The Walking Dead_ The Road to Woodbury - By Robert Kirkman Page 0,71
L. HUNT reveal the identity of its owner, the numbers 20034 stamped into the rust-pocked metal.
About fifty yards beyond that first mailbox they find more mailboxes. They find over a dozen of them—a cluster of six at the foot of one drive—and Josh begins to sense they have hit the jackpot. He pulls the pick hammer from the knapsack and hands it to Lilly. “Keep this handy, baby. We’ll follow this drive, the one with all the mailboxes.”
“I’m right behind you,” she says, and then follows the big man up the winding gravel path.
The first monstrosity becomes visible like a mirage in the early-morning light, behind the trees, planted in a clearing as though it landed from outer space. If the home were nestled in some tree-lined boulevard in Connecticut or Beverly Hills it would not seem so out of place, but here in the ramshackle rural nether-region the place practically takes Josh’s breath away. Rising over three stories above the weed-whiskered lawn, the deserted mansion is a modern architectural wonder, all cantilevers and jutting balustrades and chockablock with roof pitches. It looks like one of Frank Lloyd Wright’s lost masterpieces. An infinity pool is partially visible in the backyard, lousy with leaves. Neglect shows on the massive balconies, where icicles hang down and patches of filthy snow cling to the decks. “Must be some tycoon’s summer home,” Josh surmises.
They follow the road higher into the trees and find more abandoned homes.
One of them looks like a Victorian museum, with gigantic turrets that rise out of the pecan trees like some Moorish palace. Another one is practically all glass, with a veranda that thrusts out over a breathtaking hill. Each stately home features its own private pool, coach house, six-car garage, and sprawling lawn. Each is dark, closed down, boarded, as dead as a mausoleum.
Lilly pauses in front of the dark glass-encased wonder and gazes up at the galleries. “You think we can get inside?”
Josh grins. “Hand me that clawhammer, babydoll … and stand back.”
* * *
They find a treasure trove of supplies—despite all the spoiled food, as well as signs of past break-ins, probably courtesy of the Governor and his goons. In some of the homes they find partially stocked pantries, wet bars, and linen closets brimming with fresh bedding. They find workrooms with more tools than small hardware stores. They find guns and liquor and fuel and medicine. They marvel that the Governor and his men have not yet scoured these places clean. The best part is the complete absence of walkers.
Later, Lilly stands in the foyer of an immaculate Cape Cod, gazing around at the elaborate Tiffany-style light fixtures. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“I don’t know, girlfriend, what are you thinking?”
She looks at him. “We could live in one of these places, Josh.”
“I don’t know.”
She looks around. “Keep to ourselves, stay under the radar.”
Josh thinks about it. “Maybe we ought to take this one step at a time. Play dumb for a while, see if anybody else is wise to it.”
“That’s the best part, Josh, they’ve been here already … they’ll leave it alone.”
He lets out a sigh. “Let me think about it, babygirl. Maybe talk to Bob.”
* * *
After searching the garages, they find a few luxury vehicles under tarps, and they begin making plans for the future, discussing the possibility of hitting the road. As soon as they get a chance to talk to Bob, they will make a decision.
They return to town that evening, slipping into the walled area unnoticed through the construction zone along the southern edge of the barricade.
They keep their discovery to themselves.
Unfortunately, neither Josh nor Lilly has noticed the one critical drawback to the luxury enclave. Most of the backyards extend about thirty yards to the edge of a steep precipice, beyond which a rocky slope plunges down into a deep canyon. Down in the winter-seared valley of that canyon, along a dry riverbed, shrouded in tangled dead vines and limbs, a pack of zombies at least a hundred strong wander aimlessly back and forth, bumping into each other.
It will take the creatures less than forty-eight hours—once the noise and smell of humans draw them out—to crawl, inch by inch, up that slope.
ELEVEN
“I still don’t see why we can’t just live here for a while,” Lilly persists that next afternoon, flopping down on a buttery leather sofa positioned against a massive picture window inside one of the glass-encased mansions. The window wraps around the rear of the home’s first floor,