Zombie Dust: An Extreme Horror Novel

by Jubilee Savage

  The two women in the room screamed.

  Officer Fitzpatrick turned around. He walked over to the place where Sandra and Robin huddled together in fear.

  "I wouldn't recommend doing that too often," he said. "We have no idea whether these things are attracted to sound, and I don't think it's wise to find out the hard way. Do you?"

  Neither of the women responded.

  "Okay. Well, I'm glad we got that out of the way. Let's see. I could swear there was something that I needed to do. … What was it again?" He tapped his gun against his thigh. "Oh, I remember now. Sandra, how's that arm?"

  "It's fine," she said. "Never better." She eyed him suspiciously as she huddled forward, hiding her bad arm behind the good one.

  "Glad to hear it," he said. "Glad to hear it." Tap. Tap. Tap. "The dark streaks, the black marks, that wound you made when you stabbed your hand with a filthy needle from your filthy John Doe … those are all better?"

  "All better," she affirmed. Her eyes were wide with fear. "It's like nothing even happened. I swear."

  "Stand up, and let me see your arm," the cop demanded. "It's not that I don't believe you. I just like to see things with my own eyes. It's been instilled in me as part of my job. I'm sure you can understand."

  He continued to tap his gun against his thigh, but he didn't raise it in her direction. That didn't mean he didn't think about it.

  "No," Sandra said. "I'm fine."

  "Robin, that was your name. Right? Robin?"

  The human resources employee nodded her head.

  "Very good, Robin. Could you please do me a favor and advise your new friend there that it's in her best interests to do as she is told? I would hate to see any harm come to either one of you, or both of you as the case may be."

  Robin didn't answer. She just shook her head.

  "Very good," he said. "It's interesting to know that you would rather die than help me out with Sandra here. As you like." He raised the gun and aimed it between her eyes.

  "Show him your arm," Robin wailed. "Show him your fucking arm."

  Sandra clutched her arm closer to her body. "No," she said. "I already told you. I'm fine."

  "She's not fine," Robin said. "It's black. It's all fucking black, and it's festering with oozing sores. Look at it. Just look at it." She pushed herself away from the other woman by sliding her ass backward on the floor and pedaling with her feet.

  "I'm very disappointed in you, Sandra. All I've ever wanted to do since we've met is help you, and you repay my kindness by lying to me." He made a tsking sound with his teeth and tongue. "Very disappointing. Lying is not a good quality in a nurse. It's an even worse quality in a woman."

  Sandra cowered like a dog that was afraid of being beat. She glanced at Robin for support.

  Robin looked away.

  "Stand up," the cop told her. "Stand up, or the consequences will be grave."

  Sandra rose to her feet with obvious reluctance.

  "Let me see that arm." He leveled his gun at her. "I promise this won't hurt me a bit."

  She raised her affected arm. The black pinprick that had marked the spot where she'd stuck herself with the dirty needle had become a festering sore that dripped black pus.

  The lines that radiated upward and outward from that place had swollen and combined until her forearm and upper arm were more black than flesh toned.

  The corners of Officer Fitzpatrick's mouth turned upward into a grin. "That's going to have to come off," he said. "Let's get started."

  Chapter Eleven

  Audrey waited until Father Matthew was in the kitchen before she walked over to the bedroom mirror and examined her reflection. She ran a hand through her greasy hair and grimaced. It was hard for her to recognize the girl in the mirror.

  Her stomach rumbled, and she thought about what she had last eaten.

  Eaten.

  Eaten.

  Eaten.

  She should have been full by now; she should never be hungry again. She was hungry. Again.

  Audrey knew that something was wrong.

  Wrong.

  Wrong.

  Wrong.

  She couldn't remember the last time that things felt right; she couldn't remember the last time that she felt right.

  All she could feel was wrong. And hunger.

  Hunger.

  Hunger.

  Hunger.

  The hunger gnawed at her stomach. It gnawed at her bones. It clawed at her throat and numbed her brain to anything but the delirious thought of food.

  Food.

  Food.

  Food.

  Within the roaring hunger of her thoughts, she knew that it wasn't food she was after, at least not in the traditional sense. She'd had a taste of flesh and blood, and she wanted more.

  More.

  More.

  More.

  Hunger.

  Hunger.

  Hunger.

  Feed.

  Feed.

  Feed.

  Father Matthew had been kind to her. She still remembered what kindness was; she still remembered what it was like to be treated less than kind … but she was still hungry.

  Hungry.

  Hungry.

  Hungry.

  She could hear the priest moving around in the kitchen. Plates and cups and silverware clattered on the table. She imagined him sitting down with something to eat, something to drink, and she was still hungry.

  Hungry.

  Hungry.

  Audrey lifted the oversized t-shirt that she had borrowed from Father Matthew and patted her belly. It was swollen from her impromptu dinner earlier, but she still thought she could eat an entire cow. She sighed. It wasn't a cow she wanted to eat.

  Hungry.

  She dropped the shirt back down over her waist, adjusting the knot that the priest had tied on the side. Then she leaned toward the mirror and looked into her eyes. To her, they looked like the eyes of a corpse. She blinked rapidly and looked again. There was no change.

  This time, she closed her eyes and covered her face with her hands, counting slowly to 100. She opened her eyes again. Light flooded her pupils, but they didn't constrict.

  She sighed again, and then she sighed again, and then she realized that her sighs didn't produce any breath emitting from her lungs. So she held her hands in front of her mouth and sighed again. There was nothing.

  Audrey felt like crying, but the tears wouldn't form in her eyes.

  She slid her flattened palms beneath the elastic waistband of the sweatpants she was wearing and pushed them all the way down to her ankles. The blackness was spreading beyond the boundaries of the bandage on her leg, but the oozing ebony pus was contained for the moment.

  With fingers that felt like ice, she touched the area around the bandage. She expected the leg to be hot with infection, but her skin was cold.

  Earlier, she'd been warm all over, feverish even. Now, she was cold to the touch.

  She turned her back to the mirror and looked over her shoulder. Her buttocks were mottled crimson and purple as if the blood had settled there during her nap.

  Blood.

  Blood.

  Blood.

  Audrey choked back a sob that wouldn't have made a sound anyhow.

  Her hands shook as she pulled the sweatpants back up the length of her legs and over her hips. She had an idea of what was happening to her; she'd seen the mayhem at the hospital. There was nothing she could do to stop it, but she vowed to fight it to the best of her ability.

  She stuck out her tongue and looked at it in the mirror. It didn't look quite right, but she couldn’t pinpoint what was wrong. There was that word again, she thought.

  Wrong.

  Wrong.

  Wrong.

  Wrong.

  She tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come out of her mouth.

  Licking her lips, she tried again. She focused all her efforts on shaping the words with her lips and pushing the air out of her lungs to make a sound. It
was useless.

  Her mind buzzed like a faulty overhead light. Focus, she told herself.

  Focus.

  Focus.

  Focus.

  There was no air coming out of her lungs. No air going in. No air going out. No air meant no speech. Maybe that's why she couldn't speak. She focused and gave it more thought. Either that or her vocal cords had atrophied. She wasn't sure which.

  It didn't matter.

  Audrey made a pathetic attempt at clearing her throat and tried again. "Father Matthew," she said. The words fell flat before they reached even her own ears. "Matthew."

  It was no use. Her voice wouldn't even elevate to the level of a whisper. When she licked her lips again, she realized that the inside of her mouth was just as dry as her parched lips. There was no relief.

  She shook her head, and her long hair listlessly flipped from side to side. Frowning in the mirror, she examined her scalp before turning her head to examine each ear in turn.

  Audrey didn't know what she was looking for, but she didn’t find it. She hadn't really expected to discover anything helpful anyhow. All she knew was that there was something wrong with her, and she had absolutely no idea how to fix it.

  She touched her fingertips to her face gently, not wanting to believe that she was deserving of anything less than a life filled with happiness and hope. Little bits of skin flaked off her cheek onto her fingertips. She stared at her fingers. They were covered in black dust.

  Audrey wanted to cry, but she knew no tears would form in her eyes. So, she turned away from the mirror and found Father Matthew in the kitchen.

  She looked at him and tried to smile. It wasn't easy, but she thought that she managed a pretty good facsimile of a smile since it felt like her face was being pulled in all directions at once. She blinked her eyes in a manner that she hoped looked normal.

  What is normal?

  What is normal?

  What is normal?

  Father Matthew looked up at her. "Can I get you something to eat?"

  Eat?

  Eat?

  Eat?

  Audrey shook her head. She could smell blood from the place where he'd pricked his finger to check his glucose level. She could smell blood from the place where he'd pressed the needle into his skin to inject the insulin. She could smell his sweat. She could smell his adrenaline. She could smell his confusion and his compassion.

  She was surprised she could smell anything at all. Her heart was dead. Her lungs were dead. Her eyes were dead. How could her olfactory organs be alive? She didn't know.

  The only thing she knew was that she was hungry. She was hungry.

  Hungry.

  Hungry.

  Hungry.

  And she didn't want a sandwich or a piece of fruit. She didn't want the glass of milk that Father Matthew poured for her, and she didn't want the leftover pizza he offered.

  She wanted flesh, and flesh and only flesh, and the priest was made of flesh and bones and brains and blood and more flesh. Audrey reached up, grabbed a fistful of her own hair and pulled it hard.

  "Hey," Father Matthew said gently. "Hey. Don't do that to yourself. Come on. Sit down. What's wrong?" He pulled out a chair and guided her to it. "Audrey, talk to me. I'm listening."

  She licked her lips, dry tongue against dry skin. When she tried to speak, words failed to come out of her dry, dry mouth.

  He sat across the table from Audrey and looked into her eyes. "I can tell you're trying to tell me something. What is it? Take your time." He reached over and took her hand. "You're so cold," he whispered. "Why must you be so cold?"

  She tried to speak again, moving her lips and tongue in the way that she hardly remembered. It was so hard. She didn't want to use her mouth for talking. She wanted to use it for biting, chewing and swallowing. The thought made her hungry.

  Hungry.

  Hungry.

  Hungry.

  The priest smelled so good to her. He smelled decadent. He smelled delicious. He smelled like hot dogs and hamburgers sizzling on the grill on the Fourth of July. He smelled like Christmas dinner, Easter ham. He smelled like something she could eat.

  Audrey shook her head.

  "No?" Father Matthew asked. "That's a good start. No, what?"

  Audrey shook her head again. Frustration flowed through her body like the hunger. She tapped her fingers of her free hand on the oak table. Then she banged her palm down hard on the scuffed wood.

  The priest released her other hand and stood from the table. "Wait here," he said. "I have an idea." He opened one of the kitchen drawers and rummaged around for a few long seconds before returning to the table with a pen and a pan of paper.

  "Okay. Let's try this," he said. "You can obviously understand what I'm saying, but you seem to be having difficulty . . . expressing yourself. Why don't we see if you can write out a little bit of what you're feeling."

  Audrey didn't answer.

  He passed the pad of paper across the table and then held out the pen to his guest. "There you go," he said. "Go ahead and take the pen from me. You're so close. I know you can do it.'

  She reached out and grasped the pen with flaking fingers. With one hand, she moved the pad of paper into position. The other hand was poised above the paper as she prepared to communicate with her priest.

  "Very good," he said. "Here’s your first question. Can you understand me?"

  She looked deep into his eyes and nodded her head.

  "Good," he said. "Very good. Audrey, can you write it down on the paper for me? I want to see if we can communicate better this way."

  She looked down at the pen in her hand, lowered it to the page and began to write. When she was finished, there were three uneven letters inked on the paper.

  Y E S

  The priest beamed like he'd just taught an old dog a new trick. "I'm so happy that we found a way to chat," he said. "I was so worried. How do you feel?"

  Audrey began writing again. Each letter seemed to take an eternity to form, but it was still better than someone expecting her to speak. She finished writing four letters on the page and then stopped; she looked up at the priest for approval.

  C O L D

  "You're cold. I'm sorry, Audrey. I'm so sorry." He jumped up and retrieved and extra blanket from the linen closet and wrapped it around her.

  She began writing again without asking for an invitation.

  H U N G R Y

  "Can I get you something? There's leftover pizza. I can make you a sandwich."

  This time the letters flowed faster.

  N O

  "What can I make for you? How can I help you?" He pointed to the pad of paper and the pen to indicate that she should write her answer.

  She shook her head and pointed at the word already printed on the paper.

  "Audrey, it wasn’t a yes or no answer. Tell me how I can help you. Please." He looked at her with tears in his eyes. "I know you're a good person. Your soul is still inside you. You're still a child of God."

  She tore off the top sheet of paper, crumpled it into a ball with stiff fingers and threw it on the floor. Concentrating hard, she wrote another word on the pad.

  H U N G E R

  Father Matthew scratched his head. "I know. I know," he murmured. "I saw what you ate." He cleared his throat. "I won't judge you, Audrey. I'm sure- I'm sure you couldn't help yourself." He leaned in closer. "I saw what happened at the hospital. I saw those- those things, and I saw how you protected me.

  "I trust you, Audrey. I trust you with my life."

  He leaned back in his chair.

  Audrey tore off the next sheet of paper. When she tried to crumple it like she had the previous piece, her fingers refused to close into a fist. Frustrated, she let it drop to the floor uncrumpled.

  She picked up the pen and held it stiffly. Looking directly at Father Matthew as she worked, she laboriously wrote on the paper. Biting her lip as she concentrated, she looked almost like the young woman she was when she'd walked into the
church with a bite mark on her thigh. She wrote one word, no apostrophe.

  C A N T

  "What can't you do, Audrey?" Father Matthew asked. "It's okay. You can tell me."

  This time, she didn't tear off the top sheet of paper. Instead, she wrote beneath the single word. In a looping scrawl, she penned two additional words.

  K I L L

  Y O U

  The priest stared at the upside down message for a few long seconds before he processed what it said.

  C A N T

  K I L L

  Y O U

  They stared into each other's eyes. He didn't speak, and she didn't write. They just sat and stared. The only sound of the room was the sound of the priest's breathing.

  Audrey was as silent as death.

  "Thank you." He finally broke the silence. "I know it must be hard for you." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I know you're hungry."

  So hungry. Audrey mouthed the words, forming them with her lips and tongue without making a sound.

  Hungry.

  Hungry.

  Hungry.

  She tapped the paper with the pen, looking directly into his eyes.

  C A N T

  K I L L

  Y O U

  "Thank you," the priest said again. "I can't kill you either."

  Chapter Twelve

  "That's definitely going to have to come off," Officer Fitzpatrick said. "The sooner, the better, if I'm being honest. To tell you the truth, I have no idea how you made it this far. How are you feeling, Sandra?" He looked at her with false concern.

  The nurse didn't answer. She pressed her back against the wall and looked up at the cop without speaking. When she rubbed her eyes with her hands, she left black streaks behind on her face.

  "You can't possibly be feeling good," the cop continued. "I mean. Look at you. You look disgusting. How far does the blackness go? Has it reached your breasts? Do you think it's reached your heart? Maybe we should open you up and take a look." He took a step toward her, and she tried to take a step back.

  There was nowhere for her to go.

  Out of the corner of his eye, the cop saw Robin slowly making her way toward the door. Inch by slow inch, she moved across the tiled floor as if she thought he was stupid. She was quiet, but she wasn't invisible.