Dust In The Wind

By Chris Lundy

Humanity is rebuilding after a zombie apocalypse, but that doesn't mean there isn't an occasional outbreak. Prosecutor Karen Domenick starts some routine paperwork on a woman who killed her husband as he was starting to turn into a zombie. But something doesn't add up. Was this self defense or murder?
Even a speck of skin cells breathed in through the air might cause her to be infected. So, Karen will have to be extremely careful investigating the crime scenes, so that she doesn't bring the plague back to her family.
The zombie and detective genres are merged in this short story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Lundy
• Release date: Jul 5, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301024032

Chris Lundy

Hi,Thanks for taking a few minutes away from reality with me.You'll find a variety of stories here, from literary fiction to pure imagination.Sometimes I'm silly. Sometimes I go to very dark places. Come along for the ride.Be an enabler and support my writing habit by buying shirts and bumper stickers: http://www.zazzle.com/verylittleknowledgeI also share writing tips on my blog, WhatILearnedByWriting.com.Have fun,~Chris

Book preview

Dust in the Wind

by Chris Lundy

Copyright 2013 Chris Lundy

All Rights Reserved

She was supposed to talk to the widow first. It's always the nice thing to do. Talk to the survivors, instead of running toward the crime scene and dissecting all the gory details. But the widow was still talking to relatives, so Karen had some time to look at the ugly stuff.

Karen Domenick, the prosecutor, was only there as a formality. There wasn't a case to prosecute, but any time a firearm is discharged in Temple County, someone from the prosecutor's office had to go and make sure everything was clean. She was also there as a record keeper. To add details to the ever-growing library on these kind of attacks.

One shot in the forehead. Another in the side of the head. Closer to the body. She was standing over him for the second one. Hard to tell how long he was dead, since Judy Martino said he had already started to turn.

She stepped carefully over the body and the mess he had made. Food was emptied from cabinets and the fridge. Bags torn open. It was hard to navigate in the contamination suit, and her legs were short as it was.

There wasn't much blood around the head. That's been typical of these undead unmurders. There's not enough blood to bleed out. The exit wounds were typically messy, though. Someone else was photographing the chunks left on the cabinets, so she'd have to come back for that. She just nodded to her coworkers. You couldn't have a proper conversation through a rebreather.

She'd seen dozens of crime scenes like this. Only, they weren’t crimes. They were self defense. Acts of mercy. Whatever euphemism got you through the night.

Half of the world's population became zombies and killed most of the other half. It was a world war. And the world finally won. It's been seven long years since the war was declared over. Seven years of reclaiming the planet and rebuilding what was lost. Children were now starting school who were born after the epidemic.

But that didn't mean there wasn't an occasional outbreak.

Rick Martino, 37, was working with Advanced Reclamation a week ago in Buxton. They had opened a vault and a zombie charged them. No one reported any injuries at the time. This would be the first.

Karen got the basic rundown on the way over. Mrs. Martino said he was feeling weak and sick, but had no real cause for worry. Until a few days ago, when he became sallow, distant. Started having fits.

How did she not suspect something? Karen thought. Before the breakout, fine. But after...God, there were false alarms for the common flu. Parents came screaming into the emergency room, convinced their kid was gonna turn, and the kid had mono or something. How could you not know - especially after being exposed?

She paced aimlessly around the house, waiting for her turn to offer condolences and leave. ‘Mrs. Martino was in the den at the time,’ Karen thought, judging the angle of the first shot. Did she keep the gun in the den? She could keep it on her all the time. Lots of people do that these days. She heard him and came out. But her husband was two rooms away in the kitchen. How did he not sniff her out?

She looked at the door of the den. There were no dents. No scratches. Was he not fully turned? Was he turned at all? Was he still fully lucid when she shot him?

The furniture had been upended. Curtains torn. It was a background detail that she ignored because she'd seen it so many times. But only because she had to stand around and wait did she start to think of it as set dressing. Mrs. Martino said there wasn't a struggle; he just went berserk and she had to end it. But zombies don't attack furniture. They don't knock over couches unless they're trying to get at someone. Or tear a curtain unless they've broken through the window.

The family members escorted Mrs. Martino out of the house through the garage so she wouldn't have to go through the crime scene she created. Karen watched her lean on another woman for comfort. She couldn't wait for her turn to talk to her.

Everyone in the house knew she pulled the trigger. But Karen was the only one who thought she murdered him.

*

It's one of the most dangerous jobs now, so I guess I knew it was going to happen eventually. It used to be police officers were the only ones who laid their lives on the line. And the military, of course. Now, it's everybody. Anywhere you go. Teachers, grocery clerks, Judy Martino said, trailing off. She spoke with a stillness that only comes from complete exhaustion. She'd only been a widow for two hours.

All of this monologue came after Karen introduced herself and said I'm very sorry for your loss. Judy sat on a neighbor’s couch and just kept explaining away her behavior. Why she shot her husband.

No one's blaming you, Jude, said a woman whose arm was entwined with hers. She could have been a sister. She seemed to be doting on her. She was probably the one appointed to make her feel comfortable. Gave her a change of clothes. Pulled her tight ponytail back from her broad, pale face. Cleaned her up and put make-up back on. Even the little things provide some kind of normalcy.

Karen remembered when those beautification rituals felt good. Even though make-up was being produced again, she could not bring herself to care. After years of scrounging for survival, she had been desperate for a hot shower and the comforts to make her feel human again. But when she finally got that chance, putting make-up on felt so shallow. She had started to go to the gym, because she could rationalize that she needed to be in good shape just in case. So she knew she looked and felt more fit than any other 50-year-old. But there was no sense in dressing it up. The grays in her brown hair stayed gray.

There were two other women in the neighbor's house. One was probably the neighbor, sitting behind Karen.

The other, a social worker from the Department of Health, brought her some coffee from the kitchen. She made