The Walking Dead_ The Road to Woodbury - By Robert Kirkman Page 0,53
heels like guard dogs. Not much of a greeting from these two—other than a few grunts and nods—as they stand slightly behind the man named Philip.
Gabe, on the left, the Caucasian, is a fireplug of a man with a thick neck and jarhead crew cut. Bruce, on the right, is a dour black man with an onyx shaved head. Each of these men holds an impressive automatic assault rifle across his chest, fingers on the trigger pads. For a moment Lilly cannot take her eyes off the guns.
“Sorry about the heavy artillery,” Philip says, indicating the weaponry behind him. “We had a little dustup in town last month, got kinda hairy for a while. Can’t take any chances now. Too much at stake. Your names are…?”
Josh introduces the group, going around the room and ending on Megan.
“You look like somebody I knew once,” Philip informs Megan, the man’s eyes all over her now. Lilly does not like the way this guy is looking at her friend. It’s very subtle but it bothers her.
“I get that a lot,” Megan says.
“Or maybe it’s somebody famous. Doesn’t she look like somebody famous, guys?”
The “guys” behind him have no opinion. Philip snaps his fingers. “That chick from Titanic!”
“Carrie Winslet?” the one named Gabe speculates.
“You stupid fucking idiot, it’s not Carrie, it’s Kate … Kate … Fucking Kate Winslet.”
Megan gives Philip a cockeyed smile. “I’ve been told Bonnie Raitt.”
“I love Bonnie Raitt,” Philip enthuses. “‘Let’s Give ’Em Something to Talk About.’”
Philip turns to the big man. “Guilty as charged.” Philip smiles and goes over to Josh and extends a hand. “‘Josh’ was it?”
Josh shakes the man’s hand. The expression on Josh’s face remains noncommittal, polite, deferential. “That’s 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 … physical endowment … we can use around here.”
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 look like a president … with those two Secret Service dudes.”
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