by Paul Seiple
"Seen anyone else around here?"
"No. I'm sure Vera is dead. She would be here making sure the survivors weren't hungry."
Byrd opened her mouth to speak. A crash in the kitchen stole the words. Winston grabbed his Colt. He hit the mug and coffee spread over the table. Winston stood up just as there was another crash. The sound of plates breaking echoed through the diner.
"Stay here." Winston inched closer to the bar. He crouched next to the end stool. The swinging doors separating the kitchen flung open. A powdered blue blur darted at Winston. He didn't have enough time to get to his feet. Vera dove into his shoulder, knocking him to the floor. The impact freed the pistol from his grasp. It slid across the floor, well out of reach. The back of Winston's head slammed against the linoleum, which wasn't much of a shield from the concrete beneath. Winston's eyes strained and then he saw dots. Blue ones. Yellows ones. Green ones. And then they all turned red.
"She's bleeding. Don't let any get on your face." Byrd reached for the gun.
Winston pressed against Vera's shoulders, holding her off him. She wasn't big, maybe five-three, a hundred and ten pounds, but she had the strength of a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound wrestler. Winston scooted his body so that any blood that fell landed on his windbreaker. Vera lunged at him. He moved his head to the side just before she reached his neck. The stench of death made him gag as her warm breath slapped his face. She's dead. How is her breath warm? Before he could come up with an answer, he realized her skin was hot. He pushed the side of Vera's head. She slammed into the bar. It gave Winston enough time to free himself. He stumbled before gaining his footing and bracing against a stool. Vera sprang to her feet and lunged. A popping sound, loud enough for Winston to forget Vera and reach for his ears, filled the diner. Vera smacked against the bar and slid to the floor. Winston looked at Byrd. She had the gun aimed at him. The barrel was a blur in her shaking hand.
"I'm not infected, remember?" Winston held his hands out, palms up, as a show of surrender. But she is. He couldn't shake the thought. Something, a rage, took over people right before they died. Winston had watched a neighbor strangle her husband before her death. The man let her. Why would he let her? Maybe he couldn't stop it. The virus gave people superhuman strength.
Dr. Byrd raised her arm. She used her other hand to steady the shakes. The gun was pointed at Winston's head. He looked at the bar. In his younger days, Winston was a decent athlete. He was close enough to where he could dive over the bar. It would hurt like hell, but not nearly as bad as a gunshot.
"Sorry. Sorry." Byrd dropped the Colt. "I don't know why I pointed it at you. I was scared."
"It's the virus. The final stage brings rage in the sick."
Byrd took a seat at the booth and watched Ticker still pacing on the dock. Winston grabbed a towel from the bar and picked up the gun. He swiped at the spilled coffee, splashing it onto the floor, and sat down.
"Rage, huh?" Byrd asked.
"I've seen it." Winston spared her the details. He didn't know what stage Byrd was in. Maybe she was just scared, but if she was nearing the final stage, the littlest thing could make her snap.
"I'm not an angry person."
And I wasn't a violent person, Winston thought.
"I need to tell someone what's going on inside of me. As much as I hate the bastard, Salk needs to know for the future." Byrd stopped to wipe her nose again. "Can you lend an ear for a little while?"
Winston looked at his watch. "I think I can spare a few minutes." He smiled.
Byrd returned the favor. "I think I'll take that cup of coffee now, if you are still offering."
As Winston left to get coffee, he moved far right to avoid Vera's body. A shot to the head put the dead down for good...up to that point. Winston didn't want to take any chances. "She felt hot, like fever hot," he said, pouring coffee. "Aren't you supposed to be cold when you're dead?"
"In theory. But then again, the dead don't typically burst through doors and try to rip you apart."
Winston glanced down. A pool of blood wrapped itself around Vera's head. Thick, sticky liquid clung to her brown hair like mud. A bluish-green streak accented with purple formed a halo effect around Vera's neck. Winston dropped to a knee to get a closer look.
"What are you doing?" Byrd stood up and walked toward Winston.
"See this?" He pointed to Vera's neck.
Byrd bent down. "Ligature marks."
Winston moved in closer. "Looks like someone wrapped a chain around Vera's neck."
"The dead don't do that. There's no brain function. Nothing to tell the body to pick up a chain and strangle someone."
Gooseflesh popped up on Winston's arms. The hair stood as though he had been shocked with electricity. The boy on the bike. He wasn't dead. I killed a boy.
"What's wrong? Did she move?" Byrd took a few steps back.
Winston used the stool for support and got to his feet. A dull ache in both knees was new. Winston hit the gym at least three times a week and did yoga on the weekends with Marianna. He hardly ever had pain. He stood against the bar waiting for the pain to pass. "She didn't move. I just can't believe that on top of fighting the dead, we have to worry about the living."
"You said you think rage is the final stage. Maybe she encountered someone in the final stage. Maybe the same person who put an ax in Luther's head."
"Maybe." The boy was sick. He was in the final stage. I had to shoot him.
Byrd took a seat at the booth. "Where's my coffee?" She smiled.
Winston sat down and slid a mug in front of Byrd. He waited for her to sip the coffee and then said, "I shot my neighbor in the head this morning."
Byrd lowered the mug. "You did him a favor."
Did him a favor? Winston's thoughts shifted to his wife. Was she in pain? Did he need to do her a favor too?
"You have to understand they are not people any longer. Not your friends. Not your coworkers." Dr. Byrd sipped coffee. "And not your wife."
"Do you think she is suffering?"
"If she's dead, she can't feel pain. But you are suffering by hanging on to the hope you can save her. She's gone."
"You don't know for sure. This virus has never been seen before. I watched this show on National Geographic about the pufferfish. Something about a poison that makes it look like you're dead." Winston brought the mug to his lips.
"And then you die. It's called Tetrodotoxin, and this is nothing like it. This doesn't paralyze you. It's the opposite. It makes every ounce of physiology hypersensitive."
Winston placed the mug on the table. "Like caffeine?"
"Like ungodly amounts of caffeine. For instance, this coffee; I can tell the cream is on the verge of going bad."
Winston took another sip. "Tastes fine to me."
"Exactly my point. It's not going to make you sick yet, but it's spoiling. It's like that with everything. The egg salad sandwich was the last thing I ate. My palate deconstructed every ingredient. The sandwich was good, but Luther didn't measure the paprika. It was too much. Normally, I would have never known that, and I didn't pay it any mind until I realized I was sick."
"So, it screws up your taste buds?"
Byrd sat for a moment before responding. She took a deep breath. "Not just that; it makes you crave something very specific."
"Let me guess...brains."
Byrd laughed. "No. This isn't like zombie movies. The dead don't rise from graves. I'm thinking the incubation period once death occurs is around twenty-four to forty-eight hours."
"But you're already craving something?"
"It started almost immediately."
"Don't keep me in suspense."
"It's not glamorous." Byrd paused to sip coffee. "I crave keratin."
"Hair care products?"
Byrd laughed. Blood poured from her nose. "Shit." She held a napkin to her face. "Keratin is a protein found in the epidermis of human skin. It's like a shield, protecting cells from damage and anything that can kill the cells. Without the hypersensitiv
ity, I would never be able to pinpoint keratin as the craving."
"You crave human flesh?"
"Right now, you smell like a steak on the grill." Byrd smiled. "It also intensifies the sense of smell...and touch." She held up the mug. "The pot isn't brewing the coffee hot enough. It's about one hundred and eighty degrees. Needs to be at least one ninety-five, preferably two hundred."
Winston mumbled "Fuck" barely above the sound of a breath.
"And hearing. I can hear better now."
"Do you think this continues after death?"
"Hard to say. I haven't spoken to anyone who died." Byrd smiled. "But I'd be willing to bet at least the need for keratin continues. This virus is like Ebola, only smarter. It knows it's going to kill the host. It's trying to find ways to keep the host alive. Craving keratin leads me to believe it's a way of keeping the flesh from decaying."
"This is just too much." Winston stood up and walked over to Vera. "So, there isn't a chance of the dead leaving their graves?"
"No. And there's no chance of her getting back up. The virus is parasitic in nature. It sets up shop in the brain and uses the body like a remote control car."
Winston looked at Byrd. "How long do you think you have?"
"I haven't wanted to kill you yet, so I'd say I'm not in the final stage."
Winston sat down. "What do you want me to tell Salk?"
"I need you to tell him that it makes you crave keratin. Tell him my theory about keratin keeping the body from decomposing. Tell him about the hypersensitive senses. And tell him it starts with nausea."
"A lot of things start with nausea." Winston tried to discredit Byrd. Slight waves of sickness crashed in his stomach. "Bad egg salad starts with nausea."
Byrd ignored Winston. "Then there are the random aches and pains."
My knees, Winston thought.
"It starts in the joints. In the elbows, the fingers, the toes, the knees. Then you develop stiffness in your neck."
Winston rolled his chin forward and then around in a clockwise pattern. His neck was a little tense. But it had to be stress. "When do you start craving flesh?"
"For me, it started last night, right after the headache. For the first day or so, my mouth was dry. I was thirsty. Couldn't get enough to drink. And then came the headache. I figured it was dehydration, but I started producing an abnormal amount of saliva. My mouth literally watered for flesh."
"It's really a good thing I'm not eating." Winston hoped his attempt at humor wouldn't seem insensitive. There was that little thing called rage that would soon overtake Byrd.
Byrd smiled. "No, it's a good thing I'm not eating." She winked.
"I smell like steak, huh?"
"Don't tempt me."
"Anything else I need to tell Salk?"
Byrd hesitated as if she was looking for the right way to say it. "Tell him if anyone shows the signs, they must be destroyed." After her words, Byrd's face wore doubt like a mask.
"But what you've described could be anything. You can't go around killing people. What if it's only a cold?"
"Craving flesh isn't a cold symptom."
"Do you really think someone is going to go into an emergency room and complain about wanting to eat human flesh? Cannibalism is something one would probably keep a secret."
"Hopefully, Salk found the virus's fingerprint in the blood samples I gave him. I'm not suggesting kill everyone with a stomachache. But I am telling you, this cannot leave this town."
"What you're really telling me is I'm dead."
Byrd's eyes shifted downward. She ran her fingertips over the mug. The sensation was similar to rug burn, only ten times worse. The sense of touch was becoming torture. She continued to trace the mug, hoping the pain would make her next sentence easier. "We all are going to die here." The pain didn't numb her words.
"I refuse to believe that. I'm going to fight. I'm going to find a way to save my wife."
Heat singed Byrd's face. It felt like opening a hot oven. Her ears burned. She couldn't see it, but she knew her cheeks were flushed. Something, she wasn't sure if it was the tone or the words, but Winston's response made her want to reach over the table and rip his throat out.
"Are you OK?" Winston asked, noticing a change in Byrd's demeanor.
She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. Beads of sweat caused her blonde hair to stick to the side of her face. "Tell Salk the fever makes your skin boil." Blisters bubbled on Byrd's hand like boiling water.
Winston reached for the Colt.
"I'll tell you when," Byrd said.
Winston saw rage in her eyes. He liked the conversation. It was something he was starting to miss. He wanted to honor Byrd's wishes, but soon she would be much stronger than him, even if she didn't realize it. Vera had held him down with ease. Byrd was taller and weighed about twenty pounds more. She was stronger. He placed his palm over the gun. "Do you want to hurt me?"
Byrd sighed. Her head fell back against the seat of the booth. She rested for a moment. "I want to reach over this table and tear your head from your shoulders."
Winston closed his hand around the Colt. "I appreciate your honesty."
Byrd laughed, and again, it turned to a cough. A spittle of blood landed on the table. A hunger nearing starvation possessed her. The smell of Winston's flesh taunted her like a desert oasis to a lost traveler. Her jaw twitched, sending pain down her neck. She bit down and began to grind her teeth. It took a moment to feel the tip of her tongue being severed between the teeth. But when it hit, convulsions raced through her body. Blood spilled from her closed lips. She looked at Winston. The film clouding her eyes made it difficult to see anything but motion. His movement led her to believe Winston aimed the gun at her. Byrd was losing cognitive function, but she still knew the key to survival was Winston's flesh. A gunshot to the head would be the end. The virus using her body wanted to live. It had the ability to think. She needed to tell Winston. Rage burned through her, erasing any desire to stop the virus. The only thing that mattered was its survival. She grabbed the table. "Now."
Winston hesitated.
Byrd lunged over the table, sending the coffee mug flying. Hot liquid smacked Winston in the face, almost as a wake-up call. He tilted his body and jammed the barrel of the gun against Byrd's cheek and pulled the trigger. Her body fell onto the table. The ringing in Winston's ear was worse than when Byrd shot Vera. Was it because the shot was closer or was he becoming hypersensitive? He shook the thought by pushing Byrd to the floor.
Winston sat in silence, hoping the ringing would subside. He looked across the booth at the empty spot. This was Winston's life now. The return on the investment of making friends was horrible. People he once called friends now wanted to kill him. He turned his attention to Ticker, who had regained his footing and was at the edge of the dock watching ripples in the water caused by the fall wind. Dead people didn't care about scenic views. What the hell is this thing? Throbbing on the side of his face interrupted Winston's thoughts. He felt his cheek. Feverish. "No." He remembered Byrd's words. Don't get any on your face. He was almost cheek to cheek with Byrd when he shot her. There was no way he didn't get any on his face. Winston rushed by Byrd to the bathroom. He stared into the mirror in silence. After a few moments, his laughter shattered the quiet. "Coffee." His cheek was red, not from blood, but burned from the coffee. Relief was overwhelming. Winston stepped into a stall to ease his full bladder. Just as he was about to flush the toilet, he heard the front door of the diner open. He reached for the Colt. The holster was empty. "Dammit."
Winston walked to the bathroom door. He pressed his ear against the wood. Glass breaking under footsteps. He surveyed the bathroom, first for a potential weapon. There was nothing but a plunger. Then for a hiding spot; the small square footage wasn't ideal. The two stalls would surely get searched if someone came in. One door made escape nearly impossible if Winston was confronted. He had to leave the bathroom. He listened. There was no denying the squeaky sound. Kitchen doors
. Luther always complained about the doors. No matter how many times he oiled them, they still made noise. This was Winston's only chance. If someone was in the kitchen, the only other place to check was the bathroom.
Winston eased the door open, thankful there was no squeak. The diner was empty. Byrd and Vera lay where they fell, untouched. He stepped out into the open. Winston checked around Byrd's body. No gun. He bent down to look under the booth, when he heard the kitchen doors open. Winston dove under the table and pressed himself against the wall. He craned his neck in hopes of seeing who was there.
Black boots speckled with small crimson dots. Looked to be about a size twelve. Definitely a man. Blue jeans. More blood mixed with mud. He walked with purpose, stopping every few steps as if to search for something. What? Human flesh?
Winston's eyes darted left, right, up, and down, looking for his Colt. It was gone. The realization should have made Winston uneasy, but he felt comfort. Dead people do not shoot guns. The man in the diner was alive. Winston could reason with him. He was probably scared. The living needed to stick together. Winston released the tension in his shoulders. His next thought put up an invisible wall that kept him from introducing himself. What if he has the rage?
Byrd had functioned normally up to the end. One moment she was talking about egg salad and the next she wanted to rip Winston's throat out. If she could have gotten her hands on the gun, she would have shot him.
I can't stay under here, Winston thought. He fumbled around, looking for anything underneath the booth that could double as a weapon. He should have known there wouldn't be anything. Vera was immaculate with cleaning. Not even a crumb. His hand brushed against something that clanged on the floor. Shit. The man froze mid-step and turned toward the sound. Winston tried to hold his breath to maintain absolute silence, but his heart wouldn't cooperate. The thumping was loud. Amplified. Or was it? Maybe Winston's hearing was enhanced. Byrd's words invaded his thoughts again...hypersensitivity.
The man misjudged the noise. He stepped over Byrd's body and walked by the booth toward the front door. Winston grabbed for what had made the noise. It was a piece of broken mug, not big enough to do any damage to anyone. Winston had a pretty good arm in high school. If he got the right trajectory, he could throw the piece of porcelain behind the bar. If he missed, it would draw the man to him. Winston didn't have a choice. He lay on his left side, angled his neck awkwardly, and went through the throwing motion with his right arm. He wasn't happy with the range of motion, but he could probably get enough force behind the throw to make it to the bar. Winston took a deep breath and heaved the broken mug. It was a better throw than he hoped for, crashing against the wall behind a coffee pot.