Chapter One
Cole
The drops of dew clinging to the grapes sparkle in the early morning sun as I drive down the lane. Row after row of vines stretch out in straight lines on both sides of me, going on for what seems like endless miles. They roll over the hills, bright and brimming with the promise of life. Napa Valley was in the middle of their harvest season when the virus hit hard, but from the looks of it they didn’t get very far. Now, the grapes will sit under the sun, firm and plump at first, but softening slowly as the life drains out of them. Soon they’ll start to shrivel, then finally turn into a speck of what they had once been. Before long they’ll look more like rat turds than fruit.
At least I’ll have something to eat for a few weeks before that happens.
The Ceccoli Winery and Inn looms in front of me in all its glory. Under the rising sun the orange slate roof shines even brighter than the grapes. The parking lot is empty except for two cars: a black Mercedes and an old yellow and white pickup truck. The lack of vehicles means the odds are good that I shouldn’t have to worry too much about getting my face eaten off.
I pull to a stop right in front of the entrance and turn the engine off, but for a second I find it impossible to get out. My throat is so tight it reminds me of the time I had strep throat. My glands had been so big and swollen that even drinking water had been difficult, and I’d had to put ice chips on my parched tongue and allow them to melt so the drops could slowly work their way down my throat.
But when I run my hand up my neck now, my glands aren’t swollen, and the scratchy stumble dotting my jawline is a harsh reminder of why my throat is tight. It has nothing to do with being sick because I didn’t get sick. Everyone I knew did, and they all died, but by some miracle or twist of fate—I still haven’t decided if my apparent immunity to this thing is a blessing or a curse—I remained healthy while all around me the world slowly disappeared.
I let out a deep breath as I climb out of the car, leaving the keys in the ignition. The chill in the morning air causes a few goose bumps to pop up on my arms, and the utter silence of my surroundings doubles them in two seconds flat. When I slam the driver’s side door the crack echoes across the acres of grapevines and a few birds fly out of the nearby trees, squawking in fury as they soar into the sky.
I swallow again and head for the door.
The knob doesn’t turn when I try it, and even though I’m not surprised, I still let out an exhausted sigh. I step back so I can survey the building but know within seconds that breaking one of the front windows would be dumb. They’re all huge and would be difficult to board up once I’m inside. Since I have no intention of leaving this building anytime soon—and the last thing I want is to provide an opening for anyone else who might drive up to the inn—it would be best to find a less conspicuous entrance if I can.
I head around back and it takes me less than five minutes to find a little window big enough for me to squeeze through, but small enough that I’ll be able to cover it fairly easily. It’s also high—chest level for me and I’m tall—so it would take a pretty smart zombie to pull themselves through.
I find a good-sized rock on the ground at my feet and toss it through the window. The crash that echoes back almost makes me jump out of my skin, and my heart thumps erratically in my chest as I look around, half expecting to see shambling figures making their way through the rows of vines surrounding the winery. There’s nothing, though. Nothing but my swiftly beating heart and me.
Shit. Thinking about how alone I am almost makes me wish there was a whole horde of the undead headed my way.
“I need a drink,” I mutter.
I wrap my shirt around my hand so I can knock out the few pieces of glass still protruding from the frame, then hoist myself up. It’s a tighter fit than I expected, and despite my attempt to get rid of anything sharp, I’m halfway through when something slices across my right bicep. I suck a breath in between my teeth but pull myself through a bit further. It isn’t until I’m dangling half in and half out of the window that it hits me how dumb this plan is. A bathroom looms in front of me, the sinks to the right and the stalls to the left, but there’s nothing under the window to break my fall. I’m more than four feet off the ground and staring straight down at the hard tile floor.
Since face planting onto a hard floor is the last thing I want to do right now, I twist around so I’m facing the ceiling, then grab the top of the window frame and try to pull my lower half through. It’s a tight fit, though, and by the time everything from the knee up is inside, I feel like I’m being bent in half. I dig my fingers in tighter, take a deep breath, and then pull my body in the rest of the way.
My legs have just made it past the frame when my fingers slip. Thankfully, my feet hit the ground first, but the hard impact vibrates up my legs and through my body until it rattles my brain around in my skull. I stumble back a few steps and slam into a wall, the impact of my head hitting the plaster making my brain bounce around yet again. If I’m not careful I’m going to end up with brain damage.
It takes a moment of standing in the middle of the bathroom before I can take a deep breath. I’m in and I’m okay. Rattled, but not hurt other than a little bit of wounded pride and the cut I got when I first pulled myself through the window. It’s right below the sleeve of my shirt, and despite the trail of blood running down to my elbow, it doesn’t look too deep. I’ll worry about it later. After my little tumble through the window, I need a drink now more than ever.
The hall is dark when I step out of the bathroom, but a sign is just visible through the shadows. There are two arrows on it, one letting me know the rooms are to the right and the bar is to the left.
I turn left.
The soles of my shoes thump against the floor as I walk, echoing through the silence. My arm throbs from the cut, but I ignore it. After everything I’ve witnessed over the last week, a little cut is the least of my worries. Once I’ve had a drink—or twenty—I’ll worry about cleaning it.
When I step into the other room I’m surprised to find lights on behind the bar. They shine down on the rows of wine bottles lined up on the shelves, almost as if someone decided to spotlight the booze so I could find it faster. At home, the power had turned off three days ago—Or had it been four?—which means the inn must have a generator. With the booze in front of me, coming here already feels like a stroke of genius, and now that I realize there’s electricity, on top of thousands of bottles of wine, I’m even more certain I’ve made the smartest decision of my life.
I open the first bottle I come to, not even paying attention to what it is. I don’t bother with a glass but instead take a few big gulps straight from the bottle. The red wine is dry and full-bodied, and tastes better than anything I’ve ever had in my whole life. I take another sip while browsing the other bottles, looking for the most expensive ones. I probably shouldn’t care, but a part of me wants to drown myself in booze I never could have afforded before all this.
My head is already buzzing, which seems utterly impossible until I look down and realize I’m almost halfway through the bottle of wine. Since eating hasn’t been a priority over the last couple days, my stomach is practically empty. Unless I want to puke all over the bar I need to slow it down. I want to drown out reality, but the idea of cleaning up vomit doesn’t sound particularly appealing.
I pull a glass out and fill it partway, hoping it will help me take it slow. Nothing is a guarantee, though. Not after everything that’s happened.
How long did it take for the world to go to shit? Three weeks? Something like that. It doesn’t seem possible, but it is. Of course, this whole thing has been going on a hell of a lot longer than three weeks. It’s been months, really, since the virus first popped up in New York. Then slowly, like a poisonous turtle determined to get to the other side of the road, it crawled from one state to the other, leaving death and misery in its wake. I don’t know any numbers for sure, but this thing had to have wiped out most of the population. Ninety percent, maybe more.
“They’re all gone,” I mutter as I take another drink.
The wine is halfway down my throat when a feminine, yet firm voice breaks through the silence and bounces around the room. “Hands in the air.”
My whole body jerks and I almost spit the wine all over the place. Somehow I manage to keep it in my mouth.
Shit. I’d really thought this place was empty, but I guess I’d been wrong.
Briefly I consider raising my arms, but the sudden realization that I don’t give a shit if I live or die hits me, making me stop before they’ve made it even halfway up. Fuck it. The odds are pretty good that I’m going to die really soon anyway, along with the rest of the human race, so why prolong the inevitable.
I turn, sweeping my glass off the counter in the process, and with each passing millisecond that I don’t get a bullet in my back, I relax a little more. By the time I’m facing the woman, who’s standing on the other side of the room pointing a shotgun at me, I’m totally at ease.
When I lay eyes on her, I feel like grinning. She obviously just woke up because her dark, wavy hair is wild and messy and she’s wearing tiny shorts that show almost every inch of her lean legs. Her white tank top is tight, clinging to her curves and highlighting that she isn’t wearing a bra. Dark eyes flash at me from behind thick lashes, and when she scrunches up her full lips, she looks like she’s considering kissing me.
She’s fucking gorgeous. More beautiful than anyone has a right to be at the end of the world, but I’m not going to complain. If anything, I might just drop to my knees and thank God that He hasn’t lost his willingness to throw me a bone.
Looks like I came to the right place.
“I told you to put your hands up,” she says, taking a tiny step toward me.
Yes, she could shoot me, but I’m good at reading people—made a living off it, in fact—and I have a good feeling she won’t pull the trigger. I’m going to play the odds here and assume this woman doesn’t have it in her to kill someone in cold blood.
“I’m good,” I say, shrugging as I take another sip of wine.
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