The Last Five Days: Day One: Luther's Diner: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller Read Online Free
Author: Paul Seiple
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
"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
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