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

Colonial as long as supplies hold out. They’ve got enough provisions for weeks. Nick wonders if they should send out a scout, maybe gauge the situation on the roads into Atlanta, but Philip is adamant about staying put. “Let whoever’s out there duke it out among themselves,” Philip advises.
    Nick is still keeping tabs on the radio, TV, and Internet … and like the failing bodily functions of a terminal patient, the media seem to be sparking out one organ at a time. By this point, most radio stations are playing either recorded programming or useless emergency information. TV networks—the ones on basic cable that are still up and running—are now resorting to either twenty-four-hour automated civil defense announcements or inexplicable, incongruous reruns of banal late-night infomercials.
    By the third day, Nick realizes that most of the radio dial is static, most of basic cable is snow, and the Wi-Fi in the house is gone. No dial-up connections are working, and the regular phone calls Nick has been making to emergency numbers—which, up to this point, have all played back recordings—are now sending back the classic “fuck you” from the phone company: The number you have dialed is not available at this time, please try again later .
    By late morning that day, the sky clouds over.
    In the afternoon, a dismal, chill mist falls on the community, and everybody huddles indoors, trying to ignore the fact that there’s a fine line between being safe and being a prisoner. Other than Nick, most of them are tired of talking about Atlanta. Atlanta seems farther away now—as if the more they ponder the twenty-some miles between Wiltshire and the city, the more impassable they seem.
    That night, after everybody drifts off to sleep, Philip sits his lonely vigil in the living room next to a slumbering Penny.
    The mist has deteriorated into full-blown thunder and lightning.
    Philip pokes a finger between two shutter slats, and he peers out into the darkness. Through the gap, he can see—over the top of the barricade—the winding side streets and massive shadows of live oaks, their branches bending in the wind.
    Lightning flickers.
    Two hundred yards away, a dozen or so humanoid shapes materialize in the strobe light, moving aimlessly through the rain.
    It’s hard to tell for sure from Philip’s vantage point, but it looks as though the things might be moving—in their leaden, retarded fashion, like stroke victims— this way . Do they smell fresh meat? Did the noises of human activity draw them out? Or are they simply lumbering around randomly like ghastly goldfish in a bowl?
    Right then, for the first time since they arrived at Wiltshire Estates, Philip Blake begins to wonder if their days in this womb of wall-to-wall carpet and overstuffed sofas are numbered.
    *   *   *
    The fourth day dawns cold and overcast. The pewter-colored sky hangs low over the wet lawns and abandoned homes. Although the occasion goes unspoken, the new day marks a milestone of sorts: the beginning of the plague’s second week.
    Now Philip stands with his coffee in the living room, peering out through the shutters at the jury-rigged barricade. In the pale morning light, he can see the northeast corner of the fence shuddering and trembling. “Son of a buck, ” he mutters under his breath.
    “What’s the matter?” Brian’s voice snaps Philip out of his stupor.
    “There’s more of ’em.”
    “Shit. How many?”
    “Can’t tell.”
    “What do you want to do?”
    “Bobby!”
    The big man trundles into the living room in his sweatpants and bare feet, eating a banana. Philip turns to his portly pal and says, “Get dressed.”
    Bobby swallows a mouthful of banana. “What’s going on?”
    Philip ignores the question, looks at Brian. “Keep Penny in the family room.”
    “Will do,” Brian says, and hurries off.
    Philip starts toward the stairs, calling out as he goes: “Get the nail gun and as many extension cords as you can