There was no easy answer to that question and Red didn’t try to find one. Instead he continued on, hand on his gun, eyes on his boots.
The Hanging Tree was just past the roll of the next hill. Red walked the hill slowly. When he looked up he could see it, the tree. There it was, standing tall in all its glory.
Mort was––
Gone.
Oh shit, Red thought. His stomach turned and his knees became weak. What the hell happened here?
As his eyes expanded his footsteps slowed. Staggered. Stopped. Stepping back, he put his hand to his mouth. There was something on the ground, a dark lump beneath the tree. Looked like a body.
He took a cautious step forward, followed by another.
But what was it? Was the lump Mort? Could it be? Was it possible?
Suddenly he was running. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest and a cold chill crawling up his back and he was running. Heaven help him, he was rushing towards the unknown. It wasn’t a conscious decision; it just happened. He needed to see what that man-sized lump was made of, because Mort lying beneath the tree meant that everything was okay in the world, everything made sense. The rope had become unraveled, the branch had snapped. Either way, something rational happened. And that’s what he wanted––no… needed. That’s what he needed. He needed something normal and sane, something he could wrap his brain around. A broken branch was rational. An unraveled rope was too. Mort Clancy coming back from the dead, on the other hand, was not.
His feet sloshed through the puddles. And when he arrived at the tree, beneath the knotted, leafless branches, he could see Mort lying there, face down in the mud.
Dead.
He was dead. Thank God.
Red almost laughed, but the nervous sound that slipped past his lips didn’t sound connected to humor in any way. Still, it was done. He had come to see Mort and he did.
It was time to go home.
Red blessed himself, turned away from the corpse, and started walking. Long before he made his way to his horse he began thinking about what he had seen. Something was wrong. Something didn’t add up. There was no rope around Mort’s neck, no broken branch either. And there was something else, something he couldn’t put his finger on.
I need to go back.
But why go back? How would that change anything?
Because I missed something, he thought. Something’s not right.
But what was it?
Red stopped walking. His shoulders slumped as he turned towards the tree. He could see the body beneath it, lying motionless.
Just go back, he thought. Take one last look and head home.
Halfheartedly, Red went back and stood next to the body. There it was: a dark lump beneath the tree. He kicked it and heard a groan.
The corpse groaned.
Oh shit. How was that possible?
The corpse groaned again, louder this time. Then it moved. Perhaps it was breathing. Perhaps it was about to stand up.
The color fell out of Red’s face and the world seemed to tilt on one axel; for a moment he thought he might faint. But he didn’t faint. Instead an inspiration came. Run, he thought. Get the hell out of here!
His feet stayed where they were, glued to the earth, next to the corpse, covered in mud.
Was it possible that Mort hadn’t died? Was it possible that he was still alive somehow, that he freed himself from the noose?
No. It wasn’t. Mort was definitely dead; Doc had confirmed it.
Red felt dizzy; he stumbled. And as he placed his hand on the Hanging Tree for balance, he felt something completely unexpected. His eyes opened wide and his muscles stiffened.
The Hanging Tree was no ordinary tree. Touching it was like placing your hand in a nest of rattlesnakes. It was alive somehow. Alive, but not like the other trees. Like an electrical current. Or a virus. And with sudden understanding came terrible knowledge. The roots of this atrocity didn’t simply burrow into the earth; they tunneled into a different time, a different world––into the place where bad things come from. Was there life after death? Yes, there most certainly was. The Hanging Tree was proof, for its seeds were planted in the dominion of the dead. Planted in the world next to ours, not where the angels go, but in that region where all pain and suffering is eternal, where sins will never be forgiven, where hatred and revulsion are universal while sympathy and compassion have no meaning. The Hanging Tree was rooted in a land where evil deeds and sinful dealings fueled a never-ending flame.
Red pulled his hand away from the tree as if burned.
He remembered the hanging. He remembered the look of terror stamped across Mort’s lifeless face, his white shirt blowing in the wind, looking like a––
“A flag,” Red whispered.
But the corpse at Red’s feet wasn’t wearing a white shirt. It was wearing a black jacket. The same one Doc had on.
Red reached down, grabbed hold of the black jacket and flipped the body over. It wasn’t Mort’s face staring up at him. It was his gunslinger friend. It was Doc, who was clinging to death’s front door.
With a scorched voice, Doc said, “Look out. He’s behind you… ”
Red heard something. Muscles tightening, he spun around.
Mort was there.
Mort, with the noose wrapped around his scrawny neck and his eyes glossed over, polished clean, lifeless, eternal. His skin was like melted candle wax. The stink of death crept from his throat and oozed from his pores. His filthy white shirt clung to his body like a second layer of flesh.
Red screamed, and reached for his gun.
Mort moaned and groaned, limped forward and extended both of his hands. He grabbed Red by the shoulder and pulled him forward.
Red managed to snag his gun from his holster. He stuck the barrel into the zombie’s stomach and yanked on the trigger. The sound of bullets blasting through cloth, skin, muscle, organs, and bones, was earsplitting.
Doc opened his mouth wide. He leaned in. His yellow, checkered teeth tore into Red’s neck, ripping his flesh apart.
Blood splattered across both faces.
Red tried to scream a second time, but only a desperate whisper escaped beyond his lips. He tugged on the trigger three more times quickly. He felt the zombie sway. He felt the teeth on his neck again and he stepped back. The heel of his left boot thumped Doc in the chest and his balance was lost. Suddenly he was falling––falling back, over his dying friend, tumbling into the muck beside the tree, bringing the living corpse down on top of him as his blood rivered from his wound.
Mort bit into his neck again, and again.
The fight inside Red was weakening; his desperation faded.
Light started to diminish. Vision blurred. Darkness came.
He was fainting. Or dying. He wasn’t sure which.
Eyes fluttered, closed.
It was over. Over.
Nothing left.
Nothing.
Noth––
Death.
Then it happened. Red felt something cold and terrible.
His glossy eyes opened. Someone had strung him up, and now he was hanging from the tree, swaying in the breeze, noose around his neck. He had been dead for hours.
But his thirst for killing had just begun.
* * *
THOUGHTS OF THE DEAD
Oh God. It’s so confusing. More than confusing, really. I’ve got so much to say that I don’t know where to begin. Maybe I should start with this: I’ve realized something while I’ve been sitting here, staring at the blank page. If they want me to recap my tale, which they do, then I want my words to characterize the real me, which is the old me––the guy people loved, the odd-ball funny dude that people phoned up and said, “Hey buddy… it’s been too long; lets hang out.” I don’t want this cluster of words to simplify my life by representing nothing more than my recent problems, dilemmas and illnesses. I don’t want these words to be bogged down in a sea of uncompromising negatives. I want to illustrate who I was, not
who I am. I guess what I’m trying to say is this: just because I’ve––
Hold on a minute.
PLEASE GO AWAY.
YES.
YOU.
NO. BOTH OF YOU.
I’LL TELL YOU EVERYTHING, BUT I NEED TO BE ALONE WHILE I DO THIS.
NO. I’M FINE.
I’M NOT TRYING TO BE DIFFICULT. I’M TRYING TO COOPERATE, HONEST.
YOU’VE GOT TO UNDERSTAND HOW HARD THIS IS FOR ME. YOU NEED TO STOP LOOKING OVER MY SHOULDER. I CAN’T CONCENTRATE WITH YOU HERE.
PLEASE.
NOW.
YES, NOW.
I’M SURE.
WHY CAN’T YOU EMPATHIZE?
PLEASE.
OKAY.
OKAY.
SORRY, BUT MY WRITING IS FINISHED UNTIL
YOU GIVE ME THE SPACE AND RESPECT I DESERVE.
I’M WAITING.
STILL WAITING.
I’m back. Sorry about that.
I was going to tell you a few things but now it seems I have some explaining to do.
Right now I’m tied to a chair. Poorly. My arms are free but my legs and waist are not, which is silly. I could untie myself if I wanted; it wouldn’t be hard. In fact, it would be easy. I won’t untie myself though, and I suppose the men in the combat gear know it.
As weird as this may sound, I’m afraid to unravel the knots. I’m scared of what could happen afterward. Not to me, but to them. I know what I am. Oh yes I do. I know what I am; I know what I’ve done, and I know one thing for certain: I don’t want to hurt anybody. Not again. Not ever.
There’s an old typewriter sitting on the table in front of me. It’s black and rusted and it looks like it weighs a thousands pounds. That’s right. It’s not a computer; it’s a typewriter. Crazy huh? Can you say: BLAST FROM THE PAST - or - HISTORIC RELIC?
Okay, so… you’re wondering why I’m writing this masterpiece on a typewriter? Yes? No? Doesn’t matter. I’ll tell you anyhow.
The city’s power has been off for at least six months now. Conventional technology––such as computers, radios and televisions––have been, ah… how should I put it… less than grand, maybe? If you’re reading my words you already know what’s been happening in this messed up world of ours. So, why am I telling you things you already know? Why the pointless recap? I don’t know. Bored I guess. Doesn't matter. I have to write something or the military guys will get mad.
There was an epidemic. Government officials said everything was under control. It wasn’t. They called the disease the African Hyena Flu but the media dubbed it the Zombie Plague. I can safely declare the media’s label a better fit. And do you want to know why? Sure you do.
Because––and here it is, the million dollar answer––I’m a zombie.
That’s right. Sorry, but its true.
I was infected a little more than three months ago, which is to say that roughly ninety days ago, I died, and came back, and started killing my family, friends, and neighbors. And now––strange as it seems––I’m here, strapped to this chair, typing away, and trying to tap into the person I used to be.
Here’s something that’s a bit off topic: I’m wondering who will read this. Not just today, but over time. I know the assholes with the guns will read it, as will the doctors, but who else? I mean, am I writing something important here? I might be. Isn’t that odd? These sentences might be important. Even if I write stupid words like ‘poop’ or ‘cucumber’ – they’ll probably be analyzed.
Here’s a word: RECTUM.
Ha! Too funny!
Huh.
I just re-read my last couple paragraphs and realized that I shouldn’t have said the things I did. Not the rectum part – I like stupid jokes. (Duh!) I mean the other part.
The military guys are probably nice people. They’re probably not assholes. And without a doubt they’ve been through a lot. Of course they have. I know it. And if I found myself in their shoes––lets be honest––would I act differently? No. Probably not. So for the record, they’re not assholes. I’m an asshole for calling them names.
If you’re reading this: sorry guys. My bad.
Wow. Back in the day… like, when the world was all about ‘the typewriter,’ if you wrote something it just sat on the page forever. You couldn’t delete it or nothing. Very strange. I wish I could delete some on the nonsense I’ve been writing here. Oh well.
I’m rambling. Sorry again. I’ll try to be less idiotic and more informative.
They put a needle in my brain, my temple––in case you’re wondering.
That’s right. A needle… a big one. Actually, they’ve given me a few shots in the temple now. And listen to this: as soon as they injected me that first time the crazy shit in my head cleared right up. The effect was damn near immediate. Isn’t that amazing? If I had to describe the feeling I’d say it was the opposite of getting stoned.
Ever smoke a joint?
I smoked a few, back in my college days. Not many, but a few. What I remember most is that head-rush feeling––that spinning, tipsy sensation that comes a few seconds after you take your first drag. Well, when they stabbed the needle into my brain and pushed the medicine inside me, it felt like the opposite of getting stoned. It was as if my mind was already messed up, and the needle took the corruption away. I’m no doctor, so I don’t know what happened to me medically, but I know that the fog lifted, if that makes any sense. And now that I think about it, once the medicine starts to wear off the fog will probably creep back in again.
Jeez. That’s a bummer.
I didn’t consider that until just now.
Huh.
Anyways––
From what I can tell there are about forty-five people here, inside this… whatever it is. I guess it’s an office. Four physicians. Ten wounded. Another ten military and about twenty civilians––normal people like you and me. Well… not me. But you know what I mean. Plus there are fifty or sixty zombies kept in different cages. I was one of those, picked at random and given the shots.
Hold on.
PLEASE LEAVE.
I’M FINE.
NO. HONEST, I’M FINE.
I FEEL GREAT.
YES. THANK YOU.
PLEASE, GIVE ME BREATHING ROOM.
THANKS.
Sorry. They came back in, wanting to check up on me again. I can’t say I blame them. I would have checked in on me before now.
Oh, here’s something else I should mention: I have no tongue. I chewed it off at some point, which is why I’m typing instead of being interviewed verbally. This is also the reason (as I’m sure you can guess) I have to write my thoughts to the men in charge. If I could tell them what happened––or tell them to bugger off while I write this note––I would.
So, I’ve avoided reliving my personal story for as long as possible. I guess I should begin. After all, that’s what they’ve asked me to do, and that’s why they’ve put me inside this room: to tell my tale.
But really, I can’t help thinking: what’s the point? Is my depiction of tragedy going to be much different then all the rest? I think not. The fact that I’m writing these pages should be proof enough that the medicine they’ve given me is working, right? Isn’t that the significant thing? I think so.
So, for what it’s worth––doctors and scientists––the medicine is good. It’s a little late in the game for me, though. In case you haven’t noticed.
For those of you in charge: you should try your remedy out with the recently infected, give them the injection before they die. Or at the very least: shortly after.
A side note:
Do you know what I’m looking at?
My fingers.
Do you know what my fingers look like? Can you guess?
Let me give you a hint:
I’ve been dead for three months. My flesh is rotting. I’ve used my hands to smash through doors and walls, to break windows and dig holes, to rip apart throats, break bones and snag flesh from muscle. My fingers have shredde
d peoples ribs and faces and been dragged along asphalt. Not only that, but my wounds won’t heal.
13 Drops of Blood Page 10
