SIXTEEN
The next day, the storm—now a constant bombardment of driving rain and freezing sleet—lashes southeastern Georgia with massive force. Telephone poles buckle under the weight of the onslaught, crashing down on highways choked with abandoned cars. Culverts swell and gush, flooding deserted farms, while the higher elevations are coated with treacherous layers of ice. Eleven miles southeast of Woodbury, in a wooded hollow adjacent to Highway 36, the storm hits the largest public cemetery in the southern United States.
The Edward Nightingale Memorial Gardens and Columbarium lines a mile-long bluff just south of Sprewell State Park, and features tens of thousands of historic markers. The Gothic chapel and visitor center stand at the eastern end of the property, within a stone’s throw of the Woodland Medical Center—one of the state’s largest hospitals. Filled with freshly-turned zombies, abandoned by the staff since the early weeks of the plague, the complex of buildings—including the morgue at Woodland, as well as the enormous labyrinth of funeral parlors underneath the sublevels of Nightingale—teems with reanimated dead, some of them fresh corpses marked for autopsies and burials, others recent DOAs tucked into drawers, all of them trapped, up to this point, in their sealed chambers.
At 4:37 P.M. Eastern Standard Time that Saturday, the nearby Flint River reaches flood levels. In photo-strobe flashes of lightning, the violent currents crash over the banks, razing farms, toppling billboards, and tossing abandoned vehicles across the farm roads like toys scattered by an angry child.
The mudslides start within an hour. The entire northern slope along the borders of the cemetery gives way, sliding toward the Flint on a slimy, brown, mealy wave—ripping graves from the ground, flinging antique caskets across the hill. Coffins break open and spill their ghastly contents into the ocean of mud and sleet and wind. Most of the ragged skeletons break apart like kindling. But many of the non-interred corpses—especially the ones who are still fresh and intact and able to crawl or scrabble—begin slithering toward high, dry land.
Ornate windows along the base of the Nightingale visitor center crack under the pressure of the floodtide, imploding, the gale-force winds doing the rest of the work, tearing sections off Gothic spires and shaving the tops of steeples and decapitating gabled rooftops. A quarter mile to the east, the rushing floodwaters hit the medical center hard, driving debris through weakened entryways and windows.
The zombies trapped inside the morgue pour out of jagged openings, many of them sucked into the currents by the violent wind and air pressure.
By five o’clock that day, a multitude of dead large enough to fill a necropolis—like a vast school of sea creatures washed onto a beach—gets deposited across the neighboring orchards and tobacco fields. They tumble, one over another, on the flood currents, some of them getting caught in trees, others tangling in floating farm implements. Some drift for miles underwater, flailing in the flickering dark with involuntary instinct and inchoate hunger. Thousands of them collect in the moraines and valleys and sheltered areas north of the highway, struggling to climb out of the mud in grotesque pantomimes of primordial man emerging from the Paleolithic soup.
Before the torrential rainstorm has passed—the brunt of it moving on toward the Eastern Seaboard that night—the population of dead now littering the countryside outnumbers the population of living residents, preplague, in the nearby city of Harrington, Georgia—which, according to the sign on Highway 36, totals 4,011 souls.
In the aftermath of this epochal storm, almost a thousand of these wayward corpses begin to coalesce into the largest herd yet witnessed since the advent of the plague. In the rain-swept darkness, the zombies slowly, awkwardly cluster and horde, until a massive throng has formed in the rolling fields between Crest Highway and Roland Road. The herd is so densely packed that from a distance the tops of their putrid heads might be mistaken for a dark, brackish, slow-moving flood tide unfurling across the land.
For no particular reason other than the inexplicable behavior of the dead—be it instinct, scent, pheromones, or random chance—the horde starts churning through the mud in a northwesterly direction, directly toward the closest population center in their path—the town called Woodbury—which lies a little over eight miles away.
* * *
The tail end of the storm leaves the farms and fields of southeastern Georgia inundated with vast, black pools of filthy standing water, the shallow sections turning to black ice, the higher areas seizing up in mud.
The weakening band of freezing rain moves through the area, icing the forests and hills around Woodbury in a glassine wonderland of glittering branches, icicle-festooned power lines, and crystalline paths—all of which would be beautiful in another time and place, another context void of plagues and desperate men.
That next day, the residents of Woodbury struggle to get the town back in working order. The Governor orders his work crews to raid a nearby dairy farm for salt blocks, which are brought back on flatbeds and broken into manageable crumbs with chain saws, then spread across roads and sidewalks. Sandbags are positioned on the south side of town, against the flooded railroad tracks, in an effort to keep the standing waters at bay. All day, under a sky the color of soot, the inhabitants mop and salt and shovel and scrape and shore up flooded nooks and crannies.
“The show must go on, Bob,” the Governor says late that afternoon, standing on the warning apron of the dirt racetrack, the calcium light blazing down through the mists overhead, the thrumming of generators like a dissonant drone of a bassoon orchestra. The air smells of gas fumes, alkali, and burning garbage.
The surface of the track ripples in the wind, a sea of mud as thick as porridge. The rains hit the arena hard, and now the infield shimmers in the stadium lights with two feet of murky standing water. The ice-filmed bleachers are mostly deserted, except for a small crew of workmen who toil with squeegees and shovels.
“Huh?” Bob Stookey sits slumped on a bleacher twenty feet behind the Governor.
Belching absently, his head lolled in a drunken stupor, Bob looks like a lost little boy. An empty bottle of Jim Beam lies on the ice-rimed steel bench next to him, another one—half full—loosely gripped in his greasy, numb hand. He has been drinking steadily for the past five days, ever since he ushered Megan Lafferty out of this world.
An incorrigible drunk can maintain intoxication better than the average person. Most casual drinkers reach their optimum level of drunkenness—that painless, numbed, convivial buzz that gives shy people the strength to socialize—for only fleeting moments before edging over into complete inebriation. Bob, on the other hand, can reach oblivion after about a quart of whiskey and maintain it for days.
But now, this moment, Bob Stookey has reached the twilight of his binge. After drinking a gallon a day, he has begun to regularly nod off, to lose his grip on reality, to hallucinate and black out for hours.
“I said the show must go on,” the Governor says a little louder, coming over to the chain-link fence separating himself and Bob. “These people are getting cabin fever, Bob. They need catharsis.”
“Damn straight,” Bob slurs in a spittle-clogged grunt. He can barely hold his head up. He gazes down through steel waffling at the Governor, who now stands only a couple of feet away, looking balefully up at Bob through the links of the cyclone fence.
In Bob’s feverish gaze, the Governor looks demonic in the cold Lucolux stadium lights, a silver halo appearing around the man’s slicked-back hair with its raven-feather ponytail. His breath comes out in puffs of white vapor, his Fu Manchu mustache twitching at the edges as he expounds, “Little winter storm’s not gonna keep us down, Bob. I got something in mind, gonna blow these people away. You just wait. You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
“Sounds … good,” Bob utters, his head lolling forward, a dark shade drawing down over his vision.
“Tomorrow night, Bob.” The Governor’s face floats in Bob’s faltering vision, a ghostly spirit. “This is a teaching moment. From now on, things are gonna be different around here. Law and order, Bob. This’ll be the greatest learning opportunity ever. And a great show to boot. Gonna rock their f*cking world. It’s all gonna come together in here, in this mud and shit. Bob? You with me? Bob, you okay? Stay with me, old fella.”
As Bob slips off the bleacher, crumbling to the ground in another blackout, the last image burned into his mind’s eye is the Governor’s face, fractured by the rusty geometric diamonds of the chain-link fence.
“Where the hell is Martinez, anyway?” The Governor glances over his shoulder. “Haven’t seen a trace of that a*shole in hours.”
* * *
“Listen to me,” Martinez says, welding his gaze into the eyes of each conspirator, one by one, in the dim light of the railroad shed. The five men crouch down in a loose semicircle around Martinez, huddling in the back corner, the cobweb-draped shed as dark as a tomb. Martinez lights a cigarillo and smoke engulfs his handsome, cunning face. “You don’t ease a trap over a f*cking cobra—you strike as fast as possible, as hard as possible.”
“When?” utters the youngest one, the one named Stevie. Crouched next to Martinez, the tall, lanky kid of mixed race wears a black silk roadie jacket and has a peach-fuzz mustache, and nervously blinks his long-lashed earnest eyes. Stevie’s outward innocence is belied by his ferocious aptitude at destroying zombies.
“Soon.” Martinez puffs his stogie. “I’ll let you know tonight.”
“Where?” asks another conspirator, an older man in a peacoat and scarf, who goes by the name of the Swede. His wild mop of blond hair, leathery face, and barrel chest, which is perpetually crossed with ammo bandoliers, give him the air of a French Resistance fighter in World War II.
Martinez looks at him. “I’ll let you know.”
The Swede lets out an exasperated sigh. “We’re putting our asses on the line here, Martinez. Seems like you could give us a few details, what we’re getting into.”
Another one speaks up, a black man in a down vest named Broyles. “There’s a reason he’s not giving us the details, Swede.”
“Yeah? Why is that?”
The black man levels his gaze on the Swede. “Margin of error.”
“Come again?”
The black man looks at Martinez. “Too much to lose, somebody gets nabbed before the thing goes down, gets tortured and shit.”
Martinez nods, smoking his cheroot. “Something like that … yeah.”
A fourth man, a former mechanic from Macon named Taggert, chimes in: “What about the bookends?”
“Bruce and Gabe?” Martinez says.
“Yeah … you think we’ll be able to flip them?”
Martinez takes another drag off the stogie. “What do you think?”
Taggert shrugs. “I don’t think they’ll ever go along with anything like this. Blake’s got them so far up his ass they gargle for him at night.”
“Exactly.” Martinez takes a deep breath. “That’s why we gotta take them out first.”
“You ask me,” Stevie mumbles, “most of the folks in this town got no complaints about the Governor.”
“He’s right,” the Swede concurs with a nervous nod. “I’d say ninety percent of these people actually like the son of a bitch, and they’re just fine with the way things are run around here. Just so the pantry stays full, the wall stays up, the show goes on … it’s like the Germans in the 1930s when f*cking Adolf Hitler—”
“Okay, put a sock in it!” Martinez tosses his cigar to the cinder-strewn floor and snubs it out with the toe of his jackboot. “Listen to me … everybody.” He meets each man’s gaze as he speaks in a low monotone shot through with nervous tension. “This thing’s gonna happen, and it’s gonna happen quickly and decisively … otherwise we’re gonna end up in that slaughterhouse room getting chopped up for zombie food. He’s gonna have an accident. That’s all you need to know at this point. You want out, there’s the door. No hard feelings. Now’s your chance.” He softens a little. “You guys have been good workers, honest men … and trust don’t come easy around this place. You want to shake hands and pass on this thing, I got no problem with you. But do it now. Because once this thing goes down it ain’t gonna have no reboot button on it.”
Martinez waits.
Nobody says anything, nobody leaves.
* * *
That night, the temperature plummets, the winds kicking up out of the north. Chimneys spume with wood smoke across Woodbury’s main drag, the generators working overtime. To the west, the great arc lights over the racetrack remain burning, the final preparations being made for the big world premiere the next evening.
Alone in her place above the dry cleaner, Lilly Caul lays a pair of handguns and extra ammunition across her bedspread—two .22 caliber Ruger Lite semiautomatics, along with an extra magazine and a carton of 32-grain Stingers. Martinez gave her the weapons, along with a quick lesson on how to reload the clips.
She stands back and stares at the gold-plated pistols with a narrowing of her eyes. Her heart quickens, her throat drying with those old familiar feelings of panic and self-doubt. She pauses. She closes her eyes and wills the fear back down her throat. She opens her eyes and holds her right hand up and ponders it as though it belongs to someone else. Her hand does not shake. It is rock steady.
She will not get a minute of sleep this night or perhaps the next.
Pulling a large knapsack from beneath the bed, she packs the weapons, the ammunition, a machete, a flashlight, nylon cord, sleeping pills, duct tape, a can of Red Bull, a cigarette lighter, a roll of plastic tarp, fingerless gloves, binoculars, and an extra down vest. She zips the knapsack shut and shoves it back under the bed.
Less than twenty-four hours remain until the mission that will change the course of her life.
Lilly bundles up in a down coat, insulated boots, and a stocking cap. She checks her windup clock on her bedside table.
Five minutes later, at 11:45 p.m., she locks up her apartment and heads outside.
* * *
The town lies deserted in the late-night chill, the air acrid with the odors of sulfur and frozen salt. Lilly has to step gingerly over the iced sidewalks, her boot steps crunching loudly. She glances over her shoulder. The streets are empty. She makes her way around the post office building to Bob’s condo.
The wooden staircase from which Megan hung herself, ice-bound since the storm has passed, cracks and snaps as Lilly carefully climbs the risers.
She knocks on Bob’s door. No answer. She knocks again. Nothing. She whispers Bob’s name but gets no reply, no sound issuing from within. She tries the door and finds it unlocked. She lets herself in.
The dark kitchen sits in silence, the floor littered with broken dishes and crockery, puddles of spilled liquids. For a moment Lilly wonders if she should have brought a firearm. She scans the living room to her right, sees the overturned furniture and mounds of dirty laundry.
She finds a battery-operated lantern on a counter, grabs it, and flips it on. She walks deeper into the apartment and calls out, “Bob?”
The lantern light glistens off broken glass on the hallway floor. One of Bob’s medical satchels lies on the carpet, overturned, its contents spilled across the floor. The wall shimmers with something sticky. Lilly gulps down the fear and moves on.
“Anybody home?”
She peers into the bedroom at the end of the hall and finds Bob on the floor, in a sitting position, leaning against the unmade bed, his head lolled forward. Clad in a stained wifebeater and boxer shorts, his skinny legs as white as alabaster, he sits stone-still and for the briefest instant Lilly mistakes him for dead.
But then she sees his chest slowly rising and falling, and she notices the half-empty bottle of Jim Beam loosely clutched in his limp right hand.
“Bob!”
She rushes over to him and gently raises his head, leaning it against the bed. His greasy, thinning hair askew, his heavy-lidded eyes bloodshot and glassy, he mumbles something like, “Too many of ’em … they’re gonna—”
“Bob, it’s Lilly. Can you hear me? Bob? It’s me, it’s Lilly.”
His head lolls. “They’re gonna die … we don’t triage the worst of ’em…”
“Bob, wake up. You’re having a nightmare. It’s okay, I’m here.”
“Crawlin’ with maggots … too many … horrible…”
She rises to her feet, turns, and hurries out of the room. Across the hall, in the filthy bathroom, she runs some water in a dirty cup, and returns with the water. She gently takes the booze from Bob’s hand and throws it across the room, the bottle shattering against the wall, splattering the cabbage-rose wallpaper. Bob jerks at the noise.
“Here, drink this,” she says, and gives him a little. He coughs it down. His hands flail impotently as he coughs. He tries to focus on her but his eyes won’t cooperate. She strokes his feverish brow. “I know you’re hurting, Bob. It’s going to be okay. I’m here now. C’mon.”
She lifts him by the armpits, heaving the deadweight of his body up and onto the bed. She lays his head on the pillow. She positions his legs under the covers, then pulls the blanket up to his chin, speaking softly to him. “I know how hard it was on you, losing Megan and all, but you just have to hang in there.”
His brow furrows, a look of agony contorting his pale, deeply lined, drawn face. His eyes search the ceiling. He looks like a person who has been buried alive and is trying to breathe. He slurs his words. “I never wanted to … never … it wasn’t my idea to—”
“It’s okay, Bob. You don’t have to say anything.” She strokes his brow and speaks in a low, soft tone. “You did the right thing. It’s all gonna be okay. Things are gonna change around here, things are gonna get better.” She strokes his cheek, the grizzled flesh cold beneath her fingertips. She begins to softly sing. She sings Joni Mitchell’s “The Circle Game” to him, just like old times.
Bob’s head settles back into the sweat-damp pillow, his breathing beginning to calm. His eyelids droop. Just like old times. He begins to snore. Lilly keeps singing long after he has drifted off.
“We’re taking him down,” Lilly says very softly to the sleeping man.
She knows he cannot hear a thing she is saying anymore, if he ever could. Lilly is speaking to herself now. Speaking to some deeply buried part of her psyche.
“It’s too late to turn back now … we’re gonna take him down…”
Lilly’s voice trails off, and she decides to find herself a blanket and spend the rest of that night at Bob’s bedside, waiting for the fateful day to dawn.