The Walking Dead: Search and Destroy

by Robert Kirkman

  “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Lilly finally says, breaking the spell with a voice dripping with contempt. She recognizes one of the men huddling behind the corner of the nurses’ station, and she struggles to wrap her mind around what she’s seeing. “You pathetic hypocrite … you have no shame.”

  The man to whom she refers—a tall, slender drink of water in a fedora—slowly rises up with his arms raised in surrender. Unarmed, dressed in his trademark Banana Republic outdoorsman garb and faux explorer khakis, Cooper Steeves looks as though he wants to crawl into a hole and die. His huge Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows the humiliation and guilt. He purses his lips as though searching for the proper words but words prove elusive. “Wow … Lilly … you have no idea what you’re dealing with here … trust me, this is not—”

  “Trust you? Trust you?” She lets out a venomous, toxic chuckle. “That’s rich.”

  “Madam, if I may explain.” The voice of the old man resonates in her ear like a rusty hinge. “This Steeves fellow has done nothing more than help us find worthy subjects with a minimum of collateral damage.”

  “Please shut up.” Lilly increases the knife’s pressure on the old man’s neck.

  Bryce speaks up. “All due respect, may I add something at this juncture?” His voice is cold, calm, almost serene, as he holds the muzzle of the .357 Magnum inches away from Lilly’s forehead. “We got a mutually-assured-destruction kind of thing going on here so why don’t we all just go ahead and dial it down a little. What could it hurt to talk this out?”

  “You’re right.” Lilly nods, her own voice as tranquil and hypnotic as the commander’s. “We’re all in each other’s sites, sure, but I will end this old man with a single flick of my wrist if anybody tries anything. Even if you fire first, manage to get off a head shot, the body seizes up in death. You don’t believe me, ask around. You shoot me, this old fuck bites it, and I’m getting the feeling that’s a trump card around here, so do me a favor and shut your fucking mouth.” She turns to the fourth figure still crouched down behind the nurses’ counter. “But before you do that, tell your other goon to come out from under his rock, and tell him to drop his weapon.”

  Nobody says anything as a portly, middle-aged soldier in a Kevlar vest with a bandanna around his sweaty, bald head slowly rises and sheepishly comes around the corner of the counter with his M16 aimed at Tommy.

  Lilly keeps her eyes on the barrel of Bryce’s revolver, a tiny round black hole of doom sucking all matter into its gravitational field, unwavering, pointed at that same exact spot above her temple. She licks her lips. “I’m not seeing that rifle go down. Can somebody tell me why I’m not seeing this gentleman lay down his gun?”

  “Lady, let me explain something to you.” Bryce’s voice is as steady as a tuning fork. A man of indeterminate age, he has that graying-at-temples, groomed, suntanned look of a general or a pro football coach. “In fact, I think it’ll help everybody concerned if we all lay all the cards on the table, so to speak.”

  “Where’s Barbara Stern?”

  Bryce cocks his head. “Who the hell is Barbara Stern?”

  “The lady, came in with the kids, where is she? Is she alive?”

  The old man speaks, his voice like a purring cat in Lilly’s ear. “She’s very much alive. I assure you. May I ask your full name, Lilly?”

  Lilly lets out a weary sigh. “You don’t need to know my full name.”

  “May I finish?” Bryce keeps his tone measured, sanguine, even faintly deferential, as though he’s a diplomat proposing a complex settlement. Lilly even notices a glimmer of something behind his gray eyes approaching respect, maybe even admiration.

  “I’m listening.” Lilly glances across the reception area at the little gaggle of captive children, their eyes blazing with terror, Tommy standing with his HK machine pistol in front of them like a royal guard, his chin rigid with that trademark jut, his gaze welded to Bryce’s gleaming silver handgun.

  “I understand your position here, believe me, I do,” Bryce tells her, ever the helpful ambassador. “But the sad fact is, you harm this individual, then we’ll have to go ahead and waste each and every one of your people, which is extremely unnecessary, and also regretful, I think you’ll agree, especially with youngsters involved, but the thing is, it’s a harsh environment we find ourselves in nowadays, and the consequences would be on you, so I’m not sure you really want to get into a situation where you’re going around acting as though you—”

  Tommy’s voice pierces the air. “YOU SHOOT HER AND I PROMISE YOU I WILL SPRAY YOU WITH FUCKING—”

  “Tommy!” Lilly doesn’t flinch, doesn’t budge, doesn’t move her gaze one iota from the Magnum’s muzzle. “Calm down! Nobody’s shooting anybody right now. We’re just having a little chat. Right, fellas? Just chewing the fat. Right? Nothing to get excited about.”

  “That’s exactly correct, Lilly,” the old man murmurs. “And if I may, I’d like to offer something else on which you might want to chew.”

  Lilly keeps the knife pressed against his throat and tells him to keep talking.

  “My good woman, I don’t think you quite grasp the importance of what we’re doing in this facility, so in the interests of expediency, as well as the avoidance of further bloodshed, allow me to illuminate—”

  “Excuse me,” Lilly interrupts, the knife as steady as a chalk line across the old man’s central artery. “Whatever it is, it does not justify mass murder, kidnapping children, and God knows what else.”

  “I understand your revulsion with our methods of procuring our subjects—”

  “‘Procuring subjects’? Really. That’s what we’re calling it now?”

  “Madam, what we call it is closing in on a vaccine that will basically save mankind.”

  Lilly goes still, saying nothing at first, letting the words slowly register.

  * * *

  At first, the old man might as well have said “We’re cloning giraffes and turning them into aardvarks.” For a long moment, Lilly can’t quite get traction on the entire concept of coming up with a vaccine for the plague. She initially thinks she misheard him. Did he say “vaccine”? Or did he say “gasoline”? But then, as she realizes the entire reception area has gone still and silent, awed by the simple words spoken with such casual certainty, she understands. “You’re talking about a vaccine for the plague,” she finally utters, practically under her breath, the pitch and timbre of her voice coarsening, lowering an octave. “For the walker plague.”

  “That’s precisely what I’m talking about.” The old man speaks in a soft, gravelly, sandpaper voice—a grandfather gently explaining to grandchildren the unfortunate need to drown kittens. “In today’s day and age, people are less likely to volunteer for clinical trials. It’s unfortunate but we cannot let this human impediment—understandable as it is—get in the way of our imminent breakthrough. If we cannot convince the subjects to come willingly, then we will take them by any means necessary. It’s an unfortunate cost of progress.”

  Lilly feels her innards going cold and clammy like a slug has just crawled across the inside of her stomach. “Why the children?”

  The old man takes a deep breath. “The younger the subject, the more pure the white blood cells. Postplague infants are now almost exclusively nourished with mother’s milk. These innocent young things have immune systems beyond our comprehension. They’re like nuclear reactors. Their leukocytes are smart bombs when dealing with unknown viruses, microbes, and foreign bacteria.”

  “Tell me the truth,” Lilly demands, staring at the six-inch stainless-steel barrel belonging to Army Sergeant Beau Bryce. “And don’t lie. I’ll know if you’re lying and I’ll open your jugular.” She pauses. “Do your subjects survive your trials? Do they live?”

  Another wheezing, pained breath gets inhaled by the old man with great dramatic flair. “Alas … some do and some don’t. It is, once again, the cost of doing the research that will save these people’s descendants.” He whe
ezes painfully. Lilly begins to wonder whether this old wreck of a man is terminal himself. “Believe me, I wish things were more civilized, more humane,” he goes on. “We try to keep our subjects comfortable with a series of central nervous system compounds that I have developed over the last couple of years using local flora as well as leftovers in the derelict pharmacies. I was on the cytocholine team with Pfizer in my previous life. My name, in case you’re wondering, is Nalls. Dr. Raymond Nalls of Norfolk, Virginia.”

  A horrible revelation suddenly punches Lilly in the gut. She can barely get the words out. “You’re testing the vaccine by letting your subjects get bit. Aren’t you? That’s your so-called clinical trial. Isn’t it?” She waits but the old man remains silent. She presses the edge of the knife against his neck wattle, causing a thin tear of blood to track down the folds of his neck. “ISN’T IT?!”

  Bryce moves closer, close enough to press the revolver’s cold muzzle against Lilly’s temple. “Back off or we’re talking bloodbath right here in this waiting room.”

  “GET AWAY FROM HER!!” Tommy takes two steps toward the threesome, raising the HK to eye level, his arm trembling convulsively.

  This gets the other soldier, the one in the bandanna and Kevlar, to aim his M16, with his finger poised on the trigger, directly at Tommy Dupree. The children let out whimpers and mewls, stutter-stepping backward, moving as one, each still clutching the rope. The air pressure in the waiting room seems to seize up, and the electrical polarities of fear and rage crackle behind Lilly’s eyes, and she sees one possible future over the course of that single synapse firing in her brain: if she chooses to slit the old man’s throat, the area would most certainly erupt in cross fire and cordite and smoke, the massive metal projectile from the .357 spiraling into her brain, the fountains of lifeblood exploding all around her in clouds of pink mist as the lights flicker out, Lilly collapsing, darkness closing down like a shade.

  “WAIT!”

  She surveys the area, each combatant about to fire, when all eyes turn to her. She feels her heart racing so furiously inside her that her chest pangs with a deep, aching pain. Her pulse pops noisily in her ears, drying her mouth, as everybody waits. Lilly takes a deep breath and chooses her words carefully. She has a feeling that everything she’s experienced in the plague years—perhaps in her entire life—has been leading up to this moment, and from this point on, everything will be measured either as Before This Moment or After This Moment.

  She swallows hard and finally says very softly, “I’ll make you a deal.”

  Ever so slightly the old man cocks his head. Lilly has spoken loud enough for Bryce and the others to hear her, but she has obviously directed this last statement at the old man, the kingpin, the ringleader. His hirsute ear, tufted with dark, wiry hair, practically twitches. His voice sounds almost dreamy. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

  “I said I’ll make you a deal—a one-time-only limited offer.” Lilly feels a trickle of sweat tracing down the crevices of her collarbone, between her breasts, and down her tummy. It feels like a fire ant crawling across her skin. She looks at the side of the old man’s face and tries unsuccessfully to read his expression.

  Then she says in a low, sober voice, her words barely audible: “Me for the kids.”

  FIFTEEN

  The old man tips his head slightly, his expression furrowing with incomprehension. “I’m sorry, forgive me … I’m not following. Did you say, ‘Me for the kids’?”

  “That’s right. Let the kids go, and you can have me for whatever.”

  The old man chews the inside of his cheek as he thinks it over. “Forgive me for being impolite, but with the skirmish in the parking ramp as well as today’s melee, you’ve killed at least a half dozen of my people. And I’m fairly certain we’re going to find Mrs. Callum, the nurse, expired in that makeshift nursery. Is there some reason I should trust you now and take this as a serious proposal?”

  Lilly nods, still pressing the knife into the folds of his neck. “I won’t harm a hair on anybody else’s head, you let those kids go. Stick tubes up my ass, dissect me like a frog, feed me to the biters. Whatever. Let the kids go. That’s all I ask, and I’m yours.”

  The old man ponders for a moment, saying nothing, his teeth clenched in thought.

  “You think Steeves here is a catch?” Lilly pours it on. “Seriously, I practically know every survivor from here to the Florida border. I’ll help you get subjects, I’ll tell you anything you need to know. Just let the kids go, and you got me. Nobody else from Woodbury will ever bother you.”

  Now the silence seems to crystallize around them as if the very air is suspended in aspic as the old man ponders this latest turn of events. The excruciating pause seems to stretch for an eternity as Lilly scans the faces of the children. They haven’t yet processed this latest development. They still look thunderstruck and leery with their little pale white hands latched onto that rope, their imaginary lifeline, their coaxial connection to a gentler, kinder world where kindergarten teachers lead flocks of sticky-faced tykes to the school parking lot, where soccer moms await in SUVs with healthy snacks. Tommy Dupree keeps shaking his head but can’t summon up any words. Bethany Dupree gazes at the floor with crestfallen, old-soul sadness, as though she expected something like this all along. A single tear clings to the tip of her nose, then drips to the floor.

  Meanwhile, the old man arches his eyebrow and says to the bandanna man, “Lawrence, can you tell me if we have any of those primary reagents left in hematology?”

  The man in the bandanna thinks about it, still aiming his M16 at the boy. “I believe we do, yes. There’s still plenty of Anti-A, Anti-B … and I think there’s even a tincture of Anti-A,B left.”

  The old man nods slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements that would alarm or spook the woman holding the knife. “All right, Lilly … I’ll need to check one thing first, if I may … in order to intelligently execute this negotiation. Is that acceptable to you?”

  Lilly shrugs. “Do what you gotta do.”

  * * *

  They take a sample of Lilly’s blood. It’s not the most practical way to perform this procedure, by any means, but somehow they manage to do it quickly and efficiently with a minimum of fuss. The man in the bandanna does the honors, hurrying down an adjacent corridor while Lilly continues to hold the knife poised against the old man’s neck. Within minutes, Bandanna Man has returned with a syringe kit, explaining what he needs to do, and Lilly tells him to take the blood from her leg. He does so and then hurries back into the labyrinth of side hallways to carry out his task, leaving a backwash of silence in his wake.

  Completely vexed by the purpose of all this strange due diligence being performed on her, Lilly stands in awkward silence as they wait, the reception area still gripped in its deathly standoff, the knife’s edge still pressed against the neck of the emaciated old man, the muzzle of the large-caliber revolver still aimed at Lilly’s cranium. Except for the soft whimpering of the children, and the muffled buzz of an unseen generator, Lilly finds herself noticing disturbing little details about the reception area and the people in it. The single bare bulb that hangs down from the broken ceiling fixture intermittently flickers and fades in and out with the vacillating current, giving off a faintly hallucinatory effect to the area. Lilly notices a huge wart on the side of the old codger’s ulcerated, livid nose, as well as a portion of a naked lady tattoo on Bryce’s left forearm sticking out of his rolled-up sleeve. The odor of baby shit wafts across the waiting area as though commenting on the events of the day. Lilly’s arm aches from the constant pressure of the knife on the old man’s throat.

  It’s Cooper Steeves who first breaks the silence. He stands on the other side of the reception area, wringing his hands, his revolver still holstered. “Lilly, I’m sorry it’s come to this, but I never wanted to—”

  “Did anybody ask you to talk?” Lilly interrupts.

  “They were going to take our people one way or the oth
er, Lilly.”

  “Please shut your mouth.”

  “All right, that’s enough.” Bryce looks as though he’s running out of patience. He taps his signet ring on the grip of his .357. “Let’s turn the record over, okay, we’ve heard enough of this shit.”

  “May I make a suggestion?” the old man interjects, his voice dry and husky from the stress of having a knife pressed against his pulse point for so long. “This procedure could take ten or fifteen minutes, and the children look exhausted. May I suggest we all sit down?”

  After a brief pause, Lilly says, “Why not?”

  Across the waiting area, as though attending some kind of nightmarish daycare center, the children all flop down on the floor, most of them still holding the rope. Only Tommy and Bethany remain standing. The little girl has been fighting her tears since the standoff began, and now she simply stands with her hands on her hips, staring at the floor while tears roll off her face. She makes no sound. From across the waiting area, staring at her down-turned face, Lilly feels a pinch of emotion in her midsection. Is this the last time she’ll ever see her kids? Is this why the little girl is crying so hard? Does she sense that this is the passing of some undefined era?

  Lilly suddenly yanks the old man backward with her free hand, the knife still poised.

  They simultaneously sit down side by side on one of the love seats next to a plastic ficus tree so furry with dust it looks as though it’s made of cement. Bryce leans against the nurses’ counter, lowering his .357 and letting out a sigh that sounds like he’s grown bored with all the tedious dissembling and bargaining. Behind him, Cooper Steeves remains standing. Fidgeting like a boy who has just been sent to the principal’s office, he looks as though he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, refusing to make eye contact with the children. Despite his rakish attire, the guilt and humiliation radiate off him like a sour odor.