—Matthew 24:21
THIRTEEN
The huge tungsten spotlight on the north end of the track snaps on with a pistol-shot sound, sparking like a giant match tip igniting, the silver beam hitting the infield of the arena formerly known as the Woodbury Veterans Speedway. The advent of the artificial light gooses the crowd of more than fifty spectators strewn across the bench seats on the west side of the field. Whoops and hollers and catcalls from all ages and dispositions tumble up into the dusky, yellow sky and mingle with the smell of wood smoke and gasoline on the chill air. The shadows are lengthening.
“Quite the turnout, eh?” The Governor surveys the meager yet boisterous crowd as he leads Gabe and Bruce up the press stairs to the crow’s nest, where local reporters and NASCAR scouts once passed bottles of Jack and chewed Red Man as they watched the controlled chaos down in the dust.
Gabe and Bruce follow the Governor toward the glass-encased box seats, giving him a “yes-sir,” and a “you-got-that-right” … and just as they are about to seal themselves inside their little clubhouse, a voice rings out from below.
“Hey, boss!” It’s a grizzled, former peanut farmer in a CAT hat, sitting in the back row, glancing over his shoulder as the Governor passes. “Better be a good one today!”
The Governor gives him the kind of look one gives a child who’s about to ride a roller coaster for the first time. “Don’t worry, pal. It will be. I promise.”
*
Underneath the arena, minutes before the evening’s festivities get under way, the door to the infirmary unexpectedly swings open, and a tall, handsome man with a bandanna tied around the crown of his head walks in with an expectant look on his face. “Doc? Dr. Stevens?”
Across the room, Rick Grimes, the ill-fated stranger, shuffles along the back wall, which is lined in secondhand medical gear. Hardly noticing the visitor, he moves almost robotically, his mind a million miles away. He holds his mutilated arm like a dead baby, the missing hand now apparent in a bulbous, stained bandage in the shape of a giant peg.
“Hey, man!” Martinez pauses inside the door, hands on his hips. “Have you seen—?” He stops himself. “Oh, hey—you’re—What was your name?”
The injured man slowly whirls, the bloody stump catching the light. His voice comes out of him in a heavy, hoarse, stringy garble. “Rick.”
“Oh my God.” Martinez stares, taken aback by the grisly sight of the severed wrist. “What happened to—? Jesus, what happened to you?”
Rick looks down. “An accident.”
“What?! How?!” Martinez comes over to him, places a hand on his shoulder. Rick pulls away. Martinez musters up as much outrage and sympathy as he can. It’s a fairly decent performance. “Did someone do this to you?”
The man named Rick lunges at him, grabs his shirt with the one good hand. “Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” The man’s blue eyes flare with rage as hot as cinders. “You handed me to that psycho! You fucking did this!”
“Whoa—hey!” Martinez rears back, mortified, playing dumb.
“STOP IT!”
The sound of Dr. Stevens’s voice is like a splash of cold water on the two men. The doctor steps into the fray, holding each man at bay with an open palm. “Stop it, stop it right fucking now!” He sears his gaze into each of them. Then he puts an arm around Martinez. “Come on, Martinez. You need to leave.”
Rick deflates, staring at the floor, holding his stump, as Martinez walks away.
“What’s with that guy?” Martinez asks the doctor under his breath as he passes out of earshot on the other side of the room, satisfied with the ruse. The seeds have been planted. “Is he okay?”
The doctor pauses in the doorway, speaking softly, confidentially. “Don’t worry about him. What did you want? You were looking for me?”
Martinez rubs his eyes. “Our fine Governor asked me to talk to you—said you didn’t seem too happy here. He knows we’re pals. He wanted me to just—” Martinez pauses here, genuinely at a loss. He does feel a certain fondness for the cynical, wisecracking Stevens. Secretly, deep down, Martinez admires the man—an educated man, a man of substance.
For the briefest instant, Martinez glances over his shoulder at the man across the room. The stranger named Rick leans against the wall, holding his bandaged wrist, a faraway look on his face. He seems to be staring into the void, looking into the abyss, struggling to understand the cold reality of his situation. But at the same time, at least in Martinez’s eyes, the man somehow looks as solid as a rock, ready to kill if necessary. The jut of his whiskered chin, the crow’s-feet crimping the edges of his eyes from years of either laughter or bemusement or suspicion, or maybe all three—all of it seems to comprise a man of a different kind of substance. Maybe not advanced degrees and private practices, but definitely a man to be reckoned with.
“I don’t know,” Martinez mutters at last, turning back to the doctor. “I guess he wanted me to just … make sure you weren’t going to cause any trouble or something.” Another pause. “He just wants to make sure you’re happy.”
Now it’s the doctor’s turn to gaze back across the room and ponder things.
Finally Stevens aims one of those patented smirks at Martinez and says, “Does he now?”
*