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 …
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 assholes, 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
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
