* * *
That night, after dinner, Lilly meets with her team in the church rectory.
“I want to make sure you all know what’s in store for us north of here.” She stands at the front of the meeting room, the door closed, a kerosene lantern at each end of the table illuminating the room. The genial quality of the place during daylight hours has now been transformed into an atmosphere of somber, shadow-draped secrets. The stained-glass panels are all dark and opaque, their ornate Bible scenes now looking cryptic and mysterious. The skylights glow with pale, cold moonlight, the faces of the listeners looking almost simian in the low-key light, the traumas of the day, as well as the shock of seeing Bell’s remains, still hanging heavy in the air like an odor. Brows furrow in thought as Lilly elaborates. “Trust me on this. Nobody wants to go north of here if they can help it. From this point on, it’s hairy as hell, and twice as dangerous.”
“Go on,” Norma Sutters says from her chair at the end of the table. She sits with her plump hands folded in front of her as though about to say grace before dinner. Miles sits on one side of her, Jinx on the other. Tommy stands behind them, preferring to lean against the windowsill as he listens, every few moments shooting a nervous glance outside through a gap in the boarded window.
“You’ve all heard rumors about the swarm rings and such,” she goes on. “About an hour ago, one of Ash’s scouts rode the high ridge road and saw how bad it gets as you cross into the suburbs.”
The room remains silent as everybody processes. Rumors have circulated for months now that the megaherds—which normally migrate across the land with glacial slowness—have for some reason settled into inexplicable orbits around the outer burbs of the city. No one is certain why, but it seems as though the massive swarms have stalled there in this strange, inscrutable pattern, like moths circling a flame, and anybody dumb enough to try and get into Atlanta from the south is walking into a little piece of hell on earth.
“I know I’ve said this all along,” Lilly finally chimes back in, breaking the spell of silence. “But I want to give all of you another chance to bail out.”
Jinx rolls her eyes. “Do we really have to play this tired old record again?”
“This is different, Jinx. Seeing Bell in there, seeing Haralson like this … I have no right to force any of you to continue on this gonzo fucking mission.” She looks around the room and feels her heart panging with love for these people, her inner circle, her family. What good would it do getting the children back if these folks lost their lives in the bargain? Lilly pushes the feeling of desolation back down her throat as she tries to smile at them. “There would be no shame in pulling out at this point. No guilt, no questions asked. We’re going to be leaving just before dawn … I want you all to think it through tonight. I want you all to be sure. No pressure, no expectations. I’ll be fine, whatever you decide. I’m a big girl. I’ll be okay.”
She turns and starts to walk out of the room, but pauses before turning the doorknob. She glances back over her shoulder at them. “Whatever you decide, just know that I will always love you guys.”
She walks out.
SEVEN
Lilly would never know for sure what was said in that rectory conference room that night after she made her exit. She would always have her theories, though. Tommy and Norma probably had a heated debate on the pros and cons of continuing. Perhaps Jinx just sat there and listened silently with a disgusted look on her face. Maybe Miles suggested they take a vote—Miles Littleton, the practical car thief, the voice of reason. Lilly never would have expected Norma to continue. Jinx and Tommy were another matter altogether—definitely candidates to stay on board. But Miles was the wild card.
A former gangbanger from the mean streets of Detroit, wheelman for mob heists and freelance criminals of all stripes, the young man is the living embodiment of the Hoodlum with the Heart of Gold. From his gentle, long-lashed eyes, to his delicate little goatee, his face reflects the contradiction of his life. He’s a gentle soul in a brutal environment. He wouldn’t hesitate to erupt with violence if the need arose, but the fact is, he has no taste for it. All of which makes it impossible to predict what he’s about to do that next morning.
The uncertainty torments Lilly that night as she settles into bed in a small bungalow next to Ash’s apartment building and tries desperately to get some sleep. She’ll need the rest, regardless of what her team decides. But sleep remains stubbornly elusive that night. The lonely, unfurnished bungalow—stacked to the ceiling with supplies and canned goods—tics and settles in the moonlit darkness as Lilly tosses and turns. Intermittently, she drifts off into falling dreams—falling from planes, falling from sheer cliffs, falling from bridges and buildings and precipices.
* * *
The next morning just after dawn, she meets Ash in the grassy courtyard across the street from Williams Grocery. The courtyard borders the massive gate on the north side of town, and in the predawn darkness, the silhouettes of telephone poles, road signs, the barricade, and the gleaming concertina wire curling along the top of the wall all look unreal, like construction paper cutouts in a pop-up book. The sky has that gray, dead, washed-out quality that it gets right before dawn, and the chill in the air is bracing.
For a moment, gazing around the empty yard, Lilly assumes that she’ll be alone from this point on. She helps Ash retrieve the three surviving horses, and they hook the biggest, sturdiest animal, Arrow, to a retrofitted, rust-pocked old Volvo station wagon that’s been chopped up, the windshield removed to allow the traces through. The rear cargo bay is filled with guns, ammo, and supplies.
Lilly is about to say something when a voice from behind her interrupts.
“Don’t tell me you’re gonna put me on one of them skinny little geldings.”
Lilly spins and sees Jinx and Tommy walking up with their tactical vests on, their holsters jangling on their hips, and their heavy packs strapped to their shoulders. Relief courses through Lilly as she clears her throat and says, “Sorry about that, Jinx … gonna need Arrow’s muscle. Tommy, why don’t you ride with me in the buggy?”
Jinx throws her pack on the closest horse, making the animal snort and rear backward. Jinx softly whispers to the creature, patting its withers and stroking its mane. She pulls a roll of duct tape from her pack, kneels, and begins wrapping the silver tape around the horse’s fetlocks. The protective measure won’t save the animal from a swarm but it will ward off the bite of a single walker.
Lilly comes over, puts a hand on Jinx’s shoulder, and speaks very softly: “Thank you … I was worried there for a second that I lost you.”
“You think I’d miss all this fun?” Jinx gives her a wicked little smile.
“C’mon, Lilly,” a voice says from behind her. She pivots to see Tommy thrusting his hands in his pockets, shyly looking down at the ground. “Give us a little credit.”
Lilly reaches out and touches Tommy’s hair. “I’ll never doubt you guys again.”
Footsteps crunch across gravel on the other side of the courtyard, yanking Lilly’s attention over her shoulder toward the east.
“Sorry I’m late, y’all,” Miles Littleton says as he approaches in his hoodie with the rucksack on one arm, his Glock holstered on a bandolier across his skinny chest. “Had to find some toilet paper. My mom used to say, ‘Never go anywhere in nature without toilet paper.’”
Lilly swallows a lump in her throat, her eyes moistening with emotion. Something about the tone of Miles Littleton’s voice, the sadness in his eyes, the clench of his jaw, tells her that he’s not all here. He seems a little overwhelmed. But Lilly doesn’t have the luxury of getting emotional right now. She breathes in the crisp predawn air, claps her hands, and says, “I’ve never been so happy to hear about toilet paper in my life.”
Inside the shadow of his hoodie, he cocks his head warily at her. “You didn’t think I’d bail on ya, did ya? What do you think I am, King Pussy?”
Lilly swallows back another surge
of emotion. “C’mon, Your Highness, let’s get this show on the road.”
By this point, Ash has secured the big thoroughbred to the carriage, battened down the rear hatch, and checked the rear tires for road-worthiness. She looks skeptically at the makeshift carriage as the others climb in—Lilly at the reins, Tommy sitting shotgun. Jinx climbs onto one of the geldings, awkwardly snapping the reins when the horse begins complaining, snorting and backing toward the closest building. “Easy, sport,” Jinx soothes in a soft voice, checking her largest machete for quick access.
Miles mounts his horse and makes sure his Glock is safety-on, loaded, and properly holstered on his bandolier. He has nearly a hundred rounds courtesy of Ash and her well-stocked arsenal.
“Thanks for everything,” Lilly says through the side window of the carriage to the tall woman.
Ash nods and then says, “You’re missing one, aren’t you?”
Lilly shrugs. “To be honest, I don’t fault her one bit. She may be the smart one.”
“We’ll make sure she gets back to Woodbury in one piece.”
“Check on David Stern, will ya? He’s a tough old dude but he got pretty banged up.”
“Will do.” Ash steps away, puts her hands on her hips. “I hope you get them back.”
Lilly looks at her. “But you don’t think we will, do you?”
“I never said that.”
“You don’t have to.”
The sun has already broken on the horizon, the mossy light rising behind the rooftops, turning the ancient tin buildings into silhouettes. The air buzzes with birdcalls and drones with insects. Ash is formulating a response when the sound of a voice calls out behind them.
“HEY Y’ALL!”
All heads turn when the large, dark-skinned women with the do-rag over her hair comes trundling quickly around the corner of an adjacent building. She jangles and jiggles as she approaches, a brand-new machete dangling off one ample hip, an overstuffed rucksack strapped over her shoulder. “Don’t leave without me!”
Norma comes up to the driver’s side of the horse-cart and pauses outside Lilly’s open window.
The two women make eye contact, and they hold each other’s gaze for quite a long moment without saying a word. The transaction of body language and facial expressions is subtle but also powerful. The way that Norma’s chin juts ever so slightly with defiance and pride, and the way that Lilly cants her head in an almost paternal I-told-you-so expression—all of it passes in a brief instant. Then Lilly cracks a big shit-eating smile, and Norma’s face lights up with affection, maybe even a touch of admiration as she grins back at Lilly. The exchange is complete, no words necessary.
Lilly turns to Tommy and says, “Clear a space in the backseat for her.”
* * *
They exit Haralson and head north, Lilly taking the lead in that Frankenstein’s monster of a carriage, the enormous horse instantly going damp with sweat, foaming at the mouth with effort. Jinx and Miles ride along behind the buggy, on either flank, deathly silent, tense, and jerking at noises. Everybody can feel the stakes being raised, the presence of something unseen and menacing as they close in on the outskirts of the fallen city.
That morning, they pass through the southern portion of Coweta County without incident.
Around noon, they pass by the still-smoking remnants of Bell’s wind farm. Off in the distance to the west, the giant windmills lie in ruins, some of them broken in half, some missing fan blades, some still smoldering. The sight of it puts a pinch in Lilly’s gut, the twenty-acre farm now resembling some medieval stronghold razed by torches and flaming catapults. As they rattle pass the north corner of the complex, they realize how recently this attack must have happened when they see a low, brackish swamp still sparking and crackling in veins of light as the tangle of power cables continues to drain its residual electricity. The remains of about a dozen walkers lie mired in the crater, twitching and convulsing involuntarily with each random bolt of dying energy.
Lilly picks up the pace, snapping the reins and getting the massive thoroughbred to transition from a trot to a canter. The others spur their animals on, hurrying to keep up. For hours now, very few words have been spoken among Lilly and her team. They all sense the presence of the kidnappers, the invisible menace intensifying. They can smell dead flesh on the winds. They can feel the presence of the hordes in the way that their eyes are starting to burn, their stomachs tightening, their pulses quickening.
By midafternoon, they reach the apex of a hill and get their first glimpse of the outskirts of Fulton County off in the distance below.
Lilly instantly pulls the carriage to a stop, the others halting on either flank. Lilly’s heartbeat throbs in her ears, her stomach clenching as she breathes in the rancid death-stench infusing the atmosphere. She gazes out at the evidence of what people have been warning her about now for months. The others stare in speechless shock. The low ambient hum of monsters echoing up against the sky is overwhelming as Lilly slowly scans the panorama of thousands of dead—maybe tens of thousands—milling about down in the meadows and valleys along the county line.
Like a diabolical ant farm of ragged figures, the hordes stretch for several hundred yards in either direction. From this distance, the throngs undulate and ooze like a moving black pointillist painting splashed across the plague-worn countryside. There is no progress to their movement, no shift in their position. Against her better judgment, Lilly reaches down to her knapsack, pulls out her binoculars, and peers through the lenses.
Norma’s strangled voice comes from the backseat. “What now, d’ya think?”
In the telescopic field, Lilly sees the ocean of moldering faces chewing at the air with blackened teeth and eyes like old ivory. Most of the tattered clothing clinging to the dead is weathered to a gray parchment, the bodies brushing up and bumping against each other, all shapes and sizes and degrees of decomposition, standing room only for miles and miles, random particles filling the void, their cold gray hands clawing at the abyss, insatiable, driven by the unfathomable compulsions of the plague.
“I have a feeling they’re waiting to see what we do,” Lilly mutters, more to herself than anyone else.
“Who?” Tommy’s voice is stretched as taut as a piano string. “The walkers?”
“The kidnappers.”
“You think they’re watching us?”
“I do.”
Tommy studies her for a moment. “Wait, I know that look, you’re not thinking of—”
“Fasten your seat belt!”
“No, Lilly—”
“Hold on!”
Lilly snaps the reins and the thoroughbred launches into a gallop, making the carriage lurch.
Instantly they plunge down the slope.
Jinx and Miles follow at a dead run.
* * *
Since the advent of the plague almost four years ago, survivors have pondered, ruminated, and agonized over something that has come to be known as walker behavior—as if the appellation “walker” has heralded the advent of some new genus and species (which, in a way, it has). Do they learn? Do they digest? Do they get filled up? Do they display only involuntary behavior? Do they poop? But the area of inquiry that has long obsessed most survivors and kept them up late at night has come to be known as “herd behavior.”
To this day, nobody’s quite certain why herds form, or if they have a purpose, or how long they stay intact before drifting apart like leaves on the windy surface of the sea. The only thing that’s indisputable is that they’re catastrophically lethal, a moving tide of destruction due to the cumulative effect of so many eating machines in one place, moving in accord with each other. Lately, though, a more subtle aspect of herd behavior has come to the attention of the sharper-eyed survivors. It seems the larger the herd becomes, the more loosely packed it is. For some reason, large open spaces begin to form amidst the densely organized throng, almost as though the sheer number is spreading the herd too thinly across the landscape.
Right now, in fact, the gravitational forces of their contraption rushing headlong down that scabrous hill behind the horse named Arrow press Lilly and Tommy into their seats. The rear tires, almost flat by now, cobble and thrum over stones and corrugations. On either side of the carriage, Miles and Jinx gallop wildly along, trying to keep up with the buggy’s momentum.
Ahead of them, at the bottom of the hill, about a hundred yards away now, the outer edges of the mob shuffle along without purpose or direction. As the rattling noise of the carriage and the drumming of the horses draw nearer and nearer, the pasty gray faces begin to pivot and turn toward the commotion. Milky eyes latch onto the oncoming humans with the focus of angry drunkards.
“Keep your arms and legs inside the ride at all times!” Lilly shouts at Tommy and Norma without humor.
“FUCK!” Tommy practically shrinks inside the conveyance as they hurtle toward the leading edge of the multitudes. He fumbles for his 12 gauge.
They are already close enough to smell the fog bank of rotten meat-stench that hangs over the horde, to see the black drool on their faces, and to hear the low din of feral, guttural groaning. Fifty yards, thirty, twenty.
Lilly leans out the window and screams into the wind for the benefit of Jinx and Miles. “FOLLOW THE BALD SPOTS ALL THE WAY THROUGH!!”
She snaps the reins again and again and again, getting the animal up to its maximum speed. Fifteen yards away now … ten … five, four, three, two, one.
* * *
The first impact turns out to be a young female in late-stage decay, the left quarter panel of the carriage colliding with the creature with massive force. A wave of rotten blood and tissue sprays across the open prow of the carriage—the area where the hood and engine used to be—and covers Lilly and Tommy with a fine layer of reeking spoor. Tommy lets out a gasp and fires two blasts out his open window at a column of biters pressing in on them, sending blood mist plumes across the high rays of sun beating down on the meadow.
The Walking Dead: Search and Destroy Page 8
