The Zed Files Trilogy (Book 1): The Hanging Tree

by David Andrew Wright

  I pull the screwdriver out of the base of his skull and put it back on the shelf. Tyler watches me. “We might need that screwdriver for something,” I tell him. I start to roll Chuck over but Tyler stops me.

  “Can’t we just carry him out face down?” I nod and we grab his arms and legs as he lies. Tyler is super skinny and struggles with Chuck’s lump of a carcass. “I didn’t really mean to kill him. I was thinking about it. I had the screwdriver in my hand. Then you shot and… “

  “I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.” I can only do so much from the bottom so I just lift while Tyler pulls. “His people sent him out here to get killed. Bob was willing to risk it. He knew what Bob was up to.” Tyler stumbles and drops him on the steps, face down. “And Chuck just wasn’t cut out for this kind of world.” I motion towards his short, fat, dead ass. “Obviously.”

  Kevin appears at the top of the steps and grabs an arm. The three of us hoist Chuck up and out. We roll him down the short hill next to Bob.

  I tell Tyler and Kevin to wait up top while I get Archie.

  “Hey there, buddy,” I whisper to Archie as I squat down to move him. I stroke the fur on his side. The bullet went through the bridge of his nose and exited out his spine between the shoulders. It was a good shot, a good death. “It’s all better now,” I tell him.

  I don’t feel bad for him. There’s a shit storm coming. A moment of confusion, a split second of pain maybe, then up and out and beyond. Or whatever happens to you when you die. I look up at Jesus on the wall, “You don’t know either, do ya?” I reach up and snap him off the top of the wall and break him against the side of the container. “I didn’t think so. Worthless fuck.”

  Archie is heavy in my arms but I pick him up gently and carry him out. I’ll put him in a nice place, maybe away from Chuck. Or maybe with him. Chuck was an idiot but Archie seemed to like him well enough.

  “Now what?” Kevin says as I emerge from below.

  “Well,” I wipe some of the sweat and rain out of my eyes. “They’re too big to throw over the wall. We can’t open the gate with all of those howling bastards out there. Can’t leave’em lay there or they’re going to start to stink. I guess we need to bury them.”

  We get shovels from the bunker and go to the far corner of the compound. We dig two shallow graves and put Bob in one and Chuck and Archie in the other. “Should we say something?” Tyler asks as we all stand leaning on our shovels, winded from the work of digging.

  I smile up at them. “Ashes to ashes, Chuck to Chuck.”

  Tyler walks away and Kevin shakes his head. “That’s just wrong.” We leave the graves and follow Tyler back to the bunker. Several pairs of feet are visible beneath the gate at the front of the compound. I nod towards the growing crowd outside. “I figure we’ll have use of them guys later,” Kevin says. “We gotta teach the girls how to shoot. Tyler too, for that matter. Although I don’t know if now’s the time.”

  “It’s today or never, I figure. We’ll have company by tomorrow if not earlier.”

  Inside the bunker, Tyler stands facing a rack of rifles. In the back waistband of his jeans, he’s already stuck two Beretta 9mm’s. I wonder if he’s expecting white doves to fly up from his feet in slow motion. He is rubbing his chin and studying the selection. “Goin’ shoppin?” Kevin asks.

  Tyler looks at us and then back to the rifles. “What do you recommend?” he sighs. “High round count? Accuracy? Weight?”

  “Ah hell,” Kevin says. “Just pick the one that looks the coolest.’

  Tyler’s face is expressionless behind his rimless glasses save for the gears turning in the belly of a resolution. Any buzz he had from the whiskey appears long gone as he studies each weapon. His long greasy blond hair adds a misleading boyish quality to his intense inspection of the rifle rack. “What about this one?” he asks picking up an HK MP5.

  “Lots of rounds, not much recoil, but not a lot of distance,” I tell him. He looks me over to see if I’m just making it up as I go.

  He puts it back in the rack. He picks up an AK-47. “This?”

  “Not terribly accurate,” I tell him. “But it is damn near indestructible, holds a shit ton of ammo and you’ll probably do just as well with it as the MP5.”

  “What’s wrong with a AR15 or somethin’ like that?” Kevin asks. “Shit man, there’s like seven of them here.”

  Tyler picks up an AR and slides the sling over his shoulder. At the end of the row sits an M1 carbine. “How about this one?”

  “You only got two hands and you already got three guns,” Kevin tells him.

  Tyler ignores him. He racks the slide and inspects the chamber. “Looks like earwax in there.”

  “Cosmoline. It’s a preservative grease kind of thing,” I tell him. I fish a cigarette out of my pocket and light it with Kevin’s lighter. “I think they’re a lot of fun personally. Thirty caliber, loud as hell, tears the shit out of everything up to about 100 yards. But you’ll have to carry a third caliber of ammunition. If you’re gonna take more than one, take the MP5. It shoots the same bullet as your pistols there.”

  “There’s a wheelbarrow around back you can use to haul all the ammo you’re gonna need for four guns,” Kevin says.

  Tyler puts the little carbine back before scooping up the MP5 and a few boxes of 9mm. “What kind of stopping power do these bullets have?”

  “Plenty,” Kevin says. “Don’t matter none though. Not really. Them things out there is getting more rotten every day.

  “I’m not worried about them,” Tyler says as he shoves past us to find his way out. He looks eager and determined like a batter returning to the plate after getting hit by a pitch last time up.

  After he has gone, I smile at Kevin. “I’m suddenly glad that I fucked Karen last night and not one of the other two.”

  Kevin shoots me a sideways glance. He doesn’t say anything, but somewhere behind the marijuana fog, I see the same concern in his eyes that Tyler has. Betty may be the very last woman on earth for Kevin. They’re not a couple really, but with no competition, his odds remain favorable. I make a note in my mind not to say things that might threaten Kevin’s odds.

  From above, Tyler’s voice asks, “Um, how do you uncock the bolt thingy on the bigger gun?” Kevin shakes his head and sighs.

  I look around. Nothing here that I need really but I pick up an AR-15 anyway. Shooting people is different from shooting Zed. People are way more dangerous.

  Kevin picks up the little M1 carbine that Tyler decided against. “I’s hope’n you weren’t gonna talk him into this’n here,” he says holding the little gun. “These things are fun as shit.”

  Above us comes the sound of a slide closing. “Owww shit. Fucking hell,” Tyler spits. He appears sheepishly at the top of the stairs with his hand caught in the slide of one of the 9mm pistols. The slide has pinched up a wad of skin right in the center of his palm. “I uh… can you get this off me?” I pull the slide back for Tyler who rubs his hand. “Thanks. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything to anyone else about it.”

  “Mum’s the word,” I say and offer him a cigarette. He refuses.

  “We better get up to the house,” Kevin says. “Although I ain’t crazy about teach’n any of them bitches to shoot. They’re all nuttier than a truckload of PayDay bars.”

  As we head into the house, I stop and grab some food. A couple of MRE’s, canned peaches, canned sausages, a packet of freeze-dried strawberries and a Coke. I can replenish my pack in case I need to split in a hurry. Of course, the mystery can is still rolling around in my pack. I should open it now, chuck it out or give it away if it’s lima beans. Or sauerkraut. I could use the space. I could stand to lose the weight of it.

  Outside the gate, a Zed opens up with a long low howl. The others join in and a chill runs up the back of my neck. Maybe I will keep the mystery can and leave the surprise for later. Without a later to think about once in a while, I might not be able to withstand the now.

  Chapter 13
: Shoot’n and Fish’n

  “You’re not aiming,” Kevin says from behind Betty. “And ya ain’t squeezing the trigger.”

  “I am too squeezing the trigger,” Betty mocks, “or it wouldn’t be going off.”

  “You’re jerk’n the trigger,” Kevin says in a calm voice. “When you jerk the trigger, it jerks the end of the gun. The end of the gun where the bullet comes out. If you squeeeeze the trigger, the end of the barrel doesn’t move and you hit what you’re aiming at. If you decide to start aiming.”

  “I look through which part again?”

  We’re up on the wall beside the gate. Betty and Kevin are on the bowling scaffolding on the east side of the gate while Tyler and I are standing on the west side. All around the perimeter of the compound, big hinged sheets of plywood and metal all swing out on poles to form a catwalk. Below us, at the gate, about fifty or so Zed are stacked up waiting for a meal or a bullet.

  Tyler pulls out both pistols and cocks the hammers. “I’d start with one gun,” I tell him with an arched eyebrow. “Do as ya like. But ya ain’t gonna hit anything.” On the other side of the gate, a round from Betty’s gun hits a rotting, middle-aged woman in her right shoulder, spinning her around and making her howl at a deafening level. I turn with my AR-15 and zip one into her head to shut her up. The kid standing behind her drops also. His skull is missing from the eyebrows up.

  Tyler dumps a few rounds out of each pistol into the crowd below. One poor shuffler takes it in the knee cap, another loses a finger. An ear from a farmer is lying on the shoulder of a nun. Black fluid leaks out of a little old man’s chest. He looks like a zombie Gandhi with suspenders and pants that come up high enough to cover his bellybutton.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, stop,” I tell Tyler as I hold up my hands. “I don’t think these things really feel pain. And fuck’em. But. You’re just making a mess out of everything and you’re not really learning. Give me one of’em and I’ll show you what to do.”

  Tyler tosses me the piece in his left hand. “Great. Thanks. Next time, put the safety on before you hand it to me. It’s not a Frisbee. This ain’t the movies.” I hear Kevin laughing on the other scaffolding. “Shut up over there.” He laughs some more. “Anyway, hold it in your left hand… you’re right handed, yes? Good. The left hand supports 70% of the weight. Cock your wrist forward; put your right thumb over your left one. Good. Use just the tip of your finger on the trigger, keep both eyes open, look at the front site, put the dot on one of their heads and squeeze.”

  A teenager with amazingly bad skin takes a slug through the bridge of his nose and drops to the ground. A smile crosses Tyler’s lips as he lines up the next one. On the other scaffolding, I see Kevin pull out a .45 like mine and follow the instructions I gave Tyler. An obese woman with no top on takes it in the teeth. The back of her neck explodes and she falls forward trapping two other Zed beneath her. Betty leans forward with the rifle and frees the two trapped zombies.

  I see Daisy and Karen walk up in the courtyard behind us. Karen has a lever action rifle. Daisy has a glass of something and a handful of candy wrappers she’s braiding into a bracelet. I motion them up onto our side of the wall but only Karen steps forward. “Come on up,” I tell Daisy but she shakes her head no.

  “What’s with her?” I ask Tyler.

  He shrugs and finds his next target. “She must be outta guys to blow for candy.” Two more Zed fall as his gun barks twice.

  Karen hands me the rifle she’s carrying. It is an old Winchester 30-30. “Annie Oakley, I presume,” I say as she climbs up. I start to offer to show her how to use the lever gun but decide to just wait until she asks. She smiles a little bizarre smile and pushes a round into the side of the gun. I raise my eyebrows and watch as she works the lever and brings the gun up to her eye. A big hairy guy in overalls loses his hat and everything in it when she touches the trigger. A quick rack of the bolt and one more goes down. A late comer is about 75 yards away and crossing the road and she puts one neatly into his gourd as well. I let out a long whistle. “Nice.”

  “It’s about an inch to the left on that last shot,” she says and turns to climb down.

  “I’m glad you didn’t have that when we met. I’d have to learn to wipe my ass with the other hand.” She actually smiles as she walks away. All the light of the day seems to crowd around her and I suddenly feel cold and horrible inside. I turn around and spend a few more rounds.

  “Well,” Kevin hollers, “they won’t be drive’n in. We done got the road blocked.” He points at the mound of bodies below us. A Zed trying to get to us trips and falls into the pile. I put one in the back of his head and the pile grows taller.

  A shot echoes up from down the road. We all look at each other as several more hollow booms sound in the distance. A chainsaw starts and we all start to climb down. I give Tyler back his other 9mm and show him where the safety is. It’s only a matter of time before he gives himself an extra ass crack.

  Inside the main house, Daisy is mixing another drink. “Mmmmm hmmm,” she says as she pours. “Warm Jack and Coke. Just the way I like it.” She’s wasted and slurring.

  “Make me one,” Betty tells her as she parks her rifle in the corner and sits down. Kevin’s got a carton of some kind of orange flavored kid’s drink and his tequila. Tyler’s found a can of Dr. Pepper to make his cheap whiskey go down. I’m not sure this is a good idea right now. I’m also not sure that it isn’t.

  I leave them to it and head back to the bath house. Which I guess is our house. A chill rides down my neck and twists my head around in a slight circle as the thought passes. Our house. Jesus. I should get my stuff and leave now.

  Karen’s inside arranging her pack. She sits on her knees with her feet folded under her as she folds a pair of pants. She’s got a new handgun sitting next to her, looks like a .357. It dwarfs the little .25 that she tried to kill me with last night. The Winchester is leaned up in the corner. She’s also packing food and a few medical supplies. “Going somewhere?”

  She looks up for a moment and places her hands on her thighs. “Are you?”

  “Dunno. Maybe. It’s like they say,” I sit down and light a smoke. “We all gotta go sometime.”

  “You don’t have any family, friends?” she asks and keeps putting items into her pack. I shake my head. “No mother, no father? Brothers, sisters, friends? Nobody?”

  “Mom left with my aunt and uncle to go to Missouri. Dad’s dead a long time now. Never had much use for friends.”

  “So. Only child.”

  I start laughing. “Gonna figure me out. Fix me up. Do I tell you about my dreams now or do I stare at ink blots?”

  “What happened to you?” I shrug and raise my hands but that question always gets me. It is the question everyone wants to be asked. Some people talk like they are being interviewed on television by someone off screen all the time. They start sentences with, ‘I really feel’ and ‘I’ve always thought’. We’d all like for someone to ask us what happened so we can spill our guts out in a Reader’s Digest abridged version of horrific events and unjust acts. We want that look of incredulity on the face of the asker. It’s so hard-wired and inescapably human. “Something must have happened,” she says and tucks a bottle of pills into a side pocket. “I’m guessing you were like this even before all… this.”

  “So where are you headed?” I ask her. The best way to not talk about yourself is to ask questions about the person you are talking too. It also removes any chance of giving in and opening up. Most people are more than happy to tell you everything.

  “Nowhere,” she says and pulls the zipper across the top. “Not yet. But I want to go with you whenever you go.”

  “Why?” The question is out of me before I find the sense to not ask it.

  She shrugs. “People need people. I guess the less you need people, the more others want to be around you. I don’t know. But I want to be with you.”

  “Want or need?’ I ask and take a deep drag. Needs get met. Wants ar
e never satisfied. I don’t really want her to want or need me. This whole conversation is making my head hurt. I take another sip of the bourbon and try to think of a way to steer myself out of this mess.

  “Both,” she says after a while. “You still need people or you wouldn’t be here. Even if it’s to drive away the boredom of living.”

  She makes scary sense sometimes.

  “Come on,” I tell her as I get up. “Let’s go see what everyone else is up to.”

  She smirks. “Out of easy answers?” She stands and pushes her pack off next to mine. The .357 goes in a holster she’s attached to her belt. It’d be nice to have a holster. Save a lot of wear and tear on my gun. “You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to. I don’t have to come with you. But I think I’d like to come. And I think you’d like me to come with you. Think about it. We’ve got a little time.”

  She walks out and leaves me standing there looking like a jackass. She’s bright that one. Fast on her feet. I watch as she walks up to the main house. She’s got a great ass too. This would be so much easier if she was fat and ugly. Or stupid.

  Or nice.

  I hear a human voice up by the front gate. Daisy is leaning over the rail of the catwalk, swaying in the steady rain. She’s holding a mostly empty bottle of Jim Beam in her right hand. Beneath her, pieces and parts of our target practice session are being trampled into the mud by the gathering crowd. A long string of drool hangs from her lips and dribbles onto the Zed directly below her. “What’re you look’n at?” she asks the Zed. He looks to have been in his mid-30’s and still has a ‘Ford’ hat stuck to his decaying head. His brown canvas jacket is torn at the sleeve as is the arm inside. He looks up at her and snaps his lipless mouth.

  I approach slowly and take the bottle out of her hand. “Maybe you should get inside, get warm. Drink a little water.”