The Last Five Days: Day One: Luther's Diner: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller Read Online Free Page A

the bathroom. He stared into the mirror in silence. After a few moments, his laughter shattered the quiet. "Coffee." His cheek was red, not from blood, but burned from the coffee. Relief was overwhelming. Winston stepped into a stall to ease his full bladder. Just as he was about to flush the toilet, he heard the front door of the diner open. He reached for the Colt. The holster was empty. "Dammit."
    Winston walked to the bathroom door. He pressed his ear against the wood. Glass breaking under footsteps. He surveyed the bathroom, first for a potential weapon. There was nothing but a plunger. Then for a hiding spot; the small square footage wasn't ideal. The two stalls would surely get searched if someone came in. One door made escape nearly impossible if Winston was confronted. He had to leave the bathroom. He listened. There was no denying the squeaky sound. Kitchen doors. Luther always complained about the doors. No matter how many times he oiled them, they still made noise. This was Winston's only chance. If someone was in the kitchen, the only other place to check was the bathroom.
    Winston eased the door open, thankful there was no squeak. The diner was empty. Byrd and Vera lay where they fell, untouched. He stepped out into the open. Winston checked around Byrd's body. No gun. He bent down to look under the booth, when he heard the kitchen doors open. Winston dove under the table and pressed himself against the wall. He craned his neck in hopes of seeing who was there.
    Black boots speckled with small crimson dots. Looked to be about a size twelve. Definitely a man. Blue jeans. More blood mixed with mud. He walked with purpose, stopping every few steps as if to search for something. What? Human flesh?
    Winston's eyes darted left, right, up, and down, looking for his Colt. It was gone. The realization should have made Winston uneasy, but he felt comfort. Dead people do not shoot guns. The man in the diner was alive. Winston could reason with him. He was probably scared. The living needed to stick together. Winston released the tension in his shoulders. His next thought put up an invisible wall that kept him from introducing himself. What if he has the rage?
    Byrd had functioned normally up to the end. One moment she was talking about egg salad and the next she wanted to rip Winston's throat out. If she could have gotten her hands on the gun, she would have shot him.
    I can't stay under here , Winston thought. He fumbled around, looking for anything underneath the booth that could double as a weapon. He should have known there wouldn't be anything. Vera was immaculate with cleaning. Not even a crumb. His hand brushed against something that clanged on the floor. Shit. The man froze mid-step and turned toward the sound. Winston tried to hold his breath to maintain absolute silence, but his heart wouldn't cooperate. The thumping was loud. Amplified. Or was it? Maybe Winston's hearing was enhanced. Byrd's words invaded his thoughts again...hypersensitivity.
    The man misjudged the noise. He stepped over Byrd's body and walked by the booth toward the front door. Winston grabbed for what had made the noise. It was a piece of broken mug, not big enough to do any damage to anyone. Winston had a pretty good arm in high school. If he got the right trajectory, he could throw the piece of porcelain behind the bar. If he missed, it would draw the man to him. Winston didn't have a choice. He lay on his left side, angled his neck awkwardly, and went through the throwing motion with his right arm. He wasn't happy with the range of motion, but he could probably get enough force behind the throw to make it to the bar. Winston took a deep breath and heaved the broken mug. It was a better throw than he hoped for, crashing against the wall behind a coffee pot.
    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.