The Walking Dead: Invasion

 

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For James J. Wilson, a fellow bad boy taken too soon

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Muchas gracias to Robert Kirkman for crafting the Rosetta stone—the greatest horror comic ever written—and giving me the gig of a lifetime. Also, a shout-out to the fans and the amazing staff of the Walker Stalker Convention—you make a humble writer feel like a rock star. Special thanks to David Alpert, Andy Cohen, Jeff Siegel, Brendan Deneen, Nicole Sohl, Lee Ann Wyatt, T. Q. Jefferson, Cris Macht, Ian Vacek, Shawn Kirkham, Sean Mackiewicz, Dan Murray, Matt Candler, Mike McCarthy, Bryan Kett, and Steven and Lena Olsen of A Little Shop of Comics, Scotch Plains, New Jersey. An extra special thanks to the role model for Lilly Caul, my wife and best friend (and muse), Jill Norton: You are the love of my life.

 

PART 1

The Behavior of Sheep

May the Lord destroy all the tyrants of the church. Amen.

—Michael Servetus

 

ONE

“
Please, for the love of Christ, STOP THAT INFERNAL BELLYACHING FOR ONE BLESSED MINUTE!!
” The tall man behind the steering wheel struggles to keep the battered Escalade on the road and maintain his speed without clipping another jackknifed semi or cluster of dead things milling about the edges of the two-lane. His voice is hoarse from all the yelling. It feels as though every muscle in his body is on fire. He has blood in his eyes from an oozing wound along the left side of his scalp. “I told you, we're gonna getcha medical attention come sunup—soon as we clear this dad-blasted herd!”

“Just sayin' … ain't doin' too good, Rev.… Think one of my lungs is punctured!” The young man in the backseat—one of two passengers in the SUV—leans his head against the broken rear window as the vehicle rumbles past another cluster of ragged, dark figures dragging along the road's gravel shoulder, fighting over something dark and wet.

Stephen Pembry looks away from the window, blinking at the pain, wheezing miserably, wiping tears. A pile of bloody cloths torn from his shirttail litters the seat next to him. A gaping jagged hole in the glass blows a slipstream of wind through the dark backseat, stirring the rags and tossing the young man's blood-matted hair. “Can't breathe right—can't get a good breath, Rev—I mean, the point is, we don't find a doctor soon, I'm gonna be uppa creek without a paddle.”

“You think I ain't aware of that?!” The big preacher grips the steering wheel tighter, his huge, gnarled hands going ashen white. His broad shoulders—still clad in a black, battle-tattered church coat—hunch over the dash, the green lights of the instruments illuminating a long, deeply lined, chiseled face. He has the face of an aging gunslinger, pocked and creased by many hard miles. “Okay … look … I'm sorry I got cross with ya. Listen, Brother. We're almost to the state line. Sun'll be up soon, and we'll find help. I promise. Just hang in there.”

“Please make it soon, Rev,” Stephen Pembry murmurs around a hacking cough. He holds himself as though his guts are about to spill out. He gazes out at the moving shadows behind the trees. The preacher has put at least two hundred miles between them and Woodbury, and yet signs of the super-herd still riddle the countryside.

Behind the wheel, Reverend Jeremiah Garlitz glances up into the hairline fractures of the rearview mirror. “Brother Reese?” He scans the shadows of the backseats, studies the other twenty-something young man slumped against the opposite broken window. “How you holding out, son? You okay? Talk to me. You still with us?”

The boyish face of Reese Lee Hawthorne becomes visible for just an instant as they pass the distant orange glow of a fire, either a farm or a forest or a small survivor community, all of it going up in flames, a mile-long conflagration that spews snowflakes of ash up into the atmosphere. For a moment, in the flickering light, Reese looks as though he's unconscious, either asleep or blacked out. All at once he blinks his eyes open and convulses in his seat as though electrocuted. “Oh—I was just—oh Lord—I was having a wing-dinger of a dream.” He tries to get his bearings. “I'm okay, I'm good … bleeding's stopped.… But sweet Jesus that was one nasty dream.”

“Keep talking, son.”

No response.

“Tell us about the dream.”

Still no reply.

*   *   *

They drive in silence for a spell. Through the gore-smudged windshield, Jeremiah can see his headlight beams illuminating the rushing white lines of leprous asphalt, mile after mile of wreckage-strewn road churning under them, a never-ending landscape of The End, a desolate wasteland of rural decay after almost two years of the plague. Skeletal trees on either side of the highway blur in the preacher's burning, teary gaze. His own ribs pang intermittently with each twist of his midsection, taking his breath away—maybe a fracture, maybe worse, his wounds sustained in the tumultuous confrontation between his minions and the people of Woodbury.

He assumes Lilly Caul and her followers all perished in that same vast mob of walkers that had wrought such havoc on the town, barreling through barricades, overturning cars, burrowing into homes and buildings, eviscerating the innocent and guilty alike, and ruining Jeremiah's plans to stage his glorious ritual. Was the Good Lord offended by Jeremiah's grand scheme?

“Talk to me, Brother Reese.” Jeremiah smiles at the reflection of the haggard young man in his rearview. “Why don't you tell us about the nightmare. After all … got a captive audience here, right?”

For another moment, the awkward silence continues, the white noise of the wind and the drumming of the tires providing a hypnotic soundtrack to their misery. After a long, girding breath, the young man in the backseat finally begins murmuring in a soft, scratchy voice: “I don't know if it'll make any kinda sense … but we was back in Woodbury, and we was … we was about to end it all and go to paradise together as planned.”

A pause.

“Uh-huh.…” Jeremiah nods encouragingly. In the mirror, he can see Stephen trying to ignore his wounds and listen. “Go on, Reese. It's okay.”

The young man shrugs. “Well … it was one of them dreams you have once in a while, you know … so vivid, it's like you can reach out and touch it? We was in that racetrack arena—it was
just
like it was last night, matter of fact—and we was all set to perform the ritual.” He looks down and swallows hard, either from the pain or the reverence for such a glorious moment, or maybe both.

“Me and Anthony, we was bringing in the sacred drinks, comin' down one of them passageways toward the infield, and we could see the arc light at the end of the tunnel, and we could hear your voice getting louder and louder, saying something about how these offerings represent the flesh and blood of your only son, sacrificed so that we may live in eternal peace … and then … and then … we get to the arena, and you're standing there at the podium, and all our brothers and sisters are lined up in front of you, in front of the bleachers, fixin' to drink the sacred drink that's gonna send all of us to Glory.”

He pauses for a moment to get himself back from the edge, his eyes glittering with horror and anguish. He takes another deep breath.

Jeremiah watches him closely in the rearview. “Go on, son.”

“So, this here's the point where it gets a little dicey.” He sniffs and winces at a sharp pang in his side. Amidst the chaos of Woodbury's ruination, the Escalade had overturned, and the men were banged up pretty severely. Several vertebrae in Reese's spine had dislocated. Now he stuffs the pain down his throat. “One by one, they start takin' sips of whatever was in them Dixie cups—”

“My guess?” Jeremiah interrupts, his tone turning bitter and rueful. “That old hillbilly Bob, he replaced the liquid with water. I'm sure he's pushing up daisies himself by now, though. Or maybe he's turned, along with the rest of them people. Including that Jezebel of a liar, Lilly Caul.” Jeremiah snorts. “I know it ain't exactly a Christian thing to say, but them people got what they deserved. Busybodies … cowards.
Heathens
, all of them. I say good riddance to bad rubbish.”

Another beat of tense silence stretches, and then Reese continues in his feeble monotone: “Anyway … what happened then, in the dream … I can hardly … it's so terrible I can hardly describe it.”

“Then
don't,
” Stephen chimes in from the shadows across the seat, the wind flagging his long hair. In the darkness, his narrow, ferretlike features, smudged with caked-on blood and gore, make him look practically Dickensian, like a chimney sweep left in a chimney too long.

Jeremiah lets out a sigh. “Let the young man speak, Stephen.”

“I know it's just a dream, but it was so real,” Reese insists. “All our people, most of them gone now, they each took a sip, and I saw their faces darken like shades had come down over windows. Their eyes shut. Their heads bowed. And then … and then…” He can barely bring himself to say it. “They each …
turned
.” He fights his tears. “One by one, all them good folks I grew up with … Wade, Colby, Emma, Brother Joseph, little Mary Jean … their eyes popped open and they wasn't human no more … they were walkers. I saw their eyes in the dream … white, milky, shiny … like fish eyes. I tried to scream and run but then I saw … I saw…”

He abruptly goes silent again. Jeremiah shoots another glance at the mirror. It's too dark in the backseat area to see the expression on the kid's face. Jeremiah glances over his shoulder. “You okay?”

A jittery little nod. “Yessir.”

Jeremiah turns back to the road ahead. “Go on. You can tell us what you saw.”

“I don't think I want to go there.”

Jeremiah sighs. “Son, sometimes the worse things just shrivel up when you talk 'em out.”

“I don't think so.”

“Stop acting like a baby—”