The Walking Dead_ The Road to Woodbury - By Robert Kirkman Page 0,83
theater!”
With the pomp and circumstance of a fireworks display, the great xenon spots above the track suddenly flare to life in sequence—making audible metallic snapping noises—sending giant blooms of silver light down on the arena. The gag gets an audible, collective sigh from many of those gathered around the gazebo, some spontaneously applauding.
“Admission is free!” The Governor feels the energy rising, crackling like static electricity, and he bears down on them. “Auditions are ongoing, folks. You want to fight in the ring? All you gotta do is break the rules. That’s all you gotta do. Break the law.”
He looks at them as he paces, daring them to respond. Some of them look at each other, some of them nod, while others look as though they’re about to give him a “Hallelujah.”
“Anyone breaks the law is gonna fight! That simple. You don’t know what the laws are, all you gotta do is ask. Read the fucking Constitution. Check the Bible. Do unto others. Golden rule. All that. But hear what I’m saying. You do unto somebody a little too much … you’re gonna fight.”
A few voices holler out their consent, and the Governor feeds off the energy, stoking the flames. “From now on, you fuck with somebody—you break the law—you’re gonna fight!”
A few more voices add to the din, the noise carrying up into the sky.
“You steal from somebody, you’re gonna fight!”
Now the crowd hollers its approval, a chorus of righteous howls.
“You bang somebody’s old lady, you’re gonna fight!”
More voices join in, all the fear and frustration boiling over now.
“You kill somebody, you’re gonna fight!”
The cheering starts to corrupt into a cacophony of angry shouts.
“You mess with somebody in any way—especially, you get somebody killed—you’re gonna fight. In the arena. In front of God. To the death.”
The clamor deteriorates into a mishmash of applause and whooping and hollering. The Governor waits for it to subside like a wave rolling away.
“It starts tonight,” he says in barely a whisper, the megaphone crackling. “It starts with this nutcase, guy that runs the general store—Sam the Butcher. Thinks he’s judge, jury, and executioner.”
All at once the Governor points at the arena and calls out suddenly in a voice that would not be out of place at a charismatic church service: “Who’s ready for some payback? WHO’S READY FOR SOME LAW AND ORDER?”
The voices erupt.
* * *
Lilly gazes up and sees the abrupt exodus of nearly forty people half a block away. The crowd disperses in a noisy mass, moving almost as one—a giant human amoeba of excited fist pumping and inarticulate, angry cheering—charging across the street toward the racetrack arena, which sits in a vast penumbra of silver light two hundred yards to the west. The sight of it turns Lilly’s stomach.
She looks away and mutters, “You can take the body away now, Bob.”
Standing over her, Bob leans down and tenderly strokes her shoulder. “We’ll take good care of him, honey.”
She gazes into the distance. “Tell Stevens I want to make the arrangements.”
“You got it.”
“We’ll bury him tomorrow.”
“That sounds fine, honey.”
Lilly watches the mob of citizens in the distance filing into the arena. For one terrible instant she recalls scenes from old horror movies, angry throngs of townspeople with torches and primitive weapons, closing in on Frankenstein’s castle, lusting for the monster’s blood.
She shudders. She realizes they are all monsters now—all of them—Lilly and Bob included. Woodbury is the monster now.
THIRTEEN
Curiosity gets the better of Bob Stookey. After escorting Lilly back to her apartment above the dry cleaner, and giving her ten milligrams of alprazolam for sleep, he checks in with Stevens. Arrangements are made to move Josh’s body to its temporary resting place in the makeshift morgue under the racetrack. Afterward Bob makes his way back to his camper and grabs a fresh bottle of whiskey from the back. Then he returns to the arena.
By the time he arrives at the south entrance, the crowd noises are swelling and ringing inside the structure like waves crashing against a shore, magnified by the metallic baffles of the arena. Bob creeps through the dark, fetid tunnel toward the light. He pauses just inside the south gate and takes a healthy pull off the bottle of hooch, girding himself, buffering his nerves. The whiskey burns and makes his eyes water.
He steps into the light.
At first all he sees are blurry, indistinct shapes down on the infield, obscured behind massive cyclone fences rising up in front of the spectators. The bleachers on either side of him are