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

by David Andrew Wright

  Tyler stops swing the axe as Kevin climbs onto the tractor. It belches smoke out the exhaust pipe as the engine turns over. Ray is firing up the Jeep. It turns and turns and turns and finally kicks over just as the battery is threatening to die. He pops the clutch and guns it towards the gate.

  Kevin lowers the scoop and starts to clear the road, but then stops and turns in the tractor seat. He motions to Big Donna who is standing in the doorway of the house with her arms folded across her chest. She shakes her head no. “Well, hell,” is all I can hear Kevin say before he throttles the tractor up and starts pushing his way down the road.

  Karen, Eddie, Tyler and me all pile into the back of the Jeep with everything we can carry. We start the slow drive down the road. It is like driving through a coral reef. Porous chunks of brown stuff are already encircled with vine. The brown stuff spreads in every direction covering everything where a human might have been able to stand.

  At the house on the lane, we park the vehicles and head inside. “Leave them on the road well away from the house. If they’re tracking heat signatures, they’ll know we’re here.”

  “Heat what?” Ray asks.

  “Just park here,” I yell at him. “Let’s go.”

  We all make it into the house and take all of our supplies up over the stairway I had broken out before. The big tree that fell during the twister is still embedded in the roof.

  “Shouldn’t we be in the cellar?” Kevin asks. “Probably a whole lot safer down there.” I remember being down there during the twister, the howling moan and the piles of coon crap.

  “No. We’re staying up here,” I tell them. “They blow up the house, we’re cooked in the cellar just as easily as upstairs where everything isn’t covered in shit.” No one argues. It is cold upstairs and the winter wind whistles through the cracks in the weathered siding. No one asks about building a fire. No one speaks. We all just huddle together in blankets and sleeping bags and sit and listen.

  Almost an hour later, a black shadow passes over the house followed by a deafening boom. Everyone jumps and tries to lie flatter against the floor. In the distance, in the direction of the compound, an orange glow lights the sky followed by the sound of explosions. The house shakes slightly as the concussion rolls through the earth.

  “Jesus,” Ray says. No quack. No one else speaks for a very long time.

  “I’m hungry,” Eddie says finally. “We should probably eat something.”

  “Yeah,” Betty chimes in. “I’m starving.”

  We all begin to tear into our backpacks and the boxes we had managed to bring in. In the bottom of my pack, I see the side of something shiny lying on the bottom of the main compartment. I pull it out and look at it. The mystery can. The lottery can. I turn it over and over in my hand.

  “What is it?” Eddie asks from beside me.

  “Dunno. Let’s find out.” I pick up the can opener and set about opening it. As I turn the handle, a clear liquid splashes up onto the lid. A final turn and the lid snaps free. I pry it off and look down into the can. The tiny mushroom parts float in an alien looking yellowish fluid. The stems and pieces are neatly arranged between the severed heads of the mushrooms.

  “Well, that figures,” Kevin says from over my shoulder. “Them things is worse than lima beans.” He shakes his head sadly. “Can’t eat them things out of a can.”

  In the morning, we walk down the road back to the compound to see what is left. Tyler and Ray take the point, Kevin and I bring up the rear. The chance of running into a full blown Zed diminishes everyday but there is still the chance.

  We can smell the smoke as we walk along. It smells of burnt hair and plastic and metal and flesh. Karen stops to vomit in the ditch. Ray does the same.

  As the compound finally comes into view, we can see that nothing is left. The main house, the bath house, everything is gone. Even the bunker sits with the top torn off like a can of sardines. The contents continue to burn and the fire is hot and high in some places.

  “Well,” Ray says quietly. “At least she didn’t’ suffer. Must’ve been pretty quick.” Even where the houses weren’t, big craters sit where a few of the bombs missed. It looks like the surface of the moon in red clay and tree roots. The timbers of the walls are blown apart like balsa wood. The brown stuff smolders and gives a nutty smell.

  “What’s that?” Eddie asks and points up at a tree still standing at the edge. About half way up, Big Donna’s lifeless body hangs amongst the shattered branches. Her clothes are missing and her skin and hair are burned black. The devoted follower of a dead world hung in sacrifice to the god of ritual, the god of control, the god of things long past.

  “Every tree has an angel on top,” I mutter. We all turn away and begin our way back out. There is nothing here for us. And nothing there for us. The leaflets from yesterday still blow in the wind; half burned or smeared with mud. The zombies of the new world are now faceless threats that strike from above. They will be much harder to survive.

  The End

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  Appendix

  Weapons and Artwork

  Ruger 10/22

  Caliber: .22 Rimfire

  Capacity: 10 rounds

  Range: 100 yards

  Springfield Armory 1911

  Caliber: .45 ACP

  Capacity: 7 rounds

  Range: 50 yards

  Meat Cleaver

  Overall Length: 17”

  Blade Length: 8”

  Range: CQB

  Thompson Center Contender

  Caliber: .223 Remington

  Capacity: 1 round

  Range: 250 yards

  The Compound. Also known as ‘Fort Wayne’ and ‘Wayne’s World’.

  Zed Flail:

  Weight: 9lb

  Ball Manufacture: Brunswick

  Range: Arm’s length plus 3 feet

  Springfield Armory M1A1

  Caliber: .308 Winchester (7.62 x 51mm NATO)

  Capacity: 20 rounds

  Range: 300 to 1000 yards

  Ruger Mini 14

  Caliber: .223 Winchester

  Capacity: 30 rounds

  Range: 300 yards

  AR15/ M16/ M4

  Caliber 5.56 x 45mm NATO (.223 Remington)

  Capacity: 30 rounds

  Range: 300 to 1000 yards

  Beretta 92FS

  Caliber: 9mm Parabellum

  Capacity: 15 rounds

  Range: 50 yards

  Heckler & Koch MP5

  Caliber: 9mm Parabellum

  Capacity: 30 rounds

  Range: 200 yards

  Acknowledgements

  The preceding book wouldn’t have been possible without the help, support and feedback of the following people: Adrienne Highhouse, Andy Miller, Chris Maxfield, Kris Pigg, Liza Hubbell, Matthew Bennet, Sue Eckstein, T. Michael Whitsett, Tana Libolt, West Magoon, Cheri White and Brian White.

  Most importantly, I’d like to thank my wife, Sarah James Wright. Without her love, support and help, I would never have realized the dream of becoming a writer.

  CLOSING IN

  It was the end of July and the air was hot and thick like boiled molasses. Ricki was in the kitchen whipping up some breakfast and I was in the living room, sweat running down my face as I tried to wire in the new air conditioner. I had just fished a Philips screwdriver from my red toolbox when I heard the screaming.

  It went through me like a knife.

  It was loud and cutting and absolutely shrill. It didn’t even sound human. More like an animal being flayed alive. I stood there for maybe three or four seconds shocked into inaction, then I stepped out onto the porch.

  By then, Ricki was at the screen door looking out. “What is it, Steve?”

  “I don’t know. I heard screaming.”

  “So did I.”

  But what I saw in the neighborhood was…nothing.

  Absolutely ordinary. Old Lady Hazen was out tend
ing to her flowerbeds. Jimmy LaRue was up on his roof, hammering. Cars were passing in the street. The mailman was walking up the sidewalk with his bag of letters, pausing now, maybe listening as well. Jimmy LaRue was pounding too goddamn loud, so he didn’t hear anything. Mrs. Hazen…well, she couldn’t hear cymbals crashing next to her ear let alone dogs barking.

  I looked over to the mailman.

  He had put his earbuds back in and went on his way.

  The scream came again and it was wet and gurgling. By that time, people up and down the block were out on their porches wondering what in the Christ was happening.

  “Should I call 911?” Ricki asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe I better go look.”

  “Steve…”

  “I’ll be right back,” I promised.

  Then I ran up the sidewalk, listening for the scream, and it came again. Though this time it was weak and broken, more liquid than anything and I didn’t care for that much. It was coming from Rommy Jacob’s backyard. I was sure of it. Rommy was a widower. He lived for his garden. He made offerings to us each summer of tomatoes and cucumbers and snap peas. I jogged around the side of his house, almost tripped over a wheelbarrow full of black soil, and that’s when I saw him.

  He was lying on the ground, twisting and squirming. It looked like someone had painted his throat and face a bright, Technicolor shade of red. He saw me. He looked right at me and there was more than agony in his eyes, there was horror. Sheer horror. His red-stained fingers were at his throat and when he opened his mouth to speak, blood came out. It bubbled out of the side of his throat…which was missing, I saw, like a tiger had taken a bite out of it.

  I just stood there.

  My stomach rolled over and I got dizzy. The smell of blood was heavy, sweet, metallic in the air. I don’t have a weak stomach. I spent a year in Iraq with a Stryker Brigade. I saw men die. I saw them die in numbers. I pulled pieces of them from Hummers when they caught IED flak. Yet…to see it here, in my neighborhood…it made it all that much more brutal and devastating and unreal. I had to force myself to move. Rommy was my friend, for godsake. But this was more than I could handle. He needed medical attention right away.

  “Hang on, buddy,” I told him, part of me wanting to run home for my cell to call 911 and another part telling me I should stay because Rommy wasn’t going to make it until an ambulance showed and I didn’t want him to die alone.

  That’s what was going through my head.

  Then I heard something behind me and Rommy’s eyes, which were beginning to get the glazed look of near-death, widened. I turned and there was a man standing there. His skin was horribly pale, mottled with gray patches, his eyes white, completely white. He was smiling at me: lips shriveled back from narrow teeth. It was no smile, it was a rictus grin. He came at me, snapping his teeth like a crocodile rising from a river, pushing a black wave of damp decay before him. It smelled hot, nauseating.

  He opened his mouth to say something.

  Rommy made a gurgling sound.

  I took one step backward, shaking my head.

  You see, that thing reaching out for me, I knew him. His name had been Bill DeForest. He’d been buried nearly a week before. Now he was back and he was no longer human.

  “Bill…” I heard myself say, knowing it was ridiculous and pointless, but I couldn’t help myself. Bill had been my next door neighbor. When Ricki and I moved into the neighborhood six years before, Bill was the first one to knock on the door to see if we needed anything. He came over with a six-pack and a strong back. His wife, Pearl, showed with fresh-baked cookies and a good heart. Bill helped me re-shingle the roof. He did wiring and windows for me. When I was in Iraq, he made damn sure that Ricki and Paul never went without.

  Six days ago, we’d buried him. Heart attack.

  I was one of the pallbearers.

  Now he was back.

  He went right for my throat with bared teeth. I tried to push him back, then he lunged. He almost put me down. He was trying to bite me, to get at my throat. He was wild and snarling and stinking of the grave. I shoved him away and he came right back at me. I had no choice. I hit him. I hit him hard. He staggered back and went down to one knee, staring up at me with a feral, fixed hatred. He didn’t just want to kill me. He wanted to slaughter me. He wanted to gut me and lap up my blood.

  He came again and I hit him.

  He fell back again, but I knew full well we couldn’t play this game all day. This wasn’t Bill DeForest. Bill DeForest was dead. This was a dead thing that wanted to feed. There was only one way to stop it and I knew it. But I needed a weapon. That’s when I saw the shovel leaning against the fence. I picked it up. I held it over my head, ready to swing. But if that would have had an effect on a sane mind, it meant nothing to Bill. He was a thing of hunger. He understood nothing but feeding.

  When he came again, some kind of slime hanging from his mouth, I swung the shovel. The blade hit him square in the face. It opened up a gash from the bridge of his nose to the crown of his skull. But it did not stop him. It made him take a few foundering steps back and then he came again. I swung the shovel, putting all my strength and weight behind it. Bill’s head split open like a ripe muskmelon. The impact drove him to his knees. He looked at me with those weird glassy eyes. A slop of brains had oozed down his face.

  I swung it again and his head came apart.

  He dropped face-first into the grass. He trembled, but did not move again.

  I stood there, panting, the shovel in my hands, staring at the gore-spattered blade. None of it seemed real. Everything had taken on the dusky shades of a nightmare. I staggered back until I was in the alley. I stood there, just breathing, trying to get the world to stop spinning. When it did, I looked down the alley and the alley beyond that which terminated at the gates of Cedar Hill Cemetery.

  I saw three, then four and five figures moving slowly, steadily in my direction. By the way they were walking with that loose-limbed sort of shuffling, I knew who they were and what they wanted.

  There was no getting around it.

  The dead were coming.

  SHOCK TROOPS

  When I stepped back in the yard, Dick Nickersen from across the street was standing there. Dick and I weren’t real close. I didn’t respect him or like him and I’m sure that went both ways. Dick was our neighborhood pain-in-the-ass. He knew all the city and municipal regulations and routinely reported people if their garages weren’t up to code, if they forgot to cut their grass or rake their leaves in a timely manner or didn’t keep their sidewalks ice-free in the winter time. He was fond of frivolous lawsuits. He had unsuccessfully sued Jimmy LaRue for allergies he’d suffered because of adverse reactions to smoke coming from Jimmy’s backyard barbecue pit and he’d gone after Mitzy Streeter because the leaves from her maples clogged up his rain gutters and made his roof leak. He had motion lights strategically placed around his yard to halt vandals, but it never stopped the local kids from soaping his windows on Halloween or stealing his lawn ornaments.

  Dick wasn’t known as “Dick the Prick” or “Prick Dickersen” for nothing.

  Right then he was staring at me.

  He saw what his paranoid mind wanted to see: two badly-used bodies and me standing there with a shovel in my hand. I could see the fear on him: it made beads of sweat pop on his face. “What…what…what…”

  Though I didn’t want to touch it, I flipped Bill DeForest’s body over so he could see it real good. “It’s Bill,” I said. “He came back. He killed Rommy. I hit him with the shovel.”

  It was obvious that he wasn’t believing me. “Bill’s dead,” he said, immediately ascertaining the obvious as he always did.

  “The dead are coming back,” I said.

  He shook his head from side to side. He didn’t want to believe that. He preferred to think I was a nutbag who just did in two of my neighbors. “The dead…no, the dead are just dead.”

  Before I could stop myself, I said, “I saw it before, Dick.
It happened in Iraq five years ago. Now it’s happening here.”

  He looked at me like I was crazy. Maybe I was. As far as he was concerned, I was nothing but some fucked-up war vet. I was shell-shocked. I had PTSD. I wasn’t in my right frame of mind. I wanted to grab him and shake him and tell him everything I knew about Necrovirus and what it could do and the assurances I’d been given in Mosul that it was all over with.

  Instead, I dragged him right out into the alley and he looked like he was going to have a stroke. I turned him and faced him so he could see the others down the alley. There were not four or five now. There were a dozen of them and they were closing in fast.

  Dick just stared.

  Then he looked at me. His eyes were moist. “This…this has to be some kind of joke, Steve.”

  “It’s not a joke, Dick. You better get home. You better lock your doors,” I told him. “They’re coming out of Cedar Hill.”

  “But, Steve…”

  “Get home, Dick. When they come after you, they’re insane.”

  “It’s Halloween shit. Zombies. Nothing but Halloween—”

  “Dick…go home.”

  But he couldn’t leave. He came right up to me and put his hands on my shoulders as if he were trying to ground himself in my physical reality. “But this is Lincoln Park,” he said, as if that made all the difference in the world. “This isn’t Iraq. This is fucking Yonkers.”

  “Go home,” I said again.

  He turned and jogged away. It wasn’t easy for him to take. I think, all things considered, he would have been far happier if I had killed him with the shovel. Dying knowing the dead stayed dead and God still made little green apples would have done his heart a world of good.