The Last Five Days: The Complete Novel: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller

by Seiple, Paul

  "Fisher is going to beat himself up for not being here to witness this," Jones said.

  "What are you talking about, James?" Salk asked.

  "Hendricks preyed on you because you were desperate to help your parents." Jones looked at Salk. "And you, because your ego is fragile. He's not only an asshole. He's a parasite. Fisher is going to hate that I discovered that."

  "That's if he's still alive," Salk said.

  Swann flipped a light switch. "There's no time for small talk."

  Fluorescent light beamed off the white walls, causing Jones to squint. A table ran along the entire length of the left side wall. Three electron microscopes were on the table, equal distances apart. A large flat screen television was affixed to the wall behind the microscopes. A white board covered in red and green writing was on the wall directly in front of Swann. To the right was a cork board. Pinned to the board were pictures of Ron and Johnny Walters.

  "So, these were the guinea pigs?" Jones said, eying the photos.

  Swann corrected Jones. "They were the test subjects."

  "At some point, you're going to have to drop the shield and accept that these..." Jones pointed to the photos. "...men had families. They didn't sign on to be sacrificial lambs in your experiment."

  Swann ignored Jones and opened a storage locker doubling as a closet. She put on a hazmat suit. She handed one to Salk. Jones surveyed the room, stopping at a glass door. He pressed his hands to the door to shield the glass and tried to peer through it.

  "What's beyond the decontamination chamber?" Jones asked.

  "An autopsy room," Salk said, slipping the suit over his feet.

  "We haven't used it," Swann said.

  "Too scared to get close to the monster, huh, Dr. Frankenstein?"

  "Hendricks wouldn't let us bring the infected here," Salk said.

  "Color me surprised," Jones said.

  Salk handed a hazmat suit to Jones. "How did you make Judas airborne, Carolyn?"

  Swann picked up a remote and turned on the television. A graph appeared on the screen.

  "I introduced RNA from a strain of 2009 H1N1 into a cell containing early stage Judas. I never thought mutation was possible, and in my experiments, it wasn't. In fact, introducing H1N1 into the equation rendered Judas harmless. Given the data, I had no qualms about Hendricks using Judas 2.0. Judas in its original state is unpredictable and highly volatile. I told Hendricks that 2.0 was a success in the lab. He worried that we wouldn't know if it truly worked until we introduced it to humans. I begged him not to use 2.0, even though I thought it was harmless. Hendricks was going to infect the test subjects no matter what, so I basically switched his loaded gun with a prop gun. Or so I thought."

  "What went wrong?" Jones asked.

  "I'm guessing antigenic drift. When introduced into the human body and confronted by antibodies, the virus rapidly mutated to survive. I never thought that was possible because H1N1 RNA always disarmed Judas. The antibodies presented a common enemy. They found a way to work together."

  "That's not possible if H1N1 nullified Judas. When introduced into the human body, it would be viewed as garbage and cleaned up by antibodies," Salk said.

  "It's possible if Judas used H1N1 as a type of camouflage. Maybe Judas played dead. Viruses don't look to infect; the main goal is survival. Pretty much by any means necessary. It looks like you've created the ultimate survivalist."

  "That explains the keratin," Salk said.

  "What about keratin?" Swann asked.

  "Yesterday, a man showed up. He said he spoke to Carrie before she died. She told him her body craved keratin. Judas heightens the senses tremendously. It's how she knew she needed keratin. But she didn't need it, Judas did. It treats the human body the same way it treated the H1N1. When flesh starts to die, it makes the body crave keratin."

  "Congratulations, you two. You've created a real-life zombie apocalypse," Jones said.

  * * *

  Melanie sat cross-legged beside Fisher's body. She rocked back and forth until her knees ached. Winston sat on a huge rock plastered with multi-colored handprints and the painted words "Welcome To Black Dog Park." He watched the sun as it began its slow descent.

  "We should get the gas can and head home before dark."

  Melanie nodded. "He kinda reminded me of my dad." She looked at Fisher. "He just wanted to help. He didn't deserve this."

  Winston jumped off the rock. "None of us deserve this. Well...maybe your boyfriend who dressed like a clown and wanted to kill you." Winston smiled and extended his hand to Melanie.

  "I think everyone but you wants to kill me now." Melanie brushed dirt from her jeans and gave Fisher one last look. "Do you believe in Heaven, Winston?"

  Winston skirted around the question. "I believe he's in a better place."

  "What do you think happens to us when we die? Worm food? Pearly gates? Or do you think it just ends?"

  Winston took Melanie's hand and started toward Art's Hardware. "Honestly, I don't know, but neither of us are finding out today."

  "Why do you think we haven't gotten sick?"

  Winston chuckled. "Are we playing 21 questions now?"

  "Sorry, I tend to talk a lot when I'm sad. It helps, ya know?"

  "Yeah. I wish I had an answer. It looks like we are the only two survivors in Black Dog. I have no idea why we were spared."

  "Maybe we're superheroes." Melanie laughed. "Who's your favorite superhero?"

  "Aquaman."

  Melanie laughed again. "Who?"

  "Aquaman. He swims. Talks to fish."

  "I'm kidding. I know Aquaman. I expected you to say Superman or Batman."

  "Do I seem predictable to you?"

  "Not at all."

  There was a clang followed by a trashcan rolling into the street. Winston pulled his Colt and Melanie aimed the shotgun she had taken from Fisher. The trashcan stopped at the edge of the road where asphalt met grass. There was another clang followed by another trashcan. A teenage boy stepped out from behind a pickup truck.

  "Hey, Winston, is that you?"

  Winston put his hand on Melanie's waist and shifted her behind him. "What are you doing out here, Tommy? It's not safe."

  Tommy Norris turned sixteen last month. His family threw a party at Black Dog Park and invited the whole town. That wasn't uncommon in Black Dog. Everyone considered each other extended family. Tommy edged closer to Winston. He held a hammer in his right hand. Blood dripped from the head onto the road. Winston pointed his gun at Tommy.

  "Why don't you stay right there, Tommy?"

  "But I can't, Winston. I'm hungry. I need to eat."

  "Oh god." Melanie buried her head into Winston's back. She knew what was going to happen, but she couldn't bring herself to watch. Killing a kid was too much to take.

  "You're sick, Tommy. I'm not going to ask you again. Don't come any closer."

  Tommy stopped as if to obey Winston. "OK, Winston, but only if you promise to let me have a taste of what's hiding behind you."

  "You know that's not going to happen," Winston said.

  Tommy dropped to his knees. "It's bad. Really bad. The pain is eating me from the inside. The headaches. The nausea. But, Winston, what hurts most is the never-ending craving for flesh. I don't want to eat it, but it does."

  "What's it, Tommy?" Winston asked.

  "This thing inside my brain. It controls me. I just want it to stop."

  Tommy swung the hammer and caught himself just above the ear. The force knocked him to the ground. Winston spotted two holes about the same size as the face of the hammer in Tommy's head. It's his blood, Winston thought.

  "It won't let me die." Tommy sat up and looked at the hammer. "I just want it to stop, Winston."

  Melanie stepped out from behind Winston and started toward Tommy. Winston grabbed her hand, but she broke free. Tommy sprang to his feet.

  "It's so hungry."

  Melanie pointed the shotgun. Without steadying her aim, she fired. The blast caused Melani
e to turn away. Her ears rang like a chorus of cymbals. The kick knocked her to the ground. She sprang to her feet and aimed the gun again. Tommy lay on the ground, writhing. Most of his left side just above the hip was gone.

  "S…o…hun…gry." Gasping and coughing sliced the words to the point of incoherence.

  This time, Melanie steadied the gun and braced for the kick. "I'm saving you," she said before pulling the trigger. Melanie dropped the gun and faced Winston. "I couldn't watch him hurt himself anymore."

  Winston put his arm around Melanie and brought her close.

  "How could a virus control someone like that?" Melanie asked.

  Again, Winston didn't have an answer.

  "How could it make him hit himself with a hammer?"

  Winston knew the answer. The virus didn't make Tommy hit himself. Tommy was trying to escape it, and there was no escape. Not even death. Winston sighed. "I don't know. But let's get the can and go home."

  * * *

  Richie opened his eyes to see his brother standing at the foot of the bed. He blinked fast, knowing it had to be a figment of his imagination or a dream.

  "Jason?"

  Jason didn't look like a ghost. He resembled a healthy twelve-year-old boy. Richie hadn't seen his brother since the dreams stopped. For a moment, guilt took over, when he realized he had all but forgotten about his brother.

  "Hey, brother, long time no see."

  "You can't be here. You're not real," Richie said.

  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 whate
ver 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."

  * * *

  "How 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.