Read Online The Walking Dead Collection by Robert Kirkman, Jay Bonansinga - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Kirkman, Jay Bonansinga
Ads: Link
Sweet Jesus Christ no,” Nick says, staring at his dead pal.
Philip doesn’t say anything for quite a long time. No one does.
The immense corpse lies still, there on the wet ground, for endless minutes … until something stirs in the man’s extremities, in the tendons of his massive legs, and in the tips of his plump fingers.
At first, the phenomenon looks like the typical residual nerve twitches that morticians might see now and again, the dieseling engine of a cadaver’s central nervous system. But as Nick and Brian gape, their eyes widening—both of them slowly rising, then slowly beginning to back away—Philip comes closer still, kneeling down, a sullen businesslike expression on his face.
Bobby Marsh’s eyes open.
The pupils have turned as white as pus.
Philip grabs the nail gun and presses it to the big man’s forehead just above the left eyebrow.
FFFFFFFFUMP!
* * *
Hours later. Inside the house. After dark. Penny asleep. Nick in the kitchen, drowning his grief in whiskey … Brian nowhere to be found … Bobby’s cooling corpse in the backyard, covered in a tarp next to the other bodies … and Philip now standing at the living room window, gazing out through the slatted shutters at the growing number of dark figures on the street. They shuffle like sleepwalkers, moving back and forth behind the barricade. There are more of them now. Thirty, maybe. Forty even.
Streetlights shine through the cracks in the fence, the moving shadows breaking the beams at irregular intervals, making the light strobe, making Philip crazy. He hears the silent voice in his head—the same voice that first made itself known after Sarah had died: Burn the place down, burn the whole fucking world down .
For a moment earlier that day, after Bobby had died, the voice had wanted to mutilate the twelve-year-old’s body. The voice had wanted to take that dead thing apart. But Philip tamped it down, and now he’s fighting it again: The fuse is lit, brother, the clock is ticking …
Philip looks away from the window, and he rubs his tired eyes.
“It’s okay to let it out,” a different voice says now, coming from across the darkness.
Philip whirls and sees the silhouette of his brother across the living room, standing in the archway of the kitchen.
Turning back to the window, Philip offers no response. Brian comes over. He’s holding a bottle of cough syrup in his trembling hands. In the darkness his feverish eyes shimmer with tears. He stands there for a moment.
Then he says in low, soft voice, careful not to awaken Penny on the couch next to them, “There’s no shame in letting it out.”
“Letting what out?”
“Look,” Brian says, “I know you’re hurting.” He sniffs, wipes his mouth on his sleeve, his voice hoarse and congested. “All I wanted to say is, I’m really sorry about Bobby, I know you guys were—”
“It’s done.”
“Philip, c’mon—”
“This place is done, it’s cooked.”
Brian looks at him. “What do you mean?”
“We’re getting out of here.”
“But I thought—”
“Take a look.” Philip indicates the growing number of shadows out on Green Briar Lane. “We’re drawing ’em like flies on shit.”
“Yeah, but the barricade is still—”
“The longer we stay here, Brian, the more it’s gonna get like a prison.” Philip stares out the window. “Gotta keep moving forward.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“Like tomorrow?”
“We’ll start packin’ in the morning, get as many supplies in the Suburban as we can.”
Silence.
Brian looks at his brother. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” Philip keeps staring. “Go to sleep.”
* * *
At breakfast, Philip decides to tell his daughter that Bobby had to up and go home—“to go take care of his folks”—and the explanation seems to satisfy the little girl.
Later that morning, Nick and Philip dig the grave out back, choosing a soft spot at the end of the garden, while Brian keeps Penny
Philip doesn’t say anything for quite a long time. No one does.
The immense corpse lies still, there on the wet ground, for endless minutes … until something stirs in the man’s extremities, in the tendons of his massive legs, and in the tips of his plump fingers.
At first, the phenomenon looks like the typical residual nerve twitches that morticians might see now and again, the dieseling engine of a cadaver’s central nervous system. But as Nick and Brian gape, their eyes widening—both of them slowly rising, then slowly beginning to back away—Philip comes closer still, kneeling down, a sullen businesslike expression on his face.
Bobby Marsh’s eyes open.
The pupils have turned as white as pus.
Philip grabs the nail gun and presses it to the big man’s forehead just above the left eyebrow.
FFFFFFFFUMP!
* * *
Hours later. Inside the house. After dark. Penny asleep. Nick in the kitchen, drowning his grief in whiskey … Brian nowhere to be found … Bobby’s cooling corpse in the backyard, covered in a tarp next to the other bodies … and Philip now standing at the living room window, gazing out through the slatted shutters at the growing number of dark figures on the street. They shuffle like sleepwalkers, moving back and forth behind the barricade. There are more of them now. Thirty, maybe. Forty even.
Streetlights shine through the cracks in the fence, the moving shadows breaking the beams at irregular intervals, making the light strobe, making Philip crazy. He hears the silent voice in his head—the same voice that first made itself known after Sarah had died: Burn the place down, burn the whole fucking world down .
For a moment earlier that day, after Bobby had died, the voice had wanted to mutilate the twelve-year-old’s body. The voice had wanted to take that dead thing apart. But Philip tamped it down, and now he’s fighting it again: The fuse is lit, brother, the clock is ticking …
Philip looks away from the window, and he rubs his tired eyes.
“It’s okay to let it out,” a different voice says now, coming from across the darkness.
Philip whirls and sees the silhouette of his brother across the living room, standing in the archway of the kitchen.
Turning back to the window, Philip offers no response. Brian comes over. He’s holding a bottle of cough syrup in his trembling hands. In the darkness his feverish eyes shimmer with tears. He stands there for a moment.
Then he says in low, soft voice, careful not to awaken Penny on the couch next to them, “There’s no shame in letting it out.”
“Letting what out?”
“Look,” Brian says, “I know you’re hurting.” He sniffs, wipes his mouth on his sleeve, his voice hoarse and congested. “All I wanted to say is, I’m really sorry about Bobby, I know you guys were—”
“It’s done.”
“Philip, c’mon—”
“This place is done, it’s cooked.”
Brian looks at him. “What do you mean?”
“We’re getting out of here.”
“But I thought—”
“Take a look.” Philip indicates the growing number of shadows out on Green Briar Lane. “We’re drawing ’em like flies on shit.”
“Yeah, but the barricade is still—”
“The longer we stay here, Brian, the more it’s gonna get like a prison.” Philip stares out the window. “Gotta keep moving forward.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“Like tomorrow?”
“We’ll start packin’ in the morning, get as many supplies in the Suburban as we can.”
Silence.
Brian looks at his brother. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” Philip keeps staring. “Go to sleep.”
* * *
At breakfast, Philip decides to tell his daughter that Bobby had to up and go home—“to go take care of his folks”—and the explanation seems to satisfy the little girl.
Later that morning, Nick and Philip dig the grave out back, choosing a soft spot at the end of the garden, while Brian keeps Penny
Similar Books
