The Zed Files Trilogy (Book 1): The Hanging Tree by David Andrew Wright Read Free Book Online Page A

“Can’t wait to see her again,” I say aloud to no one and nothing.  I flip the tiny bloody pellet out into the filth of the room. 
    After probing all of the tiny holes in my arm, I slather on all of the antibiotic cream I have and hope that it does the trick.  The last of my cotton gauze sticks down to the ointment and blood.  I hurry to put my jacket back on to fend off the cold evening air. 
    My stomach rumbles as I roll the mystery tin around in my hand.  “It’s been kind of a shitty day I guess,” I tell the can.  “Met a pretty woman… who shot me.  Found a quaint rural two bedroom, no-bath fixer upper… that got destroyed by a tornado.  Aaannd… I met another girl who was nekkid… but she was of the undead variety and I had to beat her to death with a log.”
    The can has a good weight to it.  “Heavier than beans maybe,” I tell myself.   I shake it and it sloshes.  “Or it could be some nasty ass sauerkraut.”  I flip it up into the air and catch it.  “But then again, it’s kinda been a good day.  I didn’t die when that crazy bitch shot me.  I didn’t get trapped in the basement full of coon shit.  Aaaand the flying naked Zed girl didn’t land face down in my lap.  Sooooo…. mebbee… mebbee it was a good day.”
    I hold the can aloft and study it more.  “So are you half empty or half full?” I ask the can.  I chew on my bottom lip and listen to my stomach rumble again. 
    I put the can back in my pack.  “Fuck it,” I tell myself as I settle in to sleep.  “Too much excitement for one goddamned day.  I don’t think I’ve got it in me to go through anything else.” Cleaver on the left, .45 on the right, single shot by the cleaver, rifle by my head.  I pull my poncho over me and put my head down on my pack as a pillow.  Tomorrow will be a good day for a mysterious breakfast.  Maybe I’ll have a little treat tomorrow.

 
    Chapter 6:  You Can Check Out Anytime You Like
     
    Flinch, jerk and sit up fast.  Jesus fucking Christ.  My shoulder is stiff and sore and my bladder is full enough to make my back teeth float.  A nightmare slides off the top of my head like a trowel of wet cement and I struggle to remember where I am.  I’m not home.  I’m not on the farm.  But I do hear engines.
    I shake in the cold air and stiffly get up to look out the window of the house.  The noise is coming up from the dirt road in front of the house.  Indecipherable voices yell above diesel engines as tires spin and tree limbs crack.  I grab my little rifle and pack.  Everything hurts.  I may even have a slight fever.  I look back out the window.  The big tree that fell yesterday obstructs my view of the action the same as the fallen trees across the dirt road obstruct the path of the three or more bears returning to their fort.  “Go ahead,” someone yells and a motor revs.  I can see a wiggling of branches as a tree is drug backwards and to the side of the road. 
    Another voice booms from further away, “You boys think you’re work’n for the county?”  It’s followed by a short, strange laugh.
I gather up my things quickly and check out the front window again.  I don’t know why I’m following the woman from yesterday.  But I do know that one of these guys will be headed into the house for some reason.  I know they’ll see my cleaver job on the steps, the vine, the fresh boot tracks in the shit.  I know they’ll come in here if for no other reason that I don’t want them to.
    I check the magazine on the little rifle.  I don’t carry the clip completely full most of the time so as not to wear the spring out.  Whi ch is wishful thinking since the little Ruger and all of its parts will live longer than I ever will.  I quickly stab three more rounds into the 10 shot clip and stick it back in.  A quick quarter pull of the bolt shows brass up the pipe.  Cocked, locked and ready to get the fuck out of Dodge.
    I grab onto the grapevine and