The Hanging Tree.

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 Tr.i.m.m.i.n.g.

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 s.h.i.t 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 impa.s.sable. 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 gla.s.s 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 c.o.c.keyed in a ditch, the rear pa.s.senger 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 b.u.mper 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 s.h.i.t 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 bra.s.s 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 p.i.s.sing 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 f.u.c.ked 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 s.h.i.t from her brain pan leaks into his twisted and open mouth. He's howling like a car-hit c.o.o.n 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. G.o.d knows where the s.h.i.t 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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 a.s.s 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 d.a.m.n 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. Sumb.i.t.c.h 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 gla.s.s 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 a.s.s clenches into a knot and my heart skips a beat. f.u.c.king things. I turn to the swing Zeds. "Sshhhhhh," I tell them.

Rotten b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.

Rotten b.a.s.t.a.r.ds what put them in the tree and rotten b.a.s.t.a.r.ds 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 s.h.i.t," 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 pa.s.sed 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 h.e.l.l 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. h.e.l.l, it's been worse.

"f.u.c.k 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 f.u.c.k were they doing, anyway? World is over and these guys are stringing up Zed piatas all over h.e.l.l'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 pa.s.sed a barn not that long ago. But it seems to be taking a long time to get there. "d.a.m.n 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 pa.s.s 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.

"f.u.c.k." 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 pa.s.ses 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 f.u.c.kers!" 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 pa.s.ses 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, b.l.o.o.d.y 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. "d.i.c.khead," 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 f.u.c.ker trying to bite me. I sc.r.a.pe 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. "f.u.c.k 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 f.u.c.king 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. Doork.n.o.bs sometimes... definitely not an internal latch.

I crawl up into the loft and take another quick look around before sliding my pack off. "Heavy G.o.dd.a.m.ned 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 f.u.c.king 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.

s.p.a.ce. 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. G.o.dd.a.m.n, 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.

Gray daylight streams in through the gaps of the barn boards. Rain is pounding overhead. My stomach says it is mid-morning.

I reach in my pack and pull out a can. "Pumpkin pie filling," I say out loud to myself. "Or," pulling out another can, "lima beans... or... the mystery can." I roll the shiny can with no label around in my hands. "That's right, Bob, this vintage, 2011, all stainless steel 14 ounce can could hold any number of fabulous prizes. If....the price is right."

The last house I checked out had been emptied already, except for this stuff, the stuff n.o.body wants. The cans of c.r.a.p that get donated to canned food drives for the homeless. Why waste chili on the starving? Let them eat creamed corn.

I give the mystery can a shake. It could be something wonderful. Or it could be sauerkraut. It might be a delicious beef stew or canned spaghetti. Or it might be a stinking tin of b.u.t.ter beans. It goes back in the pack. "Ya gotta have something to look forward to in life or it just ain't worth live'n," I tell the barn. I place my hand on the pack for a moment. "My shiny little lottery ticket waiting to be scratched off."

I put the lima beans back in the pack also. Maybe I'll meet someone and trade them. Or pull the label off and make it a lottery ticket for them. "h.e.l.l, some people actually like lima beans. I'm not sure how hungry I'd have to be to actually eat them. However hungry that is, I ain't there yet." My voice sounds hollow in the big empty barn. I set about opening the tin of pumpkin pie filling. Pie for breakfast is fine. Even though I hate pumpkin, it is still better than G.o.dd.a.m.ned lima beans.

A large spider is slowly plodding across a web slung between two posts, its long hairy black legs stepping carefully from strand to strand. I shovel in a mouthful of sickly sweet pumpkin puree and shake my spoon at the spider as I speak. "It's all Star Trek's fault, I figure. The original series, not that Captain Picard bulls.h.i.t. I'm talking about the real deal with Kirk and Spock and McCoy. Know what I mean?"

The spider has stopped moving. I don't think it likes my spoon waggling. I put another mouthful in and park the spoon in the half-full can while I talk and chew. "Sorry. Bad manners. And G.o.d knows what spoon waving means in the animal world. But like I was saying, it's all about Star Trek, my little friend. Those guys were highly moral and disciplined soldiers, out exploring the universe, all dressed in primary colors. You weren't around in the 70's but it wasn't a decade for pastels. Christmas tree lights were the big ceramic bulb type, all in primary colors. People wore red, white and blue clothing, or tie dye or those insanely stiff dark-blue blue jeans. Orange s.h.a.g carpet. Avocado green stoves. Harvest gold refrigerators. Things had a certainty to them. None of this wishy-washy pastel nonsense. And then you had Star Trek. All those uniforms in dark blue, dark red, and gold. Half-naked green women. My G.o.d what I wouldn't give for a half-naked green woman just now."

The spider has resumed its building. It is black with dark yellow streaks. It must understand what I'm saying. "Yup. Star Trek did it." The spider pauses for a moment and fiddles with something intricate. I choke down another mouthful of pumpkin.

"How? How, you ask? That... is a very astute question, my little hairy friend. You see, when I was a kid, we didn't have automatic doors. Some places had doors where you stepped on a mat and the door opened, but nothing like on Star Trek. Lo and behold, a few decades later, boom... doors that open just like on Star Trek. No guys with push sticks off camera sliding the doors open and shut. This is real technology. And it ended up everywhere. Right? Am I right?"

The s.p.a.ces in the web are wide. Big spider, big web. Big web, big catches. Big catches, big meal. "They had these little communicators they used to call up the ship. 'Hey Spock, you pointy eared f.u.c.k... send down some hot wings, G.o.dd.a.m.n it. We're have'n uh... Neptunian green woman orgy and these b.i.t.c.hes are wild for hot wings.' You know, like that."

"And so a lot of things that the science fiction writers thought up, well man... that s.h.i.t eventually came into being. Tricorder scanner thing? We end up with ultra-sound and MRI and NMR. And you know, there's probably a million other examples out there. But Star Trek man, that's what I'm talking about."

I finish off the pumpkin gruel and toss the can down off the loft. I lick the spoon clean and take a long pull of water. Pumpkin farts all day. "What am I talking about?" I ask the spider as I round up my gear. "I'll tell you what I'm talking about. I'm talking about the zombies. All these writers come up with s.h.i.t in stories and then the s.h.i.t really happens. Everybody kept writing about zombies and well... here we are."

I hold up my wet, b.l.o.o.d.y, mud-covered jeans. A chunk of black rotten skin is stuck to the back of the calf. I spread them out on the straw floor to dry. Washing machines were nice. Dryers were cool. Electricity... clean water... cans with labels.

The pumpkin-pie-filling-lima-bean-mystery-can house had yielded some extra duds as well. I pull on a worn out pair of brown cotton duck pants and a brand new black t-shirt that says, "Her mother was better" in big white letters.

I pace around the loft and think about what to do. A slat in the barn wall is missing and I jam my face up against the opening to look out across the muddy cornfield that I crossed last night. I have no idea where I'm going. Just heading west, I suppose, out to the mountains. "Manifest destiny," I mutter. Kill the natives. Rape, pillage and destroy. G.o.d's will.

The spider continues working on its web. A strand, a joint, an arch, a long slide down to the next part. So intent in its purpose and I find myself with no purpose other than survival. Which puts us in the same proverbial boat, I guess. Except its chances are better than mine. "No more pesticides, no more pollution. The whole place is yours, man. We're done f.u.c.king it up. At least for now."

It's pretty comfortable up here. I chew on my bottom lip as I think. The spider has settled down in the middle of its web.

"Course, there's that tree full of Zeds and G.o.d knows what else back in that woods. Could be gravy. But, it would be nice to hunker down here for a while. Cept if some kinda truck load of idgits pulls up, then I'm f.u.c.ked. That's why I had to leave the farm in the first place, you know." I pick up a small flat board and fiddle it around in my hand. "Let themselves in real quiet, prowl'n through the house. I listened for a while. They talked about the big wave of zombies come'n. How the disease spreads through bites. They had a lot to say till they saw the cigarette I left burning in the ashtray. One was just start'n to say something when I cut'em down. They never felt noth'n though."

I remember emptying the .45 on all three of them. Two skinny dirt bag hippie types and some young girl. She was pretty good look'n. But somehow, that made me feel even more right about it. Not that it mattered, right or wrong. It just had to be done.

"You think I should stay, yeah?" I ask the spider. "Hang out all day, have a few laughs, pals forever?"

I look around at the nothingness. The no-one-ness. Images of people I used to know flash through my mind. Then the loop starts. The pictures I always see when I stop and think. The mud, the big red International Harvester tractor laid over, the crushed red wooden feeder trough, the red metal barn, the red pool of blood and cow s.h.i.t. Ringing in my ears and the smell of shotgun smoke in the air. Little pile of goo where a head used to be.

No sense living in the past. Although I decide to tell the spider, "When the weather started to turn and the Zed started to get more frequent, Mom left with Aunt Wanda and Uncle Merv. They all headed down to Wanda and Merv's 160 acres in Missouri. She only asked me once if I wanted to go with them. She knew I wasn't going to come. She knew that after everything that had happened, I was better off on my own in a way. And besides, Merv is an a.s.shole. His hand on my shoulder as they were leaving, 'You should come with us. We could use somebody like you down there.' Big stupid smile on his big empty head."

The pumpkin puree churns in my stomach and I feel ill. I watch the spider string another piece of lattice across the arc of its web. I try to concentrate on the spider and ignore the picture in my memory. But the harder I try not to see it... well, there it is. The little bra.s.s bb soldered onto the end of the barrel. Everything beyond the bb is a blur.

The board in my hand lands flat against the bulbous body of the spider, smashing it flat and dead in a nanosecond. The shattered web and broken legs of the spider stick to the end of the board as I pull it away. "That's the way to go," I tell the dead spider. I look at the bottom of the board. I look at the death and the guts and the pieces and the parts. A calloused heart takes work or it softens into useless tenderness.

The board lands with a thud in the corner of the loft. On the bottom floor of the barn, I unsling my little rifle and slip my poncho on over my head and pack. My new pants are a little big and I have to hike them up and retighten my belt. To h.e.l.l with that other pair. They'll be walking around under their own power in a couple of days.

Rain will provide a good cover for slipping across the road and into the trees. Maybe there are people back in the woods. Maybe there's an old truck with a tank of gas. Maybe there's a half-naked green woman. I look back towards where the spider was. The world seems so flat and empty and limitless.

The sound of the rain on my plastic hood is deafening as I step outside into the deluge.