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 fucking 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 asshole 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 fucking 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
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
“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
