what's more insane; us being trapped here by our own government or Dean following you from New York. Do you really think he was one of those assholes who robbed you that night?"

Melanie blew smoke. "I know he was. He knew everything about that night. Every little detail."

"Just crazy."

"Yeah. So, what's the plan for today?"

"At some point, we need to find some gas for the generator. The food's probably bad, but it would be nice to have a little electricity. It's getting colder. We'll need to find wood for the fireplace."

"I got that covered. Jerry brought me a load last week."

"First, we need to try to find Salk. When I talked to Byrd, she was sick, but not to the point she couldn't function. She told me a bunch of things to tell Salk."

"Did she know what caused this?"

"No, but…" Winston hesitated. Melanie hadn't shown any signs of being sick. She deserved to know everything he did. "But she did tell me what happens to the body once you're infected. You start to crave a protein called keratin. It's in skin."

"That's why people are trying to eat each other?"

Winston let a brief chuckle slip. "Yeah."

"Will this Salk guy help us since we're not infected?"

No one's getting out of here alive.
Dr. Byrd's words drowned out Melanie. Winston took another puff. "I sure hope so."

* * *

R
obert Salk paced
the opposite direction of General Hendricks. Salk wasn't a small man, average by standards. But next to Hendricks, he seemed short. Hendricks stood at least six-five and had excellent muscle tone for a man in his mid-fifties.

A black helicopter circled above. Each man stopped after a few paces to watch the chopper and then returned to anxious movement. Neither spoke. They didn't have to. Salk's face told the story of a worried man running out of options. Hendricks had the look of a child waiting to open Christmas presents.

Since middle school, Salk had been fascinated with biology. When most kids looked forward to gym or recess, Salk constantly eyed his watch, waiting for Mr. Woolwine's science class. He never imagined he would be in this position when he joined the Judas Project. It was pitched to him as a team of the brightest minds in science working together to bring world peace under an umbrella of the highest secrecy. But the Judas Project was a weapon. Salk was all in when he signed on and was given security clearance. There was no turning back, and the more he learned about the Judas Project, the more interested he became.

"What if there was a biological weapon that held no fear of catastrophic casualties? A weapon with an isolated target. Once wiped out, the agent dies out, like Ebola."

That was the way General Thomas Hendricks described the Judas Project in their first meeting. An isolated target. What was happening in Black Dog was only isolated because it was contained. Such is the case with any infectious disease. One would have thought the brightest minds in science would have known that. The allure of building something the world hadn't seen was too strong. Now the world was on the verge of destruction because of their blindness.

The helicopter hovered above a barricaded road.

"It's safe to land," Hendricks spoke into a two-way radio.

Arriving were three scientists who weren't involved in the Judas Project for various reasons, none being their minds. Before Hendricks approached anyone, their lives were picked apart without their knowledge. If Hendricks didn't feel they were the right fit, he moved on. The decision solely belonged to him. Hendricks ran ARMA.

ARMA wasn't the United States Military. ARMA, named after the Latin word for weapon, was a privately funded organization, and according the military, it didn't exist. ARMA was untraceable. The outbreak in Black Dog threatened its invisibility. Hendricks felt betrayed by his team of scientists, Salk included. This should have been contained. There was a plan. All the scientists had to do was follow the plan. Now, Hendricks had to stick his neck out, become vulnerable, something he didn't enjoy, but deep down, he knew Judas worked. He hoped the three outsiders would be able to contain the Judas virus to ensure ARMA's survival. Hendricks didn't care much about a cure. That was never part of his plan. A disease without a cure is much more feared, but this needed to be contained before the United States military stepped in.

The first to exit the helicopter was Dr. James Jones, a driving force in the field of virology. Often called the "Michael Jordan" of virology, Dr. Jones beamed with cockiness that he called confidence. His ego was the reason Hendricks initially passed on asking him to join ARMA.

"How was the ride?" Hendricks asked.

"Pretty shitty. Was the blindfold necessary? Where are we?"

"I'm sorry about the blindfold, but it's imperative that our location remain secret."

"Just who the hell did you think I'd tell? You put me on a helicopter with Laurel and Hardy."

Before General Hendricks could reply, a rail-thin man pushed Jones to the side and decorated the asphalt with his lunch. Hendricks stepped back, but wasn't fast enough to avoid the remnants of a deconstructed ham sandwich on his shoes.

"I'm so sorry, sir."

Hendricks nodded. "First time on a helicopter, son?"

"No, sir. Just a bumpy ride. Again, I'm sorry."

"I can hose the shoes off. I'm General Tom Hendricks."

"Nice to meet you, sir. I'm Richard Kincaid. Everyone calls me Richie."

Richard Kincaid was a wunderkind in microbiology. He earned the nickname "Richie" from a striking resemblance to Ron Howard's character on
Happy Days
. Richie graduated from Michigan State at sixteen. By his twenty-fifth birthday, Richie ran the microbiology department at State. His accelerated education negatively affected his social skills. Richie didn't have a normal childhood. Ask him about rods and cocci and he could go on all day. Ask him about his first kiss and Richie would be stumped. He was naïve and innocent. That got him scratched off of General Hendricks's list.

The last man off the helicopter was Dr. Mark Fisher. Parasitology was his niche. Weighing nearly 300 pounds and armed with a sharp wit, he rarely lost an argument. Dr. Jones constantly challenged him.

"It took you long enough to get off the helicopter."

"I wanted to let your cloud of flatulence that you don't think stinks clear before I got off," Dr. Fisher said.

"Good one, Tubby. With you being a god in the parasitic world, you would think you would've ingested a tapeworm to lose some of that weight. God knows, it looks like you ingest everything else," Jones said.

Hendricks stepped between Jones and Fisher. "There's no time for this. This is a serious matter. I assume you know Robert Salk. He will brief you on the situation."

"Salk? You son-of-a-bitch," Jones said.

Salk didn't answer. He motioned for the men to follow. They walked by a row of black tents to a mobile CDC unit.

"What's going on, Bob?" Fisher said.

Salk waited to answer until they were in the mobile lab.

"This is about that secret project Hendricks came to me about a few years ago, isn't it?" Fisher asked. "I knew turning him down was the right thing. What type of mess have you got yourself in?"

"He asked you to join?" Salk asked.

"Yeah, told him to shove it."

Ethics was the reason Mark Fisher wasn't part of the Judas Project.

"This is great, but you two can catch up over a romantic dinner tonight. Why the hell are we here, Bob?" Jones asked.

Salk picked up a remote, pushed a button, and a black screen with the word JUDAS popped up on a television screen.

"For the last two years, we've been developing a biological agent…"

Jones interrupted Salk. "You mean weapon."

"The purpose of the agent was to incapacitate the enemy with minimal casualties to civilians."

"That's a pipedream, Bob. War is casualties," Fisher said.

"The purpose of the agent was to cause the enemy to turn on each other."

"You sound like a robot, Bob. Did Hendricks's little army brainwash you?" Jones said.

"I hope you're settling in well," Hendricks said, stepping into the mobile unit. "I assure you ARMA is not in the business of brainwashing."

"ARMA? No, you're just in the business of playing god," Fisher said.

"I see you're still skeptical, Mark." Hendricks took the remote from Salk and turned the television off. "ARMA is a privately funded organization with the goal of ensuring world peace. We do not follow United States government regulations. We do not follow local, state, or federal law. We are our own entity..."

"I'm pretty sure I saw the United States military out there," Jones said.

"Something has happened in Black Dog that is a threat to national security. You are correct; there is a small military presence here."

"And you're a damn fool if you think you're not under military regulations here," Fisher said.

"How did the agent get released in Black Dog?" Richie asked.

The room went silent.

"We're here because you screwed up. We're your last option before the military steps in," Richie said.

"Unfortunately, you are correct, Richie." Hendricks nodded to Salk.

"We're not sure how the outbreak started, but Dr. Byrd traced it back to two men fishing in Black Dog Lake. A few days after their trip, they began to present, and two days later, they were dead…"

"Carrie is here?" Fisher asked.

"And what happened after they died?" Jones asked.

Before Salk could answer, Richie said, "They came back."

"They murdered the man who was going to cremate them."

"Oh shit," Jones said. "Good job, Bob. Looks like you've really screwed up this time."

"The agent is working exactly like it's designed to," Fisher said. "It's causing neighbors to turn on neighbors. That's what you were going for. Right, Tom?"

"The goal was to have the enemy…"

"Save your breath. The goal was to have people turn on each other. Congratulations," Fisher said. "Where is Carrie?"

Salk looked at Hendricks.

"Dr. Byrd sacrificed herself for science," Hendricks said.

"She's dead, Mark," Salk said. "She went in for interviews and never made it back."

Fisher shoved a metal cart. Papers flew in all directions. A projector crashed to the floor. "I want no part of this. I'm not cleaning up your shit."

Hendricks stepped in front of Fisher as he tried to leave the unit.

"Once you're here, you can't leave until there is a cure, and the threat is eliminated. We cannot risk this virus getting out," Hendricks said.

"It's already out," Richie said. "And you should have thought about a cure when you were creating this thing. It's too late now." Fisher walked by Hendricks and stopped. Without turning around, he said, "You're the biggest threat here. How do we eliminate you?"