Zombie Dust: An Extreme Horror Novel

by Jubilee Savage

  "That's because some of the victims were badly bitten by their attackers, and there has been more than one report of victims presumed to be deceased appearing to come back to life."

  Father Matthew glanced at Audrey. He couldn't help but notice that the pink nightgown had ridden up her thighs, exposing the equally pink underwear beneath.

  He suppressed a smile as he thought about the woman who'd left the garments at his apartment several years ago, before he took his vows.

  Audrey seemed to be sleeping peacefully. The bandage on her leg looked undisturbed, but he didn't like the look of the skin outside the perimeter of the adhesive and gauze. Her skin was turning black, and where the skin had darkened it also flaked.

  He turned back to the television. The images on the screen had changed to show close-ups of some of the wounded.

  "As you can see from these pictures that were posted online by witnesses at the scene, the victims' flesh allegedly deteriorated quickly in isolated cases, leaving a dry, flaky black substance that has yet to be identified," the onscreen reporter said.

  Father Matthew looked down at his hands. They were spotless. He breathed a sigh of relief and made a mental note to have his sofa incinerated once his house guest was gone.

  "Police are saying that there's no need to panic," the reporter continued. "You should go about your daily business but remain alert. In case of emergency, call 911 and shelter in place until help arrives. Once again, this appears to be an isolated incident. Despite speculation online, there is no evidence of biological warfare, the plague, the Ebola virus or the zombie apocalypse.

  "However, authorities have not commented on what could have caused the outbreak of violence or the victims' physical reactions to what police say was an unprovoked, unanticipated and unexpected attack at a local shopping mall."

  Father Matthew stole another glance at his napping guest. Satisfied that she was still sleeping, he closed his eyes.

  Taking a nap in the middle of the day wasn't typically his style, but his brain was overloaded with information from the news report, and he just wanted to let his mind go blank for a few minutes.

  Just as he began to doze off, he realized that he'd been so busy that he'd forgotten to eat.

  Audrey awoke to the sound of something falling and hitting the floor. She sat up and squinted at the unfamiliar surroundings. Night had fallen.

  By the light of the television set, she could see someone twitching and writhing on the floor. She jumped off the sofa and ran for the doorway in search of the light switch, screaming all the while.

  "Father Matthew. Father Matthew." Audrey found the light switch and flicked it on. That's when she saw that it was the priest who had fallen to the floor.

  He was clad in nothing but a pair of tiny running shorts, and his muscular body glistened with sweat.

  Audrey choked back waves of panic as she looked around for a phone. Fortunately, there was a cordless phone on the coffee table. After only a moment's hesitation, she dialed 911.

  "Please come quick," she told the dispatcher. "I'm at the rectory. It's Father Matthew. I think he's having a seizure." She paced the floor barefoot, unable to answer any of the dispatcher's questions about the unconscious priest.

  Audrey found the front door and unlocked it. She turned on every light that she could find to guide the paramedics to where the priest lay foaming at the mouth.

  Within minutes that felt like hours, two uniformed men arrived with a wheeled stretcher. One of them knelt beside Father Matthew. "Does he have any medical condition that you're aware of?" he asked. "Epilepsy, lupus, brain tumors, cancer? Anything?"

  "I don't know," Audrey wailed.

  "Is he on any kind of medication?"

  "I don't know."

  The paramedics exchanged glances. "This is the priest. Right? Father Matthew?"

  She nodded her head.

  "Can you go to the medicine cabinet and bring us any medication that you find?"

  Audrey limped through the bedroom into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. She gasped.

  "Look what I found," Audrey said as she burst into the living room. "Hypodermic needles."

  The kneeling man turned to the other paramedic. "Go check the refrigerator. I'll check his blood sugar." He turned to Audrey. "Where's the kitchen?"

  "Um. I don't know. Through there?" she pointed in the direction of the only other doorway. She hadn't been in that room.

  The paramedic disappeared into the other room and reappeared with a clear plastic box. "Insulin," he said. "He's a diabetic."

  "Blood glucose level is forty-five. Administering glucose injection now."

  Audrey stood and watched helplessly as the two paramedics knelt over Father Matthew.

  "Father," the paramedic who had injected him with the glucose said. "Can you hear me?"

  The priest's eyelids flickered, and then he opened his eyes. "What happened?" he asked. His words were slurred.

  "Are you a diabetic?"

  "Yes."

  "Your blood glucose reading was dangerously low. If your friend hadn't found you and called 911, you could have lapsed into a diabetic coma from hypoglycemia. Even worse, you could have died."

  "I'm fine now," Father Matthew said. "I'll be fine." He tried to stand and sank back down to the floor.

  "We would strongly recommend coming to the hospital so a doctor can check you out."

  "I don't know about that. Are you sure it's really necessary?" He glanced over at Audrey who stood frozen and still like a statue and wished he had found something for her to wear that wasn't quite so short and tight; he could only imagine what the paramedics were thinking.

  "Let's get him onto the stretcher. You can ride in the ambulance."

  Father Matthew in his tiny running shorts and Audrey in her pink nightgown and exposed matching panties found themselves ushered out the door and into the waiting ambulance without a chance to slip into something less revealing.

  As they pulled away from the curb, they all heard sirens in the distance and something that sounded like gunfire.

  Chapter Four

  "Creepy," Officer Fitzpatrick said. "I've been on the force for a decade, and this is the first time I've ever seen anything like this." He stood with his back to the wall and eyed the restless patient cautiously.

  "You've never had to stand guard over a lunatic before?" Officer Murphy asked. Speaking clearly was hard. It felt like his mouth was stuffed with cotton. The tranquilizer was clearly working on him.

  Unfortunately, it didn't seem to be working on the patient. John Doe was just as agitated as ever.

  "I've seen lunatics; I've just never seen anyone vomit coal dust." He pointed to the patient, who was laboriously heaving up piles of glittering black powder. "What the hell is that stuff?"

  John Doe turned his head and spewed another load of dry dust onto the gurney where it piled up and then spilled onto the floor like sands through an hourglass.

  When he was done retching, he resumed thrashing on the bed and straining at his restraints before launching into a fresh bout of ebony-colored vomit.

  "Call the doctor. Call the nurse," Officer Murphy said. "This definitely isn't normal. Where's the call button?"

  "It's right there." Officer Fitzpatrick pointed to the cable tethered to the bed. The call button attached to the cable was buried beneath the patient's coal-black vomit.

  "I think I'd better go get the doctor myself." He walked away, quickly and with purpose, before his partner had a chance to protest.

  "I guess it's just you and me," Officer Murphy muttered as John Doe let out a series of grunts like a stuck pig.

  On the gurney, the patient stopped regurgitating black ash and once again resumed thrashing against the nylon straps that held him down. Kicking his feet and moaning like the wind, he somehow managed to dislodge the velcro that held a single strap to his left ankle.

  Officer Murphy fingered his weapon, thinking about the doctor's advice to shoot the patient
between the eyes if necessary. The doctor obviously didn't realize the nightmare of paperwork, questioning and therapy that would entail. Still, it seemed like a good idea.

  The second strap popped off where it had been attached to the metal rails of the gurney, leaving both of the wailing patient's legs free.

  He launched his lower body off the side of the gurney, and his bare feet scrabbled for purchase on the shining black dust that had come from inside him.

  For the first time, Officer Murphy saw that the man had a gaping wound on the back of one thigh. Ragged raw flesh was ringed with black flaking skin, but that was nothing compared to the damage the crazed man was doing to his own torso.

  Officer Murphy saw the nylon strap over the man's chest dig a trench through his abdomen. Red blood poured from the fresh wound and dripped onto the floor, making a type of grotesque mud when mixed with the black powder.

  He heard ribs crack, and white bone thrust itself out of the bloodied flesh before the nylon strap around the patient's abdomen finally gave way.

  Now, John Doe was only connected to the gurney by his wrists. He strained and pulled, throwing his weight to the side of the gurney hard enough to break the bones in both wrists.

  His hands took on ghastly shapes as he squeezed them through the tight circlets of nylon webbing. Although the velcro held tight, his skin did not.

  The officer watched in numb horror as one of the man's hands turned inside out like he was taking off a glove, a bloody, bloody glove.

  It was surreal to see that tattered bleeding skin peel away from bones, tendons and other squishy, disgusting things that Officer Murphy couldn't identify in his Ativan-fueled stupor. It was like watching the entire thing unfold in a dream, or a nightmare.

  For his part, John Doe was wholly unaffected by the two milligrams of Ativan he'd received. He was also unconcerned by the mushy tubes of battered flesh, shattered bones and exposed tendons that were now his hands.

  The patient was free from his bonds; he was also free of his hospital gown, which had come off in his struggle to break loose, and the vast majority of his skin from his wrists to his knuckles.

  The injured man slipped in the bloody black mud that covered the floor and fell to his knees. He crawled toward Officer Murphy, who still stood with his back to the wall and his hand on his weapon.

  John Doe's ruined hands and dirty knees left red-black trails on the tiles as he scrabbled closer and closer.

  Too late, Officer Murphy realized that the patient had positioned himself between him and the exit. The officer's movements felt slow, thick and syrupy.

  He wasn't in any condition to dodge the panting, drooling mess that crept closer at a snail's pace, but with the relentless beat of a metronome.

  "Stop, or I will shoot you," Officer Murphy said. He unholstered his weapon, aimed and fired right between the patient's eyes just as the man grasped his ankle with one ruined hand.

  The impact of the gunshot punched a hole through John Doe's forehead and blasted a multicolored array of bloody brains, splintered skull and black ichor across his naked back and onto the floor.

  Footsteps approached, and Officer Murphy raised his gun in trembling hands.

  "Lower your weapon." It was Officer Fitzpatrick. "There's some kind of crisis out there. I couldn't find Dr. Kent." He looked down at the mess on the floor. "What the hell happened here?"

  "He came at me. Shoot to kill, or be killed. I had no choice."

  "You couldn't handle a sick guy who was strapped to a gurney by both wrists, both ankles and his torso?" Officer Fitzpatrick asked.

  "No, I couldn't. You said it yourself; you said you never saw anything like it before."

  "I said I never saw anyone vomit piles of black ashes; I didn't say you should kill the patient. Go push the button." Officer Fitzpatrick gestured toward the call button lying on the soiled bed.

  "You go push it," Officer Murphy said. "You're the one who left me alone with this guy, and you didn't even come back with the doctor."

  "I'm not pushing shit," he said. "Did you call it in on the radio?" He stared at his partner; he could read his body language. "You didn't call it in on the radio." He sighed and pushed the button on his portable; he was greeted with static.

  "Do you think there's anything strange about the fact that I shot this guy in the head, and not one single person came to investigate the sound of gunfire?" Officer Murphy asked. "When was the last time you saw people mind their own business?"

  "What do you think we should do?" Officer Fitzpatrick asked. "You seem to be filled with excellent ideas on how to handle things."

  "Get the hell out of here. This guy is giving me the creeps. At least he's not moving anymore."

  "Yeah, most guys stop moving when you put a bullet in their brains."

  "Look at what he did to himself," Officer Murphy said, pointing to what was left of the patient's grotesque hands and his decimated torso. His voice grew louder. "He did that to himself."

  Officer Fitzpatrick just nodded his head, speechless for once. He took a step backward to avoid the spreading pool of blood advancing toward the place where he stood.

  Murphy finally put his weapon back in the holster.

  "They don't need us here anymore," he said. "Let's get back to the station. I've got a pile of paperwork in my future. We’ll leave a message for Dr. Kent at the nurses' station on the way out. Somehow I get the feeling he won't really miss our Mr. John Doe. I just feel sorry for the people who have to take care of the clean-up."

  The two men stepped out into the hallway. Officer Fitzpatrick led the way, and Officer Murphy followed with his black shoes squeaking on the floor because of the blood and other bodily fluids he'd had to walk through to exit the examination area.

  They hadn't taken ten steps when they heard screams coming from down the hallway. Nodding to each other and drawing their weapons, the two men followed the sound of screaming until they reached a room with a closed door.

  There was a sign on the door.

  CAUTION: X-RAY EQUIPMENT IN USE. DO NOT ENTER.

  Officer Fitzpatrick shrugged. "It's not like you're pregnant." He opened the door and peered inside.

  On the far side of the X-ray room, a petite woman was huddled behind a large metal piece of medical equipment, which Officer Fitzpatrick presumed was the X-ray machine.

  She screamed and wailed as a man, who was a patient based on the hospital gown open at the back to reveal his muscular back and buttocks, tried in vain to grab her.

  The patient's arms reached over the white machine, but he couldn't quite reach the screaming radiographer. Despite what appeared to be a tremendous desire to get his hands on the woman, he didn't realize that he could either leap over the equipment or run around it to grab his intended victim.

  Officer Fitzpatrick moved inside the room with his partner remaining at the door. "What's your name?" he asked.

  "Heather," the radiologist replied.

  "Okay. Heather, I'm going to need you to get down low behind that machine. Okay? I don't think he's smart enough to go around."

  "Are you sure?"

  Officer Fitzpatrick wasn't sure about anything anymore. "Yes," he said. "I'm sure." He aimed his gun at the snarling man's head. "Now, be very, very quiet."

  Heather ducked down between the X-ray machine and the wall.

  "You're not thinking about shooting him in the back of the head. Are you?" Officer Murphy asked from the doorway. "If you miss, or the bullet goes straight through his head, it could ricochet off the metal and end up anywhere."

  "Any suggestions?" Officer Fitzpatrick hissed without turning around.

  His partner didn't answer. There was a thud followed by sloppy wet sounds.

  Without lowering his Glock 22, Officer Fitzpatrick glanced over his shoulder at the doorway where his partner stood, except he wasn't standing anymore.

  Officer Murphy's body was on the floor. His head and torso were in the hallway. His legs were in the X-ray room. His body ke
pt the door from closing.

  Just on the other side of the door frame, a woman in bright turquoise scrubs had her mouth buried in the fallen officer's throat. She tore chunks of flesh from his neck, sending red arterial blood jetting into the air. It rained down on them like an April shower.

  Officer Murphy gurgled. His eyes bulged from their sockets. His pupils had grown large and dilated.

  "Aw, bloody hell," Officer Fitzpatrick said. He discharged his weapon into the feeding woman's face, and then he discharged a second round into his partner's left eye. They both fell still. The pool of blood surrounding them grew larger.

  From within the X-ray room, behind the towering X-ray machine, Heather let out a bloodcurdling scream.

  Officer Fitzpatrick swung around and looked toward the machine where Heather was supposed to be hiding.

  "Aw, bloody hell."

  Chapter Five

  Panic rose in Audrey's throat as the ambulance pulled up to the hospital's emergency room entrance. This was exactly the place she'd wanted to avoid. She hated doctors. She hated hospitals. She hated everything.

  Audrey didn't know why, but she was feeling irritable. The itching beneath her skin and the burning fire in her leg had both diminished somewhat, but a seething, boiling rage was coursing through her veins, and she could feel herself growing more agitated by the minute.

  The paramedics opened the rear door of the ambulance and withdrew the wheeled stretcher bearing Father Matthew, who was completely alert and lucid after his life-threatening hypoglycemic attack earlier.

  "Really, I'm fine. I wish you hadn't gone through all this trouble," Father Matthew said.

  Audrey opened the passenger door of the ambulance and stepped onto the pavement. The asphalt was rough and dirty beneath her bare feet. She felt like she was suppressing the urge to do something, but what? Did she want to howl at the moon?

  No, that wasn't it.

  There was a pain in her stomach that she couldn't identify. As the paramedics wheeled a protesting Father Matthew into the hospital on the stretcher, she realized that she was hungry.

  As soon as she made the connection, the fierce growling in her belly intensified. She could feel the hunger spreading inward and outward, expanding into every cell of her body, every fiber of her being.