Read Online The Last Five Days: Day One: Luther's Diner: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller by Paul Seiple - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Paul Seiple
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Alabama in college football. And just mere minutes ago, Winston put a bullet in his good friend's brain. No matter how many ways he deemed it necessary, it didn't feel right.
Winston stared out the window at Ticker Evans walking the boat dock. Ticker paced to the left, and then to the right. His body language suggested he was lost, even though he took his boat out every morning to fish. Everyone in Black Dog knew Ticker. Everyone loved him. Ticker wasn't his real name. He earned it after his third heart attack nearly thirty years earlier. Winston didn't know Ticker by any other name. He picked up the Colt and pointed it at the window. "Maybe I'll shoot you today, Ticker."
Winston was never the violent type. When he was a teenager, he played his share of first-person shooter games, but he never entertained the thought of shooting a living, breathing human. The keywords were living and breathing. Harry was neither living nor breathing in a medical sense when Winston shot him. Harry was alive, but he wasn't.
Things started getting weird a few weeks ago when two fishermen fell ill after a day on the lake fishing for brown trout. When their conditions worsened, Dr. Shepherd didn't have the means to care for them. He put a call in to Memorial Hospital. The hospital refused to admit the fishermen, but Dr. Carrie Byrd from the CDC showed up the next day. It was too late.
At first, Byrd suggested no funerals. Her suggestion was met with resistance. Byrd caved but demanded the bodies be burned. Even in death, the two fishermen weren't fond of flames. They rose from their slabs, tore Arnie Horwitz limb from limb, and tossed the parts into the cremation chamber. The scene was plucked straight from zombie horror, but two dead fishermen walking the streets discredited the notion of fiction. Modern medicine classified them as dead, but dead people do not think. They do not rip the living to shreds. And they sure as hell do not cook the bodies.
Things became a blur after that. The United States Military set up base outside of town limits. Tanks formed a roadblock at the "Black Dog Welcomes You" sign. Helicopters flew overhead twenty-four hours a day. At night, the skies lit with beams from helicopter spotlights. No one was leaving Black Dog, and no one wanted to come to the town. Panic took over and a group of about ten residents decided they wouldn't be prisoners to the government. This was the United States of America. Land of the free. Winston watched soldiers mow down the townsfolk as they stormed the barricade. After an "All Clear" sign, a man wearing black protective gear stepped out from behind the soldiers and motioned them back to their positions. The cold, calculated action meant one thing. The military wasn't protecting Black Dog. They were protecting the world from Black Dog.
Ticker stumbled and fell to his knees. He was old but not this uncoordinated. Ticker was sick. He got to his feet and swayed to the left, catching his balance just before falling off the dock into the water. Normally, the sight would make Winston cringe, but this time, he was pulling for gravity to take care of the situation so that he wouldn't have to. Shooting Harry brought doubt into Winston's mind that killing was the right thing to do. Winston didn't claim to have much knowledge of science, but it didn't take much to know this was either a virus or bacteria making people sick. People recovered from illnesses. Well, some people recovered. Winston couldn't live with himself if there was a cure. There was no cure for a bullet to the head. The deaths would always haunt him.
"Is it murder if someone is already dead?" Winston asked himself, swishing the remnants of coffee around the porcelain mug. He stopped to read the inscription. "Luther's Coffee, keeping people alive since 1965." Winston laughed. He looked around the diner again. Empty. Shards of broken glass collected on the welcome mat. Winston felt bad about the damage, but the door was locked,
Winston stared out the window at Ticker Evans walking the boat dock. Ticker paced to the left, and then to the right. His body language suggested he was lost, even though he took his boat out every morning to fish. Everyone in Black Dog knew Ticker. Everyone loved him. Ticker wasn't his real name. He earned it after his third heart attack nearly thirty years earlier. Winston didn't know Ticker by any other name. He picked up the Colt and pointed it at the window. "Maybe I'll shoot you today, Ticker."
Winston was never the violent type. When he was a teenager, he played his share of first-person shooter games, but he never entertained the thought of shooting a living, breathing human. The keywords were living and breathing. Harry was neither living nor breathing in a medical sense when Winston shot him. Harry was alive, but he wasn't.
Things started getting weird a few weeks ago when two fishermen fell ill after a day on the lake fishing for brown trout. When their conditions worsened, Dr. Shepherd didn't have the means to care for them. He put a call in to Memorial Hospital. The hospital refused to admit the fishermen, but Dr. Carrie Byrd from the CDC showed up the next day. It was too late.
At first, Byrd suggested no funerals. Her suggestion was met with resistance. Byrd caved but demanded the bodies be burned. Even in death, the two fishermen weren't fond of flames. They rose from their slabs, tore Arnie Horwitz limb from limb, and tossed the parts into the cremation chamber. The scene was plucked straight from zombie horror, but two dead fishermen walking the streets discredited the notion of fiction. Modern medicine classified them as dead, but dead people do not think. They do not rip the living to shreds. And they sure as hell do not cook the bodies.
Things became a blur after that. The United States Military set up base outside of town limits. Tanks formed a roadblock at the "Black Dog Welcomes You" sign. Helicopters flew overhead twenty-four hours a day. At night, the skies lit with beams from helicopter spotlights. No one was leaving Black Dog, and no one wanted to come to the town. Panic took over and a group of about ten residents decided they wouldn't be prisoners to the government. This was the United States of America. Land of the free. Winston watched soldiers mow down the townsfolk as they stormed the barricade. After an "All Clear" sign, a man wearing black protective gear stepped out from behind the soldiers and motioned them back to their positions. The cold, calculated action meant one thing. The military wasn't protecting Black Dog. They were protecting the world from Black Dog.
Ticker stumbled and fell to his knees. He was old but not this uncoordinated. Ticker was sick. He got to his feet and swayed to the left, catching his balance just before falling off the dock into the water. Normally, the sight would make Winston cringe, but this time, he was pulling for gravity to take care of the situation so that he wouldn't have to. Shooting Harry brought doubt into Winston's mind that killing was the right thing to do. Winston didn't claim to have much knowledge of science, but it didn't take much to know this was either a virus or bacteria making people sick. People recovered from illnesses. Well, some people recovered. Winston couldn't live with himself if there was a cure. There was no cure for a bullet to the head. The deaths would always haunt him.
"Is it murder if someone is already dead?" Winston asked himself, swishing the remnants of coffee around the porcelain mug. He stopped to read the inscription. "Luther's Coffee, keeping people alive since 1965." Winston laughed. He looked around the diner again. Empty. Shards of broken glass collected on the welcome mat. Winston felt bad about the damage, but the door was locked,
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