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

other vehicles, each filled with plague-weary, shell-shocked former acolytes of the dead priest. The vote to make Jeremiah the new leader—simple “Yes” or “No” declarations on torn paper ballots gathered in Jeremiah’s hat—had been almost unanimous, with the identities of the only two members of the caravan to dissent still unknown to Jeremiah.
    He would keep a close eye on morale, and maybe one day he would ferret out the pair of Philistines who had the gall to vote against him.
    The previous night, Jeremiah had explained to his newly acquired disciples that part of his new leadership platform would be to explore neighboring states rather than clinging to the coastline. He assures them there are more opportunities in Georgia, Alabama, and South Carolina to find untapped resources. What he does not tell his followers is that the seed of an idea has taken root in his brain. It was sparked by the secret removal of Father Murphy, and it has been growing ever since. It may be the greatest single inspiration to kindle within Jeremiah Garlitz since the conception of his apocalyptic church.
    They cross the Georgia state line around 5:00 that afternoon. They reach the outskirts of Atlanta by midnight. Low on fuel, hungry, sore and exhausted from the long drive, they make camp in a clearing on a wooded hill not far from the same landscape across which Jeremiah and his followers had traversed on their fateful journey to Woodbury. Is there a silent clarion calling Jeremiah back to this godforsaken place? Was this Jeremiah’s personal Gethsemane, the mysterious wooded hill on which Christ ate his last supper and was subsequently cornered and arrested by the Centurions?
    That night, the big preacher calls Stephen, Reese, Leland, and James to his fire pit.
    â€œBoys, it’s high time we launch another fuel run.” He announces this in the flickering light of the fire. “I want you four to light out around dawn, and take two vehicles so you can cover more ground.” Jeremiah gives this order with confidence, his mantle of leadership already second nature to him. “Look for gas, diesel, even roadside dives that might still have fryers with oil on the premises.”
    The men disperse to prepare for their mission, and the preacher spends the rest of that night awake in the RV, guzzling cold instant coffee, drawing sketches, making notes, and just generally strategizing on how to bring his grand idea to life … or death , he thinks with amusement. The concept will make him as powerful as any post-plague man has ever been—the true one-eyed king. He works almost all the way through sunrise, eventually falling into a deep sleep on the RV’s sofa bed, oblivious to the fact that a member of his new tribe has been spying on him all night.
    Outside the RV, the shadow of a plump African-American woman lurks behind a skein of undergrowth less than thirty feet from the trailer’s rear bumper. She has been listening intently to everything—including the occasional faint mutterings of the preacher talking to himself, sometimes in the gibberish of ancient “tongues”—much of it making little sense to her. All she knows, at this early stage, is that this preacher, despite his natural charisma and oratory skills, is clearly as mad as a hatter, and probably as dangerous as a poisonous snake.
    *   *   *
    Later that day, Jeremiah holds court in front of his RV, perched on an old woven lawn chair, a small toddler named Melissa Thorndyke curled like a pet cat on his lap, thumb in her mouth, sound asleep. Completely relaxed behind the circle of vehicles and temporary barricades, puffing a stale Dominican cigar, sipping instant tea, his shirt collar open to reveal his hirsute upper chest, he’s chatting with the patriarchs of two separate families—Chester Gleason and Rory Thorndyke, both men former laborers, meat-and-potatoes types, perfect