He licks his lips, takes a deep breath, and then smiles, unable to find the words to describe his new home. At last, he merely says, “C’mon … I’ll show you.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Tommy leads them on horseback down Hemphill Street past the Georgia Tech student housing, modest cottages, and split-levels north of campus, an area now transformed into crumbling ruins and piles of cannibalized building materials. From the rear seats of the Escalade, Lilly can see that Tommy has not only gotten better at horsemanship over the last six months but has gotten even pluckier, tougher, more grown-up—if that’s even possible. Now with hand signals and nimble turns, the fifteen-year-old leads the SUV east on Sixteenth Street. Soon the giant monolith appears over the tops of crooked pines.
Lilly leans forward and mutters under her breath, “Of course, of course…”
“Just wait,” Musolino comments from the shotgun side as Boone slowly follows Tommy around the corner of Eighteenth Street and then down a gradual ramp. “You ain’t seen nothing yet. This’ll blow your mind.”
Boone glances out his side mirror, looking for something behind them. “Trying to be discreet every time we come and go, trying to appear as though we’re just passing by. You never know who’s watching.”
As they circle the gargantuan temple of modern retail, Lilly gazes up with more than a little awe at the trademark astro-blue and canary-yellow colors of the blocky five-story edifice. The neglect of the past few years shows on the surfaces—a patina of filth and weather clinging to the building like a malaise—but mostly the store is undamaged. The front façade on Sixteenth Street still has its familiar signage, each of its giant letters in one piece. Overturned shopping carts litter the alcoves and the parking lots are clogged with wreckage and wandering dead. Enormous hillocks of trash, spare parts, and scraps of lumber have drifted against the building, blocking the entrances, but Lilly wonders if these are defensive ploys. The place looks perfectly intact and perfectly inaccessible. She gapes at the windows. “Is there power?”
Boone and Musolino share a glance. Musolino smiles. “Them Swedes are thorough, you gotta give them that much.”
Boone nods. “You want generators, we got generators … you want batteries, we got batteries.”
“One thing, though.” Musolino glances back at Lilly and gives her a look. “I hope you like Swedish meatballs.”
* * *
They enter the building on foot, through the underground parking lot, after ditching the vehicle three blocks away and returning the horse to the makeshift stable hidden beneath the deserted Atlantic Square garage. They ascend a fire escape staircase to the first floor. For a brief instant, Lilly thinks of Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, who steps outside her dreary farmhouse after the tumult of the tornado and finds herself crossing over into a Technicolor dreamworld.
Lilly takes her first step into the multihued wonderland of the first floor and practically loses her breath at the cornucopia spreading before her, untouched by the plague or looters, dusty perhaps, but still displayed in all its Day-Glo candy-colored shrink-wrapped glory: play sets, garden accessories, patio furniture, above-ground swimming pools, tents, sleeping bags, outdoor lighting, lawn mowers, tractors, ATVs, and shelf after shelf of smaller, unidentified seasonal products. The high ceiling is busy with girders and struts, and the color-coded moveable walls, floral-decorated childcare nooks, and cheerful international signage harken back to a simpler, gentler era of high-quality home furnishings at affordable prices.
“How could this still be here?” Lilly poses the question rhetorically to no one in particular. “How did this go unnoticed right in the middle of Atlanta?”
Tommy Dupree joins her, standing by her side, taking a deep breath before answering. “Trouble is, Lilly, it did get noticed. Lots of times.”
“The boy’s correct.” Musolino approaches and stands behind Lilly, hands in his pockets, his voice lowering an octave, coarsening with sadness. “More than a few folks have died defending this place.” He looks down. “Once in a great while we let new people in.” He smiles. “Such as yourself.”
Right then, Lilly notices other people in the room, keeping watch, guarding the place. A middle-aged man with an assault rifle strapped across his chest stands at the bottom of a frozen escalator. A thirty-something woman holding a double-barrel shotgun on her shoulder looks on from the alcove near the elevator. Others stand at key junctures, armed and ready to defend the castle. Suddenly, a sense of quiet martial law washes over Lilly. She gropes for words, overwhelmed by the place, dumbfounded by the mixed feelings of excitement, relief, and dread for what could easily come of this place if another group like Bryce’s catches wind. She starts to put it into words when the room starts to spin, her vision blurs, and a gigantic stab of pain feels as though it’s about to crack her head open.
She falls to her knees. She tries to speak and instead collapses.
Tommy and Musolino rush to her side, kneel by her, and feel her pulse. She doesn’t pass out. But her head is so woozy from all the narcotics and pain and fatigue that all she can do is mutter, “I’m okay … I’m fine … just got a little light-headed, that’s all.”
“OH LORD HAVE MERCY THEY SAID IT WAS YOU!”
Lilly hears a familiar voice and twists around to see a portly individual rushing down the stationary steps of the escalator. Through her bleary vision, Lilly can barely make out the matronly figure in her do-rag and denim, jiggling all the way down the stairs to the first floor.
“Norma?”
Lilly collapses onto her back with a pained sigh, all the excitement taking its toll. In her daze, she sees the plump, cheerful, generous face of Norma Sutters floating above her, larger than life, like a parade float. “Oh thank the Lord, you made it!”
The plump woman reaches down and pulls Lilly into a tight embrace.
Lilly breathes in and savors the smell of chewing gum and the sweaty, musky scent of the woman. “Norma, thank God … I thought for sure we lost you.”
“No such luck, girlfriend,” Norma says with a sad little laugh. “Takes a lot more than that to take this old girl outta commission!”
“How did—?”
The sound of a familiar little squeal rings out from the top of the escalator, interrupting. Lilly recognizes the voice. She looks up at Norma, tears welling in her eyes. “Oh my God, is that—?”
Norma simply nods.
Lilly looks over her shoulder and sees the gaggle of children scuttling down the escalator steps. Bethany Dupree takes the lead, holding the baby in her arms. Her freckle-dusted face lit up with excitement, she wears a Beyoncé T-shirt under her OshKosh and rushes down the stairs clutching the infant, grinning from ear to ear. Lucas Dupree hurries along on her heels, struggling to keep up, his thatch of unruly chestnut hair still as cowlicked as ever. Behind him, jockeying for position, come the Slocum twins, followed by Jenny and Tyler Coogan, each of them aglow with excitement.
Rising to her feet, standing on wobbly knees, Lilly opens her arms and catches Bethany and the baby as they lurch into her arms on a nimbus of talcum and bubble gum.
The other kids arrive and slam into Lilly as though she were a backstop. Lilly wraps her arms around them for a sweaty, tearful group hug, which goes on for several euphoric moments, with Lilly trying futilely to hold in her emotions. Her tears track down her face, and she giggles, and for the first time in many days, her laughter is sober and joyous and real. She holds the children, and she softly speaks under her breath so that perhaps only Bethany can hear her. “Thank you, God … thank you.”
The adults in the room—including Tommy—all begin to back away, giving a respectful amount of space for the homecoming.
* * *
That night, after getting medical attention in the nurse’s department, and then having some of the freeze-dried fare found in the bowels of the cafeteria, Lilly personally puts the children to bed on the second floor, in the bedroom area of the home furnishings wing. Each child has personal
ized their own floor display, but tonight they all have an impromptu slumber party in Juvenile Furniture, where bunk beds are lined up two abreast, and interior decorators have accessorized each cubby hole with tasteful, fun, and nonthreatening posters of kittens and puppies and Ninja Turtles. Lilly reads them a story—Where the Wild Things Are—and leads them in prayer. Then she tucks each one in and leaves a desk lamp on. They fall fast asleep within minutes, far away from the cold wind and the unremitting drone of the dead.
Later, after many of the adults have retired to their own beds in their own corners of the home furnishings floor, Lilly has a drink with Norma and Tommy in the cafeteria near one of the tinted windows. They sample the Swedish glogg—a mixture of port wine, brandy, and spices—and they talk about the last six months. They each tell their stories, share the details of how they survived, mourn the loss of all their friends—Barbara, Jinx, Cooper, Miles—and most importantly, express their delight and gratitude for being together again. They go through an entire bottle of glogg, even allowing Tommy to tipple enough to get a decent buzz going. Lilly goes easy on the booze, still woozy from all the drugs and blood loss working through her system.
After a while, they realize it’s time to get some sleep. They say their good nights, and Norma and Tommy promise Lilly that tomorrow will be a busy day. She’ll meet all the inhabitants of the store, learn everybody’s name, get oriented to the floor plan, learn the security protocols, get to know the provisions in the cafeteria, and visit all the departments from offices to textiles to organizational products to kitchens and appliances. Finally, Tommy staggers down the corridor to his bunk bed, leaving Norma and Lilly alone in the deserted cafeteria.
Lilly says good night and limps over to the window, gazing out at the dark city, the scattered fires here and there still glinting from lightning hits, and the low glow of methane giving off an almost medieval cast to the night. She can see the faint ocean of moving corpses like cancerous blood cells traversing the dark byways without purpose or destination. She hears Norma’s voice speaking softly behind her.
“You okay?”
Lilly glances over her shoulder and sees the portly woman lingering, wringing her hands nervously. Lilly smiles and looks back out at the night. “I’m fine, Norma. Just gonna be a little restless until we get back to Woodbury.”
The older woman comes closer, stands next to Lilly at the window, and lets out a sigh. “Honey, I don’t mean to start something here but I don’t think the boy made it clear what’s going on.”
Lilly looks at her. “Why do you say that? What’s going on?”
Norma pauses, choosing her words carefully. “We’re safe here, sweetie. Safe and we got food and fellowship … everything we need.”
Lilly looks at her. “I don’t get it. What are you saying to me?”
The big woman gives her a shrug. “I don’t know, I guess I felt like we were done with Woodbury.”
“What do you mean, you’re just going to go ahead and leave David there?”
“David’s a big boy, sweetie. David can take care of himself.”
Lilly looks into her eyes. “Wait, you’re telling me you’re never going back to Woodbury?”
“Not while we got this place. And you shouldn’t go back there either. It’s not safe anymore. The towns are too dangerous now.”
Lilly exhales a frustrated, anguished breath and goes back to the window to stare out at the primordial dark. She barely hears Norma’s voice prodding her.
“You know I’m right, Lilly. These children don’t want to go back there. They’re terrified of the countryside. Don’t drag them back there.”
Lilly says nothing, just keeps staring out at the constellation of fires blemishing the dark, the shadowy tide of the dead constantly flowing.
“Promise me you’ll think it over, honey. That’s all I ask. Just give it some thought. Stay put for a while, give yourself a chance to heal.”
Lilly doesn’t respond. She can’t think of anything to say. All she can do is continue gazing out at the night, the blackness of the dead city eternal, ceaseless, unremitting … silently calling to her.
Other Books in the Walking Dead Series
Rise of the Governor
The Road to Woodbury
The Fall of the Governor: Part One
The Fall of the Governor: Part Two
Robert Kirkman’s The Walking Dead: Descent
Robert Kirkman’s The Walking Dead: Invasion
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jay Bonansinga is the internationally acclaimed New York Times bestselling author of more than twenty books in fifteen languages, with several optioned by major Hollywood studios. He lives in the Chicago area with his wife, the photographer Jill Norton, and his two teenage boys, and is currently hard at work on the next Walking Dead book. You can find Jay online at www.jaybonansinga.com. Or sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Part 1: Stone Soup
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Part 2: Scorched Earth
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Part 3: Nightshade
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Part 4: Perchance To Dream
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Other Books in the Walking Dead Series
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
ROBERT KIRKMAN’S THE WALKING DEAD: SEARCH AND DESTROY. Copyright © 2016 by Robert Kirkman LLC. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.stmartins.com
Cover art by Lisa Marie Pompilio
Cover photograph by Blake Morrow
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-05851-5 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-6274-6 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466862746
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at [email protected].
First Edition: October 2016
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