The Shadow Box: Paranormal Suspense and Dark Fantasy Thriller Novels

by Travis Luedke

  “Was he like those people who chased us in the woods?”

  “Yeah. But I’d seen him days earlier and he wasn’t violent. He was kind of, I don’t know, in a trance. I touched him one time and he was ice-cold. Smelled like something rotten. When he attacked Missy, I ran like hell.”

  “So that’s your secret? You ran away?”

  “I didn’t even try to help her.”

  “Why didn’t you tell the detective?”

  “Because I didn’t want it getting out that I’m a coward.”

  “The truth has a way of getting out.”

  The last time we were here, it was Isaac who lost it. Now it was my turn. I tried choking back the tears, but it was no use. Desperate to gain control, I dug a fork into my palm under the table. The pain cleared my head.

  “You okay?” Isaac said, and I nodded. “Look, I don’t know what’s happening in Tres Marias. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It’s a virus, right?”

  “I don’t know. Viruses don’t turn ordinary people into cannibals.”

  My cell phone rang. It was Holly. “Hey.”

  “I got a call from Detective Van Gundy.” She sounded pissed off.

  “Sorry, I need to take this,” I said to Isaac, and went outside. Then to Holly, “I was going to call you. He works fast. Did you talk to him?”

  “I didn’t know who it was, so I let it go to voice mail. He’s going to ask about what happened with Missy, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do I say?”

  “What I said. That I was having an affair with her and that’s all you know.”

  “But he could make me tell the truth in court.”

  “No. You don’t have to testify against your husband. Look, he’s fishing.”

  “I hate you for making me lie.”

  “Then tell him the truth,” I said, and disconnected.

  When I looked up, Isaac was outside with me, picking the seeds out of his teeth with a flat toothpick. “Everything okay?”

  “Couldn’t be better,” I said. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride back to your house.”

  * * *

  I half expected to see police cars and dead people, but Isaac’s street was quiet. I followed him into his home office and found the walls covered with maps and sticky notes. His bag and medical kit lay on the floor next to piles of medical books.

  “What’s all this?” I said.

  “I’ve been trying to put it all together, how this thing started,” he said, going over to one of the maps. “The best I can figure, it started in the forest here.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’m basing it on all the deaths in the area—both animal and human. Take a look at this spot.”

  I moved closer. The spot Isaac had circled looked familiar. It was near where Jim and I had crashed.

  “Here is where that hunter said he found that woman, Sarah Champion. What I can’t figure out is, some of the victims were nowhere near the forest when they got sick.”

  “Maybe they were infected by someone who was.”

  “Right. There is one clue. Some of them had been bitten recently.”

  “By an animal?” I thought of the dog coming after me that night, Jim’s dog. But this wasn’t rabies.

  “No, in every case, they were human bites.”

  “Was Jim bit?”

  “I don’t recall seeing any bites in the autopsy. Hang on.”

  He opened a file cabinet and pulled out a thick manila folder. Then he grabbed a dozen or so autopsy photos and spread them out on the floor. It hurt me to look at Jim’s cold, naked body.

  Isaac examined the photos with a magnifying glass. Then it hit me. When I drove Jim home, I noticed what looked like a bite mark on his left hand. It must’ve happened days before, because it was partially healed.

  “Do you have a photo of his left hand?” I said.

  “Here.” Isaac studied the photo, clucking his tongue. “I’ll be damned. How did I miss this? Time for some new glasses.”

  He showed me the photo with the magnifying glass. There it was—a bite mark. “This isn’t a human bite.”

  I told Isaac about having seen Jim’s dog that night and about how rabid he looked.

  “What doesn’t make sense is, this isn’t rabies. It’s something else. We might have an outbreak on our hands.”

  He indicated the arrows pointing outward from Tres Marias. Who knew how far the disease—if that’s what you wanted to call it—had spread?

  “What about the CDC?” I said.

  “I tried them again, but they’ve gone dark on me. Won’t even take my calls.”

  “Weird. So I have a question. What happens when the police can no longer contain the situation?”

  “You may have seen the highway patrol in full force,” he said. “If it becomes a state emergency, I suppose they’ll send in the National Guard. There’s a rumor going around that’s about to happen.”

  “I need to be with Holly,” I said, getting up and going to the door.

  “That’s what I recommend,” he said, studying one of the maps.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m driving to San Francisco tonight to meet with an immunologist friend of mine.”

  Isaac’s cell phone rang. “Isaac Fallow,” he said. “What? When? I’ll be right there.” Then to me, “Dave, can you drive me over to the hospital?”

  “Isaac, I’d like to but—”

  “Please, it’s important.”

  * * *

  The police were already at the hospital when we arrived. Isaac and I went to the office of the hospital administrator, Dr. Vale, who looked to be in her sixties. Next to her stood Isaac’s neighbor Patty, frightened and confused.

  “Isaac, thank God,” Dr. Vale said. “Who’s he?”

  “Dave Pulaski. He’s with me. Where’s the patient?”

  “We had to lock him in a utility closet.”

  “Eileen, listen. And this is important. Did he bite anyone?”

  “A couple of nurses. And an orderly.”

  “You need to find them and isolate them as well.”

  “They’ve already gone home.”

  “All right, give the police their addresses and ask them to pick them up.”

  “But they haven’t done anything.”

  Isaac looked at me, then at Dr. Vale. “Let’s hope they don’t.”

  I stayed with Dr. Vale at the end of the hallway that led to the ORs as Isaac and two police officers approached the supply closet. One of the cops waved Patty over and gave her an instruction.

  “Sal?” she said through the door. “It’s me, honey. Patty.”

  An ungodly moan escaped the supply closet, followed by a screech that sounded like something from Hell. Then tearing noises and more wailing. The sounds weren’t human—they turned my blood cold.

  Isaac waved Patty away and positioned the cops on either side of him. Then he signaled for them to draw their weapons. His hand shaking bad, he slipped a key into the lock, took a breath and flung the door open.

  Sal, the neighbor who’d been attacked in his backyard, glared at us hot and angry. His face was livid, and his grey, motionless eyes were hard and dry. His mouth was pulled back into a hideous grimace. One of his arms was chewed to the bone.

  Patty screamed as her husband lunged at the men. Everyone scattered. One of the cops tried to aim his weapon, but Sal was too quick. Before anyone could stop him, he was on one of the cops, biting off his fingers and goring his face and neck. The cop’s screams died in a gurgle of choking blood.

  “Sal!” Patty tried to go to her husband, but Isaac and I held her back.

  “Shoot him!” Isaac said to the other cop.

  “No!” Patty said.

  The cop aimed and let off a couple of rounds, both hitting Sal in the back. Sal turned, an eye stalk hanging from his teeth.

  “Try for the head!”

  “Please, no!” Patty said.

>   The cop fired three times, huge chunks of bloody brain matter splattering against the white wall. Sal shuddered and collapsed on the floor.

  Seeing her dead husband, Patty crumpled in a sobbing heap and tried crawling towards him. “Sal! Dear God, what’s happening?”

  “No, stay back,” Isaac said.

  He and the other cop examined the fallen police officer. He was bleeding out and mumbled like a frightened child.

  “We need to isolate him,” Isaac said, looking at Dr. Vale, who stood motionless. “Eileen, now!”

  * * *

  It was late when we left the hospital—too late to take Isaac to Enterprise to pick up his car, so I drove him home. He’d have to wait till morning to sort out the wrecked car and get a new one. Grabbing his bag and medical kit from the backseat, he came around to the driver’s side.

  “I appreciate the ride,” he said.

  “Sure.”

  “Dave, I don’t know how bad this thing is going to get. Go find your wife and get the hell away from here before they lock it all down.”

  “She’s done with me. Besides, Detective Van Gundy said not to leave the area.”

  “The cops are going to have their hands full.”

  “I can’t see her anymore,” I said. “I need to stay and figure something out.”

  “They might arrest you. You could tell them the truth and hope for the best.”

  “It was stupid.”

  “Stupid doesn’t begin to describe it. If you’d saved the girl, you’d be a hero. Next time. Take care, Dave.”

  I watched as Isaac went into his house. He was a good friend. I got the sense he wouldn’t tell Van Gundy what he knew. Nevertheless, if I was arrested and the case went to trial, they would call him in to testify. Isaac had never lied to a jury in his life, I’d bet.

  I wondered if Holly told the detective the truth. If she had, I was screwed. Unless, as Isaac had pointed out, all hell broke loose. It’s not something I wished for, but an outbreak was just the thing to get me out of my troubles.

  Chapter Eight

  Blooding

  I hated Holly. First she left me, then ratted me out. I didn’t deserve that. All I was trying to do was help. I wanted for things to go back to the way they were. Hard to do when you’re a cheating, cowardly piece of crap. Hard when dead people are feasting on the living. How was that my fault?

  I wasn’t conflicted or anything.

  Though it was late, the streets were filled with people moving numbly along the sidewalks. They appeared drugged. I thought they might be infected. There were lights flashing as cops stopped some of these moody drifters, beamed flashlights in their faces and made them answer a lot of questions. That’s when I realized they weren’t infected. They must have witnessed something gruesome—perhaps a family member being mauled—and were in shock. There were hundreds of them out.

  I knew something wasn’t right when I parked in my driveway and walked up to the front door—it was ajar. I was sure I locked up before driving up to Mt. Shasta. My heart racing, I ran back to my truck. All I could find was a four-way lug wrench. Outstanding.

  Pushing the door open, I flicked on the lights and peered inside. There was blood everywhere. The walls were smeared with it. And the smell. It was the stench of meat rot and excrement. I wanted to hurl, but I sucked the bile back down. Cold-sweating, I scanned the room for movement. Glancing outside, I saw that the neighborhood was deserted.

  As I passed through the living room towards the kitchen, turning on lights as I went, I stepped over the carcasses of dogs, cats and raccoons. Most had been gored. Others were headless. A heart-stopping banshee scream ripped through me.

  Swinging around, I found Missy standing inches from me. Her complexion was grey, her dark hair matted with twigs and live insects. Her fingers were long and pointy, and I saw bone coming through the torn fingertips. She smelled like a charnel house. Her black tongue flicked as she focused on me.

  For a time she just stood there, grinning hideously.

  I didn’t know what to do—I tried hitting her with the lug wrench. She grabbed it and, with the strength of a wrestler, tore it from my hands and threw it aside. I turned to run, but I tripped on a dead dog that had been ripped in half. She grabbed for me. I scrambled away, got to my feet and tried to make it through the kitchen to the back door.

  Then she did something extraordinary.

  She leapt towards me like some kind of demoniacal broad jumper. She was on my back now, and I didn’t know how to get her off. I was afraid she’d bite me. Her body generated no heat whatsoever. I spun around in the kitchen, trying to shake her off. I was sure she would sink her fangs into my neck.

  I bolted backwards towards the sink. Then I heard something crack as her grip loosened, allowing me to get free. She tried straightening up, but something was wrong. She gave herself a hard twist and fell into a sitting position, staring at me with those maggot-filled doll’s eyes. She opened her mouth wide and let out a death shriek that tore at my eardrums. I wanted to scream with her.

  I ran out the front door, got into my truck and hit the gas. A police cruiser screeched to a stop in front of me, and I slammed on the brakes. Detective Van Gundy’s beige sedan pulled up behind it. What was he doing there? The detective and patrolman ran to the driver’s door and, guns raised, yanked it open.

  I couldn’t speak. My teeth were chattering, and I was breathing so hard I thought my lungs would explode.

  “What happened?” Van Gundy said.

  “Inside! Missy!”

  He and the patrolman entered the house. I expected to hear the death shriek again, but all was quiet. I sat in the truck, trying to calm myself. I thought of a Donovan song, “Catch the Wind,” my mother used to sing to me when I was little and got scared.

  Time passed to the pounding of my heart. After long minutes, Detective Van Gundy and the patrolman came out the front door. Still shaky, I got out and moved towards them, my legs like clay.

  “She’s not in the house,” the patrolman said. “Must’ve gone out the back.”

  “Good thing you guys showed.”

  “One of your neighbors called 911,” Van Gundy said. “I was on my way home, and when I heard it was your house, I came right over. Did she attack you?”

  “She was waiting for me.” I was still breathless.

  “Did a nice job on your house.”

  “I think she’s one of them,” I said.

  “‘Them’?” the patrolman said.

  “The undead—whatever you want to call them.” They exchanged a glance. “There were maggots crawling around in her eyes. I’m telling you, she’s dead.”

  The patrolman drove off, and the detective waited inside as I packed some clothes. Obviously I couldn’t stay there. I thought of Holly. What if she was planning to drive back? Mad as I was at her, I still cared. Before leaving the house, I texted her.

  As I climbed into my truck, Detective Van Gundy touched my arm. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll find her.”

  “Sure,” I said, confident that he didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.

  “Why did she come after you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Still with the lies? Suit yourself.”

  “She hates me,” I said. He waited for more. “Because I broke it off with her. She’s a jealous bitch.”

  “After seeing the house, I don’t think hate is a strong enough word.”

  I watched him drive off. I might have to invent a new word, I thought. Nothing in my experience could describe what Missy felt about me.

  As I pulled away, I looked back at the house. I knew I wouldn’t be coming back. It occurred to me that we didn’t even have a pet fish. Better to burn the place to the ground, along with my past.

  * * *

  It was early morning. I hadn’t slept in more than a day. I was able to find a cheap room at the Pine Nut Motel, which was located in a crappy part of town near the railroad tracks. With everything
that had happened, it was amazing I wasn’t guzzling beer by the barrel. So I had to laugh when I saw that the motel stood next to a 7-Eleven, which I knew stocked plenty of beer.

  All I wanted was to sleep. After taking a shower and changing clothes, I fell asleep on top of the covers. When I woke, it was late afternoon. I called Fred at Staples. He wasn’t too pleased that I hadn’t come in yet. I promised to get over there right away and work till closing.

  “This isn’t like you, Dave,” he said. I heard the concern in his voice. “Everything okay? How’s Holly? Really hated to lose her.”

  “We can talk about that when I get there.”

  Fred was the kind of guy who took things personally. Everything that didn’t come out right in his or anyone else’s life he considered a personal failure. For example, Fred had been trying to convince one of the new guys to quit smoking. He even got him to cut back to a pack a day through sheer nagging. But when it came time to drop the habit altogether, the ungrateful little shit told Fred to go screw himself, and quit his job instead.

  Fred was devastated. Over and over he dissected that last confrontation, pleading with the rest of us to tell him what he’d done wrong. Had he gone too far? Was he being insensitive to the guy’s needs? I think, deep down, Fred wanted to be liked.

  Stacey, a pretty cashier with two years of junior college under her belt, told Fred not to worry. In her learned twenty-year-old’s opinion, that guy was an asshat who didn’t know what was good for him. Though Fred appeared to accept this explanation, I doubt it made him feel any better.

  I was starving and stopped off at La Adelita to swallow a couple of pork soft tacos. It was almost six, and all I thought about was going to bed again.

  When I got to Staples, I found that part of the glass front door was broken and plywood had been put up to cover it. Then I saw Fred as I came in.

  “What happened?” I said.

  “Some kind of weirdo. Went through the glass like it wasn’t there.”

  “Anyone else hurt?”

  “I cut myself,” he said, waving his bandaged hand. “I called 911 and the ambulance took the poor guy away. He was pretty wound up, I gotta tell you. You’d better get over to your station. Copiers are acting up again, and we have print jobs up the yin yang.”