The Walking Dead: The Road to Woodbury tgt-2

by Robert Kirkman

  * * *

  The community room lies at the rear of the courthouse building, at the end of a long, narrow corridor lined with glass doors leading into private offices.

  Josh and company gather in the cluttered meeting room, their boots dripping on the parquet floor. They are exhausted and in no mood to meet the Woodbury Welcome Wagon but Martinez tells them to be patient.

  Snow ticks against the high windows as they wait. The room, warmed by space heaters and dimly lit with Coleman lanterns, looks as though it has seen its share of heated exchanges. The crumbling plaster walls bare the scars of violence. The floor is strewn with overturned folding chairs and littered with wadded documents. Josh notices blood streaks on the front wall, near a tattered Georgia state flag. Generators thrum in the bowels of the edifice, vibrating the floor.

  They wait a little over five minutes—Josh pacing, Lilly and the others sitting on folding chairs—before the sound of heavy boots echo out in the corridor. Someone is whistling as the footsteps approach.

  “Welcome, folks, welcome to Woodbury.” The voice that emanates from the doorway is low and nasally, and filled with faux conviviality.

  All heads turn.

  Three men stand in the doorway with smiles on their faces that don’t match their cold, lidded stares. The man in the middle radiates a weird kind of energy that makes Lilly think of peacocks and fighting fish. “We can always use more good people around here,” he says, and steps into the room.

  Lean and rawboned in his ratty fisherman’s sweater, his cinder-black hair shapeless and shaggy, he sports a five o’clock shadow of whiskers on his face that he’s already trimming and styling into the beginnings of a Fu Manchu mustache. He has a strange nervous tic that is hardly noticeable—he blinks a lot.

  “Name’s Philip Blake,” he says, “and this is Bruce over here, and that’s Gabe.”

  The other two men—both older—follow on the younger man’s heels like guard dogs. Not much of a greeting from these two—other than a few grunts and nods—as they stand slightly behind the man named Philip.

  Gabe, on the left, the Caucasian, is a fireplug of a man with a thick neck and jarhead crew cut. Bruce, on the right, is a dour black man with an onyx shaved head. Each of these men holds an impressive automatic assault rifle across his chest, fingers on the trigger pads. For a moment Lilly cannot take her eyes off the guns.

  “Sorry about the heavy artillery,” Philip says, indicating the weaponry behind him. “We had a little dustup in town last month, got kinda hairy for a while. Can’t take any chances now. Too much at stake. Your names are…?”

  Josh introduces the group, going around the room and ending on Megan.

  “You look like somebody I knew once,” Philip informs Megan, the man’s eyes all over her now. Lilly does not like the way this guy is looking at her friend. It’s very subtle but it bothers her.

  “I get that a lot,” Megan says.

  “Or maybe it’s somebody famous. Doesn’t she look like somebody famous, guys?”

  The “guys” behind him have no opinion. Philip snaps his fingers. “That chick from Titanic!”

  “Carrie Winslet?” the one named Gabe speculates.

  “You stupid fucking idiot, it’s not Carrie, it’s Kate … Kate … Fucking Kate Winslet.”

  Megan gives Philip a cockeyed smile. “I’ve been told Bonnie Raitt.”

  “I love Bonnie Raitt,” Philip enthuses. “‘Let’s Give ’Em Something to Talk About.’”

  Josh speaks up. “So you’re ‘the boss’ we’ve been hearing about?”

  Philip turns to the big man. “Guilty as charged.” Philip smiles and goes over to Josh and extends a hand. “‘Josh’ was it?”

  Josh shakes the man’s hand. The expression on Josh’s face remains noncommittal, polite, deferential. “That’s right. We appreciate you taking us in for a while. Not sure how long we’ll be staying.”

  Philip smiles at him. “You just got here, friend. Relax. Check the place out. You won’t find a safer place to live. Believe me.”

  Josh gives a nod. “Looks like you got the walker problem under control.”

  “We get our share, I won’t lie to you. Pack of ’em comes through every few weeks. Had a bad situation a couple of weeks ago but we’re getting the town squared away.”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Basically we run on the barter system.” Philip Blake looks around the room, regarding each of these newcomers as a coach might size up a new team. “I understand you folks scored big at a Walmart today.”

  “We did all right.”

  “You’re all welcome to take what you need in trade.”

  Josh looks at him. “Trade?”

  “Goods, services … whatever you got to contribute. As long as you respect your fellow citizens, keep your noses clean, abide by the rules, pitch in … you can stay as long as you like.” He looks at Josh. “Gentleman of your … physical endowment … we can use around here.”

  Josh thinks it over. “So you’re some kind of ‘elected official’?”

  Philip glances at his guards, and the other men grin, and Philip bursts out laughing. He wipes his mirthless eyes and shakes his head. “I’m more like—what’s the phrase?—‘pro tem’? President pro tem?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  Philip waves off the question. “Put it this way, not long ago this place was under the thumb of some power-hungry assholes, got too big for their britches. I saw the need for leadership and I volunteered.”

  “Volunteered?”

  Philip’s smile fades. “I stepped up, friend. Times like these. Strong leadership is a necessity. We got families here. Women and children. Old people. You got to have somebody watching the door, somebody … decisive. You understand what I’m saying?”

  Josh nods. “Sure.”

  Behind Philip, Gabe, still smirking, mumbles, “President Pro Tem … I like that.”

  From across the room, Scott, perched on a windowsill, chimes in: “Dude, you sure look like a president … with those two Secret Service dudes.”

  An awkward moment of silence presses down on the group as Scott’s breathy little weed-giggle fades and Philip turns to glance at the stoner across the room. “What’s your name again, sport?”

  “Scott Moon.”

  “Well, Scott Moon, I don’t know about president. Never saw myself as the chief executive type.” Another cold smile. “I’d be governor at best.”

  * * *

  They spend that night in the gymnasium of the local high school. The aging brick building, situated outside the walled-in zone, sits on the edge of a vast athletic field riddled with shallow graves. Cyclone fences bear the damage of a recent walker attack. Inside the gym, makeshift cots crowd the varnished basketball court. The air smells of urine and body odors and disinfectant.

  The night drags for Lilly. The fetid corridors and breezeways connecting the dark schoolrooms creak and moan in the wind all night, while strangers toss and turn across the dark gymnasium, coughing, wheezing, murmuring feverish ruminations. Every few moments a child cries out.

  At one point Lilly glances at the cot next to her, on which Josh slumbers fitfully, and she sees the big man jerking awake from a nightmare.

  Lilly reaches over and offers her hand, and the big man takes it.

  * * *

  The next morning, the five newcomers sit in a huddle around Josh’s cot, as the ashen sunlight slants down through dust motes and stripes the sick and wounded as they hunch on their meager, stained bedsheets. Lilly is reminded of Civil War encampments and jury-rigged morgues. “Is it just me,” she says softly, under her breath to her fellow travelers, “or does this place have a weird vibe?”

  “That’s putting it lightly,” Josh says.

  Megan yawns and stretches. “It sure beats sleeping in Bob’s little dungeon-on-wheels.”

  “You got that right,” Scott concurs. “I’ll take a shitty cot in a stinky gym any day of the week.”

  Bob looks at
Josh. “Gotta admit, captain … you could make an argument for staying here for a while.”

  Josh laces his boots, pulls on his lumberjack coat. “Not sure about this place.”

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “I don’t know. I’m thinking we take this one day at a time.”

  “I agree with Josh,” Lilly says. “Something about this place bothers me.”

  “What’s not to like?” Megan combs fingers through her hair, scrunching her curls. “It’s safe, they got supplies, they got guns.”

  Josh wipes his mouth thoughtfully. “Look. I can’t tell any of you folks what to do. Just be careful. Watch each other’s backs.”

  “Duly noted,” Bob says.

  “Bob, for the time being, I’m thinking we ought to keep the truck locked up.”

  “Copy that.”

  “Keep your .44 handy.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “And we ought to all remember where the truck is at all times, you know, just in case.”

  They all agree, and then they agree to split up that morning and investigate the rest of the town—get a feel for the place in the light of day. They will meet back up that afternoon at the high school and they will reassess at that point whether to go or stay.

  * * *

  The harsh light of day shines down on Lilly and Josh as they exit the high school, turning up their collars against the wind. The snow has blown over, and the weather has turned blustery. Lilly’s stomach growls. “You feel like getting some breakfast?” she proffers to Josh.

  “Got some of that stuff from Walmart in the truck, if you can stand beef jerky and Chef Boyardee again.”

  Lilly shudders. “I don’t think I can look at another can of SpaghettiOs.”

  “I got an idea.” Josh feels the breast pocket of his flannel jacket. “Come on … I’m buying.”

  They turn west and make their way down the main drag. In the bitter gray daylight the seams of the town reveal themselves. Most of the storefronts sit empty, boarded or barred, the pavement scarred with skid marks and oil spills. Some of the windows and signs show the marks of bullet holes. Passersby keep to themselves. Here and there, bare patches of ground reveal dirty white sand. It seems the whole village is built on sand.

  No one offers a greeting as Lilly and Josh pass through the walled area. Most of those who are out at this hour carry building materials or bundles of supplies, and seem to be in a hurry to get where they’re going. There’s a sullen, prisonlike atmosphere in the air. Quadrants of the town are sectioned off with huge, temporary cyclone fences. The growl of bulldozers drifts on the breeze. On the eastern horizon, a man with a high-powered rifle paces along the top edge of the racetrack arena.

  “Morning, gentlemen,” Josh says to three old codgers sitting on barrels outside the feed and seed store, watching Lilly and Josh like buzzards.

  One of the old men—a wizened, bearded troll in a tattered overcoat and slouch hat—shows a smile full of rotten teeth. “Mornin’, big fella. Y’all are the newbies, ain’t ya?”

  “Just got in last night,” Josh tells him.

  “Lucky you.”

  The three coots share a garbled chuckle as if enjoying a private joke.

  Josh smiles and lets the joke pass. “Understand this is the food center?”

  “You could call it that.” More mucusy chuckling. “Keep an eye on your woman.”

  “I’ll do that,” Josh says, taking Lilly’s hand. They climb the steps and go inside.

  In the dim light a long, narrow retail store stretches before them, smelling of turpentine and must, gutted of its shelves, packed with crates up to the ceiling: dry goods, toilet paper, gallon jugs of water, bed linen, and unidentified cartons of merchandise. The single customer present—an older woman bundled in down and scarves—sees Josh and brushes past him, hurrying out the door, averting her eyes. The cool air vibrates with the artificial warmth of space heaters and the crackle of human tension.

  In the rear corner of the store, among sacks of seed stacked to the rafters, sits a makeshift counter. A man in a wheelchair is positioned behind the counter, flanked by two armed guards.

  Josh walks up to the counter. “How y’all doin’ this morning?”

  The man in the wheelchair looks up through lidded eyes. “Holy shit, you’re a big one,” he comments, his long, straggly beard twitching. He wears faded army dungarees, and a headband cinches his greasy, iron-gray ponytail. His face is a map of degradation, from his rheumy red-rimmed eyes to his ulcerated beak of a nose.

  Josh ignores the comment. “Just wondering if y’all have any fresh produce? Or maybe some eggs we might take off your hands in trade?”

  The man in the wheelchair stares. Josh can feel the suspicious gazes of the armed guards. The gunmen are both young, black, dressed in quasi-gang colors. “Whaddaya have in mind?”

  “The thing is, we just brought in a whole slew of items from Walmart with Martinez … so I’m wondering if we can work something out.”

  “That’s between you and Martinez. What else you got for me?”

  Josh starts to answer when he notices all three men are staring at Lilly, and the way they’re staring at her puts Josh’s hackles up.

  “What’ll this buy me?” Josh says finally, shooting his cuff, fiddling with the buckle of his watchband. He snaps it off and lays the sports watch on the counter. It’s not a Rolex but it’s no Timex, either. The chronograph set him back three hundred bucks ten years ago when his catering job was bringing in decent money.

  Wheelchair Man looks down his blemished nose at the shiny thing on the counter. “’The tarnation is that?”

  “It’s a Movado, worth five hundred easy.”

  “Not around here it ain’t.”

  “Give us a break, will ya? Been eating outta cans for weeks.”

  The man picks up the watch and inspects it with a sour expression as though it’s covered in feces. “I’ll give ya fifty dollars’ worth of rice and beans, slab bacon, and them Egg Beaters.”

  “C’mon, man. Fifty dollars?”

  “Got some white peaches in back, too, just came in from the road, I’ll throw those in. That’s all I can do.”

  “I don’t know.” Josh looks at Lilly, who stares back at him with a shrug. Josh looks at Wheelchair Man. “I don’t know, man.”

  “That’ll keep the two of you going for a week.”

  Josh sighs. “That’s a Movado, man. That’s a fine piece of craftsmanship.”

  “Lookit, I ain’t gonna argue with—”

  A baritone voice from behind the guards rings out, interrupting the man in the wheelchair. “What the fuck’s the problem?”

  All heads turn toward a figure coming around the corner of the stockroom, wiping his bloody hands in a towel. The tall, gaunt, weathered man wears a horribly stained butcher’s apron, the fabric mottled with blood and marrow. His chiseled, sunburned face, set off by ice-chip blue eyes, glowers at Josh. “There a problem here, Davy?”

  “Everything’s hunky-dory, Sam,” the man in the wheelchair says, not taking his eyes off Lilly. “These folks were somewhat dissatisfied with my offer, and they were just leaving.”

  “Hold on a second.” Josh raises his hands in a contrite gesture. “I’m sorry if I offended you but I didn’t say I was—”

  “All offers are final,” Sam the Butcher announces, throwing his grisly-looking towel on the counter and glaring at Josh. “Unless…” He seems to change his mind. “Forget it, never mind.”

  Josh looks at the man. “Unless what?”

  The man in the apron looks at the others, then purses his lips thoughtfully. “See … what most folks do around here is work off their debts, pitching in on the wall, patching fences, stacking sandbags and such. You’ll definitely get more bang for your buck offering up them big muscles of yours in trade.” He gives Lilly a look. “’Course there’s all kinds of services a person could provide, all kinds of ways to get more bang.” He grins. “Especially a person of the fema
le persuasion.”

  Lilly realizes the men behind the counter are all looking at her now, each of them grinning lasciviously. At first she’s taken by surprise, and she just stands there blinking. Then she feels all the blood rushing out of her face. She gets dizzy. She wants to kick over the table, or storm out of that musty-smelling chamber, knocking over the shelves and suggesting that they all fuck themselves. But the fear, the throat-closing fear—her old nemesis—holds her paralyzed, her feet nailed to the floor. She wonders what the hell is wrong with her. How did she survive this long without getting devoured? All she’s been through and she can’t even deal with a few sexist pigs?

  Josh speaks up. “Okay, you know what … this is not necessary.”

  Lilly looks at the big black man and sees his huge, square jaw tensing. She wonders whether Josh is talking about the concept of Lilly trading sexual services not being necessary or these thugs making crude, chauvinist comments not being necessary. The store gets very quiet. Sam the Butcher levels his gaze at Josh.

  “Don’t be so quick to judge, Big Hoss.” An ember of contempt smolders in the butcher’s humorless blue eyes. He wipes his slimy hands on the apron. “Little lady with a body like that on her, you could be swimming in steak and eggs for a month.”

  The smirks on the other men turn to laughter. But the butcher barely smiles. His impassive stare seems to be locked on to Josh with the intensity of an arc welder. Lilly feels her heart racing.

  She puts a hand on Josh’s arm, which is pulsing under his lumberjack coat, tendons as coiled as telephone cable. “C’mon, Josh,” she says, almost under her breath. “It’s okay. Get your watch and let’s go.”

  Josh smiles respectfully at the laughing men. “Steak and eggs. That’s a good one. Listen. Keep the watch. We’ll take you up on them beans and Egg Beaters and the rest.”

  “Go get ’em their food,” the butcher says, still with those pale blue eyes fixed on Josh.