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

hell … a dream of something more than survival. He left behind a dream of life. He wanted y’all to flourish. Together . Moving, always moving. Like a stream turns into a river and a river turns into the sea.”
    More silence. Some listeners begin to clear their throats, fight tears, and bow their heads. They need this. They need to release something, and the silence gives them permission. They listen so closely to the silence, Jeremiah feels as though he can hear their heartbeats.
    â€œI don’t know about y’all, but in my short sweet time with the Padre, I realized he knew something that I didn’t. He knew the key to paradise—and no, I ain’t talking about heaven right now. I’m talking about paradise on earth. Even amid these desecrated times, these horrible ruins, he held the key to paradise, and you know what that was? At the end of the day, do you know what paradise is?”
    Another beat of dramatic silence as Jeremiah makes eye contact with each listener—dirty, plague-worn, terrified faces staring back at him, hungering for salvation and answers, eyes moist with sorrow.
    â€œIt’s us. Us! With good treads on our tires and a few gallons of high test in our tanks.” He raises his voice. “That’s all Father Patrick Murphy ever wanted. For us to stay together, and stay on the move. That simple. That’s what the Padre’s paradise is … the convoy . On the move. Just as the ancient Israelites escaped from Egypt! The convoy! Just as the Hebrews wandered Canaan!” He lets out a triumphant shout: “THE CONVOY!”
    Leland Burress, a heavyset former pipe fitter from Tallahassee who has been known to regularly vent about the Jews controlling the banking system, springs to his feet and makes a ham-hock-sized fist and cries out, “Damn straight!”
    Jeremiah grins a beatific sort of grin full of humility and earnestness.
    Across the makeshift burial site, a portly woman in a floral print sundress turns away, her lips pursed with disdain and incredulity.
    *   *   *
    Norma Sutters stands on the far edge of the pecan grove, listening with a sour look on her face, as the preacher finally gets to the point of his little impromptu sermon. The whole speech strikes Norma as not only inappropriate but also a little disturbing—the way the big man in the black suit coat has almost seamlessly taken over the ceremony, and the subtle tone of condescension in his voice as he blatantly tugs on the heartstrings. Norma Sutters knows all the signals. She has dealt with a rogues’ gallery of hypocrites in her life. This guy is off the scale.
    â€œYou all right?” Miles whispers to her. The young man standing next to her in the hoodie and the tarnished bling from happier times furrows his brow. It’s obvious from the look on his face he senses something as well, but he apparently can’t quite articulate it.
    She shushes him, putting a plump finger to her lips, indicating they should pay attention to what the preacher is saying.
    â€œFriends, I humbly come to you today with a proposition,” the preacher is now announcing to the group, letting out the stops on his big baritone, lifting his voice to the heavens, projecting with the skill of a backwoods Olivier, so that the far edges of the crowd can hear every breath, every dramatic pause. Most preachers are just naturally theatrical and vociferous, but there’s something about this guy that Norma can’t quite pin down. Something manipulative. And scary. “I have no right to stand in the shoes of our dearly departed Padre—no one does—but I will gladly, in tribute to his legacy, volunteer to step up. With your blessings, with your approval, with your help, I will gladly take the reins of this great community—this mobile fraternity of God-fearing Christians—if you’ll have me, if you’ll give me that honor.”
    Murmurs of