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.
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