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

by Seiple, Paul

  "Romero? Zombies? Night of the Living Dead?"

  The conversation was as clear as if Richie were a part of it. He lay on the floor, trying to adjust to life after death. Or was he dead? Dead people do not eavesdrop on conversations. He raised his arm and moved his fingers. Dead people definitely do not move. Richie sat up. The headache was gone. The sickness that holed up in his belly had moved on. His joints no longer ached. Richie placed his hand on the floor to brace himself to get up. He couldn't feel the floor. He pinched his hand. Nothing. Richie ran his fingers over his face. Nothing. He was numb. Well, I am dead, he thought.

  Richie got to his knees. Reynolds and Williams were farther away than he imagined them.

  "I've seen that movie. Black and white, right?"

  "Yeah. Scared the shit out of me when I was a kid."

  Richie stood up and reached for the doorknob. Locked. Not that he expected anything different. Wait, I can't be dead, he thought, eying the clean air vent. The ceiling inside the pop-up quarantine room was about ten feet from the floor. Richie slid a chair under the vent, stepped on it, but couldn't reach his target. Think, not-dead man. He hopped off the chair and swiped the belt from his khakis. He eyed the vent. How do I get this to work? I need a way to fish it through the vent. Richie uncoiled the spiral binding from the notebook. After straightening the metal, he took a small pocketknife from his khakis and bore a hole near the tip of the belt. He fished the metal through the hole and tied it off. Richie bent the metal, forming a small hook at the end. He used the chair as a step ladder again. Richie eased the metal through a slit in the vent. It took a few tries, but he finally got the tip of the metal to return through another slit. Richie pushed the belt until he could reach the metal and formed a loop through the vent. He grabbed both sides of the belt and leapt from the chair, ripping the vent from the ceiling. Without thought, he hopped back onto the chair, jumped, and snagged the ledge of the opening and pulled himself up. Healthy Richie couldn't do one pull-up, but sick Richie possessed the upper body strength to lift his entire weight. It's evolving. Richie thought back to the numbness and the sudden strength. Judas is finding a way to co-exist with me. He popped another vent, climbed onto the roof of the quarantine room, and listened for the guards.

  "I'm ready to collect my fat paycheck and erase this shit from my mind."

  "Do you think they trust us enough not to talk about this to anyone? Maybe Hendricks has some sort of mind-erasing program he's planning on using on us."

  "I couldn't give two shits as long as I get paid."

  They're west. Richie hopped off the roof and broke into full run toward the voices. He slowed to a crawl when he caught sight of the two guards.

  "What are you going to with all that money?" Reynolds asked.

  "I'm gonna start with a couple high-class hookers and a room at the MGM Grand," Williams said.

  Richie walked faster, but still kept up with the guards' strides, not to give himself away.

  "Screw the fancy hookers. I'll just pick up a corner whore and rent a room at Motel 6. Gotta make the money last. I don't plan on ever doing this type of shit again."

  You're right about that, Richie thought. He picked up a rock and flung it at Williams. It smacked the back of his head, knocking him out. Reynolds stumbled and fumbled with his rifle. Richie threw him to the ground and tore at Reynolds’ throat with his teeth. Richie wasn't trying to feed, but the taste of flesh satiated the hunger that lurked inside. The attack was all about the rage that torched him. The heartless bastards that caused this would pay. Richie took another bite from Reynolds, gnawing at his throat until Reynolds stopped breathing.

  Williams began to stir, stealing Richie's attention from Reynolds. Richie stood over Williams, watching the fallen man rub the back of his head and attempt to focus. Richie kicked Williams' rifle out of reach and grabbed his arm, jerking him to his feet. Richie pushed against Williams' forehead, exposing his neck. Richie tore at his throat just as he had with Reynolds. Only this time, it wasn't rage fueling him. Hunger inspired him to eat Williams. He latched onto Williams' windpipe, cracking bones under the force of his bite. As Richie fed on Williams, he couldn't help but feel that everything he ever knew was about to be erased. Judas grew stronger inside of him. Soon, he would be nothing more than protective armor for the virus. A voice interrupted his feeding.

  "Welcome, gentlemen. I am sure you'll be pleased and astonished by today's demonstration."

  Hendricks, Richie thought.

  * * *

  "'Unfortunately, in war, there are casualties, including among the civilian population.' I assume you gentlemen know that is a quote from our Director of the CIA, John O' Brennan," Hendricks said as he paced back and forth, with his hands behind his back, in front of the small group of military officials.

  "Of course we do," Major General Earl Richards said. "Let's get on with this dog and pony show. We're not comfortable with your method of presentation."

  "What's done is done, Earl. We are here now and I want to hear everything ARMA has been working on," General Frank Wilkins said.

  "As you know from the debriefing, there were complications with Agent 3033, commonly referred to as Judas. My team of scientists created Agent 3033, not as a biological weapon of offense, but as a violent-confrontation deterrence. I'll skip the scientific jargon and get right to the point. The mission of Agent 3033 was to turn the enemy against itself. Two test subjects, twin brothers, agreed to participate in what we labeled The Iscariot Experiment. We choose the town of Black Dog due to its small population and lack of national attention."

  "You actually got two brothers to agree to this?" Richards asked.

  "Protocol was in place to separate the brothers before mortal harm. Unfortunately, Agent 3033 became unstable and tragic events happened in the town."

  "So much for sparing the civilian population. Unless you're going to tell me turning those people into zombies was a good thing. Are you going to try to feed us that bullshit, Tom?"

  "Enough, Earl. You know as well I do our country's safety is threatened more and more each day. Compassion is not the bullet-proof vest that will protect us. We have to be feared," Wilkins said.

  "Agent 3033 is a highly contagious virus that has no cure. It cannot be used as a violence deterrence. What happened during this experiment can never happen again..." Hendricks paused. "...This is the most dangerous and volatile agent ever known."

  "And you created it," Richards said.

  "Yes, my team did create it with the hope of ending the threat of war. Agent 3033 was a mistake, but it wasn't the only thing ARMA created." Hendricks looked at Richards and smiled. "Ending war is a pipe dream. The failure of Agent 3033 opened my eyes to that. Confrontation is inevitable and there will be more catastrophic wars in the future. But there is a way to end civilian casualties. Imagine a bomb with a pinpoint accuracy that packs up and leaves after taking out the desired target. ARMA has created such a weapon. The threat lurking in Black Dog is more dangerous than the most organized terror group. Project Flytrap, or as I call it, Judas Kiss for this exhibition, can wipe out the threat, clean up after itself, and is civilian safe." Hendricks took a small object about the size of a housefly from his jacket pocket. "And this, gentlemen, is the Judas Kiss." He rolled the object between his fingertips. "Cute, isn't it?"

  "That thing is a bomb?" General Wilkins asked.

  "A powerful one and, with the help of technology, it's the smartest thing in this conversation. Judas Kiss is one-hundred-percent programmable, down to the distance from its target to innocent civilians. Imagine being able to program a bomb to seek out potential threats based on their thought patterns. It's possible with this." Hendricks held the bomb in the palm of his hand. "It's so technologically advanced that it can seek out those posing threats or just thinking about it. The level of threat can be controlled based on a system similar to Homeland Security's Advisory System. But that's while it's in the beta stage. The possibilities are endless. This, my friends, is ou
r own watchdog on steroids."

  "OK, how does it work?" General Wilkins asked.

  "Let's say you wanted to take out the gingers in a given area, because we all know they have no souls." Hendricks smiled at Major General Richards. "No offense, Earl. Anyway, you would program these little things to seek out redheads based on visual as well as genetic traits. They attach to the target in the same way a tick would latch on. The bomb then runs a series of tests based on programming to determine the validity of the target as well as measuring distance to ensure no innocent causalities. If there are any discrepancies, the bomb detaches and moves to the next target. And if the tests all check out...BOOM...target eliminated. We named this Project Flytrap based on the way the explosion envelops itself, leaving barely a trace of bombing."

  General Wilkins smiled. "Tom, if this works..."

  Hendricks interrupted General Wilkins. "It works. For today's demonstration, we are targeting those infected with Judas in Black Dog. The bombs have been programmed to sample blood. If Agent 3033 is detected, well, BOOM." Hendricks smirked. "Today, these little things..." He rolled the bomb in the palm of his hand."...are going to save the world."

  "So, when do we see this miracle?" General Wilkins asked.

  "The bombs have been loaded into a transmittal cartridge and attached to a drone that is scheduled to fly over Black Dog in less than fifteen minutes. The bombs will disperse and seek out targets. In this case, everyone is a target because of Agent 3033. There are 300 bombs based on the small population that covers every resident and any stragglers who may have wandered in. The bombs are set to only search Black Dog. Accuracy is so precise that you could stand at the barricade, which is less than five feet from Black Dog, and be fine."

  "I have to say, I'm impressed by your pitch, Tom," General Wilkins said.

  "This is a game-changer, Frank. As you'll see today, Project Flytrap is also a surefire way to end an outbreak should the situation arise."

  "Why do I get the feeling you never gave a damn about deterring violence and created Agent 3033 solely for this sales pitch?" Major General Richards said.

  A drone flew overheard, drawing the men's attention.

  "Like clockwork," Hendricks said, smiling. "And, Earl, there will always be a threat that needs eliminating. Wouldn't you feel more comfortable having the cure-all for everything?"

  A clang against metal startled the men. An ARMA guard stumbled between two jeeps. He zigzagged toward them like a drunk with his face pointed to the ground.

  "This is a closed meeting. If you are here to tell me about the drone, we saw it. Go back to your post," Hendricks said.

  The man kept coming.

  "What's going on, Tom?" General Wilkins asked.

  Hendricks drew his pistol. "I said go back to your post."

  The guard looked up.

  "Kincaid?"

  Before Hendricks could get a shot off, Richie lunged forward, pinning Hendricks' arms to his side. The men fell, Hendricks on his back and Richie on top him. Richie opened his mouth and sank his teeth into the left side of Hendricks' face. Richie jerked his head side to side, tearing at the flesh. Hendricks screamed for help. General Wilkins snatched Hendricks' pistol from the ground and fired a shot into Richie's back. It didn't stop him. Richie bit Hendricks' neck, tearing at his throat. Ridgway took another shot. This one hit the back of Richie's head. He fell beside Hendricks, who was gasping for air.

  The last thing Richie saw was his brother smiling before he whispered, "This is how it was supposed to end." Jason extended his hand and blanketed Richie with peace.

  Wilkins walked forward and didn't hesitate. He took aim and put a bullet through Hendricks' temple.

  Major General Richards started toward a jeep, only to be cut off by the two guards Richie attacked earlier. One hit him low, the other high, like lions taking down a gazelle. It was too late to save Richards. Wilkins turned to run without realizing he crossed the barricade into Black Dog. He felt a pinprick on his neck. Wilkins ran his hand over a small nodule.

  "Oh, shit."

  * * *

  It 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.

  Six Months Later

  Migraines 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 headach
e, 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.