The old man swallows hard. Most of his fellow townspeople look down at the floor. It’s clear to Brian, observing from the back of the room, that the inhabitants of Woodbury are trapped in more ways than one. The hatred in the room is thick enough to paint the walls. But the fear is thicker. It exudes from the very pores of everybody present, including Brian, who is hard at work fighting it. He shoves his terror back down his throat.
Somebody murmurs something near the front of the room, over by the window. Brian is too far away to make out the words, and he gazes over the tops of heads to see who it is.
“You got something you want to say, Detroit?”
Near the window, a middle-aged black man in greasy dungarees and gray beard is sulking in his seat, looking gloomily out the window. His long, tawny fingers are caked with axle grease. The town mechanic, a transplant from up North, he mumbles something to himself, not looking at the Major.
“Speak up, homeboy.” The Major approaches the black man. Towering over him, Gavin says, “What’s
Almost inaudibly, the black man says, “I’m outta here.”
He gets up to make his exit, when suddenly the Major reaches for his gun.
With almost involuntary instinct, the black man reaches a big, callused hand down to the revolver shoved into his belt. But before he can draw the weapon or even give it a second thought, Gavin draws on him. “Please go for it, Detroit,” Gavin snarls, pointing the .45 at the man. “So I can blow the back of your nappy fuckin’ head off.”
The other soldiers move in behind the Major, raising their assault rifles, fixing their eyes on the black man.
Hand still on the hilt of his pistol, eyes locked with Gavin, the black man named Detroit murmurs, “It’s bad enough we gotta fight off them dead things … now we gotta deal with you pushin’ us around?”
“Sit. The fuck. Down. Now.” Gavin puts the barrel on Detroit’s forehead. “Or I will take you down. And that is a promise.”
With an exasperated sigh, Detroit flops back down.
“That goes for the rest of you!” The Major turns to the others. “You think I’m doin’ this for my health? You think I’m runnin’ for dog catcher? This ain’t no democracy. This is life and fucking death!” He begins pacing across the front of the room. “You want to keep from being dog food, you’ll do what you’re told. Let the professionals mind the store, and keep your fuckin’ pie holes shut!”
Silence hangs in the room like a poisonous gas. In back, Brian feels the skin on the back of his neck prickle. His heart is going to break through his sternum, it’s hammering so hard in his chest. He can’t breathe. He wants to rip this tin soldier’s head off but his body is going into some kind of fight-or-flight paralysis. His brain crackles with flickering fragments of memory, sights and sounds from a lifetime driven by fear, avoiding bullies on the playground at Burke County Elementary, skirting the parking lot of the Stop-and-Go to avoid a group of leather thugs, running away from a gang of toughs at a Kid Rock concert, wondering where Philip is … where the hell is Philip when you need him …
A noise from the front of the room shakes Brian out of his rumination.
The man named Detroit is getting up. He’s had enough. His chair squeaks as he rises to his full height—well over six feet—and turns to walk away.
“Where the hell are
Detroit doesn’t even look back, he just waves dismissively, mumbling, “I’m outta here … good luck, y’all … you’re gonna need it with these motherfuckers.”
“YOU SIT YOUR BLACK ASS BACK DOWN RIGHT NOW OR I WILL BLOW YOU AWAY!”
Detroit keeps walking.
Gavin pulls his sidearm.
There is an audible intake of air among the townspeople as Gavin draws a bead on the back of Detroit’s head.
The blast sucks the air out of the room—so loud, it rattles the walls, accompanied by a scream from one of the older women—as a single round goes into the back of the black man’s skull. Detroit is thrown forward into the vending machine next to Brian. Brian jerks. The black man bounces off the steel panel and then folds to the floor, his blood spray-painting the Coke display, the wall above the machine, and even part of the ceiling.
Many things happen in the aftermath of that blast, even before the ringing echoes of screams have had a chance to fade away. Almost immediately, three separate townspeople—two middle-aged men, and a woman in her thirties—dart toward the exit, and Brian watches as if in a dream, his ears ringing, his eyes flash-blind. He can barely hear the strangely calm voice of Major Gavin—void of regret, void of any feeling whatsoever—ordering his two Guardsmen—Barker and Manning—to go get the fleeing townspeople, and while they’re at it, round up anyone else who’s “still out there hiding like goddamn cockroaches,” because Gavin wants every soul who’s still got a pulse to hear what he has to say. The two Guardsmen hurry out of the room, leaving behind the stunned, petrified group of twenty-five residents, the Major … and Brian.
The room seems to turn on its axis for Brian as Gavin holsters his gun, looking down at the body of the black man sprawled on the floor as though it was a hunting trophy. Gavin turns and saunters back toward the front. He’s got everybody’s attention now like never before, and he seems to be enjoying every minute of it. Brian can barely hear the Major droning on now about making an example out of any cocksucker who thinks they can endanger the lives of Woodbury’s residents by being a lone wolf, by bucking the system, by being a smart-ass know-it-all who thinks they can go it alone and keep their shit to themselves. These times, according to Gavin, are special times. Foretold in the Bible. Prophesied. Matter of fact, these times are maybe, just maybe, the end-time. And from now on, every last son of a bitch in this town needs to get used to the fact that this may very well be the last battle between man and Satan, and as far as the fine folks of Woodbury, Georgia, are concerned, Gavin has been hereby appointed, by default, the goddamn Messiah.
This maniacal lecture lasts for perhaps a minute—maybe two minutes at the most—but in that brief span of time, Brian Blake goes through a metamorphosis.
Frozen against the side of the vending machine, the fallen man’s blood seeping under the soles of his shoes, Brian realizes he will have no chance in this world if he lets his natural inclinations drag him down. Brian’s instincts—to shrink away from violence, to skirt dangers, to avoid confrontation—fill him with shame, and he finds himself casting his racing thoughts back to the very first encounter he had with the walking dead, back in Deering, at his parents’ place, a million light-years away. They came out of the toolshed in back, and Brian was trying to talk to them, reason with them, warning them to stay away, throwing stones at them, running back into the house, boarding up windows, pissing his pants, behaving like the weakling he always was and always will be. And in the space of that single terrible instant—as Gavin pontificates to the townspeople—Brian is gripped with a flickering flash-frame series of visions of his cowardice and indecision along the road to western Georgia, as if he’d learned nothing along the way: huddling in the closet at Wiltshire Estates, bagging his first zombie almost by accident in the Chalmerses’ building, bellyaching to his brother about this and that, always weak and scared and useless. Brian realizes suddenly—with the convulsive pain of an embolism exploding in his heart—that there is no way he can survive on his own. No way in hell. And now, as Major Gavin starts barking orders at the traumatized residents from the front of the council room, assigning arduous duties and rules and procedures, Brian feels his consciousness disconnecting, detaching from his body like a butterfly leaving its cocoon. It starts with Brian wishing that Philip were there to protect him, as he’d done since the beginning of the ordeal. How would Philip handle Gavin? What would Philip do? Soon, this simple longing transforms into agonizing pain and loss over Philip’s death—the torture like an open wound—the sharp edge of grief slicing through Brian and tearing him in two. Bracing himself against that blood-spattered vending machine, Brian feels his center of gravity rising, his spirit breaking away from his body, like a primordial chunk of the earth tearing away to form the moon. Dizziness threatens to drive him to the floor but he fights it, and before he can even register what is going on, Brian has risen out of his body. His consciousness now floats above his body, a ghostly onlooker, gazing down at himself in that airless, reeking, crowded community room in the old Woodbury courthouse.
Brian sees himself grow still.
Brian sees the target at the front of the room, twenty-five feet away.
Brian sees himself take a single step away from the vending machine, reaching behind his belt, grasping hold
