The Walking Dead: Invasion by Robert Kirkman Read Free Book Online Page B

takes his customary walk along the periphery of the camp. He has gotten into the habit of taking solitary evening strolls around the circled vehicles in order to keep tabs on the mood of his fellow travelers. It also doesn’t hurt to press the flesh, say hello to his new comrades, and do a little public relations work.
    On this night, the forest is separated from the ring of cars and trucks and campers by an ancient split-rail fence fortified at some point in the past—perhaps by stubborn KOA customers hunkering down after the early days of the Turn—with a ribbon of tangled, rusty concertina wire, which lines the fence all the way around the ten-acre site. At a few junctures, gates are visible between the larger posts, most of them padlocked. Jeremiah pauses in the dusky light, the sunset now nearly faded to darkness, most of the travelers retired to their campers and bed rolls.
    His heart thumps as the noise of a few roamers shambling nearby gives birth to an idea, fully formed, unspooling in his brain.

 
    FOUR
    Jeremiah snaps his fingers in the darkness, standing just inside the northwest corner of the compound, the drone of crickets so loud it nearly drowns out the snapping sound. He knows the risks here. He knows he’s walking a delicate tightrope. There are so many variables that could go wrong. If he was caught, it would be the end of his reign on this earth, and at this point, he doubts very highly he would be welcomed with open arms by St. Peter and his posse at the pearly gates.
    He snaps again and again, and soon he hears the unwieldy footsteps shuffling closer and closer. He can see their shadows now. Three of them—two males and a female of indeterminate ages—dragging through the undergrowth. Heads lolling slightly, mouths working fiercely, they make their trademark noise as they close in—a sort of buzz-saw growling that emanates from the deepest pits of their insatiable gorges.
    The stench rises. Jeremiah pulls a bandanna from his back pocket and quickly wraps it around the lower part of his face—bank-robber style—and keeps softly snapping his fingers. Summoning them. Beckoning to them. The smell is so strong now, it’s as though the preacher has stuck his head in an oven filled with roasting shit. He reaches down and opens the gate.
    Timing is critical here. Like baboons in a cage, the creatures can start to get noisy if aroused. And even if they remain fairly docile and silent, their odor alone could easily draw a fellow caravan member out of a trailer. Snapping out a brisk rhythm with his thumb and forefinger, Jeremiah starts backing away from the fence, discreetly ushering the monsters through the gap.
    They stay bunched together—the three of them—as they enter the northeast corner of the compound. One of the males is missing his left eye, a ragged pouch of arteries and pulp dangling down. The female looks as though she had been in her eighties before she turned—her flaccid, wrinkled flesh dangling now on her bones like turkey wattle. Each of their mouths churn and gnaw at the air, their feral jaws looking as though they could easily tear into metal. Collectively the three of them smell of graves under a compost heap.
    Jeremiah quickly and quietly leads them toward the rear door of Father Murphy’s RV.
    The final part of phase one proves the trickiest. Jeremiah reaches the trailer first, with about fifty feet between him and the walkers—which is not much; at the rate the creatures are shambling toward him, the distance will be crossed in less than a minute. He carefully, silently, stealthily tries to open the rear door without making a sound.
    â€œ Dang it, ” Jeremiah whispers under his breath when he realizes the door is locked. The Catholic bastard is probably in there masturbating to kiddie porn. The walkers close in, reeking and groaning softly, their shuffling footsteps growing louder and louder. Jeremiah reaches down to his