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

Luther's dead."
    "Ax to the head. I found him by the grill." Winston motioned to the bar. "He had just tossed bacon on the grill. Didn't see it coming."
    "Probably the best way to go, given the circumstances."
    Winston nodded. "I guess. Is it wrong that I dragged Luther out by the dumpster and then finished the bacon?"
    Byrd chuckled. It turned into a cough. More blood trickled from her nose. She brushed the napkin against her face. It only smeared the blood. "I'm not sure etiquette is all that important during a zombie apocalypse."
    "I wasn't even hungry. I wanted things to be normal. So I made the bacon." Winston sipped coffee. "It's why I'm here. I just want things to be normal again."
    "Seen anyone else around here?"
    "No. I'm sure Vera is dead. She would be here making sure the survivors weren't hungry."
    Byrd opened her mouth to speak. A crash in the kitchen stole the words. Winston grabbed his Colt. He hit the mug and coffee spread over the table. Winston stood up just as there was another crash. The sound of plates breaking echoed through the diner.
    "Stay here." Winston inched closer to the bar. He crouched next to the end stool. The swinging doors separating the kitchen flung open. A powdered blue blur darted at Winston. He didn't have enough time to get to his feet. Vera dove into his shoulder, knocking him to the floor. The impact freed the pistol from his grasp. It slid across the floor, well out of reach. The back of Winston's head slammed against the linoleum, which wasn't much of a shield from the concrete beneath. Winston's eyes strained and then he saw dots. Blue ones. Yellows ones. Green ones. And then they all turned red.
    "She's bleeding. Don't let any get on your face." Byrd reached for the gun.
    Winston pressed against Vera's shoulders, holding her off him. She wasn't big, maybe five-three, a hundred and ten pounds, but she had the strength of a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound wrestler. Winston scooted his body so that any blood that fell landed on his windbreaker. Vera lunged at him. He moved his head to the side just before she reached his neck. The stench of death made him gag as her warm breath slapped his face. She's dead. How is her breath warm? Before he could come up with an answer, he realized her skin was hot. He pushed the side of Vera's head. She slammed into the bar. It gave Winston enough time to free himself. He stumbled before gaining his footing and bracing against a stool. Vera sprang to her feet and lunged. A popping sound, loud enough for Winston to forget Vera and reach for his ears, filled the diner. Vera smacked against the bar and slid to the floor. Winston looked at Byrd. She had the gun aimed at him. The barrel was a blur in her shaking hand.
    "I'm not infected, remember?" Winston held his hands out, palms up, as a show of surrender. But she is. He couldn't shake the thought. Something, a rage, took over people right before they died. Winston had watched a neighbor strangle her husband before her death. The man let her. Why would he let her? Maybe he couldn't stop it. The virus gave people superhuman strength.
    Dr. Byrd raised her arm. She used her other hand to steady the shakes. The gun was pointed at Winston's head. He looked at the bar. In his younger days, Winston was a decent athlete. He was close enough to where he could dive over the bar. It would hurt like hell, but not nearly as bad as a gunshot.
    "Sorry. Sorry." Byrd dropped the Colt. "I don't know why I pointed it at you. I was scared."
    "It's the virus. The final stage brings rage in the sick."
    Byrd took a seat at the booth and watched Ticker still pacing on the dock. Winston grabbed a towel from the bar and picked up the gun. He swiped at the spilled coffee, splashing it onto the floor, and sat down.
    "Rage, huh?" Byrd asked.
    "I've seen it." Winston spared her the details. He didn't know what stage Byrd was in. Maybe she was just scared, but if she was nearing the final stage, the littlest thing could make her