The Zed Files: The Hanging Tree Part 13

"Lemme see that," Kevin says and s.n.a.t.c.hes the paper away from Ray. "Property of The Bank. What is 'The Bank' and how the h.e.l.l do they figure they own everything now?"

Tyler comes down from the attic with a backpack slung on his shoulder. He's added a shotgun to his pack and carries the MP5 across his chest. He's still smiling but it isn't a happy smile. "Out of the frying pan," he says with no small amount of sarcasm.

"Where you going?" Kevin asks.

"Away from here. As fast as possible," Tyler says and takes another step down. "You don't really think they'll be back in 24 hours to pick everyone up, do you?"

"It's what the notice says." Big Donna is holding the leaflet in her hand and going over and over it. "It says they'll take us out of here, give us medical care. I don't really care about the rest of it. They can have all of this if they want it."

"It doesn't bother you that they're calling this the infected zone? You'll be 'a.s.sessed for contamination.' We've all been exposed, haven't we? And what do you think happens to the contaminated people? Think they'll just keep everybody from the infected zone in a separate housing development?"

Kevin looks at me with a somber expression. "Guess you're f.u.c.ked."

"We all are," Tyler says waving his arms. "We're all f.u.c.ked if we stay here or if we go with them. Just because we don't look like Billy doesn't mean that they won't 'remove us' anyway. Even if we hadn't been eating the stuff, they'd still determine that we've all been exposed and cart us off to the incinerators."

"Hang on, hang on," Ray interjects. "Why warn us then? Why not just roll through here and kill everything moving? Why drop leaflets when they could have just bombed the bejesus out of all of us, right now, end it all, done. Why not do that, smart guy?"

Tyler is smiling again. "Catch more rats with cheese than you do with a sledgehammer." Ray winces and shakes his shoulder and mouths the word 'what?' Tyler spells it out for him in detail. "The Infected Zone, as it were, is a f.u.c.king huge piece of real estate. If they can spend a little time and money dropping leaflets, and if people fall for it, then they get everyone together in a group. It'd take a h.e.l.luva lot longer to go around individually targeting every single survivor. Even ten or twenty at a time is much faster than one at a time.

"And let's say that people do show up. Alright, so they collect a few 'specimens' for study and instead of getting shot or blown up, you get carted off to the lab to have tests run on you. Maybe they want to weaponize this s.h.i.+t. Maybe they want to test out vaccines, see what the side effects are. Maybe they've figured out how to eat this stuff as well and this is the new cash crop of the future. You can bet the farm that when you see corporate funded helicopters out dropping leaflets instead of government or military, everything is f.u.c.ked. Way more f.u.c.ked than it ever was by the rock from outer s.p.a.ce or the f.u.c.king zombies."

n.o.body says anything for a while. Karen looks like she's going to explode. Her hands cover her belly. She's as infected as I am, as her unborn child is, as is anybody in this room.

"What were the green lights?" Betty asks. She's hanging on Kevin again. I wonder if he gets to s.h.i.+t by himself.

Tyler shrugs. "An educated guess? Taking coordinates for the attack. Some places, with more people, they'll round up the inhabitants and take them back to do whatever horrible things they have planned. Little enclaves like us? Probably just take the coordinates, send in some automated ordinance or drones and we'll all wake up tomorrow blown to smithereens. In fact," he says looking at his watch, "they've probably programmed coordinates in already. We're just standing here like sitting ducks."

"Standing like sitting ducks?" Ray asks. "Hold on. That doesn't even make sense."

"Whatever," Tyler snipes back. The smile is gone. "I'm betting that within the hour, this place will be a crater. You can stick around and see what happens, but I'm out of here. I'd rather take my chances out there in the woods with a few of the zombies running loose than try and stay here and see what the f.u.c.king Bank has to offer."

"I'm staying," Big Donna says. "You can't be that cynical about it all. I'm not infected or contaminated or any other d.a.m.n thing. I'm sick of living like an animal out here in the woods."

"We're all animals," Tyler says as he moves towards the door. "Only difference in animals is that some live in cages and some don't." He disappears through the doorway and starts heading for the front gate.

Kevin follows after him to the doorway. "Hang on a minute, man. We're coming too." He turns to Betty. "Get your stuff. We're splitting."

Ray hustles upstairs without saying much. I motion for Karen and Eddie to follow me. Karen explodes into tears again. G.o.dd.a.m.n it. I stop and kneel beside her for a second. "We have to go. There is no other option."

"That's not true," Big Donna says and sits down with a thud on one of the kitchen chairs. "She can stay here with me and we'll get her some proper care for that baby."

I ignore Big Donna and squeeze Karen's hand hard enough to hurt her a little. "You need to snap out of it. I can't make you go, but I can promise you, if you stay here, you die. Even if they do come, they'll pull that baby out of you and you'll never see it again. They'll slice you up six ways to Sunday and that'll be it." She doesn't move but her crying slows down. "I'm taking Eddie to the bunker and the bath house to get as much as we can carry. Get up, go to the bath house, we'll meet you there. If Tyler's right, we don't have much time."

Big Donna looks worried. "You should reconsider," I tell her. But she simply folds her arms across her chest and looks away. "Come on, Eddie. Let's get going."

I walk out the door and leave them all behind. I a.s.sume Eddie is behind me. Down in the bunker, I grab my pack and begin stuffing anything and everything into it. Matches, food, ammo. I fill my canteen with water and grab as many of the wool blankets as I can and head up to the bath house.

Eddie is walking Karen across the courtyard. He's holding her hand and talking to her quietly. She puts her arm around him and gives him a squeeze. I motion for them to hurry up.

Inside, we load up as much as we can carry. Ray, Kevin and Betty show up just as we are grabbing the last of everything. "We can always come back for more if Tyler's wrong about them just bombing the s.h.i.+t out of everything," Kevin says. He's got the big sniper rifle slung across his back and an AK in his right hand. Betty isn't carrying much but she does have a shotgun. Ray looks like he's about to s.h.i.+t his pants.

"Let's take the tractor," Ray says. "Or the Jeep. They both still run."

"Easy targets from the sky," Tyler says and begins slicing a path through the brown stuff covering the gate.

"We can park them outside," I tell Tyler. "Use the front end loader to open the road, follow with the Jeep. There's a house just down the road that I stayed in for a night. We can ditch them there and move out into the woods. At least we'll have access to them if you're right. And if you're wrong, nothing wasted."

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, h.e.l.l," is all I can hear Kevin say before he throttles the tractor up and starts pus.h.i.+ng 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 c.o.o.n c.r.a.p.

"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 s.h.i.+t." 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 pa.s.ses 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 s.h.i.+ny 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 G.o.d of ritual, the G.o.d of control, the G.o.d 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 Read on for a free sample of Necrophobia www.severedpress.com 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 mola.s.ses. 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 tending to her flowerbeds. Jimmy LaRue was up on his roof, hammering. Cars were pa.s.sing 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 G.o.dd.a.m.n loud, so he didn't hear anything. Mrs. Hazen...well, she couldn't hear cymbals cras.h.i.+ng 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 cuc.u.mbers 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 G.o.dsake. 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, pus.h.i.+ng 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-s.h.i.+ngle the roof. He did wiring and windows for me. When I was in Iraq, he made d.a.m.n 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 gla.s.sy 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 gra.s.s. 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.