The Last Five Days: The Complete Novel: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (17 page)

Hendricks pulled his revolver and aimed at Salk. "I don't believe you. This is just your way of incapacitating me."

"You shouldn't be around others. There's a good chance you hold the key to a vaccine," Swann said.

Hendricks pointed the gun at Swann. "Move over next to Bob. You're the ones getting quarantined. I'm so close to success. Nothing is going to stop me."

"You have a misguided definition of success, Tom."

Hendricks laughed. "Did you really think Judas was my ultimate prize? No offense, Bob, but I didn't put much faith in your ability to create a virus that could turn brother against brother. I banked on you creating a virus without a cure, and you did. The picture is much bigger than Judas. The fact that I now possess a biological weapon that could turn allies against each other is a bonus. It will probably net me half a billion. The weapon to end all wars is my bomb. I call her the Judas Kiss."

"You asshole," Swann said.

"Rich beyond your wildest imagination asshole, Carolyn."

"Judas is just a smokescreen," Salk said.

"Not true, Bob. Judas plays a key role in my presentation to General Wilkins today. Once he sees the data on how big of a threat Judas is to mankind, I'll have his full attention. And then when my bomb incinerates the threat with zero civilian causalities, he'll open up the United States' checkbook."

"You're insane. Those people in Black Dog are civilian casualties," Swann said.

Hendricks smirked. "They are test subjects. That's what you called those twins, isn't it?" He paused to send a text. "The Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombings killed over two hundred thousand people. In today's politically correct world, that would never fly. But imagine a bomb as powerful as Hiroshima that you dial in the exact attack target and once it hits the controlled explosion, envelops its prey just like a Venus Flytrap. Bye bye, bad guys, and no civilian casualties. Not that I give a damn about that, but it'll add a few extra zeroes to the check."

"You really are a sick bastard," Salk said.

"You helped me. What does that make you?"

Two guards interrupted the conversation.

"Judas is no longer contained. These two could be contaminated. For everyone's safety, escort them away from the safe zone. Then tell General Wilkins the field test will happen at fourteen hundred hours."

"But taking them to the town will compromise our safety, sir," one of the guards said.

Hendricks smiled. "The way I see it, you have two choices. You can take your chances and hope you don't get infected or..." He pointed his revolver at them. "...you can die right here."

The guard grabbed Salk by the elbow. "Come on."

The other guard put his rifle in the small of Swann's back and pushed her forward.

Richie watched in silence. He picked up the radio. "You can't do this. They are the only hope to contain this."

Hendricks grabbed a radio from a metal chair and walked toward the glass. "Your opinion no longer matters. You're already dead." He turned to the guards. "After you get rid of them, dispose of this one."

* * *

M
elanie sat
on the first step of the porch in awe that Mother Nature could paint such a beautiful canvas over such a shitty situation. The chirping birds had no idea Black Dog was dying. It had no effect on them. The birds could fly away. There were no armed guards holding them prisoner. Melanie took the last puff from the last cigarette. She inhaled, letting the smoke fill her lungs. One way or another, this was going to be her last cigarette. If she survived and found more smokes, she was going to pass them by. This was it and she was going to enjoy it until the very end.

"You look like someone who died but didn't die," Melanie said as she blew the last bit of smoke through her smile.

"Woke up with a cold," Winston said as he eased himself into the rocking chair. "I always get a cold this time of the year."

Melanie nodded. "Me too. But, hey, if you're going to get sick, a cold is better than becoming a flesh eater."

Winston coughed. "Yeah."

Melanie turned, sat cross-legged, and faced Winston. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Does killing even bother you?"

"What?"

"In the last three days, I've not seen you hesitate once before pulling the trigger. I talk myself up to be a bad ass chick of the apocalypse, but I'm not sure killing people is the right thing to do. After it's over, I have this guilt, you know."

Winston thought about how he felt after he put the bullet in the back of Jimbo Brookside's head. The emotional tug-of-war of feeling like a coward for shooting a man from behind pulling against the idea he was turning into a stone-cold killer. There was no comfortable middle ground. Winston had to come to terms with it. This was how the world operated now. It was Melanie's turn to deal with it. "The only thing that matters at this point is your survival. To survive, you're going to have to do things that will probably end up haunting you. But survival is the key."

"I question that too. What's the point? Look around; we are the only people left in Black Dog. What kind of life is this? Aren't we prolonging the inevitable?"

"Even the healthiest person is going to die. Death has always been inevitable. But we're not infected. I don't know why, but there is a reason we're not sick."

"Maybe Neal was right and God is punishing us."

A dull pain in Winston's lower back caused him to stand up, bend over, and place his elbows on the porch railing. "What's gotten into you this morning?"

"Yesterday was too much. Fisher, the little kid, and Tommy. I don't know what happens to us after we die, but I don't want the guilt of what we've done following me through eternity. You know what I mean?"

"We did what we had to do to live another day. That's what our lives have come to. Tommy hit himself in the head with a hammer. We couldn't let him continue to hurt himself, or worse, hurt us." Winston eased himself down and sat next to Melanie. He put his arm around her. "It still bothers me, but we're fighters. I watched a documentary on Muhammad Ali when I had the luxury of television. Ali said, 'Don't count the days; make the days count.' We have to make the remaining days given to us count. I believe we aren't sick because we hold the cure."

Melanie curled her lips and squinted.

"You do know who Muhammad Ali is?" Winston asked.

"Yeah, he floated like a bee or something, right?"

"Close enough."

Melanie smiled and put her head on Winston's shoulder. "Thanks for making me feel better."

A bang interrupted the peaceful moment. Winston sprang to his feet. "Did you hear that?"

"I heard something. It sounded like it was far off, though. Probably those rent-a-guards compensating for penis size."

"No, it sounded like it was in the backyard." Winston walked to the side of the porch and peered around the house.

* * *

"
H
ow the hell
did you know he was infected?" Jones asked, standing over the body.

"Instinct," Charles said.

Jones bent down to get a closer look at the man. He appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties. It was hard to tell, given that the right side of his face was missing. His left eye had a milky glaze that let Jones know Charles’ instinct was right.

"Come on, we have to find Carpenter's daughter now. If Hendricks didn't know we were gone, he will now. Her house is on the next street over."

The front door to Melanie Carpenter's bungalow-style house hung open. The windows on the front of the house were shattered. The body of Dean Kurten lay in the road not five feet from her walkway.

"Shit," Charles said.

"Are you sure this is her house?" Jones asked.

Charles pulled a cell phone from his pocket. "2124 West Summerdale." Charles eyed the house number painted on the curb. "This is it."

"Well, there is no way she's in there."

Charles looked at his watch. "The boat is leaving soon. We've got less than thirty minutes to find her...alive or dead." He handed Jones a revolver. "You know how to use it?"

Jones nodded.

"OK. Stay here and watch guard. I'm going to do a quick walk through of the house."

Jones paced the front yard as Charles entered the house, which was in shambles. The living room furniture was flipped over. The refrigerator was pushed over on its side. Both doors were open and food was strewn all over the kitchen floor. Charles crept past the bathroom. The medicine cabinet was open. Pill bottles filled the sink. He walked by a bedroom that seemed to be untouched. A slight creaking sound caused Charles to freeze. He placed his back against the hallway wall and moved toward the noise. The creaking grew louder as Charles approached another bedroom. He readied his assault rifle and peeked into the room.

A woman sat rocking in a chair with her back to Charles.

"Melanie Carpenter?" Charles asked.

The rocking stopped.

"Your father sent me to bring you home."

The woman stood up and faced Charles. She took a step in his direction. Her movement mimicked an elderly woman. Shock paralyzed him. The woman's face sagged. Her flesh was pale gray. She had no pupils, just a thick white film over her eyes. Bald spots mixed with long blond hair. The woman opened her mouth and let out a low moan before charging at Charles. She slammed him back against the wall. The force sent the rifle flying across the room. The woman bit into the shoulder of Charles' containment suit. He grabbed her arms and reversed positions, pinning her against the wall. The material of the suit shredded between her teeth. She broke free from his grasp and ripped at Charles' hood. He tried to grab her wrists, but sweat dripping into his eyes mixed with her fast movement made everything a blur. The woman tore the hood from his face. Her nails scraped Charles's cheek. A stench of death hung in the air, robbing Charles of his breath. He put his palm against the side of the woman's head as she lunged for him. Charles slammed her head against the wall. Her hands fell to her sides, giving him enough time to escape her. Charles rolled on the floor to the rifle. He pulled the trigger as she dove for him, putting a bullet in her head. Her body landed on his stomach, once again robbing him of breath. Charles pushed her away and lay on the floor for a few moments before inspecting his cheek in a mirror above a chest of drawers. The cut was deep. It didn't matter. It broke the skin. Charles knew what that meant. He was infected.

"Everything OK in there?"

Jones’ words stung like disinfectant.
No, everything is not OK. It never will be again,
Charles thought as he exited the house and stood on the porch.

"Shit. Where's your hood?" Jones asked.

"Go to the boat. Tell them I didn't make it."

"What?"

"I'm infected." Charles pointed to his face. He looked at his watch. "You only have about fifteen minutes to get out of here. You need to go now."

"What about Melanie?"

"She's dead."

"Is she in there?"

"She's dead. Take my word for it. Now get the hell out of here while you still can."

Jones turned away. The gunshot made him fall to the ground. He looked back at the porch and only saw the soles of Charles' boots.