The Walking Dead Collection by Robert Kirkman, Jay Bonansinga Read Free Book Online

one—more than likely a haunt of the missing kid—has got all the bells and whistles: slide, clubhouse, four swings, climbing wall, jungle gym, and sandbox.
    “We got it made here,” Philip goes on, turning back to his work. “Long as we keep our heads screwed on straight, we’re gonna be fine.”
    As they position the next section, the rustling sounds of their movements and the creak of the planks mask the telltale noise of shuffling footsteps.
    The footsteps are coming from across the street. Philip doesn’t hear them until the errant zombie is close enough for its odor to register.
    Nick is the first one to smell it: that black, oily, mildewy combination of rotting protein and decay—like human waste cooking in bacon grease. It immediately puts Nick’s guard up. “Wait a minute,” he says, holding a section of planking. “You smell—”
    “Yeah, smells like—”
    A fish-belly arm bursts through a gap in the fencing, grabbing a hank of Philip’s denim shirt.
    *   *   *
    The assailant was once a middle-aged woman in a designer running suit, now an emaciated wraith with torn sleeves, blackened, exposed teeth, and the button eyes of a prehistoric fish, her hooked hand clutching Philip’s shirttail with the vise grip of frozen dead fingers. She lets out a low groan like a broken pipe organ as Philip spins toward his axe, which lies canted against a wheelbarrow twenty feet away.
    Too damn far.
    The dead lady goes for Philip’s neck with the autonomic hunger of a giant snapping turtle, and across the yard, Nick fumbles for a weapon, but it’s all happening too fast. Philip rears backward with a grunt, just now realizing that he still holds the nail gun. He dodges the snapping teeth, and then instinctively raises the muzzle of the nail gun.
    In one quick movement, he touches the tip to the thing’s brow.
    FFFFFFFFFFFUMP!
    The lady zombie stiffens.
    Icy fingers release their grip on Philip.
    He pulls himself free, huffing and puffing, gaping at the thing.
    The vertical cadaver teeters for a moment, wobbling as if drunk, shuddering in its soiled velveteen Pierre Cardin warm-up, but it will not go down. The head of the six-inch galvanized nail is visible above the ridge of the lady’s nose like a tiny coin stuck there.
    The thing remains upright for endless moments, its sharklike eyes turned upward, until it begins to slowly stagger backward across the parkway, its ruined face taking on a strange, almost dreamy expression.
    For a moment, it looks as though the thing is remembering something, or hearing some high-pitched whistle. Then it collapses in the grass.
    *   *   *
    “I think the nail does just enough damage to take ’em out,” Philip is saying after dinner, pacing back and forth across the shuttered windows of the lavish dining room, the nail gun in his hand like a visual aid.
    The others are sitting at the long burnished oak table, the remnants of dinner lying strewn in front of them. Brian cooked for the group that night, defrosting a roast in the microwave and making gravy with a vintage cabernet and a splash of cream. Penny is in the adjacent family room watching a DVD of Dora the Explorer .
    “Yeah, but did you see the way that thing went down?” Nick points out, pushing an uneaten gob of meat across his plate. “After you zapped it … looked like the damn thing was stoned for a second.”
    Philip keeps pacing, clicking the trigger of the nail gun and thinking. “Yeah but it did go down.”
    “It’s quieter than a gun, I’ll give you that.”
    “And it’s a hell of a lot easier than splitting their skulls open with an axe.”
    Bobby has just started in on his second helping of pot roast and gravy. “Too bad you don’t have a six-mile extension cord,” he says with his mouth full.
    Philip clicks the trigger a few more times. “Maybe we could hook this puppy up to a battery.”
    Nick looks up. “Like a car battery?”
    “No, like something you could carry more easily,