by Luke Duffy
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 inte
rnal 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.
The Hanging Tree is available from Amazon here
Table of Contents
Copyright
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Excerpt