The Walking Dead Collection

by Robert Kirkman

  He starts to back away from her, which sends a wave of relief down Martinez’s midsection.

  “I don’t mean to be rude,” Stevens says to the woman, “but I must be going. I’m sorry.” The doctor turns and joins the others.

  Martinez leads the group around a corner and pauses on the edge of the sidewalk for a moment, adrenaline surging. For a brief instant, he considers cutting Stevens and Alice loose. They know too much, and they’re too tied into the community—they could be a huge liability. Worse than that, they may know Martinez a little too well. They could easily see through his gambit. Maybe they have already. Maybe they’re just playing along.

  “Doctor?” Alice goes over to Stevens and puts a hand on his shoulder. Stevens looks crestfallen, rubbing his face. Alice speaks softly. “That woman’s son…?”

  “I can’t think about that right now,” the doctor mutters. “It’s just too—I just can’t. We have to get out of here—we may not have another chance.” He takes a girding breath, looking down, shaking his head. “These people—they’ll just have to get along without us.”

  Alice looks at him. “You’re right. I know. It’s going to be okay.”

  “Hey!” Martinez hisses an urgent whisper at them. “Save it—we don’t have time for this right now!”

  He gets them moving again—down a boardwalk, across another road, and down a side street toward the mouth of an alley two hundred yards to the south.

  The hush that has fallen over the town bothers Martinez. He can hear the hum of generators, the rustling of branches against the wall. Their footsteps sound like pistol shots in his ears, the beating of his heart loud enough to lead a marching band.

  He picks up the pace. The passersby have dwindled away. They’re alone now. Martinez increases his stride from a trot to a steady run, the others struggling to keep up. A moment later, he hears the one named Michonne make a strange comment to somebody behind him.

  “Stop looking at me like that,” she says between heaving breaths as she runs. “Don’t worry about me.”

  Glenn’s voice is barely audible over the noise of their churning footsteps and heavy panting. “Okay—sorry.”

  “Keep it down!”

  Martinez hisses a breathless whisper at them over his shoulder as they approach the mouth of the alley. Shooting his gloved hand up, he brings the group to a stop and then leads them around the corner of an adjacent building and into the litter-strewn darkness.

  The alley is bound in thick shadows, sticky with the stench of garbage cans lined along one wall, a single flickering emergency light at the far end providing the only illumination. The beating of Martinez’s heart kicks up a degree. He quickly surveys the area. He sees the sentry at the far end of the alley.

  “Okay—wait here a minute,” he says to the others. “I’ll be right back.”

  Now Martinez faces another grand performance—a role within a role within a role—as he sniffs back his nerves and starts toward the end of the alley. He can see the young gang-banger on the lift platform thirty yards away, his back turned, an AK in his arms as he stares over a temporary barricade of riveted steel panels.

  On the other side of the barricade lies the dark outskirts and freedom.

  “Hey—hey, kid!” Martinez approaches the sentry with a genial wave. He keeps his voice casual but authoritative, as if giving a pet cat an order to get off the dinner table. “I’m taking over for you!”

  The kid flinches with a start, and then he turns and looks down. Hardly out of his teens, with a spindly body decked out in hip-hop regalia, a headband drawn around his Jheri curls, he looks as though he’s playing cops and robbers on the perch. He also looks slightly stoned and more than a little paranoid.

  Martinez comes closer. “Hand me that rifle and run along. I’ll cover the rest of your shift.”

  The kid starts climbing down with a shrug. “Sure, man—whatever.” He hops to the pavement. “But, uh … why you doin’ this? You need me somewhere else or somethin’?”

  Martinez reaches for the AK in the kid’s arms, again with that pet owner tough love in his voice. “Don’t ask any questions. I’m doing you a favor here. Hand me the gun, thank me—and enjoy your time off.”

  The kid stares at him, handing over the firearm. “Uh … sure.”

  The kid walks away, heading back down the alley, mumbling to himself. “Whatever … whatever, man … it’s your show … I just work here.”

  * * *

  The others huddle behind the adjacent edifice until the sentry has emerged from the alley and sauntered off into the night, muttering an off-key version of some obscure rap tune. They wait until the kid vanishes around a corner. Rick then gives Glenn a nod, and they slip into the alley—one by one—quickly traversing the length of dark, reeking, garbage-stained pavement.

  Martinez is waiting for them on the lift perch, gazing down at them with businesslike fervor. “Come on!” He motions them over. “We get over this wall and we’re home free.”

  The group gathers at the base of the barricade.

  Martinez looks down at them. “This worked out better than I thought it would—but we still need to hurry. One of the Governor’s goons could walk by any minute.”

  Holding his stump, Rick looks up at him. “Right, right … and you think we’re not in a hurry to get out of here?”

  Martinez manages a tense smile. “Yeah, I guess I see your point.”

  Behind Rick, a voice murmurs something that Martinez doesn’t catch at first.

  Rick starts, spins, and looks at Michonne. Glenn does the same. In fact, they all turn and look at the black woman, who stands in the shadows, looking grim and stoic as she stares off at the night.

  “I’m not leaving yet,” she utters in a voice so cold and committed it could be a declaration of name-rank-and-serial-number.

  “What?!” Glenn gawks at her. “What are you talking about?!”

  Michonne stares at the young man through bottomless dark eyes. Her voice is as steady as a cleric delivering the holy writ. “I’m going to visit the Governor.”

  SIXTEEN

  The mute silence that follows Michonne’s declaration seems to hold the entire group rapt for endless moments, as the implications of her pronouncement spread from person to person, from awkward glance to awkward glance, like a disease transmitted by eye contact. It goes unspoken what she has in mind for Philip Blake—although no one dares to contemplate the specifics—and that’s the part that hits people first. But as the silence lengthens and turns uncomfortable in that reeking dark alley, it becomes clear to Martinez, who is gazing down at this transaction from the lift platform, that Michonne’s unstoppable trajectory speaks to something darker than mere vengeance. In these brutal new times, the act of revenge—albeit a lower, baser instinct during the normal course of human events—now seems to take on an apocalyptic inevitability, as natural as shooting a walking corpse in the head or watching a loved one turn into a monster. Infected appendages are quickly severed and cauterized in this horrible new society. Evil people are no longer a thing of legend and forensic cop shows. In this new world, they are like sick cattle that simply need to be separated from the herd. They are defective parts that need to be replaced. Nobody standing at that wall that night could blame or even be surprised at Michonne’s sudden and inexorable decision to circle back and find the cancerous cell festering in that town—the man who desecrated her—but that doesn’t make it easier to watch.

  “Michonne, I don’t think—” Rick starts to object.

  “I’ll catch up with you,” she says, cutting him off. “Or I won’t.”

  “Michonne—”

  “I can’t leave without doing this.” She augers her gaze into Rick’s eyes. “Go ahead.” Then she turns and looks at Alice. “Where does he live?”

  * * *

  At that moment, on the other side of town, nobody notices two figures slipping into the dark maw of an alley just beyond the S-curve on Durand Street—about as far away from t
he commotion of the racetrack and the central business district as you can get and still be within the safe zone. No guards stray this far south of Main Street, and the outer concertina-wire fences keep errant biters at bay.

  Bundled in denim, with blanket rolls under their arms, the two of them move side by side, staying low. One of them hauls a long canvas bag on a sling over his shoulder, the contents clanking softly with each bump. At the end of the alley, they squeeze through a narrow gap between a semitruck cab and a railroad boxcar.

  “Where in God’s name are you taking me?” Lilly Caul wants to know, following Austin across a vacant lot veiled in darkness.

  Austin gives her a mischievous chuckle. “You’ll see … trust me.”

  Lilly steps gingerly over a patch of thorny milkweed and smells the odor of decay emanating from the adjacent forest, about fifty yards beyond the outer perimeter. The back of her neck bristles. Austin takes her arm and helps her over fallen timber and into a clearing.

  “Be careful, watch your step,” he says, treating her with the kid gloves of an old-school father-to-be, which, to Lilly, is at once annoying and kind of adorable.

  “I’m pregnant, Austin, not an invalid.” She follows him into the center of the clearing. It’s a private place, sheltered by foliage and deadfall branches. There’s a hollowed-out crater in the ground, scorched and petrified, where some previous visitor had dug a fire pit. “Where did you learn about prenatal care? Cartoons?”

  “Very funny, wise guy … sit down.”

  Two ancient tree stumps provide perfect—if not exactly comfortable—places for a couple to sit and talk. The crickets roar all around them as Austin sets his bag down, and then takes a seat next to Lilly.

  The sky above them twinkles and pulses with the kind of starry heavens only seen in rural areas. The clouds have dispersed, and the air—for once—is clear of walker stench. It smells of pine and black earth and clear night.

  Lilly feels for the first time since—well, since as far back as she can remember—like a whole person. She feels as though they might actually have a chance to make this work. Austin is no dream father, nor is he the perfect husband by any stretch of the imagination, but he has a spark to him that touches Lilly’s heart. He’s a decent soul, and that’s enough for now. They have a lot of challenges ahead of them, a lot to work out, a lot of dangerous terrain to navigate. But she believes now that they will survive … together.

  “So, what’s this mysterious ritual you dragged me out here for, anyway?” she says finally, lifting her collar and stretching her stiff neck. Her breasts are sore, and her tummy’s been complaining all day. But in a strange way, she has never felt better.

  “My brothers and I used to do this thing every Halloween,” he says, indicating the canvas bag. “Came up with it when we were high, I guess … but it makes sense right now for some reason.” He looks at her. “Did you bring those things I asked you to bring?”

  She gives him a nod. “Yep.” She pats her jacket pocket. “Got ’em right here.”

  “Okay … good.” He stands, goes over to the bag, and unzips it. “We usually make a fire to throw the stuff into … but I’m thinking tonight we’ll try to avoid attracting the attention.” He pulls out a shovel, goes over to the pit, and starts digging. “Instead we’ll just bury the stuff.”

  Lilly pulls out a couple photographs she found in her wallet, a bullet from one of her Ruger pistols, and a small object wrapped in tissue paper. She lays the bundle in her lap. “Okay, ready when you are, pretty boy.”

  Austin sets down the shovel, goes back to the bag, and pulls out a plastic one-liter bottle and two paper cups. He pours dark liquid in each cup. “Found some grape juice … we don’t want to be drinking wine in your condition.”

  Lilly grins. “You’re gonna drive me crazy with this Jewish mother routine.”

  Austin ignores the comment. “Are you warm enough? You need another blanket?”

  She sighs. “I’m fine, Austin … for God’s sake stop worrying about me.”

  He hands her a cup of juice, and pulls a small baggie from his pocket.

  “Okay, I’ll go first,” he says. Inside the Ziploc are half an ounce of marijuana, a little metal pipe, and some rolling papers. He looks wistfully at the paraphernalia and says, “Time to put away childish things.” He raises his cup. “Here’s to a lifelong love affair with weed.” He looks at the bag. “You got me through a lot of rough shit but it’s time to go.”

  He tosses the pot in the hole.

  Lilly raises her cup. “Here’s to sobriety … it’s a bitch but it’s for the best.”

  They drink.

  * * *

  “I can’t believe she just left us like that,” the young man named Glenn says after climbing up the wall. His body armor creaks as he stands in the wind on the edge of the lift platform, helping Alice scale the wall. The nurse is having trouble—her upper body strength not what it could be—and she labors to pull herself onto the perch. Glenn grunts with effort as he pulls her over the precipice. “Should we help her? I’m not crazy about that guy either.”

  Rick stands on the platform behind Glenn, watching Martinez reaching down to Stevens, hoisting the doctor up the side of the barricade. “Trust me, Glenn,” Rick says softly, “we’d probably just slow her down. Our safest bet is getting out now while we can.”

  The doctor struggles up the wall and cobbles onto the platform to join the others.

  Martinez makes sure everyone is okay. They all take deep breaths, turning and gazing out at the wasted landscape on the other side of the rampart. They can see the neighboring woods through a narrow gap between two derelict buildings. The night wind swirls litter across empty dirt roads, the crumbling ruins of train trestles in the distance like fallen giants. The moon has risen full and high—a lunatic’s moon—and the milky light puts an exclamation point on all the dark crevices, shadowy alcoves, and snaking ravines that could potentially contain biters.

  Rick takes another breath and gives Glenn a reassuring pat on the back. “Michonne can take care of herself,” he says in a low voice. “Besides, I get the impression this is something she’d want to do alone.”

  “Ladies first,” Martinez says to Alice, indicating the far edge of the platform.

  Alice takes a tentative step toward the ledge, filling her lungs with breath.

  Martinez helps her find a foothold, and then he lowers her down the outer wall. “There you go,” he says, his hands gripping her under the armpits. He accidentally brushes the sides of her breasts. “You’re okay. Almost there.”

  “Just watch the hands,” Alice says, scuffing and grunting down the side of the wall, until she finally hops down to the dirt road, raising a small cloud of dust. She crouches instinctively, looking around the danger zone, her eyes wide and her hackles up.

  Martinez lowers Glenn down next, and then the doctor. The two men land next to Alice in the dirt, raising more dust. The silence is broken by their heavy, tense breathing—and the drumming of their hearts in their ears—as each of them turn and survey the dark road ahead of them, which leads out of town and into the black oblivion of night.

  They hear the scuffling sounds of Martinez coming down the wall. The tall man lands with a thump, the weapons slung over his back rattling, and then he gazes back up at the parapet. “Okay, Rick … let’s go.”

  Up on the platform, Rick tucks his bandaged stump against his sternum. “This ain’t going to be easy,” he murmurs. “You guys got me?”

  “We got you, brother.” Martinez reaches up for him. “Just ease on down.”

  Rick starts awkwardly lowering himself down the outer wall with one hand.

  “Jesus,” Alice says, watching. “Don’t drop him. Be careful!”

  Martinez catches the hundred-and-eighty-pound man with a grunt, easing him to the ground. Rick exhales a pained breath and looks around.

  Across the dirt clearing, Dr. Stevens stands in the shadows of an abandoned storefront, a weather-beaten s
ign hanging by a thread, with the words MCCALLUM FEED AND SEED. He lets out a sigh of relief and checks his satchel for any damage. The glass vials of antibiotics and painkillers remain intact, the instruments in good order. “I just can’t believe we made it out of there so easily,” he mumbles, checking the last of the bag’s contents. “I mean, the walls aren’t exactly meant to keep people in … but…”

  Behind the doctor, a shadow moves in the depths of the ramshackle doorway of McCallum’s. Nobody notices it. Nor does anybody hear the clumsy, shuffling footsteps faintly crackling over detritus and packing straps, moving toward their voices.

  “I’m just so damn relieved,” Stevens is saying, snapping the satchel shut.

  The figure lurches out of the doorway—just a blur of teeth, ragged clothing, and mottled fish-belly skin in the darkness—and clamps its jaws down on the closest human flesh in its path.

  * * *

  Sometimes the victim doesn’t even see it coming until it’s too late, which is maybe, on some fundamental level, the most merciful way for things to go down.

  The creature that sinks its teeth into the nape of Dr. Stevens’s exposed neck is enormous—probably a former field hand or stock clerk accustomed to loading sixty-pound bales of fertilizer or cattle feed into truck beds all day, day in and day out—and it latches down on the doctor’s jugular so firmly, a crowbar couldn’t loosen its jaws. Clad in moldy bib overalls, its thinning hair reduced to spidery wisps on its veined white skull, it has eyes like yellow pilot lamps and makes a watery, garbled coughing sound as it roots its rotten incisors into live tissue.

  Dr. Stevens stiffens immediately, arms going up, eyeglasses knocked off his face, satchel flying, a horrid shriek bursting out of him in complete involuntary shock. He can’t see or detect the agent of his demise—only the Day-Glo red shade of hot agony snapping down over his gaze.

  The suddenness of the attack catches everybody by surprise, the group bristling in unison, reaching for weapons, scrambling backward.