survivor was the town’s only scientist, Jonathan Weakley. He left early the next morning with his head hung low. Nobody said goodbye; nobody wished him well. Unwanted and unappreciated, Jon made his way to New York City with the status of failure. But he was no quitter; he had drive and he had ambition. He had hopes and dreams–– big dreams. He was going to make something of himself; he was going to be a superstar. The world would look upon his creatures with wonder.
All that stood in his way would be punished.
* * *
ZOMBIES:
THE HANGING TREE
Doc said, “Don’t you play games, Red. The Hanging Tree is off limits.”
Red snickered, gazing through the drizzle of rain, past the water falling in drips and drops from the rim of his leather hat. Looking into Doc’s eyes he could see more than simple fright. He could see dread, as honest and true as the sky above them, and the nightly darkness that was on its way to conceal the town.
Hubert Turret, commonly referred to as Doc, looked more like a gunslinger than a doctor, standing at the side of the road with his black, rawhide jacket wrapped around his muscular body and his long fingers tickling the smooth, ivory-plated handle on his gun. He was an influential man, handsome yet rugged, capable of taking care of terrible business in desperate times, even when the business disagreed with him on a personal level. And tonight, that’s exactly what the situation happened to be. It was terrible business and he wanted no part of it. Dealings were of the killing nature, which was never easy for any good-hearted soul, especially the likes of Hubert ‘Doc’ Turret. He was trained to save lives, not extinguish them.
He said, “The hanging tree––”
“The Hanging tree was off limits, Doc.” Red Coltrane wasn’t all that different from Hubert Turret. He was strong and lean, thoughtful yet commanding. He didn’t enjoy killing, but did what needed to be done. It was in his nature.
He pointed a dirty finger at Mort Clancy.
Mort, with his knees planted in the mud and a noose wrapped around his scrawny neck, looked pathetic. He was like a mangy dog sealed up in a man’s body. No effort put into his wardrobe, posture, haircut or hygiene. No attempt at being happy, healthy, respected or educated. He wasn’t feared. He wasn’t loved. He wasn’t appreciated or hated. Add it up and what do you get? Not much. Just a skinny drifter with a neglected beard, a funky smell, and no one giving a rat’s ass about his wellbeing.
He wasn’t a bad guy, oddly enough. He wasn’t dishonest or corrupt, but the fact of the matter was this: Mort wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed and more nights than not he earned himself the title of ‘most likely to drink himself sick and pass out in the gutter.’ Sometimes reputations are forged through exaggeration and fabrication. His wasn’t. His was earned, night in and night out. If they handed out awards for boozing his mantel would be loaded with trophies.
“It was off limits,” Red went on to say, still pointing at Mort. “Until this piece of shit decided to shoot Sheriff Gill.”
Mort slinked away from the two men, eyes slithering from one to the other apologetically. He scratched his beard and snorted back a throat full of earthy phlegm.
There was no question as to whether or not Mort Clancy killed Sheriff Gill. Everyone knew that he did. He shot Gill inside Good & Weston’s Tavern the previous night with a handful of spectators bearing witness. There was no reason for it, unless alcohol consumed was considered an incentive. After a few too many wiggly-suds he pulled his gun from his holster and shot the man point blank, right between the eyes. Simple as that.
Doc looked over Red’s shoulder. His eyes skimmed the row of building on his left. There were more than a few faces behind the windows. He supposed they had a right to be curious. Killings and executions weren’t exactly common in Ghoutan,
All that stood in his way would be punished.
* * *
ZOMBIES:
THE HANGING TREE
Doc said, “Don’t you play games, Red. The Hanging Tree is off limits.”
Red snickered, gazing through the drizzle of rain, past the water falling in drips and drops from the rim of his leather hat. Looking into Doc’s eyes he could see more than simple fright. He could see dread, as honest and true as the sky above them, and the nightly darkness that was on its way to conceal the town.
Hubert Turret, commonly referred to as Doc, looked more like a gunslinger than a doctor, standing at the side of the road with his black, rawhide jacket wrapped around his muscular body and his long fingers tickling the smooth, ivory-plated handle on his gun. He was an influential man, handsome yet rugged, capable of taking care of terrible business in desperate times, even when the business disagreed with him on a personal level. And tonight, that’s exactly what the situation happened to be. It was terrible business and he wanted no part of it. Dealings were of the killing nature, which was never easy for any good-hearted soul, especially the likes of Hubert ‘Doc’ Turret. He was trained to save lives, not extinguish them.
He said, “The hanging tree––”
“The Hanging tree was off limits, Doc.” Red Coltrane wasn’t all that different from Hubert Turret. He was strong and lean, thoughtful yet commanding. He didn’t enjoy killing, but did what needed to be done. It was in his nature.
He pointed a dirty finger at Mort Clancy.
Mort, with his knees planted in the mud and a noose wrapped around his scrawny neck, looked pathetic. He was like a mangy dog sealed up in a man’s body. No effort put into his wardrobe, posture, haircut or hygiene. No attempt at being happy, healthy, respected or educated. He wasn’t feared. He wasn’t loved. He wasn’t appreciated or hated. Add it up and what do you get? Not much. Just a skinny drifter with a neglected beard, a funky smell, and no one giving a rat’s ass about his wellbeing.
He wasn’t a bad guy, oddly enough. He wasn’t dishonest or corrupt, but the fact of the matter was this: Mort wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed and more nights than not he earned himself the title of ‘most likely to drink himself sick and pass out in the gutter.’ Sometimes reputations are forged through exaggeration and fabrication. His wasn’t. His was earned, night in and night out. If they handed out awards for boozing his mantel would be loaded with trophies.
“It was off limits,” Red went on to say, still pointing at Mort. “Until this piece of shit decided to shoot Sheriff Gill.”
Mort slinked away from the two men, eyes slithering from one to the other apologetically. He scratched his beard and snorted back a throat full of earthy phlegm.
There was no question as to whether or not Mort Clancy killed Sheriff Gill. Everyone knew that he did. He shot Gill inside Good & Weston’s Tavern the previous night with a handful of spectators bearing witness. There was no reason for it, unless alcohol consumed was considered an incentive. After a few too many wiggly-suds he pulled his gun from his holster and shot the man point blank, right between the eyes. Simple as that.
Doc looked over Red’s shoulder. His eyes skimmed the row of building on his left. There were more than a few faces behind the windows. He supposed they had a right to be curious. Killings and executions weren’t exactly common in Ghoutan,
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