Read more
Zusatztext Dust is... “MASSIVELY ENTERTAINING . . . Turner has created a new zombie mythology that is smart! scary and viscerally real.”— Booklist (starred review) “SPECTACULAR . . . A great! unsettling portrait of raw hunger and hope.”—Jeff Long! New York Times bestselling author of The Descent “AMAZING . . . Joan Frances Turner has done for zombies what Anne Rice did for vampires.”—Douglas Preston! #1 New York Times bestselling coauthor of Two Graves “A TRULY ORIGINAL IDEA told from a viewpoint that will surprise and horrify.”—Laurell K. Hamilton! #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Anita Blake! Vampire Hunter novels “WELL WRITTEN . . . A new and unique take on zombies.”—Ilona Andrews! New York Times bestselling author of Steel’s Edge Informationen zum Autor Joan Frances Turner was born in Rhode Island and grew up in the Calumet region of northwest Indiana. A graduate of Brown University and Harvard Law School, she lives near the Indiana Dunes with her family and a garden full of spring onions and tiger lilies, weather permitting. She is also the author of Frail, the follow-up to Dust . Klappentext What happens between death and life can change a girl. Jessie is a zombie. And this is her story . . . Nine years ago! Jessie was in a car crash and died. After she was buried! she awoke and tore through the earth to arise! reborn! as a zombie. And there are others-gangs of undead roaming the Indiana woods! fighting! hunting! hidden. But when a mysterious illness threatens the existence of both zombies and humans! Jessie must decide whether to stay and fight or flee to survive . . . 2 Nine years ago, I was alive. Nine years ago, Jessica Anne Porterwas fifteen and lived in a nice house in the very wellguardedtown of Lepingville, an hour out of Chicago, and gotokay grades and wanted to do something someday with animalrights. Her hair was auburn dyed something brighter, Iforget what. I don't see bright colors well anymore. She had amother, father, a sister in her first year of college, a brother inhis last—neither of them could wait to get out of the house,they barely spoke to her parents. And her parents barely spoketo each other. Then one day they were in a rare good moodand took her out to dinner, and then there was the Toyota ridehome. Dad took the back roads home, the scenic tour. You weren'tsupposed to do that, you were supposed to stay on the mainhighway with the blindingly sulfurous roadside lights (the"environmental hazards," as we called them, you never put itmore directly than that, supposedly hated bright light) andthe toll booths. Each booth had a FUNDING COMMUNITY SAFETYsign so you wouldn't throw a tantrum as you forked over yourmoney, a sentry bearing an emergency flamethrower. See?Safety. Suck on that, you suburban cheapskates. The small,cramped booths could serve as safe houses in a pinch, if a"hazard" somehow surprised you on the road. They had to letyou in, that was the law. But my dad had paid four tolls ineighteen miles just to get to the restaurant and my mom complainedthe road lights gave her headaches and it was a prettynight and for once nobody was screaming at each other sowhy not take the old road, the long way home? Rest your eyes.Have a bit of peace and quiet. It was two miles from the county line, where the formerindustrial park gave way to beachy dune grass and rows ofhalf-built condos sat empty along the roadside, silhouetted inweirdly dim, soft white road lights. The old-fashioned kind.This was after they finally passed the moratorium on residentialbuilding in rural areas, the one the developers held up aslong as they could, until the "hazards" somehow got into thatgated community near the Taltree Preserve; whose woods,fields and ex-farmlands these are, even they then ...
