When Push Comes to Shove

When Push Comes to Shove: A story of Choices

         It’s the greenest forest you can imagine. There is grass on the forest floor, tree trunks are covered in fuzzy moss and parasitic vines, and the sunlight is filtered through a canopy of leaves. Hidden high in the crown of a ancient sycamore is a tree house, not just a tree house, but a house that is in a tree. While shoty construction and scavenged materials hold this house together, It serves it’s purpose well. It has several rooms, including a bathroom, two bedrooms, a living room and a brick oven to cook over a fire. The house was built piece by stolen piece ten years ago, before things got bad. Nailed over the Front door (a heavy blue tarp) is the last piece of wood they brought back. Carved into the wood are the numbers 2057. Ten years later the house is still standing strong, and the two had-to-be carpenters sleep in their respective rooms.

         As the summer heat begins to bake the room, Chris rises. He has not been able to keep track of time for seven summers now, but the intensity of the light tells him he must have missed sunrise by a few hours. He lazily looks about the room and scratches at his unkept beard. Staring across the room, he begins to read newspaper headlines. He tries to remember the last time he found a paper, he can’t it’s been too long. Beginning to loose focus, Chris’ early morning eyes stare through the collage of newspaper clippings nailed to the wall. With much effort, he stands, grabs his glasses, and walks out to the bathroom. A shower curtain serves as the door and he slides it closed. He looks down at the “Toilet” and smiles, as he does every morning. Like much of the rest of the house, the toilet was made using only a chainsaw. A chair with a hole cut out of the seat sits over a hole cut in the floor. Not having any use for that right now, he turns and sticks his erect penis through a hole in the wall and urinates onto the forest floor, many feet below. He stares out the window (a circular chainsaw wound in the side of the house) and is lost in thought. When he returns to his room, he sits at his desk and runs his finger down a stack of text books, puffy and bloated from the humidity. Stopping at Elements of Ecology (5th edition), he lifts the stack and pulls the thick book out. He opens it and begins to read.

         Across the hall Brad has kicked the covers off and hidden his face under a pillow in an attempt to sleep a little longer in the bright heat, a memory of camping flashes through his mind. He tears the pillow away in frustration. Laying on his back his eyes lock on a posterboard tacked to the ceiling. What hangs above his bed is a incredibly detailed drawing of a corpses’ decayed mouth, teeth covered in blood. He sees the morbid reminder first thing every morning. He sits up and scans all his work, one wall is covered with sketches and drawing of bodies at various stages of decomposition. Sculptures made from human bone litter a table. An easel sits in the corner with an unfinished painting on it. On the wall across from his bed hangs only one item, the last photograph in his possession. The silhouette of a girl in front of a perfect sunset, her hair blows in the salty ocean breeze. He tears his eyes away, not wanting to start another day with tears. He uses the restroom and walks into Chris’ room.
         “You know we gotta go out today.”
         Chris looks up from his book. “Yeah, you got a list of what you need yet?”
         “Nah, you?”
         “Yeah, I made mine last night.”
         “Alright, I’ll be ready in a minute.” Brad says
         Chris waits on the front porch. He stares down at the hundreds of walking corpses that wander about the forest floor. Like staring at a disturbed ant hill, he can’t focus on any one creature, his eyes lose focus and he is lost in the blurred jumble of motion.
         “Are they gone?” Brad asks, un-enthused and sarcastic.
         “Yep, all clear.” Chris answers with equal disdain.
         “Well, lets get to it.”
         They walk to the far end of the porch and kneel at the tarp that lies on the edge. Chris rips the blue covering from a very dead and still corpse, black dry blood covers the stump at the end of each leg. The smell would have gagged them into submission a few years ago, but now they don’t even notice. They hook a rope to the harness around its chest and roll the body off the edge. The rope goes taut. Brad pulls the rope off the cleet they installed, and lowers the body until the rope runs out of slack. The body hangs just out of reach of the active mass. The dead reach frantically for the treat, some tearing tiny morsels off with long fingernails. Chris doesn’t even glace back, he learned long ago that the dead mind behaves much like the living.

         When present in large groups, individual corpses will assume that the crowd is correct, whatever the situation. If a single copse sees a large group trying to get into a building it well join the raid because it thinks they must know something it does not. If the group becomes large enough, the dead on the outskirts of assemblage will loose track of the reason the crowd accumulated, but will continue to follow the motions of the group because, again, they must know what it does not. Through experimentation, Chris learned that the dead are very driven, survival is their only desire, and they are not easily distracted. While feasting on prey, nothing can sidetrack a corpse until there is nothing left to consume. And if is given the choice between a living target and a dead one the creatures will invariably attack the dead one, because it is easier, takes less energy, and does not attract the attention of competing creatures. With this knowledge under their belts, they quietly climb down the tree and hurry through the path that leads out of the forest.

         After a twenty minute walk they find themselfs at a familiar parking lot. It’s the employee parking lot of a Wal-Mart distribution center. They were lucky enough to live by a grocery center, instead of say, housewares or clothing. Large chain runs through the handles of each door (the locks were pried open long ago)to that keep them from opening more than a few inches. Each chain wreath has a large cutter proof pad lock hanging from the bottom. Chris and Brad cautiously approach the massive building, always watching their backs, and Brad pulls out a set of keys. He flips through them for a moment and unlocks the doors. Each time they come here they wonder if the creatures have found a way in. Brad opens the door and Chris stands with the rapid fire confidence of his .22. They wait and stare into the inky blackness of the doorway. They listen for footsteps, snarls, chewing, anything that could come from something mobile. One thing they do feel confident about is the intelligence of their adversaries. Never have they worried about walking into a trap, or an ambush. With these things, it’s all or nothing, a straight on attack or utter silence. They enter the warehouse, close the door behind them, slide a large piece of wood through both handles, and begin to shop.

         Each takes a second book bag out of the bags on their backs. They each fill both bags with non-perishable products of various types. Never straying more than an earshot from each other, the two do their own type of shopping. Chris: systematic and ordered, he starts at the beginning of each isle and works his way right to left, checking off what he needs from a list. Brad: organized chaos, always looking for something new and different he wonders around from isle to isle, sometimes hitting the same ones twice, grabbing what ever looks good. After about and hour, they each have filled their bags. They lock up, and begin home.

         This is the most dangerous part of their routine because with book bags full of cans strapped to their backs and stomachs, they are about as fast as the creatures that hunt them. And without the advantage of speed all they have are weapons and intelligence. As they trudge through the unkept trail they each keep an ear open for any sounds of movement. About half way home they hear a rustle in the bushes.

         Ahead in the path, two creatures stumble into view. Without hesitation Chris raises his .22 and drops the two human shaped forms with two well placed shots. They continue homeward listening intently to the sounds of the forest.

         Reaching home, they each unload their bags: Chris immediately places his cans in the can drawer of the kitchen and his boxes in the box drawer, Brad places his bags on the counter and retreats to his room to sand and chisel a skull for a project he is working on. When the kitchen is in proper order, Chris begins to straighten up a little. When he makes his way to the porch he pulls the corpse up and places the tarp over it. As he walks away he looks back to see that he forgot to re-wrap the rope on the cleet. He pauses, lazy in the afternoon sun, and decides it should be fine for now. They spend the rest of the day doing various projects, not saying much to each other. They spend the night telling old and worn stories around a small fire on the front deck. They go to sleep at about ten thirty.

         They next morning Chris wakes in a slight panic to the house shaking slightly. He hears the tarp out front crinkling with movement and hurries to the front of the house.
         “What the fuck are you doing”
         Brad looks up “What?” he snaps, agitated.
         “Were you leaving?”
         “Yeah, I was going to try and find some film.”
         “Alone?”
         “Yeah, so.”
         “So, you can’t go out there alone. What did we say when we built this place? Never alone. It doesn’t matter how slow they are, you always need someone to watch your back.”
         “Yeah I know.”
         They stare at each other for a few moments.
         “Well, are you coming?”
         “No, I don’t think we should go out two days in a row.”
         “What, you think they’ll start to figure things out?”
         “I don’t know, every time we drop Fred, more and more come and its taking them longer to leave then it did in the beginning. Last month I tagged five and they’re all still here. Let’s just stay in today.
         “Yeah, alright”
         Chris stares at the empty cleet as Brad walks off. He tries not to imagine leaving the house without a distraction like Fred
         Not wanting to deal with Brad’s mood, Chris retires to his room to continue his research.


         Homo exanimus. Since the introduction of the species on 22 may, 2049 the eco system has changed dramatically. Evidence of any type of herbivore is ventrally nonexistent. The population was stable for many years, simply due the predators lack of speed. But in later years as the exanimus population growth exponentially expanded, it became more and more difficult for any prey to escape. While there is no way to know for sure, winter 6 years ago is when I estimate the extinction, in this area at least, of the plant eaters. Each summer I would empty a feeder bag of corn under a tree I had flagged, and each winter I would record a rough calculation as to how much of the pile had been consumed or disturbed. As the pile was disturbed less and less each year I began to paint a small red strip across the top of the pile, in the winter of 2051 the red paint was completely in tack. The plant growth is rampant and overpopulation is beginning to take it toll on the whole system. Unchecked parasitic plant growth is affecting tree population not only in the root systems but also hindering photosynthesis by decreasing exposure to the sun. The small brush populations exploded in reaction to the dwindling numbers of herbivores, but with the perpetual shadow of the canape made thicker with vine growth, small brush is few and far between now. With the exception of vastly increased numbers, the avian, insect and arachnid system seems to be fundamental unchanged. The basic predator-prey rolls of theses organisms are unaffected by the changing ecosystem. Herbivorous insects have ample food and are kept in check by spiders and insectivorous birds, spider numbers are kept normal through consumption by predaceous insects and birds, and the bird population is controlled by the birds of prey. The raptor numbers have dwindled slightly due to the loss of small mammals and rodents though.

         The problem in question now is: are these creatures migratory, nomadic, or territorial? Whether these things are staying in one place is important for many reasons. The most important reason is, of course, whether any one beast is staying in the vicinity of this house. The tagging system developed is quite rudimentary, but serves its purpose well. On the day after each full moon six darts are dropped into the crowd of creatures. Each month a different color or color combination is used. On each seventh morning, Bushnell binoculars are used to survey the horde. The color and number of darts observed in the area is recorded. The data trend seems to be that more and more of the tagged creatures are staying for longer and longer. I fear that as time progresses, this could become a major problem. My next task will be to determine why they are staying, what may dissuade them staying, and if the proposed solutions are temporary or permanent.


         “Hey, hey over here. Chris get the fuck up, it’s a girl.” Was the first thing Chris heard in the morning. As he shuffled in his bed trying to figure out what was going on, Brad continued to yell outside.
         “When I drop this, jump down and run, they won’t mess with you.”
         Terror fills Chris’ mind and his eyes bulge as he springs out of bed.
         “Brad, no!” he screams.

         He reaches the door just in time to see Brad rolling the cadaver over the edge. The body falls. Immediately realizing what is happening, Brad looks to the cleet with passive disbelief. His body doesn’t respond as the rope quickly disappears over the edge of the deck. As Chris reaches the edge they both watch the rope snap taut. It breaks at the knot on the back of the harness as the soft body rips apart from the sheer force of the stop. The harness and corpse hit the ground with a dull thud and are instantly swallowed by the sea of dead. The two men stare with jaws open, and panic swims through their circulatory systems.

         They are finally distracted by the snap of a dead branch ten or so meters away.
         “No, no, don’t, it’s not safe.” Chris yells at the woman. She pauses and scans the land to see that, indeed the mob is already disbursing. They watch as she climbs up a few branches. She makes helpless eye contact with the pair, each thinks it’s only at him.
         “Chris, What are we going to do?”
         “Fuck, I don’t know. Nothing right now.”
         “Do you have food or water?” Chris yells to her.
         “No, not for days.” she replies .
         “OK hang on a sec.”
         Chris disappears for a minute and returns with a can of ready to serve tomato soup and hold it up for her to see.
         “Ready?”
         “Yeah.”
         Brad snatches the can out of his hand and begins swinging his arm and counting.
         “One, tow, three.”
         He releases the can with an under handed lob. The can flies through the air and strikes the woman’s stiff open hand. She bobbles it and clumsily drops it onto the untouchable forest floor.
         “Don’t worry, I’ll throw it harder next time.” Brad immediately yells.
         “Hang on man,” Chris spits as he runs away.
         “I got and idea.”
         He returns with a baseball a baseball glove and some string. Quickly tying the string around the ball a few times he throws it in the woman’s direction. It falls behind her and to the ground, but and string rests on the branch she is sitting on. Chris cuts his end of the string and ties it too the glove.
         “Now pull it over.”
         As the string begins to loose slack Chris tosses the glove to and empty spot on the ground near her tree. Before the sluggish monsters can even register the sound the woman has pulled the glove up into the tree with her. She puts it on and punches the inside of it a few times with her fist. Chris lobs her another can of soup and she catches it with a leathery clap of the baseball glove. She tares into the pop-top can and drinks the cold tomato soup. As she finishes up they ask her what her name is.
“Madelyn.” Madelyn responds.

         They spend the rest of the afternoon yelling back and forth to each other. It has been such a long time since any of them has seen another person. They get back story on each other: what do you know, have you seen any other people, how do you live, where did you live before all this. They talked for hours and the constant yelling excited the mob below. At dusk Chris said he was happy to have met Madelyn and that is was good to have the company and retired to his room for the evening.

         Hours later he lays on his pillow, eyes open, trying to block out the sounds of Brad and Madelyn yelling outside. Distracted by the repetitive thoughts of going out there and telling them to shut the hell up, he didn’t notice that they had, in fact, shut the hell up. Chris saw the fire and heard the squeaking of the deck so he knew Brad was still up, but aside from the occasional crinkling of paper he heard nothing. He thought about it for a moment and was sure he didn’t hear either of them say good night or good bye or anything of the sort. He thought about it for another moment and concluded that this was weird, but not weird enough to get out of bed.

         In the morning Chris woke up and quietly walked out to the deck. Brad was sleeping next to the ambers of last nights fire and Madelyn was sleeping in the nook of her tree. Chris walked to the edge of the deck and noticed the bottom of her tree, ten or so paper air planes litter the ground accompanied by several crumpled paper balls. He thought about this for a few seconds, and looked to Brad, he guessed the remains of the same number of aerial notes were in the fire pit. A blackened piece of paper that escaped the flames lay on the rim of the pit. He carefully grabbed it and held it up to the morning light.
         It only said: “Tonight?”
         He decides not to jump to any conclusions, maybe they were just being considerate. He was sleeping and they were yelling.
         Chris flipped through some text books for most of the morning, taking a long break to watch the almost dormant horde below. When he at last heard Brad yelling he walked straight to the deck.
         “Are you up?” Brad whispered at the top of his lungs.
         “Brad, clearly she-”
         “Yeah.” Madelyn responds with a chipper yet powerful voice.
         Brad shots Chris a look. Chris ignores it and sits down.
         Looking for what won’t sound too interested; Chris settles for awkwardly yelling, “So what did you guys do so late last night?”, and fails.
         A nonchalant, “Nothing, just talked.” was the response. Brad shifts toward the fire.
         Chris looks at Brad, “I’ll be right back.” and walks toward his room. He stops inside the doorway and turns. He watches Brad take the black piece of paper, ball it up, and toss it over the edge. He decides to start jumping to conclusions. The rest of the awkward and uncommunicative day dragged on. There was an elephant in the room and only Brad knew what it looked like. They all retired early, Chris and Brad in their respective rooms, and Madelyn in her tree.

         Chris pulled his blankets onto the floor and he lays facing the open doorway. His mind races. He contemplates how badly Brad need the company of a woman. While he himself has fantasized, on several occasions, of just such an event occurring, he feels no need to risk his life to get to her. Night seemed like it would be much less safe for trying to traverse 30 feet of ground covered by pack hunting predators anyway. Could he possibly want it that much, and could he possibly want Chris to not be their that much? They had worked so hard on this place, why leave it for a woman, and where would they go? Start over? Build a new house, a new life? Work everything out all over again? Chris thought about waking up and finding Brad in her tree, would he help them, would they even try to get back? What if they were both gone?

         He was suddenly startled by creaking wood. He starred into the blackness past the door frame, the darkness swirled in imaginary movements - playing tricks on Chris’ eyes. He couldn’t tell what was real. Quietly, he rose and peeked around. Feeling satisfied that nothing was happening, he returned to his make shift bed. The rest of the night was spent slowly slipping into sleep and being startled awake by unprovoked panic. A few times he awoke to curious sounds but felt confident that it was not Brad.

         In the morning, His eye snapped open and he stares at the ceiling for a while and prepares himself for the worst. He gets up and walks to the deck and finds Brad cooking a can of beans over the fire.
         “What’s up?” Brad says immediately.
He glances at the tree and sees Madelyn waving at him. He raises an unsure hand to her. As Chris takes a few steps toward the edge of the deck, checking for another pile of paper airplanes, he feels a pair of eyes burning holes through him.
Brad pushes with six years worth of resentment.
Chris’ body hits the ground with a dull wet thud and the crack of bones. He can’t even move as the mob closes in around him. Through the blood in his eyes, he see a rose colored version of the truth, Madelyn scampering up his tree and into Brad’s arms.