The Hanging Tree
David Andrew Wright
Copyright ©2013 by David Andrew Wright
This book is dedicated to my mother, Janet Swanson. As the sole subscriber to my blog in the early days, she pushed me to write more of this story and has read and reread every version thereafter. None of this would have happened without her support and love.
Thanks Mom.
Chapter 1: Tree Trimming
It must be late afternoon. It’s hard to tell anymore since you can’t actually see the sun. Most every day has the same yellow-green sky you’d see in the Midwest before a twister hit. Everything feels electric and wrong. The air has weight to it now, like you could roll it around in your hand. It’s cool and damp enough that I can see my breath, but I’m sweating under my poncho and the tip of my nose runs cold. Thunder rolls overhead and the wind picks up.
One foot and then the other. Pickin’em up and settin’em down. Looks like the cornfield I’m walking in was harvested just before the shit hit the fan. The dried, broken stalks keep me from sinking into the mud as I head west. Everyone else headed south when the weather started changing. People running around like chickens with their heads cut off. Ain’t hard to figure out how the virus spread so far and so fast.
I chart my course by keeping parallel with a two lane blacktop highway to the north. The roads aren’t safe but sometimes the terrain off the road is impassable. Sometimes, the only way through is around. Easier to keep sight of the beaten path and use it sparingly. Although, it wouldn’t break my heart to find a working car with gas. And keys. I’ve already tried to hotwire about 10 cars. Managed to set one on fire, but never got it to start.
A clump of multiflora rose bushes and broken fencing sits around a farm pond at the top of the hill in front of me. In the distance, an engine guns and tires spin on mud and rock. I glass the bushes with my riflescope and head for cover at a trot.
Lying on my stomach, I wriggle up through an opening at the base of one of the bushes and bring my rifle scope up to my eye again. Below me an odd scene unfolds. An old black and yellow Ford pick-up sits cockeyed in a ditch, the rear passenger side tire up in the air. A rope runs off the back of the truck and up over a tree branch. At the end of the rope, a twitching body squirms and flails, its black silhouette dancing in the dwindling daylight.
Two men jump on the rear bumper of the truck and start bouncing up and down as the driver guns the engine again. The truck lurches forward and then back, finally grabbing something solid and lurching onto the dirt road. Steam rises from the exhaust and tires as the two bouncers climb into the cab of the truck. The Ford fishtails slightly as it heads northwards towards the two lane blacktop.
The rope that looked like it went to the back of the truck is actually attached to a large wooden stake driven into the ground at an angle. Beside that stake are several others. I run my eye over the tree through the scope and see several bodies twisting around and howling as only a Zed can. “Okay,” I tell myself and look behind me for a moment. “I guess ya hafta expect this kinda shit when people don’t have television anymore.”
I watch the truck disappear on the highway before moving out of my spot and towards the tree. Watch the road. Watch the trees and bushes. Try to remember to look behind me every so often as well. I turn the little .22 caliber Ruger rifle on its side and thumb the bolt back halfway to make sure there’s a round in the chamber. A small brass cylinder appears and I let the slide fall back down. The safety comes off with a click. Look to the side, look ahead, look behind.
Fifty yards away before I stop and look up in the tree. A patchy rain has begun to fall; big drops begin to pop against the hood of my plastic camo poncho. I count ten Zed swinging in the breeze. I pluck a dead foxtail weed and chew on the end while I watch the bodies kick, gurgle and strangle. “Jump’n Jesus on a pogo stick.”
They ain’t alive. And they ain’t dead. And those nylon baling twine nooses around their necks just seem to be pissing them off more than anything.
I swing the rifle up to my eye to get a better look at the one on top. This Zed must have been about eight or nine when she went zombie. Her dress is all fucked up and in shreds. She wears only one shoe and a cut down the side of her head. She must be on the top because she’s lighter. I put a bead on her little matted-curl, baby-doll, Zed head and softly whisper to myself, “Every tree has an angel on top.” The trigger is crisp and the recoil is nonexistent. A quick crack ripples across the field followed by the smack of a small chunk of lead going through a small piece of bone.
The two below her must have been brothers, not much older than the girl. The one right below her is twitching as the shit from her brain pan leaks into his twisted and open mouth. He’s howling like a car-hit coon dog and I let him have it, if only to shut off the noise. Brother follows a half second later.
There’s a nicely dressed older woman hanging just below the kids. She’s still clutching her purse. Her white gloves are no longer white and the left hand is missing three fingers. The little rim-fire bolt cycles again, her toes point straight down in spasm and her head rocks slightly back. I look again through the scope and see a tiny black hole in her left cheek. Her arm uncoils slowly like an unleveled door opening under its own weight and the purse falls to the ground without a sound.
I pick my way down through the tree. I like to aim at the bridge of the nose. At this range, for where the gun is sighted, it puts the tiny slug in right above the gum-line, straight back into the medulla. No muss, no fuss.
This tree is mostly old women. God knows where the shit kickers in the black and yellow Ford found them all. I’m guessing by the dress, the swinging Zed must have been in a church and decided to hole up there. Maybe some kind of prayer group hoping for a miracle. I aim at the one that still has her hat pinned to a roll of thinning grey hair and send her out. In the bottom corner of the scope, I see a crumpled Kleenex fall out of her sweater sleeve.
The whole tree looks like it’s shaking. I pan the scope down. The fat bastard in overalls on the lowest limb is kicking up a storm. “You smell dinner, big’n?” I ask. Instead of nylon twine, they used a tow strap to haul his fat ass up. This is the line I could see from the pond. I zip one into him, but he keeps wiggling. This hog must have a little thicker skull. I put three more in him before he goes limp.
I start to swing the scope back up, but something moves in the peripheral of my vision. A dark figure darts from the edge of the field onto the dirt road about 200 yards away. The road and the person disappear into the trees. I blink my eyes in the fading light. I turn back to the zombies left swinging in the tree. “Didja see that?” I drop down flat on my stomach and watch over the top of the rifle for movement.
In the tree, one of the old women is staring down at me with those pupil-less, undead eyes. I nod my head and talk to her quietly. “You seen that, right?” I nod my head yes at her. She doesn’t move.
I turn my attention back to where the shadow disappeared. Could have been a Zed, I suppose. But it seemed awfully agile. Zed has that weird gait of a two year old that hasn’t learned to swing his arms properly for counterbalance. That’s why they fall down all the damn time. Kinda funny really. Like a buncha spastic kids jacked to the gills on Ritalin trying to play tag.
The rain continues to splatter down on my poncho. I watch to see what is out there. Sumbitch could be trying to flank me. Wouldn’t be hard to do with me lying out in the open like this. The hair on the back of my neck stands up a little as a flash of lightning blinks across the sky.
I reach for the shoulder holster under my poncho and pull out my great beast of a single
shot pistol and break the action open. Thompson Center Encore, .223 caliber single shot with a 4 power scope. I slide a round in and close the action quietly. No problem finding this caliber ammo with all of the wrecked National Guard trucks everywhere. A hundred yards is approaching the limits of my rifle. I may need the long range single shot pistol if there’s living trouble at the end of the road.
I hold my breath and watch through the little glass and metal tube. The color has gone from the woods and all of the leaves as well. One of the Zed hanging in the tree lets out a low sharp gurgling grunt and gives a big twist. My ass clenches into a knot and my heart skips a beat. Fucking things. I turn to the swing Zeds. “Sshhhhhh,” I tell them.
Rotten bastards.
Rotten bastards what put them in the tree and rotten bastards in the tree. The rain begins to increase, but I don’t know if the mystery guest has a better gun than me, I’ll be toast when I get up to leave. I watch the droplets of water bead up on the barrel of the pistol.
“Well shit,” I tell myself after a while and slide the big pistol back into its holster. I tuck the rifle in under all my layers of clothing to try and keep it clean too. If I can wait just a little while longer, I can walk back to the barn I passed earlier today. Although walking at night is the next best thing to suicide.
A chill rolls through me as my body temperature starts to drop with the hidden sun. My muscles begin to shake, but it is still too light to leave. “What the hell am I doing?” I half smile and look up at the bodies in the tree. I make a kissy face at one of the Zeds and wiggle my tongue at her. It could be worse. Hell, it’s been worse.
“Fuck it,” I say and stand up. My pants are soaked through, front and back. And I’m tired. I stand with my hands at my side, not moving, waiting for a bullet to tear through my chest or head.
Nothing.
I head off away from where the other person had been. It is getting dark faster than I thought. I pick up my pace and reach under the poncho again, only this time, I bring out the cleaver. I roll the handle in my palm. The big, flat, heavy, steel blade flutters silently as the filed down edge smiles in the dying light of day. Won’t be time for a shot if I step on something undead. I grip the handle tight and set a fast pace.
“Nice big barn,” I mumble as I hike. “Filled with nekkid women and whiskey. Butcha gotta hurry, son. Gotta hurry. Gonna be dark soon. Big open field. A big wide open field.” That barn was only a 30 minute walk from here. I can make it.
I figure whoever it was back there is long gone. What the fuck were they doing, anyway? World is over and these guys are stringing up Zed piñatas all over Hell’s backyard. My boots stomp in the mud as my backpack and rifle slap against my body. I keep the cleaver well away from my leg as I swing my arms.
My eyes scan the distance. The clouds overhead obscure any light from the setting sun or rising moon. Power went out a long time ago, so there are no manmade lights visible anywhere. The rain is just enough to make a racket against inside my poncho hood. I slide it off so I can hear better. Soon, I will not be able to see ten feet in front of me.
I know I passed a barn not that long ago. But it seems to be taking a long time to get there. “Damn it.” Panic starts to make the back of my neck hot. My eyes water as I strain to see ahead. I can make it.
I can make it.
I stop at the top of a high spot in the field. I listen. I look. Three dark figures ahead. Did I pass bushes before? I crane my head forward and hold my breath. Back and forth the silhouettes blow. Are they walking? I squat down slowly. I breathe out shallow and quiet. I watch the distance between the two clumps on the right. Back and forth they sway. To the right, to the left. To the right, to the left. To the right… the bush on the left falls down and stands back up.
“Fuck.” My skin runs electric as the adrenaline shot hits my body. I feel that cold dead place in my mind engage as I stand up and square my shoulders. The three figures are only 25 yards away maybe. They stop. We stand silent facing each other. A long second passes before I hear the one in front sniff the air. My ears strain and I hear it grunt. The grunt grows into a low bouncing growl as they run towards me.
I drop my backpack and rifle. I flip the small flashlight out of my pocket and click it on before tossing it onto my pack.
“Come on, you pig fuckers!” I yell. I load my weight onto my right leg and get a good grip on the cleaver. The first one reaches me as I leap forward and to the left. The black figure in front passes and I bring the cleaver down hard into the face of the Zed behind him. The blade sticks mid-skull. I give the handle a sharp twist and the blade frees itself with a cracking of bone. I hear the two halves of barely connected skull smack together as the body falls into a heap at my side. I step behind it to keep it between me and the other two.
The first one has fallen, but the next one is on me quick. It charges with a high feminine screech. I step back from the dead Zed and watch her fall over the crumpled body. I turn the blade parallel with my body and slice upwards as she falls. I barely feel it as it enters somewhere near the bridge of her nose and splits her head cleanly down the middle.
“That’s gonna leave a mark,” I tell her. Her arm twitches in a spasm that rocks the top of the other one’s head up and down.
The first Zed is back up. He is tall and skinny and quick. Meth Zed. He charges over the top of the other two. I see his foot land solidly on the back of the woman as he throws himself at me. I am caught off balance, but manage to flip the blade around and swing through with a great arcing backhand. I catch him in the back of his elbow and dig a deep channel down to his wrist.
I can feel the force of his breath as he screams in anger and pain and hunger. I spin around as the dirty, bloody hand of his good arm grabs for my poncho. His long, sharp fingernails slide off me as I swing wild again and feel the cleaver dig up and through his armpit. The blade finds the bone of the shoulder socket and slides free.
He pauses for a moment, both arms useless now. I see his head shaking back and forth as a strangling, gurgling fury erupts from his throat. A moment of panic seizes in my chest as I fight to keep the adrenaline from overrunning me. “Dickhead,” I spit at him.
He charges again. In the near total darkness, I can hear his jaws snapping through the horrible roar. He brings his arm with the shattered elbow up, but I stomp him hard in the chest and bring him down flat on his back. I pick up my heavy work boot and slam it down onto his face. As I twist my foot around to get a shot at his neck, I feel his teeth biting and tearing at the hard rubber sole of the boot. I push down with my foot and wedge his mouth open before bringing the cleaver down again and again and again until the head is no longer connected to the body.
The body falls limp but I can still feel the fucker trying to bite me. I scrape down and away with my boot and free myself from the head. I can hear the jaws snapping together, teeth breaking on teeth. I lean down and bury the cleaver into the long side of his skull. For good measure, I stomp on the shattered melon until it is fully ground into the mud.
I am out of breath. I hunch over for a moment, hands on my knees, breathing heavily. “Fuck me,” I say to no one. I stand again quickly and look around to make sure there are no more.
I see the flashlight on my pack and walk towards it. Without the light on, I might never find it out here in the darkness.
I reload my gear onto my back and head off the way I had originally started. “Game, set match,” I sputter as I stop and wipe the cleaver on the back of one of the now fully dead zombies. A flip of the handle and it goes back in its sheath, as it is now too heavy to carry.
After a few minutes of walking, the barely discernible black shadow of a building appears at the top of the next ridge. Hopefully, it will be empty. Of Zed and people. I pull my .45 auto out of its holster. “No wonder I’m tired,” I say as I jack a round in the chamber. “One more gun and I’d have to get a little red wagon to pull behind me.”
I pull out the flashlight again and hold it under the .
45. I listen first and then shine the light all around the small metal barn. A built-in ladder leads to a small loft with a few bales of straw. “Holiday Fucking Inn,” I smile as I slide the big metal barn door shut behind me and latch it. Jam a stick through the clasp. It won’t keep any humans out, but Zed isn’t smart enough to work locks or latches. Doorknobs sometimes… definitely not an internal latch.
I crawl up into the loft and take another quick look around before sliding my pack off. “Heavy goddamned thing,” I say. My voice sounds too loud in the metal building and I stop and listen for a moment after speaking to make sure I really am alone.
I feel taller and lighter without the pack. I pull out my little sleeping bag, and shuck my wet and bloody clothing off before climbing in. The black blood has a stink about it that I’ve never known before. Like old sweat and rusted iron.
Tomorrow, I’ll go back and take a closer look at that tree. There’s got to be some sort of reason for going to all the time and trouble to hang a bunch of Zed in a fucking tree out here in the middle of nowhere.
“Cleaver on the left, .45 on the right. Here I am, stuck in the middle.” I repeat the same bedtime ritual every night. “Single shot by the cleaver, rifle by my head.” I turn the flashlight out and put it by the cleaver. Pack for a pillow. Sleeping bag zipped up tight. And I don’t know why I came here tonight…
Away in a manger.
“Good night, John-boy,” I tell the empty barn.
A flash of lightning answers back.
I am asleep almost instantly.
Chapter 2: Prime Directive
Space. The final frontier. I pry my eyes open slowly and survey the discolored corrugated tin roof of the barn. My arms uncoil from the filthy, reeking sleeping bag in a big stretch. Goddamn, it’s cold. “Captain’s log: Double Naught Noth’n, 2014. I am in some… primitive dwelling that might house… sheep. Or cattle.” My eyebrow arches into a William Shatner question mark.
The Zed Files Trilogy (Book 1): The Hanging Tree Page 1
