by Paul Seiple
The man walked in the direction of the crash, toes pointed at the bar. Winston slid out from under the table and started toward the door. He tripped over Byrd's leg. The man faced him. He had the Colt aimed at Winston.
"Don't shoot. I'm not sick."
A bullet ricocheted next to Winston's head. He pulled Byrd's body onto him as a shield. Another shot. Byrd shook violently as the bullet sliced through her, grazing Winston's arm. With everything he could muster, Winston flung his arms, sending Byrd's body at the shooter. Another bullet struck Byrd in chest. Winston scrambled to his feet to run to the door. A bullet hit the metal frame, causing him to fall back. He rolled on his shoulder. Another bullet hit the booth above his head. Winston dropped to his stomach and slid under the table. One. He did math in his head. Harry. Vera. Byrd. He's shot at me five times. That makes eight. There's one bullet left. It only took one.
The dirty boots inched closer to Winston. Think. Think. Winston's shoulder hit the leg of the table. It moved. The boots stopped. Winston saw dirty knees. The man was coming under the booth. Winston closed his eyes and kicked the underside of the table. It flew upwards into the man. Another gunshot. He's empty.
Winston lunged forward, catching the man in the side. They tumbled to the center of the diner. Winston was first to his feet.
"Randy."
Randy Jacobs became Winston's first friend when his family moved to Black Dog thirty-five years ago. They remained best friends. Randy was Winston's best man at his wedding and now he was trying to kill him.
"It's me. Winston. I'm not sick, Randy."
Randy ignored Winston and rubbed his nose, smearing blood over his face. There was no doubt the force of the table had broken Randy's nose. It sat underneath his right eye.
"I'm sorry about your nose. You were trying to kill me."
Randy didn't speak. He aimed the Colt at Winston, who started second guessing his math. If he was off by one bullet, it was over. Winston closed his eyes. Randy pulled the trigger. Nothing. He looked at the gun, aimed it at Winston. and pulled the trigger.
"No bullets, Randy."
Randy dropped the gun, lowered his shoulder, and ran at Winston. He made contact with Winston's chest, lifting him a few feet in the air. Randy slammed Winston to the floor. Air escaped Winston's lungs, leaving little reserve when Randy wrapped his fingers around his throat. Randy's strength was unmatchable, but Winston's life depended on trying. He grabbed Randy's wrists, but he couldn't pry them from his neck. Winston tightened his grip. Randy had no pulse. His skin was almost hot to the touch. Randy was dead. Dead and yet he still knew how to use a gun. There was no freeing Winston from Randy's grasp. He had to find vulnerability. Winston felt his eyes bulging. He fought against losing consciousness. Winston didn't have long. He looked into Randy's eyes. A thin, milky coat covered his pupils. Randy blinked rapidly. The eyes.
WINSTON LET GO of Randy's wrists and clawed at his face. Winston pressed his thumbs into Randy's eyes. The grip on his throat tightened. Winston pushed his thumbs deeper, creating a suction sound. Randy's fingers opened, allowing Winston to breathe. He gasped and lurched up, sinking his thumbs farther into his best friend's eye sockets. Randy became dead weight. Winston shifted his hips and tossed Randy off him. Winston sat up and wiped his thumbs on Randy's jeans before massaging his own throat. When his breathing regulated, Winston grabbed a stool, pulled himself up, and took a seat at the bar.
He eyed Vera below him. "I'll have the cheeseburger special." Winston laughed. Lines were blurred. He didn't know if the laugh and poor joke were out of relief or out of insanity. Winston never figured he would have to gouge his best friend's eyes out to survive. He doubted his decision. Maybe he should have let Randy kill him. This would all be over. The alarm on his watch chirped. Noon. Time to call Marianna. Winston set the alarm to remember to call Marianna every day at lunch. It wasn't like he would forget. The alarm was an insurance policy. Marianna was a high school biology teacher. Lunch was the only time she had to talk unless it was an emergency. Winston liked telling her that he loved her. That was the main purpose of the call, but there was no need now. She'd rather eat him than hear those three little words.
He tugged his cell phone from his back pocket, amazed that it held up through all the ruckus. Winston scrolled through his numbers, stopping on HOME. He glanced around the carnage in the diner. Three bodies. Blood splattered over the linoleum. Broken glass everywhere. For a moment, Winston felt proud surrounded by chaos. Proud that his love for Marianna was strong enough to help him face death again and again. He didn't care what Byrd thought. Winston was getting out of this alive and he was going to save Marianna. He dialed home, knowing Marianna wouldn't pick up. After seven rings, voicemail kicked in. Winston smiled as Marianna's voice soothed his ears. She was doing her best karaoke version of Lionel Richie's "Hello." Her voice cracked between laughs. After the beep, Winston said, "I love you, baby."
Winston picked up his Colt. Useless for the moment, but he had plenty of bullets back home. Why didn't I bring another magazine? he thought, holstering the gun. He went behind the counter and poured a cup of coffee into a to-go cup. Styrofoam. Winston held the cup at eye level, going over all the ways Styrofoam was bad for him. Bad for the environment. Before the virus, Winston was health conscious. It started around his fortieth birthday. He had gained weight and Doc Barnard diagnosed him pre-diabetic. A few years later, clean eating and exercise had given him a new lease on life. He looked at the cup and then stuck his finger through the hole in his jacket caused by one of Randy's shots. He felt down to the flesh. A little wetness. Not too bad. Not a lot of blood. A superficial wound. He would live. Winston eyed the cup again. "Screw it. There's too many things that will kill me." He walked to the door, gave the diner one last glance, and turned off the light.
There was no way of telling when the power would go out for good, but Winston didn't want to waste what little was left. He stepped onto the sidewalk in front of Luther's. A brisk wind slapped him. He took a sip of coffee and started toward Ticker Evans.
"How am I going to do this?" Winston neared the boat dock. Ticker hadn't noticed him yet. The easiest way would be to sneak up behind Ticker and shove him into the water. Ticker was old. His heart couldn't take much. He would drown. What a horrible way to go. Winston thought back to his childhood when a wave took him under and refused to let him up. He was only underwater for a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity, and the scar it left took a long time to heal. Drowning Ticker wasn't an option. Besides, the brain would still be intact.
Winston froze mid-stride. "He's not alive. Why the hell am I worrying about this?"
Even though Winston's death toll was up to seven, it was still hard for him to believe the people he shared his life with were dead, but not dead. He looked around for anything that could be used to put Ticker out of his misery. Winston couldn't bring himself to push the old man over the dock.
Winston was about five feet from the dock when Ticker saw him. The old man started for Winston. Slow, staggered strides that resembled zombie movement reminiscent of horror movies. Winston kept walking in Ticker's direction. He still didn't have anything that could pass for a weapon other than the Colt. He could use the butt of the gun if it came to that. Winston hoped it didn't. The gun was a present from his father who had passed away nearly ten years earlier. It held sentimental value, but if it came down to it, Winston would do whatever it took to save his life. He was confident in his ability after poking his best friend's eyes out.
Ticker coughed. The dead don't cough. A moment of relief comforted Winston. He ceased his search for a weapon. A spittle of blood dangled from Ticker's lips. He cleared his throat and spit.
"Ticker?" Winston asked, stopping to wait for an answer.
"Winston? Is that you? I can't see too well. Musta left my glasses at home."
"It's me. What are you doing out here, Ticker?"
Ticker looked over his left shoulder, then his right. "I don't know. Last thing I
remember is watching The Price is Right. Watch it every morning." Ticker coughed again, more violent, more angry. Blood trickled out his nose. He wiped it on the sleeve of his flannel shirt. "I think I'm getting sick, Winston."
"How long you been feeling bad?"
"Started feeling a sour stomach the other night. It's weird. I feel hungry, but it's a taste for something I've never had. I don't know what it is."
Keratin, Winston thought. He resumed search for a weapon. Ticker was infected. He had all the symptoms. If Byrd got her dying wish, Ticker would cease to exist on the dock. Until there was a cure, she was right. Winston knew what he had to do. Ticker wasn't poised to attack, but it could come at any time. He couldn't leave Ticker wandering on the dock. The only certainty was that Ticker would hurt someone.
"Heard of anything going around, Winston?"
He doesn't know, Winston thought. "How long's it been since you left your house, Ticker?"
Ticker cocked his head as if he were counting the days in his mind. "Three. Maybe four days."
How the hell did he get sick?
A boat drew their attention away from the conversation. It slowed about thirty feet from the dock. Winston wasn't a boat expert, but it looked similar to a small response boat used by the US Coast Guard. It only resembled the Coast Guard in shape. This boat was shiny black with no markings.
"Step away from the boats. Leave the dock immediately." The male voice had a hint of static as it echoed. "That was your only warning. We are under direct orders of the United States Military. If you do not vacate the dock immediately, we will use lethal force."
Winston held up his hands and started backing away. Ticker faced the faceless voice and started toward his boat.
"What are you doing?" Winston asked.
"Doris is mine. I'll be damned if anyone's gonna tell me I can't be with her."
Ticker had named his bay boat after his wife Doris. He bought the boat with money he had saved to travel cross country with Doris before she was diagnosed with lung cancer. After her death, Ticker chose to buy the boat and name it after the love of his life.
Winston couldn't tell if Ticker referred to Doris the boat or his wife. It was possible the sickness made those infected hallucinate. Byrd didn't mention hallucinations, but maybe this virus affected people differently. The thought of watching Ticker murdered on the dock shook Winston. Watching someone die wasn't the same as taking someone's life who was trying to take yours. The moral rules brought upon by this infection were complicated. Just five minutes earlier, Winston was looking for anything he could use as a weapon to take Ticker out, and now he was going to try to save his life.
"Ticker, they aren't playing. Come over here with me."
Ticker ignored Winston.
"Ticker. They are going to kill yo…"
A loud bang caused Winston to stumble over his feet and fall backwards. The side of Ticker's head exploded in a way that looked like a volcano erupting. He crumbled to the dock. Winston turned his head away from the horror and scooted behind a row of trashcans. He waited for another shot. Anticipation mixed with silence made his stomach flutter. The trashcans wouldn't stop bullets. The only other cover was the boats and there was no way Winston was running for them. He would be dead before he got to the dock. No one is leaving here alive. Byrd's words poked Winston. As much as it pained him, he could only wait it out. If I'm quiet, they'll think I ran away, he thought. Winston peeked through a slight gap between the trashcans. A man dressed in a black biohazard-type suit paced the boat, stopping every few feet to scan the area through binoculars. They'll leave soon. I just have to stay quiet. Before the thought could completely register, Winston's watch chirped. He placed his hand over his wrist to muffle the sound before common sense stepped in and assured him there was no way anyone on the boat could hear the alarm. It was one; this alarm warned Winston that he had an hour before his daily progress report was due. Winston despised the report. It was an insult, but necessary, thanks to several people at work who weren't as productive as Don Reynolds thought they should be.
Winston eyed the gap in the trashcans again. The man still paced. Was the boat a permanent fixture now? It was possible. The town was surrounded. If the military was "protecting" all borders, the lake was surely one of them. Winston couldn't stay hidden. Darkness would come before he knew it. Winston didn't want to be outside at night.
"Turn away from the dock now."
The words sent a chill through Winston. Something grabbed his ankle and dragged him from his hiding spot. He turned to see Cliff Peterson, the town postman, pulling Winston's leg to his mouth. Winston was too concerned with the boat. He forgot that he was still in a war zone. Winston jerked his leg, trying to free it from Cliff's grasp. The movement only succeeded in bringing Winston farther into the open. He planted his foot on Cliff's knee, buckling it just as a gunshot rang out. The bullet missed Cliff's head as he fell next to Winston. Another bullet ricocheted off the pavement next to Winston's head. Cliff grabbed the collar of Winston's jacket, tearing it to the sleeve. Winston pulled away, and the sleeve peeled down his arm. He slipped away from Cliff and backed against a trashcan. A bullet pierced the can next to him.
"I'm not dying here, goddammit."
Cliff crawled toward Winston, who planted his feet on Cliff's shoulders and kicked with everything he had. The force lifted Cliff above the trashcans. A bullet hit him in the cheek, destroying his face. Winston struggled to gain purchase and ran in a zigzag manner toward the diner. When there was enough safe distance between him and the shooter, Winston stopped, put his hands on knees, and started to cough. Terror gripped him. He ran the back of his hand under his nose, feeling for blood. Nothing but sweat. Winston let out a sigh and headed for home.
Winston's house was within walking distance of Luther's Diner. As he walked, he noted the carnage. Windows broken, doors knocked in, and bodies strewn over lawns. Black Dog was a beautiful place to live and now it was a graveyard. Winston passed Harry's house. He closed his eyes and saw his old friend mowing his lawn, stopping to give a wave. He opened his eyes and saw Harry lying in the spot where Winston shot him. For a moment, Winston thought about burying his friend. Giving Harry a proper burial seemed the right thing to do. Winston's body didn't agree. Every joint cursed him. Winston was falling apart, but he refused to accept that he was infected. He made a promise to his wife that he would save her. Winston never broke his promises. He stepped onto his front porch and gave one last look to the neighborhood before going inside.
Winston flipped the light switch. He was thankful when the living room lit up. Eventually, there wouldn't be electricity. He locked the door, double checking the deadbolt, before taking a seat in his recliner. Winston grabbed the remote just as he did every day after returning from work. Satellite television was something else Winston was thankful for. The world was ending, yet he could still catch the afternoon news. It took a few seconds for his older television to warm up before a picture appeared on the screen. Usually, the sound preceded the picture, but there was silence. Winston pressed the volume button on the remote. No sound. A black screen appeared. White writing appeared on the screen as if someone was typing.
If you are seeing this alert, you have been deemed to be in the hot zone. For your safety and the safety of others, we ask that you stay inside your homes. Do not attempt to leave the hot zone. All borders are protected by the United States Military. Deadly force has been authorized for those who do not follow these instructions. We understand that you are confused and scared. The United States Government along with the Center for Disease Control are working on a cure. Until there is a cure, those inside the hot zone must follow these rules explicitly.
Winston changed the channel. Every channel started out as a black screen and then white writing appeared with the same message. After five channels, the television turned off and the lights went out.
"There goes the power." Winston rested his head on the back of the recliner and closed his eyes. Mariann
a's scratching and banging against the spare bedroom door drew his attention.
"I love you too, honey. Now try to get some sleep."
The End of Day One
THE LAST FIVE DAYS SERIES
The Last Five Days
Day One: Luther's Diner
Day Two: Evil Urges (Coming Soon)
Day Three: The Smoker (Coming Soon)
Day Four: Brothers Fight (Coming Soon)
Day Five: Run, Baby, Run (Coming Soon)
Who Said You Cannot Get Anything For Free?
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The Last Five Days: Day One: Luther's Diner 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.