The portly little woman leans over and kisses the young man on the cheek.
Miles rolls his eyes as he kicks the Challenger back to life, the glass packs growling as he revs the enormous engine. He sees the preacher climbing back into his RV, and the camper’s exhaust pipe spitting vapor.
The convoy starts rolling away, and Miles lets out a weary sigh as he follows from a distance.
* * *
The preacher leads the convoy west. Hours later, they find themselves descending a sloping access road toward a litter-strewn public beach along the Chattahoochee.
Jeremiah grips the steering wheel tighter now, the memories of his baptism of death percolating up through his central nervous system like a witches’ brew of terror, grief, and sorrow. He feels the weight of the caravan behind him—the sedans, the SUVs, the trucks pounding the weathered pavement, sending tremors through the sandy earth—girding him, bolstering him, galvanizing him. He sees the silvery surface of the river across the horizon, materializing in ghostly ripples before his eyes.
He pulls the RV around a hairpin and then descends the narrow river road toward a state park whose name he has blocked out of his mind. He lost half his flock here eighteen months ago. He saw the spawn of the devil rising out of the waters to devour his innocent parishioners as they were born again in the bloody currents of the river.
He steers the RV toward the end of the road, to a deserted pier with ancient gray pilings and sun-blanched timbers. An enormous, oily-black crow explodes into flight off one of the newels at the end of the dock, the sound of its caw echoing up across the low, threatening, black sky, reaching Jeremiah’s ears, sending gooseflesh down between his shoulder blades and raising the hackles on the back of his neck.
He parks, turns the engine off. He hears the rest of the convoy coming to a halt behind him—one by one, engines dying, silence ensuing.
Inside the RV, no one says a word. Two out of the three young men inside the camper were present that day a year and a half ago when the women of the church group were devoured in the river only moments after receiving the rites of communion from Jeremiah. Two out of the three saw the white-clad matrons of the flock screaming, flailing, splashing up arterial fluids into the air that day, turning the river as red as oxblood. The silence in the camper fills it with a sort of reverent tribute to that day.
“Brother Stephen, get Earl on the blower,” Jeremiah says at last, unbuckling himself. “Tell him to back the Kenworth down to the river’s edge.”
“What are you—?” Stephen Pembry almost asks the question that’s on everybody’s mind but no one will ask. They have been given bits and pieces of the whole picture but have yet to be told what’s going on. What in the name of God is the preacher up to?
On his way out of the cab, Jeremiah grabs the machete from beneath the seat and murmurs cryptically, “It will all be revealed in time, Brother.”
He walks down the path, across the gravel lot, and out along the docks.
The fishy-smelling wind tosses Jeremiah’s greasy black pompadour. Wrecked boats lie in the muck here and there. He gazes out across the surface of the river, and his stomach clenches. The water still looks greasy, a deep reddish orange, as vivid as arterial blood—although somewhere in the back of Jeremiah’s rational mind he knows that the dark amber hue is due to the Georgia clay at the bottom of the silt-rich river bottom.
He hops off the end of the dock, landing in the marshy weeds.
His Wellingtons sink about half a foot into the silt. The cold travels up his legs, makes him shiver. He grips the machete and slogs into the deeper water. Something stirs around him. He can see objects moving now under the surface of the river, like the bulbous backs of tortoises rising up through the haze.
He splashes the edge of the machete on the surface of the water, which is now up to his waist. “‘Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the sheaves,’” he croons in his basso profundo singing voice, a cross between an off-key Caruso and a sleepy Elvis. The hymn is from the 126th Psalm: “We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves.”
Twenty-five feet away, the first slimy cranium rises out of the water with the lazy menace of a crocodile surfacing. The thing was once a woman—her age unknown, her long hair dangling in spidery strands like Spanish moss hanging off the smooth stony surface of a boulder. Her eyes are craters of maggoty white pulp, her flesh as bloated and puffy as an undercooked soufflé.
“Sister!” The preacher raises his hands in a welcoming gesture. “Praise the Lord, you’re right on time!”
The thing in the water grinds its slimy teeth as other skulls surface around her, stirred by the sound of the preacher’s singing, his voice calling his children home. There are dozens of them—both genders, in all imaginable states of decay, their monstrous faces fixed on the sound of Jeremiah’s singing voice, their flesh as swollen as rotten seedpods about to burst.
“‘We shall come rejoicing,’” the preacher croons, “‘bringing in the sheaves!’”
The big man begins backing toward the riverbank. He sends a gentle wake through the bloody, rusty water as he beckons the walkers, a stringy mass of river moss clinging to his waist, trailing off into the currents. The fishy stench of the river mingles with the odor of mortified organs. The preacher claps his hands as though applauding, luring the monsters toward the waiting truck.
Jeremiah reaches the muddy bank and climbs out. He turns and bellows, “Earl, go ahead and open the rear door and lower the ramp!”
A squat, muscular, bald man in a denim jacket and sweatpants climbs out of the cab, hurries around to the rear of the trailer, and throws open the garage-style accordion door. Jeremiah reaches into his side pocket and pulls out a small novelty toy he found in the cache of trinkets in the Thorndykes’ camper. Made of hard painted plastic, the little windup chattery teeth remind Jeremiah of his childhood a million years ago. He got one on Halloween once, and remembers now the sound it made when it hit the bottom of his candy bag. When he got home that night he got a whuppin’ from his dad for going out on Satan’s night, but he kept the chattery teeth in his drawer. Now he winds the stem of the Thorndykes’ toy and thumbs the button. The chattery teeth begin clacking noisily, and a pair of tiny cartoon feet churn busily.
By this point, the monsters have reached the river’s bank and have started dragging themselves up the slope, their mossy, skeletal arms outstretched, their mouths drooling dirty spindrift. Earl stands aside and watches with queasy awe as Jeremiah tosses the little toy on board the empty cargo trailer. The little toy buzzes and chatters and whirs loudly inside the enclosure, a beacon, the noise magnified by the corrugated steel of the trailer walls.
The walkers cock their heads toward the clatter as they stupidly lumber toward the trailer. When they get there, some of them manage almost accidentally to trundle up the walkway, others fall off the sides. Jeremiah watches with the pride of a father watching toddlers take their first steps as several of the creatures vanish inside the trailer, drawn to the clacking noise. The preacher’s skin tingles and itches, his eyes burn, but he barely notices it now.
He is transported by the sight of the whole convoluted trap working so well. “That’s enough for now!” he finally calls out when he’s got five of them.
Earl hops up on the bumper rail and hooks the top of the door, pulling it down quickly and decisively.
The dull metallic thud rings out, bringing a smile to Jeremiah’s lips.
* * *
“We owe it all to young Thomas here,” Lilly Caul announces to the other tunnel dwellers after finishing her story of uncovering the treasures at Central Machinery Sales in Connersville, Georgia. Tommy stands beside her, trying to stifle the awkward little grin on his face, his hands in the pockets of his faded OshKosh dungarees. He nervously taps the heel of his hiking boot against the tunnel wall as he listens to Lilly. “He found this place on his own initiative.” She gives him an appreciative glance. “He deserves all the credit.”
The f
ive other adults grin and nod, and Barbara Stern clucks her tongue approvingly at Tommy.
Seated on makeshift chairs around the makeshift table in the makeshift lounge, the elders have remained silent throughout most of Lilly’s report. The air smells of coffee and black earth. The soft whir of aboveground generators vibrates the ceiling. At the other end of the tunnel, the children play quietly, reading books or fiddling with dolls. Barbara had asked Bethany Dupree to watch the little ones while the grown-ups have their talk, and now the third-grader hovers over the gaggle of tykes with the watchful eye of a mother hen.
At last, Bob Stookey winks at Tommy. “The young man is a regular Christopher Columbus.”
Lilly grins at Bob. “And you thought he was loafing that day.” She sits down at the table, and Bob pours her some fresh instant coffee. Lilly takes a sip and says, “My guess is, there’s at least a thousand gallons of gas in that tank.”
David Stern speaks up. “So what’s the next step? I see the value of all this fuel, but how do you see the equipment entering into the equation? I mean, we’re not exactly farming down here.”
Lilly looks at Bob, and the glance they exchange is charged with emotion. “Bob and I disagree over what our focus should be right now.”
Bob gives her a shrug. “I think we’re all focused on the same damn thing, Lilly-girl—survival.”
“Of course, Bob.” Lilly takes a deep breath. “I guess we might as well throw it out there. Maybe take a vote.”
Gloria Pyne looks around the table. Underneath the brim of her athletic visor, her expression furrows with confusion. The years have stolen some of Gloria’s natural beauty, but beneath the deep lines, her blue eyes still glitter with vigor. “Am I missing something? What are we voting on?”
Barbara Stern sighs and wipes a wisp of curly gray hair from her face. “Let me take a wild guess: Lilly wants to take Woodbury back and Bob wants to stay put down here in the catacombs indefinitely.”
For a moment, Lilly and Bob stare at each other, taken aback.
Harold Staubach grins, his bony ebony features filling with mirth, his dark eyes twinkling. He has his Banlon golf shirt buttoned up tight against his neck wattle—ever dapper, stubbornly genteel. “She’s right, though, isn’t she?”
David Stern clears his throat. “I’ve lived with it for almost thirty years—the woman is always right.”
“David, shush.”
Scattered chuckles fade quickly under the weight of the subject. Finally, Gloria Pyne looks at Lilly. “She is right, though, isn’t she?”
Lilly lets out a pained sigh. “Look, I know it’s basically an open secret that I want to take the town back. I see the pros and cons, believe me. It feels safe down here. I get that. But I don’t think we’ve really thought through the long-term effects of living down here.”
“Lilly, we’ve been over this—” Bob starts to object when he sees Barbara Stern raising a hand.
“Let the lady make her case, Bob.”
“Thank you, Barbara.” Lilly takes a deep breath. “Okay, first of all, you can’t live under here indefinitely, no matter how good your ventilation is, or how clean your water from those underground springs is. Your muscles are eventually going to atrophy. Plus, it might seem like we’re impervious to walker attacks, and maybe we are, but what about survivor attacks? Those two gennies up there are like red flags, like neon signs saying ‘Attack us.’”
Bob motions toward Harold. “Lilly, I already told you, Harold and I are working on blimps for those generators, and we also got an exercise area in the works. And there’s miles of tunnel down here we haven’t even charted yet. We got tons of room—the kids could play soccer in some of these passageways. And we’re working on better ventilation every day. Plus, you get tunnel fever, you can always go up top.”
Lilly looks at him. “Bob, you have no idea what effect this is having on the kids.”
“What are you talking about? They’re fine.”
“Fine?” She looks at Barbara. “Tell him how fine their skin is.”
Barbara Stern looks at Bob. “Well, it’s hard to tell if it’s getting better or worse. I showed you the rash on Melissa’s ankles, Bob, and Lucas has what looks like the beginnings of hives on his neck and back, and most of the kids are coughing and congested now, getting a lot more colds, it seems. I think it’s the dampness, but you’re the expert.”
Bob takes a deep breath. “Okay. Look. We’ll go out again this afternoon, hit that drugstore we passed up north on the last run we did. I’m thinking a little cortisone cream and Sudafed will do the trick.”
“That’s not the point, Bob.” Lilly fixes her gaze on the older man’s deep-set eyes, which are buried in wrinkles and leathery skin. Bob’s face is a road map of hard days and nights—hard drinking, hard living. But behind his gaze is hard-won wisdom. Lilly can sense it; so can the others. “It’s not just skin rashes and sniffles. It’s quality of life. It’s having the options that we only have aboveground. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“Hold your horses for a second,” Gloria pipes in again with passion glinting in her eyes.
“‘Quality of life’ nowadays—if you’ll excuse my French—means not getting our asses eaten. Period. It’s like you said yourself, Lilly—we’re safe down here. And I’m sorry, but somebody should acknowledge something else.” She looks at Bob. “We’re safe because of this man right here.”
Bob proffers a weary smile. “I don’t know about that, Glo.… I just got lucky snooping around one day.”
She winks at him. “Whaddaya know … he’s modest, too.” She looks at the others. “Seriously, though.” She looks at Lilly. “I’m with Bob on this. We’re getting the ventilation working better and better every day. It’s cool in the summer down here, and it’s warm in the winter. We can get to the food sources when we have to, and we’re almost to the point where we can filter the spring water.”
Bob nods. “All true. Plus, think about this: We got modes of travel now that don’t involve picking our way through hordes of walkers. We can get to most points within a ten-mile radius without even setting foot up top.”
Lilly lets out an exasperated sigh. She feels as though she’s not articulating her side of the argument well enough, not getting through to them. She remembers high school debate class, and how she always got too emotional trying to rally people to her side, how her emotions always stole her eloquence; and she acknowledges to herself now how those same emotions have almost gotten her killed in recent months.
Harold Staubach speaks up. “I have to say, for what it’s worth … I’m leaning toward Bob and Gloria on this one.” He looks down as though embarrassed to make eye contact with Lilly. “I guess I just don’t see the upside of … going back … well … going back up.”
Lilly shakes her head. She pushes herself away from the table and begins to pace. “You guys are not looking at the long term.”
No one responds to this. Bob looks down. The silence weighs on them like a funereal pall. Lilly realizes the question she has posed—the imponderable question of whether there even is a long term—torments them in their private thoughts and nightmares. She wipes back a wisp of hair that has fallen across her face, chews on her lip, thinks it over. She can hear the nervous tapping of Tommy’s boot-heel on the wall behind her. She finally says, “Okay … fine. Let’s put it to a vote. All those in favor of staying put, staying down here in the tunnels for … let’s say the foreseeable future”—she looks around the table—“raise your hands.”
Slowly, tentatively, Gloria raises her hand. Bob raises his. Harold Staubach throws a nervous glance at the Sterns, and then hesitantly raises his hand. Three votes for staying in the tunnels.
“Okay … cool.” Lilly looks around the group. “All those in favor of working toward one day getting the town back, raise your hands.”
Barbara and David Stern, with zero hesitation, each shoot a hand up.
Lilly nods at them and raises hers. “Who would
have guessed … we got a tie on our hands.”
“Hey!” Barbara Stern points at Tommy Dupree, who stands against the tunnel wall. The young man has his hand raised high, his ruddy, freckled face screwed up with indignation. Barbara grumbles, “What is he … chopped liver?”
* * *
Two separate supply runs are launched that afternoon, one underground and one at ground level.
The first, comprised of Bob Stookey and Gloria Pyne, disembarks shortly after noon. They follow a map that Bob had hand-copied from a 140-year-old plat survey, and they start out down the main conduit, squeezing through the east barricade and then turning south and proceeding down a side tunnel that up until now has been unexplored. Their target is the defunct mining company equipment that according to county surveys lies just beyond the river to the east. They believe all manner of supplies—including medicine—could very well still be stored there.
Meanwhile, Lilly and Tommy Dupree hike the three miles or so down the main tunnel to the Elkins Creek cave-in, dig their way through the drifts of dirt, and exit the underground near Pilson’s Bridge, where scores of ruined walker bodies lie in disarray on the banks of the creek like Civil War casualties bleaching away to powder in the unforgiving sun. The wind and the light and the odors of rotting flesh amid the carpet of pine and pecan shells are so overpowering that Lilly and Tommy get dizzy as they creep through the shadows of the hardwood forest along the banks of the creek. They hike another mile or so until they come to Bob’s secret fleet of vehicles parked under the canopy of great live oaks, camouflaged by nettings of foliage draped carefully over the SUVs and pickups. Bob and David Stern had risked their lives the previous week, amidst the building hordes, salvaging these vehicles from Woodbury and Carlinville.
Now Lilly and Tommy quickly and silently commandeer one of the SUVs: pulling off the shroud of leaves, finding the keys in the visor where Bob had left them, kicking the engine to life, and carefully pulling across the threshold and onto the access road that winds along Elkins Creek.