The Walking Dead_ The Road to Woodbury - By Robert Kirkman Page 0,104
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 you think?”
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 like the son of a bitch, and they’re just fine with the way things are run around here. Just so the pantry stays full, the wall stays up, the show goes on … it’s like the Germans in the 1930s when fucking Adolf Hitler—”
“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 someone else. Her hand does not shake. It is rock steady.
She will not get a minute of sleep this night or perhaps the next.
Pulling a large knapsack from beneath the bed, she packs the weapons, the ammunition, a machete, a flashlight, nylon cord, sleeping pills, duct tape, a can of Red Bull, a cigarette lighter, a roll of plastic tarp, fingerless gloves, binoculars, and an extra down vest. She zips the knapsack shut and shoves it back under the bed.
Less than twenty-four hours remain until the mission that will change the course of her life.
Lilly bundles up in a down coat, insulated boots, and a stocking cap. She checks her windup clock on her bedside table.