The Walking Dead Collection

by Robert Kirkman

  He looks up at his flock, making eye contact as he continues.

  “I FEEL THE CONCERN GROWING. BUT I WANT Y’ALL TO KNOW … RELIEF IS ON ITS WAY. GONNA BE MAKING A SERIES OF RUNS … FIRST ONE TOMORROW … AND THESE RUNS ARE GONNA YIELD ENOUGH PROVISIONS TO KEEP US GOING. AND THAT IS THE KEY, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. THAT IS THE MOST IMPORTANT THING. WE WILL KEEP ON KEEPIN’ ON! WE WILL NEVER GIVE UP! EVER!”

  A few spectators applaud, but the majority of them remain silent, skeptical, ambivalent in their hard, cold seats. They have lived off the sour, metallic well water and rotting fruit of the untended orchards for weeks. They have given their children the last of the canned meats and the moldy remains of smoked game birds.

  From the center of the infield, the Governor holds them in his gaze.

  “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, A NEW COMMUNITY IS BEING BUILT HERE IN WOODBURY … AND IT IS MY SACRED MISSION TO PROTECT THIS COMMUNITY. AND I WILL DO WHAT HAS TO BE DONE. I WILL SACRIFICE WHAT HAS TO BE SACRIFICED. THAT’S WHAT COMMUNITY IS ALL ABOUT! WHEN YOU SACRIFICE YOUR OWN NEEDS FOR THE NEEDS OF THE COMMUNITY, YOU WALK WITH YOUR HEAD HELD HIGH!”

  This gooses the applause meter a tad, some of the spectators finding Jesus and letting out yelps. The Governor pours on the sermonizing.

  “YOU FOLKS HAVE HAD TO SUFFER IMMENSELY DUE TO THE PLAGUE. YOU HAVE BEEN ROBBED OF EVERYTHING YOU HAVE WORKED SO HARD FOR YOUR ENTIRE LIVES. MANY OF YOU HAVE LOST LOVED ONES. BUT HERE … IN WOODBURY … YOU HAVE SOMETHING THAT CANNOT BE TAKEN AWAY FROM YOU BY MAN NOR BEAST: YOU HAVE EACH OTHER!”

  Now some of the residents spring to their feet and put their hands together, while others pump their fists. The noise builds.

  “LET ME BOTTOM-LINE IT FOR Y’ALL: THE MOST PRECIOUS POSSESSION WE HAVE IN THE WORLD IS OUR OWN PEOPLE. AND FOR THE SAKE OF OUR PEOPLE … WE WILL NEVER GIVE UP … NEVER FALTER … NEVER LOSE OUR NERVE … AND NEVER LOSE FAITH!”

  More spectators stand. The cheering and applause rises up into the sky.

  “YOU HAVE A COMMUNITY! AND IF YOU HOLD ON TO THIS, THEN THERE IS NO FORCE IN THE WORLD THAT CAN TAKE IT FROM YOU! WE WILL SURVIVE. I PROMISE YOU. WOODBURY WILL SURVIVE! GOD BLESS Y’ALL … AND GOD BLESS WOODBURY!”

  Across the arena, Alice carries her medical bag out the south entrance without even looking back.

  She’s seen this movie before.

  * * *

  After the post-game show, Philip Blake makes a stop in the men’s room at the end of the arena’s litter-strewn portico. The narrow enclosure reeks of dried urine, black mold, and rat turds.

  Philip relieves himself, splashes water on his face, and then gazes for a moment at his cubist reflection in the cracked mirror. Way in the back of his mind, in some far-flung corner of his memories, the sound of a little girl crying echoes faintly.

  He finishes up, and then bangs out the door, his metal-tipped boots and long belt-chain jangling. Down one long cinder-block corridor, down a flight of stone steps, down another hallway, and finally down one last flight of stairs, and he finds the “pens”—a row of rolling garage doors riddled with dents and ancient graffiti.

  Gabe stands in front of the last door on the left, reaching into a metal oil drum and tossing something wet through a broken-out window. The Governor approaches without a word, pausing in front of one of the windows. “Nice work out there today, sport.”

  “Thanks, boss.” Gabe reaches down into the drum and pulls out another morsel, a human foot severed raggedly at the ankle, glistening with gore. He casually tosses it through the jagged aperture.

  Philip gazes through the dirty glass at the blood-speckled tile enclosure. He sees the swarming mass of undead—a small orgy of pale-blue faces and blackened mouths, the two dozen surviving walkers from the day’s event gobbling at body parts on the tile floor like a drove of wild pigs fighting over truffles—and he stares and stares, enthralled for a moment, fascinated by the spectacle.

  At length, Philip tears his gaze away from the abomination and nods at the bin full of fresh remains. “Who is it this time?”

  Gabe looks up, his tattered black turtleneck torn over one pectoral, bulging at the belly with body armor, his underarms stained with the telltale sweat-spots of exertion. He wears rubber surgical gloves that drip with fresh blood. “Whaddaya mean?”

  “The chum you’re tossing in, who is it?”

  Gabe nods. “Oh … this is that old codger, used to live by the post office.”

  “Natural causes, I hope?”

  “Yeah.” Gabe nods, and tosses another piece through the opening. “Asthma attack last night, poor dude. Somebody said he had emphysema.”

  The Governor lets out a sigh. “He’s gone to Glory now. Gimme an arm. From the elbow down. And maybe one of the smaller organs … a kidney, the heart.”

  Gabe pauses, the ghastly wet noises of the feeding frenzy echoing down the corridor. Gabe gives the Governor an odd look, a mixture of sympathy, affection, and maybe even duty, like a Boy Scout about to help his troop leader. “Tell you what,” Gabe says, his husky voice softening. “Why don’t you go home, and I’ll bring ’em to ya.”

  The Governor looks at him. “Why?”

  Gabe shrugs. “People see me carrying something, they don’t even give it a second thought. You carry something, they’ll want to help … maybe ask you what it is, wonder what you’re doing.”

  Philip stares at the man for a moment. “You got a point there.”

  “Won’t go over well.”

  Philip gives a satisfied nod. “All right then. We’ll do it your way. I’ll be at my place the rest of the night, bring it around back.”

  “Copy that.”

  The Governor turns to leave, and then pauses for a moment. He turns back to Gabe and smiles. “Gabe … thanks. You’re a good man. Best I got.”

  The thick-necked man grins. A merit badge for the top Scout. “Thanks, boss.”

  Philip Blake turns and heads for the stairs with a very subtle change in his gait, a vague yet pronounced bounce to his step.

  * * *

  The closest thing Woodbury has to an executive mansion is the three-bedroom apartment spanning the top floor of a large condo building at the end of Main Street. Heavily fortified, the front door guarded at all times by a rotating crew of machine gunners manning the turret across the street, the building is clean yellow brick, nicely tuck-pointed, free of graffiti or grime.

  Philip Blake enters the foyer that evening, whistling happily, passing the large bank of metal mailboxes that haven’t seen postal service in over twenty-eight months. He climbs the stairs two at a time, feeling good and righteous and full of affection for his small-town brethren, his extended family, his place in this new world. At his door at the end of the second-floor hallway he pauses, fishes for his keys, and lets himself in.

  The place would never make the pages of Architectural Digest. The carpeted rooms are mostly unfurnished, a few armchairs here and there surrounded by boxes. But the place is clean and well organized, a macrocosm of Philip Blake’s compartmentalized, ordered mind.

  “Daddy’s home,” he announces cheerfully as he enters the living room. “Sorry I’m so late, sweetie pie … busy day.” He unbuckles his gun, sheds his waistcoat, and sets his keys and his pistol on the sideboard by the door.

  Across the room, a little girl in a faded pinafore dress has her back turned to him. She softly bumps against the large picture window, a goldfish compulsively trying to escape its bowl.

  “How’s my little princess doing?” he says as he approaches the child. Momentarily lost in the domestic bliss of a normal life, Philip kneels down behind her and reaches out as though expecting a hug. “C’mon, babydoll … it’s your daddy. Don’t be afraid.”

  The little thing that was once a girl suddenly whirls around to face him, straining against the chain hooked to her iron collar. She lets out a guttural growl, gnashing her rotten teeth at him. Her face—once that of a lovely blue-eyed cherub—now bears the pallid fish-belly color of the dead. Her eyes are empty,
milky-white marbles.

  All the joy drains out of Philip Blake as he sinks to the floor, sitting cross-legged on the carpet in front of her, just out of her reach. She doesn’t recognize me. His mind races, his thoughts returning to their dark, brooding default setting: Why the fuck doesn’t she recognize me?

  Philip Blake believes that the undead can learn, can still access dormant parts of their memories and past. He has no scientific proof of this theory, but he has to believe it, he has to.

  “It’s okay, Penny, it’s just your daddy.” He offers her his hand as though she might hold it. “Give me your hand, honey. Remember? Remember when we used to hold hands and take long walks up to Lake Rice?”

  She fumbles at his hand, tries to pull it to her mouth, her tiny piranha-like teeth clamping down.

  He jerks his arm back. “Penny, no!” He tries again, attempts to gently take her hand. But she tries to take another bite out of it. “Penny, stop it!” He struggles to control his anger. “Don’t do this. It’s me … it’s your daddy … don’t you recognize me?”

  She grabs at his hand, her blackened, decomposed mouth chewing at the air, noxious, fetid breath puffing out on a watery snarl.

  Philip pulls away. He stands. He runs his hands through his hair, his stomach clenching with anguish. “Try to remember, sweetie.” He pleads with her with a catch in his throat, his voice wavering as though verging on a sob. “You can do it. I know you can. Try to remember who I am.”

  The girl-thing strains against her chain, her mouth working involuntarily. She cocks her ruined head at him—her lifeless eyes registering nothing so much as hunger, and maybe even a trace of confusion—the confusion of a sleepwalker seeing something that doesn’t belong.

  “Goddamnit, child, you know who I am!” Philip clenches his fists, towering over her. “Look at me!—I’m your father!—Can’t you see that?!—I’m your daddy, goddamnit!—Look at me!!”

  The dead child growls. Philip lets out a roar of anger, raising his hand instinctively to give her a slap, when all at once the sound of knocking breaks the spell. Philip blinks at the noise, his right hand still poised to deliver a blow to the child.

  Someone is knocking on the back door. He looks over his shoulder. The sound is coming from out in the kitchen, where the rear storm door opens out over a ramshackle back deck overlooking a narrow alley.

  Letting out a breath, Philip flexes his hands and sniffs back the rage. He turns away from the child, and takes slow, deep breaths as he heads across the apartment. He goes to the back door and yanks it open.

  Gabe stands in the shadows, holding a cardboard box spotted with oily wet-stains. “Hey, boss. Here’s that stuff that you said you—”

  Philip reaches for the box, grabs it, says nothing, and goes back inside.

  Gabe stands there in the darkness, vexed by the brusque reception, as the door slams in his face.

  * * *

  That night, Lilly has a horrible time falling asleep. Clad in a damp Georgia Tech T-shirt and panties, she lies on the bare mattress of her futon, trying to find a comfortable position, staring at the cracks in the plaster ceiling of her squalid garden apartment.

  The tension in the back of her neck, her lower spine, and her joints grips her like electric current jolting intermittently through her. This must be what electro-convulsive treatments feel like. She had a therapist once who suggested ECT for her alleged anxiety disorder. She had declined. But she always wondered if the treatments would have helped.

  Now all the shrinks are gone, the couches overturned, the office buildings decimated and scoured out, the pharmacies ransacked, the entire field of psychotherapy gone the way of health spas and waterparks. Now Lilly Caul is on her own, alone with her excoriating insomnia and circular thoughts haunted by memories of the late Josh Lee Hamilton.

  Mostly Lilly is thinking about what Bob Stookey uttered to her earlier that day in his inebriated catatonia on the sidewalk. Lilly had to bend down close to hear his strangled wheeze, the words coming out with laborious urgency.

  “Gotta tell her what he said,” Bob had muttered into her ear. “Before he died … he told me … Josh told me … it was Lilly … Lilly Caul … it was her … the only one he had ever loved.”

  Lilly had never believed it. Ever. Not then. Not when big Josh Hamilton was alive. Not even after Josh had been murdered in cold blood by one of Woodbury’s thugs. Was there a wall around Lilly’s heart because of guilt? Was it because she had led Josh on, had used him mostly for protection?

  Or was it because Lilly simply didn’t love herself enough to love someone else?

  After hearing it being blurted out by a catatonic drunk on the sidewalk that day, Lilly had stiffened with horror. She had backed away from the old man as though he were radioactive, and then made a mad dash all the way back to her apartment, locking herself inside.

  Now, in the eternal darkness of her lonely apartment, the restlessness and angst making her flesh crawl, she longs for the medication she routinely popped like candy during the old days. She would give her left ovary for a tab of Valium, a Xanax, maybe some Ambien … hell, she would even settle for a stiff drink. She stares at the ceiling some more and finally gets an idea.

  She climbs out of bed and fishes through a peach crate of dwindling supplies. Amid the two tins of Spam, the bar of Ivory soap, and the half-used roll of toilet paper—in Woodbury, toilet paper is now acquired and distributed with the ruthlessness of gold bullion being traded on the New York Stock Exchange—she finds a nearly empty bottle of NyQuil.

  She chugs the rest of it and gets back into bed. Rubbing her eyes, she takes shallow breaths and tries to clear her mind and listen to the white noise of the generators across the street, their ubiquitous, droning rumble becoming like a heartbeat in her ears.

  A little less than an hour later, she sinks through the sweaty mattress and into the clutches of a vivid, terrifying nightmare.

  It could be partially due to the NyQuil acting on her empty stomach, or partially because of the gruesome residue of the day’s gladiator fights clinging to her mind’s eye, or maybe it’s a result of her unresolved feelings for Josh Hamilton, but for whatever reason, Lilly finds herself wandering a country cemetery, in the dark of night, desperately looking for Josh’s grave site.

  She’s lost, and she hears the sound of feral growling in the dark forest behind her, on either side of her. She can hear twigs snapping, gravel crunching, the lumbering footsteps of the walking dead—hundreds of them—coming for her.

  She passes gravestone after gravestone in the moonlight … searching for Josh’s final resting place.

  At first, the rhythmic banging sounds creep into the narrative of the dream subtly, from a distance, their echoes faint, drowned by the rising noise of the dead. Lilly isn’t even aware of the noise for quite some time. She’s too busy frantically searching for the one important grave marker, weaving through a forest of gray, weathered headstones. The biters close in.

  At last, she sees a fresh grave off in the distance, on a steep slope of stony earth and skeletal trees. It lies in the shadows, a bone-white marble tombstone all by itself, the pale glow of moonlight reflecting off its surface. It stands at the head of a large mound of moist, ruddy earth, and as Lilly approaches, the name engraved on its face becomes visible in the moonbeams:

  JOSHUA LEE HAMILTON

  B. 1/15/69 – D. 11/21/12

  The banging noises register in Lilly’s ear as she approaches the grave site. The wind whispers. The walkers surround her. Out of the corner of her eye, she can glimpse the pack closing in on her, the putrid bodies emerging from the woods, dragging toward her, tattered burial clothing flagging in the wind, scores of dead eyes in the darkness like shiny coins.

  The closer she gets to the tombstone, the more prominent the banging noises become.

  She climbs the slope and approaches the grave. The banging noises reveal themselves to be muffled knocking sounds—a fist pounding against a door, or perhaps the inside of a c
offin—the noise dampened by layers of earth. Lilly can’t breathe. She kneels by the headstone. The knocking sounds are coming from inside Josh’s grave. They are so loud now that the loose earth across the surface of his grave trembles and skitters across the mound in tiny avalanches.

  Lilly’s terror mutates. She touches the shivering mound of earth. Her heart goes cold. Josh is down there, knocking on the inside of his coffin, a horrible entreaty to be freed from death, to be loosened from this prison.

  The walkers are coming for Lilly, she can feel their foul breath on the back of her neck, their long shadows sliding up the hill on either side of her. She is doomed. Josh wants out. The knocking rises. Lilly looks down at the grave, her tears tracking down her cheeks, dripping off her chin. Her tears flood the earth. The rough-hewn planks of Josh’s simple coffin become visible in the mud, something moving inside the slats.

  Lilly weeps. The walkers surround her. The knocking rises to a thunderous beat. Lilly sobs, and she reaches down and tenderly touches the coffin, when all at once—

  —Josh bursts out of the wooden enclosure, tearing through it as though it were made of matchsticks, his hungry mouth chewing the air, an inhuman groan coming out of him. Lilly screams but no sound comes out of her. Josh’s big square face churns with bloodlust as he goes for her neck, his eyes as dead and shiny as Buffalo nickels.

  The impact of his rotting teeth hitting her jugular wakes her up in a spasm of horror.

  * * *

  Lilly jerks awake, soaked in feverish sweat, the morning light vibrating with the sound of someone knocking on her apartment door. She gasps for breath. She blinks away the nightmare, the sound of her own scream still ringing in her ears. The knocking continues.

  “Lilly? You okay?”

  The familiar voice, muffled outside the front door, barely registers in her ears. She rubs her face, taking deep breaths and trying to get her bearings.