Read Online The Last Five Days: Day One: Luther's Diner: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller by Paul Seiple - Free Book Online
Authors: Paul Seiple
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Day One
" T his morning , I shot Harry in the head," Winston Fleming confessed loud enough for anyone listening to hear. He took a sip of lukewarm coffee and looked around the diner. Usually, there was a wait for a seat, but not today. Winston had his pick of seating. He chose the booth beside the south exit. This was prime real estate. It gave the best view of Black Dog Lake. There was a mysticism that went with the lake. In superstition, the Black Dog was a mythical creature said to roam the streets at night. But there was nothing ominous about this Black Dog except for the occasional morning fog that hovered over the water.
Winston spent at least three mornings a week at Luther's Diner. The coffee was hit or miss, but the bacon never disappointed. Before Luther died, he used to joke that it was the years of grease that gave the bacon that extra flavor you just couldn't get anywhere else. Every morning, Winston wanted the booth with the view of the lake. He never was early enough to get it, and he didn't have the time to wait. If he wasn't at the office by nine, he would get stuck with the cold calls no one wanted. Winston was a sales executive for the Black Dog Times . The calls no one wanted were the absolute worst — no budget, indecisive, call me back tomorrow. An extra thirty minutes of sleep always trumped the view of the lake, even though Winston longed for the best seat at Luther's. This morning, Winston got the booth.
The lake wasn't large, but it more than made up for the lack of size with aesthetics. The sun lit the changing leaves, turning the water into a vibrant light show of reds and yellows. It was a perfect morning, except that Winston had killed his neighbor less than an hour earlier.
"Shot him right between the eyes," Winston said, sipping more coffee. In his mind, he was trying to desensitize the violence. But the image of the back of Harry's head opening up and painting the white shed with chunks of grey matter and blood couldn't be erased. "At least it was outdoors." That was all that mattered at this point. Keep the mess outside.
Winston sat the coffee mug on the table and spun the Colt 1991 series on the checkerboard tablecloth by its barrel. It was as if he was playing a demented version of Spin the Bottle, but in this case, he wouldn't kiss the person the barrel pointed to. He would kill them. Before the first murder, ending someone's life seemed a big deal to Winston. Who was he, or who was anyone, to decide when another person should no longer be allowed to live in this world? After the first kill — a random stranger on Seventh Street — the question pressed against Winston's chest like the tap-dancing foot of an angry elephant. The pressure eased a bit after the second kill — the new guy at Carter's Drug Store. After the third kill, Winston's own mortality gnawed at him. He didn't want to die. He was only forty-three. The average life expectancy was around seventy-eight. Winston had a lot of living left to do, but the world had other plans. His actions cut drastically into his life expectancy.
He took another sip of coffee. Usually, Vera would have stopped by the table three times by now for refills. Maybe she had taken ill. It seemed a lot of people in Black Dog were sick. It was a small community and not out of the question for a virus to strike a good portion of town.
The world tossed Winston a curve ball and now killing was a part of his survival. Pointing the gun at another human and pulling the trigger was some heavy shit. But there was no room for hesitation. Winston's new philosophy was “Aim between the whites of their eyes and fire.” He could massage the guilt from his memories later. He had gotten pretty good at reasoning out the killings, but Harry's death clung to Winston like tension in his shoulders. Harry was the first person Winston shot that he knew personally. Last month, Winston and Harry spent a Saturday afternoon in Winston's man cave watching Auburn upset
" T his morning , I shot Harry in the head," Winston Fleming confessed loud enough for anyone listening to hear. He took a sip of lukewarm coffee and looked around the diner. Usually, there was a wait for a seat, but not today. Winston had his pick of seating. He chose the booth beside the south exit. This was prime real estate. It gave the best view of Black Dog Lake. There was a mysticism that went with the lake. In superstition, the Black Dog was a mythical creature said to roam the streets at night. But there was nothing ominous about this Black Dog except for the occasional morning fog that hovered over the water.
Winston spent at least three mornings a week at Luther's Diner. The coffee was hit or miss, but the bacon never disappointed. Before Luther died, he used to joke that it was the years of grease that gave the bacon that extra flavor you just couldn't get anywhere else. Every morning, Winston wanted the booth with the view of the lake. He never was early enough to get it, and he didn't have the time to wait. If he wasn't at the office by nine, he would get stuck with the cold calls no one wanted. Winston was a sales executive for the Black Dog Times . The calls no one wanted were the absolute worst — no budget, indecisive, call me back tomorrow. An extra thirty minutes of sleep always trumped the view of the lake, even though Winston longed for the best seat at Luther's. This morning, Winston got the booth.
The lake wasn't large, but it more than made up for the lack of size with aesthetics. The sun lit the changing leaves, turning the water into a vibrant light show of reds and yellows. It was a perfect morning, except that Winston had killed his neighbor less than an hour earlier.
"Shot him right between the eyes," Winston said, sipping more coffee. In his mind, he was trying to desensitize the violence. But the image of the back of Harry's head opening up and painting the white shed with chunks of grey matter and blood couldn't be erased. "At least it was outdoors." That was all that mattered at this point. Keep the mess outside.
Winston sat the coffee mug on the table and spun the Colt 1991 series on the checkerboard tablecloth by its barrel. It was as if he was playing a demented version of Spin the Bottle, but in this case, he wouldn't kiss the person the barrel pointed to. He would kill them. Before the first murder, ending someone's life seemed a big deal to Winston. Who was he, or who was anyone, to decide when another person should no longer be allowed to live in this world? After the first kill — a random stranger on Seventh Street — the question pressed against Winston's chest like the tap-dancing foot of an angry elephant. The pressure eased a bit after the second kill — the new guy at Carter's Drug Store. After the third kill, Winston's own mortality gnawed at him. He didn't want to die. He was only forty-three. The average life expectancy was around seventy-eight. Winston had a lot of living left to do, but the world had other plans. His actions cut drastically into his life expectancy.
He took another sip of coffee. Usually, Vera would have stopped by the table three times by now for refills. Maybe she had taken ill. It seemed a lot of people in Black Dog were sick. It was a small community and not out of the question for a virus to strike a good portion of town.
The world tossed Winston a curve ball and now killing was a part of his survival. Pointing the gun at another human and pulling the trigger was some heavy shit. But there was no room for hesitation. Winston's new philosophy was “Aim between the whites of their eyes and fire.” He could massage the guilt from his memories later. He had gotten pretty good at reasoning out the killings, but Harry's death clung to Winston like tension in his shoulders. Harry was the first person Winston shot that he knew personally. Last month, Winston and Harry spent a Saturday afternoon in Winston's man cave watching Auburn upset
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