10 Days by Jon Athan

Author:Jon Athan [Athan, Jon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2015-10-14T23:00:00+00:00

Day 7 - December 29 th, 2015

Survival By Any Means

The rusty crowbar pierced into the gap between the sturdy planks. The wood wobbled and cracked from the yanking pressure until the crowbar slid out. The persistent crowbar immediately penetrated the crack again. As the L-end settled on the plank, the jerking force pulled the board from the window. Balmy sunlight poured into the dusty diner like a wave of water gushing through an open floodgate. A black backpack was suddenly heaved inside. The bulky bag rolled across a table, then tumbled to the floor.

A static and hoarse broadcast reverberated through the opening: “A message to all survivors. Please, find a secure location and wait for rescue. Do not attempt to reach any government facilities or military bases – due to national security threats, you will be shot and killed on-sight. Do not attempt to find loved ones. Do not attempt to communicate with the infected. Avoid all physical contact with the deceased. If you encounter a corpse, avoid it or burn it. This emergency broadcast will repeat every five minutes. Relay this message to your fellow survivors. Thank you for your patience.”

Alan Russell squirmed and wiggled through the minuscule opening with the detached plank in-hand. He crawled across the table, then hopped off onto the tile flooring. He patted the dust off his clothing as he glanced around his dreary surroundings. The room was engulfed by gloomy shadows.

Alan whispered, “A dump. I hope those damn scavengers haven't looted it yet.”

Alan Russell stood five-ten with a lean figure. He had wild black hair and a scruffy beard. His face was slim and starved. He had a blatant mole plastered on his left cheek. His dark brown eyes were surrounded by a web of vibrant red veins. He wore a red flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up beneath a beige vest with pockets at each side. His grungy jeans were stained with blood, dust, and soot. His mucky boots fared no better. He tightly gripped a bloodied hammer in his right hand as he gazed into the dreary shadows.

As his eyesight adjusted to the darkness, Alan whispered, “I can't believe it... A diner. A real diner.” He loudly sniffled and swiped at the cold sweat on his brow, then said, “There has to be food here. There has to be something. Please, let there be something.”

There were booths with crimson-padded seating across the wall beneath the sloppily-but-sturdily boarded windows. The double-door entrance towards the center of the wall was sealed with frail planks and heavy furniture. A bar with red stools awaited directly across the windows and entrance.

Beyond the bar, there was a cash register, an employee area, and a kitchen. The diner had mucky white tile flooring and chipped eggshell white walls. The room was stained with a vile stench and the air was cluttered with lingering dust and floating cobwebs.

“Good enough...” Alan murmured. “Good enough...”

Alan quickly turned towards the window and covered his makeshift opening with the hefty board.

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