“I don’t know where you’re pointing.” Monk said.
“There, see! Look at the frog. See what it’s doing?”
He looked at the bullfrog, which was jumping up and down, crushing things. He watched as it landed on the wasp, squishing the insect’s white and green innards into paste. And when the frog leapt again it smashed the Pit’s caged ceiling so hard that the building shook and the cage broke open.
The gorilla––being the smartest animal––looked up, pounded its chest and ran for the opening. The frog bounced again and the beast swatted it across the room.
Without hesitation all 650 paying spectators screamed in terror and made for the door. Absonoff got there first, followed by Keller and Norton King––but there was a problem. The door swung in, not out, and when people tried to leave they got congested in the doorway and the door became jammed.
There was no escape.
The gorilla crawled up the wall and onto the main floor. And when it saw the people of Monk Town, it attacked.
* * *
In the end less than fifty survived.
One survivor was the town’s only scientist, Jonathan Weakley. He left early the next morning with his head hung low. Nobody said goodbye; nobody wished him well. Unwanted and unappreciated, Jon made his way to New York City with the status of failure. But he was no quitter; he had drive and he had ambition. He had hopes and dreams––big dreams. He was going to make something of himself; he was going to be a superstar. The world would look upon his creatures with wonder.
All that stood in his way would be punished.
* * *
ZOMBIES:
THE HANGING TREE
Doc said, “Don’t you play games, Red. The Hanging Tree is off limits.”
Red snickered, gazing through the drizzle of rain, past the water falling in drips and drops from the rim of his leather hat. Looking into Doc’s eyes he could see more than simple fright. He could see dread, as honest and true as the sky above them, and the nightly darkness that was on its way to conceal the town.
Hubert Turret, commonly referred to as Doc, looked more like a gunslinger than a doctor, standing at the side of the road with his black, rawhide jacket wrapped around his muscular body and his long fingers tickling the smooth, ivory-plated handle on his gun. He was an influential man, handsome yet rugged, capable of taking care of terrible business in desperate times, even when the business disagreed with him on a personal level. And tonight, that’s exactly what the situation happened to be. It was terrible business and he wanted no part of it. Dealings were of the killing nature, which was never easy for any good-hearted soul, especially the likes of Hubert ‘Doc’ Turret. He was trained to save lives, not extinguish them.
He said, “The hanging tree––”
“The Hanging tree was off limits, Doc.” Red Coltrane wasn’t all that different from Hubert Turret. He was strong and lean, thoughtful yet commanding. He didn’t enjoy killing, but did what needed to be done. It was in his nature.
He pointed a dirty finger at Mort Clancy.
Mort, with his knees planted in the mud and a noose wrapped around his scrawny neck, looked pathetic. He was like a mangy dog sealed up in a man’s body. No effort put into his wardrobe, posture, haircut or hygiene. No attempt at being happy, healthy, respected or educated. He wasn’t feared. He wasn’t loved. He wasn’t appreciated or hated. Add it up and what do you get? Not much. Just a skinny drifter with a neglected beard, a funky smell, and no one giving a rat’s ass about his wellbeing.
He wasn’t a bad guy, oddly enough. He wasn’t dishonest or corrupt, but the fact of the matter was this: Mort wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed and more nights than not he earned himself the title of ‘most likely to drink himself sick and pass out in the gutter.’ Sometimes reputations are forged through exaggeration and fabrication. His wasn’t. His was earned, night in and night out. If they handed out awards for boozing his mantel would be loaded with trophies.
“It was off limits,” Red went on to say, still pointing at Mort. “Until this piece of shit decided to shoot Sheriff Gill.”
Mort slinked away from the two men, eyes slithering from one to the other apologetically. He scratched his beard and snorted back a throat full of earthy phlegm.
There was no question as to whether or not Mort Clancy killed Sheriff Gill. Everyone knew that he did. He shot Gill inside Good & Weston’s Tavern the previous night with a handful of spectators bearing witness. There was no reason for it, unless alcohol consumed was considered an incentive. After a few too many wiggly-suds he pulled his gun from his holster and shot the man point blank, right between the eyes. Simple as that.
Doc looked over Red’s shoulder. His eyes skimmed the row of building on his left. There were more than a few faces behind the windows. He supposed they had a right to be curious. Killings and executions weren’t exactly common in Ghoutan, population less than seven hundred and fifty. But they weren’t exactly unheard of either. If he were inside one of those buildings, he’d be eyes to the glass as well.
Mort opened his mouth to speak, revealing cavity-rotten teeth that had been stained brown by twenty years of chewing tobacco and zero years keeping his mouth clean. “It was an accident,” he mumbled without conviction. “I didn’t mean to do it.”
“Shut up Mort,” Red barked, yanking on the free end of the hangman’s rope. “I was there. I saw what happened and it was no accident. You killed him… now you’re a dead man walking.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Doc scoffed.
Red forced out a laugh. “Oh… you’re a clever one, aren’t ya?”
“No. No I’m not. But there’s a reason the Hanging Tree has been off limits for forty years, Red. Don’t pretend there isn’t.”
“Forty years ago you were a child and I was nothing more than an inch in my daddy’s pants. I might have believed those stories when I was five, but I sure as hell don’t believe ‘em now.”
“Well I do.”
“Well isn’t that special. Good for you, Sunshine.”
“No. Not ‘good for me.’ You’ve said––quite publicly, I may add––that Sheriff Gill was one of your best friends.”
“That’s right. He was. You can’t work with a man like Gill without developing a friendship.”
“Then why won’t you respect him now?”
“I’m the sheriff now.”
“I’m not arguing that. The task falls on your shoulders. I know it. Everybody knows it. But Red, I’m your friend too, and I’m trying to talk some sense into you.”
“But you’re not making sense!”
“Yes I am! Hang him in Town Square, the way it’s been done for the last forty years!”
“No!”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to hang him there! In fact, I don’t want to hang anyone there. Town Square is no place to kill a man.”
“Why not?”
“What do you mean, why not? You know why! It’s right in the center of town. Everyone comes out of their homes and makes a big deal out of it. Taking a man’s life shouldn’t be a sport, Doc… we’re not barbarians. We have over thirty children living within spitting distance of Town Square, and the bloody school is right next door!”
“A public hanging is nothing the children haven’t seen before.”
“That’s the problem! Don’t you get it? We’ve been making a spectacle out of these killings for too long! And why, because of an old wives tale? I don’t want children seeing this stuff. Goddamn, I still remember it, Doc. I still remember watching my first hanging. I’ll never forget it. I was four years old and the man’s name was Jonny Bale. He was crying and terrified and his wife was screaming her head off, saying he was innocent, saying her man was a good man and he’d never hurt a fly. And when they pulled that lever, Jonny fell very hard, and every single person that was there heard his neck snap. It sounded like a bullwhip cracking; I swear it did. I had nightmares for a year, if not longer.”
; “Oh, bullshit.”
“Don’t give me that. It’s not bullshit. It’s true. And now I’m the man in charge and we’re doing things my way. You want to hang this fool next door to a schoolyard? Why? So we can give nightmares to the young ones? No chance in hell. Mort’s taking a one way trip to the Hanging Tree and that’s final.”
“But the Hanging Tree is… well…” Doc’s eyes skipped towards the ground. “Don’t make me say it, Red.”
“Say what… haunted? Is that what you want to say?”
“I don’t know if the tree’s haunted or not, but you know what happens. Sometimes they come back.”
The words sat in the air like an unseen hex, gaining weight as both parities had a chance to mull over the situation. They knew the stories. Everyone in town knew the stories, but that didn’t mean that everyone in town believed them. Problem was, the stories grew more outrageous and less believable each time they were spoken. The Hanging Tree was cursed, many said. It always had been; some figured it always would be.
“Listen guys,” Mort begged. “I don’t want to die. I really don’t. I made a mistake, that’s all. It was just a stupid mistake and I’ll never do anything like that again. Please don’t kill me. Please. You could let me go. You could––”
“Be quiet, Mort,” Red snapped. “If you didn’t want to be executed you shouldn’t have popped the sheriff. Good Lord, man. What were you thinking? Gill has a family, for Christ’s sake. And he never did anything to you.”
Doc agreed. “Yeah, shut the hell up. Now’s not the time.”
Although Mort had been told, he kept talking. They planned on killing him anyhow, so he had nothing left to lose. “All those years I walked the earth without a gun. I never needed one when I was a young lad, and I didn’t need one now. But I got one anyhow, tryin’ to be a big man, tryin’ to be respected… and look at me! I killed the sheriff. Oh God, this isn’t the way things are supposed to be! I should never have bought that stupid weapon. Lord knows a man like me shouldn’t be armed. Gentlemen, please, set me free! I’m begging you! I could run off to a far away place, you’ll never see me again. That wouldn’t be too bad, would it? Nobody would have to know!”
“I’d know,” Red said, using an unpleasant tone. “And so would Doc. Christ on a caboose, Mort. Sheriff Gill was a friend of mine. And I may not want to hang you in Town Square, but you’re getting hanged all right. No question there. Your time on this earth is done like dinner. You shot a good man and a true friend; now it’s time for justice.”
Mort started crying. “Well for the love of God, don’t take me to the Hanging Tree! I don’t want to come back from the dead!”
Red said, “Don’t be a fool, you won’t come back.”
“Yes he will,” Doc argued. “You know he will.”
“I don’t know that he will. As far as I’m concerned, the dead stay dead.”
“Not always.”
“Yes. Always.”
“Well, I guess you plan on finding out for sure, don’t you?”
Red huffed, flashing his teeth like an animal. “Look Doc, I’m getting tired of this. I need you to come with me, be a witness, and pronounce this man dead. If you’re not interested, that’s fine. I’ll find someone else.”
“We shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“It’s wrong.”
“Yes or no, Doc. I’m tired of getting rained on. I need an answer.”
Doc squinted his eyes and dragged a finger across his chin. “Goddamn you, Red. I hope you’re right.”
“I am right.”
“Okay then. Something goes wrong, it’s your fault.” And with that, Doc started walking, boots splashing in the muck.
“Get up Mort,” Red said, tightening his grip on the hangman’s rope. “It’s time to move.”
Reluctantly, Mort brought himself to his feet.
The three men walked towards a nearby stable with the warm August wind blowing at them from the west. At gunpoint, Mort mounted a mule. Doc and Red straddled strong dark horses, and together they made their way towards the place best left forgotten.
Twenty-five minutes later Mort was fastened to the tree in question, the one that had a reputation for giving death to the living and life to the dead. He was crying, afraid of what lie ahead, gripping the senseless mule beneath him with his heels. He was wearing a white shirt, which had become torn and covered in filth. His hands were tied in front. His glossy eyes were the color of cherry brandy.
The tree was old, more perished than vibrant. Its leafless branches were thick and knotted. Like giant, arthritic fingers, grasping at the open plains that surrounded it. Gluttonous roots burrowed deep within the mostly desolate soil, seizing nourishment where they could, keeping what moisture they found tucked inside, hoarding the sustenance, cactus like. In a different time and place it may have been called the Tree of Anguish, the Tree of Shame. Some thought that in days long since passed, in a time when the plant was truly alive, when leaves bloomed and sparrows nested among the branches, what existed was a rare and unnamed class of oak. Now it was impossible to know with any amount of certainty what type of tree it was, and the only birds to brave enough to wrap talons around the tautened bark were the buzzards and the crows.
Red ignored Mort’s expressions of grief, turned to Hubert Turret and said, “I’m going to make this quick. Any last words, Doc?”
“We shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Your judgment and opinion has been duly noted.” He turned towards Mort. “Hey Quick-draw. Quit yer crying a minute, will ya? I’m about to kick the mule. Have you got any last words, or are ya good to go?”
Mort snorted back what he was able and shook his head several times. A mixture of liquids ran from his beard. “Don’t hang me from this tree, Red. Don’t you dare… please! If this tree does what it was born to do, I’m going to come back. And if I do––”
“Yeah, yeah,” Red said, uncaringly. “Is that it? That everything?”
“If I come back I’m coming back for you!”
Lightning cracked and thunder roared. The smell of the earth was strong now, stronger than before. It had been raining for hours, which was a rarity on the dry plains. The previously dehydrated terrain was thankful, more so now with the rain turning into a full-fledged storm.
Mort glanced towards the sky. Then, as tears rolled down his face, he said, “I mean it. I’ll come back for ya. You’ll be the first person I exterminate!”
Red heard enough. He kicked the mule until the animal moved away from the tree, leaving Mort swinging in the wind.
Gagging, Mort’s eyes bulged. His feet kicked in every possible direction.
Lightning cracked again and Doc turned away. Red didn’t; he watched the man suffer. Once the deed was done he made the sign of the cross, and said, “Want to pronounce him, Doc?”
Doc took one look at Mort’s lifeless body swaying from side to side. He didn’t need to be a doctor to know the score. Mort’s eyes had rolled back. His terror stricken expression was locked in place. Limbs seemed boneless and somehow miserable. His white shirt flapped in the wind, reminding both men of a dirty flag.
I surrender; the flag declared. There’ll be no more trouble from the likes of me.
Doc’s eyes narrowed. He nodded and said, “Sure as shit, he’s gone. May God have mercy on his soul.”
“And ours.” Red cleared his throat, pulled his hat from his head and placed it above his heart. After a moment had passed, he said, “Lets go back. We can send the meat-wagon first thing in the morning.”
* * *
Sleep didn’t come easy. Red’s mind kept returning to the Hanging Tree. He could see Mort sitting on the Mule, crying openly, water dripping from his unkempt beard while his legs gripped the animal for stability. He could hear those words; I’ll come back for ya. You’ll be the first person I exterminate. Somehow Red believed it. But that was foolish, wasn’t it? Sure it was. Mort wasn’t coming back from the dead. T
hat was impossible.
In time, Red closed his eyes and sleep came. It was a short-lived rest––a couple of hours, maybe less. He pulled himself from bed and walked towards the window. Looking out, he could see the rain falling lightly, splashing miniature explosions the puddles outside his window.
His mind drifted.
The tree. It all came back to the tree. He needed to see it again. Or more specifically, he needed to see Mort hanging from the tree again. He needed to make sure Mort was still dead.
“God,” he whispered. “I’m a fool.”
And maybe he was a fool. But if so, he was a fool that knew himself pretty well. The next few hours were not going to be enjoyable ones. He was going to be awake, thinking about Mort, wondering if the impossible was somehow possible. This meant that he had a decision to make. He could either stay home, alone in his house, listening to the rain bouncing off his roof while he wondered if Mort was coming to get him, or he could go to the Hanging Tree and put his mind at ease.
After ten minutes of scratching his head and considering his options, the decision was made. He couldn’t stay home, strolling from room to room while thinking in circles; it was making him crazy. He needed to go to the Hanging Tree and see Mort, whether it was a silly thing to do or not.
Red dressed, knocked back a tall shot of cheap whiskey and made his way to the stable. He mounted his horse and rode towards his destination. He rode slowly, apathetically. The air had cooled some. The ground felt soft from the rain, which had become almost nonexistent. Before he arrived at the tree he stopped to gather his thoughts.
Lord, give me strength.
Somewhere in the distance a coyote howled, nipping his prayers in the bud.
He dismounted, tied his horse to a nearby rock and began walking. He told himself that he needed time to think, but the truth was this: he was procrastinating. Seeing Mort’s corpse hanging from a noose wasn’t going to be pleasant, not at all. But what if there was no corpse to see? What then?
13 Drops of Blood Page 9
