PART 2
This Is How the World Ends
The evil that men do lives after them; the good is often interred with their bones.
—William Shakespeare
EIGHT
The convoy makes two stops on their way to the walled-in town—the first at the junction of Highways 18 and 109, where an armed sentry consults with Martinez for a moment before waving the vehicles on. A heap of human remains lies in a nearby ditch, still smoldering from a makeshift funeral pyre. They make the second stop at a roadblock near the town sign. By this point the sleet has turned to a wet snow, spitting across the macadam on angular gusts, a very rare phenomenon for Georgia this early in December.
“Looks like they got some serious firepower,” Josh comments from the driver’s seat, as he waits for the two men in olive-drab camo suits and M1 rifles to finish chatting with Martinez three car lengths ahead of the Ram. Shadows thrown by the headlights obscure the distant faces as they talk, the snow swirling, the Ram’s windshield wipers beating out a sullen rhythm. Lilly and Bob remain silent and fidgety as they watch the exchange.
Full darkness has fallen, and the lack of a power grid and the bad weather give the outer rings of the town a medieval quality. Flames burn here and there in oil drums, and the signs of a recent skirmish mar the wooded vales and pine groves circling the town. In the distance the scorched rooftops, bullet-riddled trailers, and torn power lines reflect a series of past upheavals.
Josh notices Lilly studying the rust-pocked green sign up ahead, visible in the wash of headlamp beams, the signpost planted in the white, sandy earth.
WELCOME TO
WOODBURY
POPULATION 1,102
Lilly turns to Josh and says, “How are you feeling about all this?”
“Jury’s still out. But it looks like we’re about to get further orders.”
Up ahead, in luminous motes of snow passing through the headlight beams, Martinez turns away from the confab, lifts his collar, and starts trudging back toward the Ram. He walks with a purpose, but still has that congenial smile plastered over his dark features. He lifts his collar against the cold as he approaches Josh’s window.
Josh rolls down the window. “What’s the deal?”
Martinez smiles. “Gonna need you to hand over your firearms for the time being.”
Josh stares at him. “Sorry, brother, but that ain’t gonna happen.”
The convivial smile lingers. “Town rules … you know how it is.”
Josh slowly shakes his head. “Ain’t gonna happen.”
Martinez purses his lips thoughtfully, then smiles some more. “Can’t say I blame you, walking into something like this. Tell you what. Can you leave the rabbit gun in the truck for now?”
Josh lets out a sigh. “I guess we could do that.”
“And you mind keeping the sidearms tucked away? Out of sight?”
“We could do that.”
“Okay … if you want the nickel tour I could ride along with you folks. You got room for one more?”
Josh turns and gives Bob a nod. With a shrug the older man unsnaps his safety belt and gets out, then turns and squeezes into the rear enclosure next to Lilly.
Martinez comes around the passenger side and climbs into the cab. He smells of smoke and machine oil. “Take it nice and slow, cousin,” he says, wiping the moisture from his face, gesturing toward the panel van ahead of them. “Just follow the dude in the van.”
Josh gives the Ram some gas and they follow the van through the roadblock.
* * *
They bump over a series of railroad tracks and enter the town from the southeast. Lilly and Bob remain silent in the rear enclosure, as Josh scans the immediate area. To his right a busted sign reading PIGGLY IGGLY stands over a parking lot littered with dead bodies and broken glass. The grocery store is caved in on one side as though blasted by dynamite. Tall cyclone fencing, gouged and punched out in places, runs along the road known alternately as Woodbury Highway or Main Street. Grisly lumps of human carnage and twisted, scorched metal litter patches of exposed ground—the white, sandy earth practically glowing in the snowy darkness—an eerie sight reminiscent of a desert war zone smack-dab in the middle of Georgia.
“Had a pretty big dustup a few weeks ago with a flock of biters.” Martinez lights a Viceroy and opens his window a few inches. The smoke curls out into the wind-lashed snow, vanishing like ghosts. “Things got outta hand for a while, but luckily cooler heads prevailed. Gonna be taking a hard left up here in a second.”
Josh follows the van around a hairpin and down a narrower section of road.
In the dark middle distance, behind a veil of windswept sleet, the heart of Woodbury comes into view. Four square blocks of turn-of-the-century brick buildings and power lines crowd a central intersection of merchants, wood-frame homes, and apartment buildings. Much of it is laced with cyclone fences and idle construction sites that appear to be recent additions. Josh remembers when they used to call these places “wide spots in the road.”
Woodbury’s width seems to extend about half a dozen blocks in all directions, with larger public areas carved out of the wooded wetlands to the west and north. Some of the rooftop chimneys and vent stacks sprout columns of thick black smoke, either from generator exhaust or woodstoves and fireplaces. Most of the street lamps are dark, but some glow in the darkness, apparently running on emergency juice.
As the convoy approaches the center of town, Josh notices the van pulling up to the edge of a construction site. “Been working on the wall for months,” Martinez explains. “Pretty near got two square blocks completely protected, and we plan on expanding it—moving the wall back farther and farther as we go.”
“Not a bad idea,” Josh mutters, almost under his breath, as he ponders the massive high wall of wooden timbers and planks, cannibalized pieces of cabin logs, siding, and two-by-fours, at least fifteen feet tall, extending along the edge of Jones Mill Road. Portions of the barricade still bare the scars of the recent walker attacks, and even in the snow-swept dark the claw marks and patched areas and ricochet holes and bloodstains, as black as tar, call out to Josh.
The place vibrates with latent violence, like some throwback to the Wild West.
Josh brings the truck to a stop, as the van’s rear doors jack open and one of the Young Turks hops out the back and then goes over to a seam in the fortification. He pulls open a hinged section, swinging the gate wide enough for the two vehicles to pass through. The van rumbles through the gap, and Josh follows.
“Got about fifty people and change,” Martinez continues, taking a deep drag off the Viceroy and blowing it out the window. “Place over there, on the right, that’s kind of a food center. Got all our supplies, bottled water, medicine stashed in that place.”
As they pass, Josh sees the faded old sign—DEFOREST’S FEED AND SEED—its storefront fortified and reinforced with burglar bars and planking, two armed guards standing out front smoking cigarettes. The gate closes behind them as they roll slowly along, venturing deeper into the secure zone. Other denizens stand around, watching them pass—people bundled up on boardwalks, standing in vestibules—shell-shocked expressions behind scarves and mufflers. Nobody looks particularly friendly or happy to see them.
“Got a doctor on board, working medical center and whatnot.” Martinez tosses his cigarette butt out the window. “Hope to expand the walls at least another block by the end of the week.”
“Not a bad setup,” Bob comments from the backseat, his watery eyes taking it all in. “If ya don’t mind my asking, what the hell is that?”
Josh sees the top of the massive edifice a few blocks beyond the walled-in area, toward which Bob is now pointing a greasy finger. In the hazy darkness it looks like a flying saucer has landed in the middle of a field beyond the town square. Dirt roads circle the thing, and dim lights twinkle in the snow above its circular rim.
“Used to be a dirt racetrack.” Martinez grins. In the green glow of the dashboard lights the smirk looks almost lupine, devilish. “Hillbillies love their races.”
“‘Used’ to be?” Josh asks.
“Boss laid down the law last week, no more races, too much noise. Racket was drawing biters.”
“There’s a boss here?”
The smirk on Martinez’s face curdles into something unreadable. “Don’t worry, cousin. You’ll be meeting him soon enough.”
Josh sneaks a glance at Lilly, who is busily gnawing on her fingernails. “Not sure we’re gonna be sticking around very long.”
“It’s up to you.” Martinez gives a noncommittal shrug. He slips on a pair of fingerless, leather Carnaby gloves. “Keep in mind, though, those mutual benefits I was talking about.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Our apartments are all filled up but we still got places you can stay in the center of town.”
“Good to know.”
“I’m telling you, once we get that wall expanded, you’ll have your pick of places to live.”
Josh says nothing.
Martinez stops smirking and all at once, in the dim green light, he looks as though he’s remembering better days, maybe a family, maybe something painful. “I’m talking about places with soft beds, privacy … picket fences and trees.”
A long pause of awkward silence.
“Lemme ask you something, Martinez.”
“Shoot.”
“How did you end up here?”
Martinez lets out a sigh. “God’s honest truth, I don’t really remember.”
“How’s that?”
He gives another shrug. “I was alone, ex-wife got bit, my kid up and disappeared. I guess I didn’t give a shit about much of anything anymore but killing biters. Went on kind of a rampage. Put down a whole slew of those ugly motherf*ckers. Some locals found me passed out in a ditch. Took me here. Swear to God that’s about all I remember.” He cocks his head as though reconsidering. “I’m glad they did, though, especially now.”
“What do you mean?”
Martinez looks at him. “This place ain’t perfect but it’s safe, and it’s only gonna get safer. Thanks in no small part to the guy we got in charge now.”
Josh looks at him. “This is the ‘boss’ guy I assume you’re talking about?”
“That’s right.”
“And you say we’re gonna get a chance to meet this guy?”
Martinez holds up a gloved hand as if to say, Just wait. He pulls a small two-way radio from the breast pocket of his flannel shirt. He thumbs the switch and speaks into the mouthpiece. “Haynes, take us to the courthouse … they’re waiting for us over there.”
Another loaded glance passes between Josh and Lilly as the lead vehicle pulls off the main road and heads across the town square, a statue of Robert E. Lee guarding a kudzu-covered gazebo. They approach a flagstone government building on the far edge of the park, its stone steps and portico ghostly pale in the snow-veiled darkness.
* * *
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 f*cking idiot, it’s not Carrie, it’s Kate … Kate … F*cking 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 a*sholes, 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 f*ck’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 female 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 f*ck 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.
The two guards disappear in the back for a moment, gathering up the items. They return with a crate filled with oil-spotted brown paper sacks. “Appreciate it,” Josh says softly, taking the food. “We’ll let you fellas get back to your business. Have a good day.”
Josh ushers Lilly toward the door, Lilly hyperaware now of the gazes of the men on her backside the whole way out.
* * *
That afternoon, a commotion in one of the vacant lots on the northern edge of the village draws the attention of the townspeople.
Outside one of the cyclone fences, behind a wooded grove, a series of nauseating shrieks echoes on the wind. Josh and Lilly hear the screaming, and they race along the edge of the construction zone to see what’s going on.
By the time they reach a high mound of gravel and climb to the top to see into the distance, three gunshots have rung out over the treetops a hundred and fifty yards away.
Josh and Lilly crouch down in the dying sun, the wind in their faces, as they peer around a pile of debris and notice five men in the distance, near a hole in the fence. One of the men—Blake, the self-proclaimed Governor—wears a long coat and holds what appears to be an automatic pistol in his hand. The scene crackles with tension.
On the ground in front of Blake, tangled in the jagged, torn chain-link fence, a teenage boy, bleeding from bite wounds, claws at the dirt, trying frantically to extricate himself from the fence and return home.
In the shadows of the forest, directly behind the boy, three dead walkers lie in heaps, their skulls breached by gunfire, and the narrative of what has just happened coalesces in Lilly’s mind.
The boy apparently lit out by himself to explore the woods, and he was attacked. Now, badly wounded and infected, the boy, trying to return to safety, writhes in pain and terror on the ground, as Blake stands emotionlessly over him, gazing down with the impassive stare of an undertaker.
Lilly jumps when the boom of the 9-millimeter in Philip Blake’s hand echoes. The boy’s head erupts, and the body sags immediately.
* * *
“I don’t like this place, Josh, not even a little.” Lilly sits on the Ram’s rear bumper, sipping tepid coffee from a paper cup.
Darkness has fallen on their second evening in Woodbury and already the town has absorbed Megan, Scott, and Bob into its folds like a multicelled organism living off fear and suspicion, acquiring new life-forms on a daily basis. The town leaders have offered the newcomers a place to live—a studio apartment above a boarded-up drugstore at the end of Main Street—well outside the walled-in area but high enough above street level to be safe. Megan and Scott have already moved much of their stuff up there and have even bartered their sleeping bags for a nickel’s worth of locally grown weed.
Bob has stumbled upon a working tavern inside the safe zone, and already has traded half his rations of Walmart products for a few drink tickets and a little drunken camaraderie.
“I’m not crazy about this place myself, babydoll,” Josh concurs as he paces behind Bob’s camper, his breath showing in the cold. His huge hands are oily with bacon grease from the dinner he just prepared on the camper’s Coleman stove, and he wipes them on his lumberjack coat. He and Lilly have been sticking close to the Ram all day, trying to decide what to do. “But we ain’t looking at a lot of options right now. This place is better than the open road.”
“Really?” Lilly shivers in the cold and clutches at the collar of her down coat. “You sure about that?”
“At least it’s safe.”
“Safe from what? It’s not the walls and the fences keeping things out I’m worried about…”
“I know, I know.” Josh lights a stogie and puffs a few swirls of smoke. “It’s wound pretty tight around here. But it’s pretty much like this everywhere you go nowadays.”
“Jesus.” Lilly shivers some more and sips her coffee. “Where’s Bob, anyway?”
“Hanging out with them geezers at the taproom.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Josh goes over to her, puts a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, Lil. We’ll rest up, we’ll stockpile some stuff … I’ll do some work in trade … and we’ll get outta here by the end of the week.” He tosses his stogie and sits next to her. “I won’t let anything happen.”
She looks at him. “Promise?”
“Promise.” He kisses her cheek. “I’ll protect you, girlie-girl. Always. Always…”
She kisses him back.
He puts his arms around her and kisses her on the lips. She wraps her arms around his thick neck and things begin to happen. His enormous tender hands find the small of her back, and their kiss turns to something hotter, more desperate. They intertwine, and he urges her back inside the camper, into the private darkness.
They leave the rear hatch open, oblivious to everything but each other, as they begin to make love.
It’s better than either one of them dreamed it would be. Lilly loses herself in the murky dark, the light of an icy harvest moon shining in through the gap, as Josh lets all his lonely desire pour out in a series of heaving gasps. He sheds his coat, gets his undershirt off—his skin looks almost indigo in the moonlight. Lilly peels her bra up and over herself, the soft weight of her breasts splaying across her rib cage. Gooseflesh spreads down her tummy as Josh gently enters her and builds steam.
They make feverish love. Lilly forgets everything, even the savage environment outside the camper.
A minute, an hour—time is meaningless now—all of it passes in a blur.
* * *
Later, they lie among the detritus of Bob’s camper, legs intertwined, Lilly’s head against the massive curve of Josh’s bicep, a blanket covering them, staving off the chill. Josh presses his lips against the soft convolutions of Lilly’s ear and whispers, “Gonna be okay.”
“Yeah,” she murmurs.
“We’re gonna make it.”
“Absolutely.”
“Together.”
“You got that right.” She lays her right arm across Josh’s massive chest, and she looks into his sad eyes. She feels strange. Buoyant, woozy. “Been thinking about this moment for a long time.”
“Me, too.”
They let the silence engulf them, carrying them away, and they lie there like that for some time, unaware of the dangers lying in wait … unaware of the brutal outside world tightening its grasp.
Most important, they are unaware of the fact that they are being watched.