The Walking Dead: Invasion (5 page)

Reese speaks up from the back. “Why didn't this Miles dude come back for you?”

Norma glances down at the floor mats. “We had a little bit of a falling-out.” She wipes her mouth. “It was my fault, and I ain't too proud of it.”

After a pause, Reese says, “But why didn't you try and find these people yourself?”

She glances over her shoulder at him. “Travel alone in this god-awful back country crawling with dead folks?”

Silence returns to the Escalade's dark interior as they all chew on the prospects of being alone and isolated in a forestful of walkers.

*   *   *

They're about to give up the search when they start to climb a gentle slope—at first so gradual it's almost unnoticeable—up the side of a vast malodorous landfill. The barren, trash-strewn scrubland to their left reaches across miles of sandy berms, all the way down to the deserted, ghostly boardwalks that wind their way along the beaches. The sky has begun to bruise pink with predawn light, and the preacher has just started to say something when Norma sees the first faint streaks of red dots on the distant haze.

“Wait! Wait!” She points a plump finger down at the far dunes of ashen white sand winding along the coast, the surface so pocked and windswept it resembles the dark side of the moon. “There!—See 'em?!”

“Where?” The preacher cranes his neck, slowing the vehicle down to a crawl. “I don't see a thing.”

“About a half mile up yonder, see?” The woman is positively vibrating with excitement. “Whole slew of 'em! See the taillights?”

Jeremiah Garlitz takes in a deep, cleansing breath as he finally sees the caravan chugging along the coastal road. In the predawn light, it looks like a ribbon of burning embers throwing gouts of smoke in its wake. “Yes, ma'am, I surely do!” Jeremiah's big, barrel-shaped chest puffs with relief. “Whaddaya think of that, boys?”

The two young men in the rear seats lean forward, transfixed by the sight, each of them rapt and silent as they gaze at the convoy.

“Give 'em a blast on your horn!” Norma Sutters wrings her hands anxiously. “Don't let them get away!”

Jeremiah smiles to himself. In his former life, he used to be fascinated by wildlife shows on television. He would record them on the VCR in the back of his trailer for later viewing, and he would watch them between revival meetings late at night for hours on end before turning in. He remembers one episode in particular, on the behavior of sheep versus the behavior of wolves. He remembers the flock mentality: the sheep moving almost as one, a school of helpless fish, easily managed by a single sheepdog. He remembers the instinct of the wolf—stealthy, solitary, patient—as it creeps up on the flock.

He shoots a glance across the dark interior at the heavyset little woman. “I got a better idea.”

*   *   *

Father Patrick Liam Murphy, ordained Catholic priest and former head of Jacksonville's Most Holy Redeemer Parish, doesn't see the unexpected obstruction in the middle of the road until it's almost too late. The problem is, the slender, silver-haired priest has diarrhea of the mouth—perhaps an occupational hazard for someone charged with sermonizing, counseling, and easing fevered brows.

He sits behind the wheel of his rumbling Winnebago, relentlessly chewing the ear off his protégé, James Frazier, who's slumped in the cab's passenger seat, struggling to pay attention. “May I remind you, Jimmy, that there are two distinct versions of Christ, and the one of whom you speak now, in your insolent and narrow perspective, is the one we call the ‘historic' Jesus, who lived and breathed and walked the earth a couple of millennia ago, but also the one who is merely the vessel for the second version, the one that matters, the one who is the absolute true son of—”

“LOOK OUT!”

James Frazier, an angular man of thirty-three, blond-whiskered and dressed in ragged denim, sits up with a start, eyes wide and fixed on something he sees through the massive windshield. Father Murphy jerks the wheel and stands on the brakes. The contents of the RV shift in the back, water bottles, canned goods, tools, and weapons tumbling off their shelves and cubbies. Both men slam forward as the trailer skids to a sudden halt.

The priest flops back in his seat, blinking, breathless. In his side mirror, he sees the long line of vehicles behind him—pickup trucks, RVs, four-wheelers, and a few sedans—forming a chain reaction of lurching skids, the members of the caravan screeching to a stop, one by one, in a billowing cloud of carbon monoxide.

“Dear Lord, what's this?” The priest sucks in a breath, still gripping his steering wheel, as he tries to focus on the figure standing blithely in their path less than twenty yards ahead of them.

The man is tall, Caucasian, dressed in a tattered black suit, and has one of his big muddy Wellington boots propped up on the front fender of a fancy Cadillac SUV—the big black kind often used by shadowy government types—which is currently parked and idling in the middle of the road. The strangest part of this tableau is that the man is smiling. Even from this distance, the man aims his big Ultra Brite grin at the convoy's lead vehicle as though preparing to sell a new line of Fuller Brushes.

James goes for his .38, which is stuffed down one cowboy boot.

“Go easy, Jimmy. Go easy, son.” The priest takes a deep breath, waving off the weapon. Approaching sixty, Father Murphy still wears his collar underneath a worn Notre Dame sweatshirt, his hangdog face deeply lined and whiskered with a ruddy beard. His pouchy eyes radiate a certain kindness, along with the swollen lividness of a lifelong drunk. “This appears to be a group of the living, and there's no reason to believe they're not friendly.”

James shoves the short-barreled pistol under his belt. “You stay here, Father, I'll go—”

The priest puts his hand up. “No, no … Jimmy,
I'll
go. You tell Leland to keep his cool, and tell the rest of the group to stay in their vehicles.”

The younger man reaches for his walkie-talkie as the priest climbs out of the cab.

Over the next thirty seconds—the amount of time it takes the scrawny beanpole of a priest to climb out the cab door, struggle down the running board steps, and scuffle across twenty feet of pavement in his ancient Florsheims—a chemical reaction occurs. Unseen, subtle, undetectable to anyone other than the two gentlemen coming to face each other in the middle of the asphalt two-lane, it bubbles up within the priest unexpectedly, unbidden, and as powerful as an electrical charge passing through his brain. He instantly dislikes this fellow.

“Morning, Padre,” the man standing in the middle of the road says with a gleam of neighborly congeniality in his deep-set eyes. The priest can see others behind the tinted glass of the Escalade—a woman, a couple of men, their moods and demeanors unknown. Their hands are hidden, their spines rigid, their muscles coiled.

“Hello there.” Father Murphy forces a smile. He stands ramrod-straight, his rheumatic joints aching, his hands curled into fists at his side. He can feel the eyes and ears of his people on the back of his neck. They need fresh souls and strong backs to help with the maintenance and fuel runs and heavy lifting involved in keeping the caravan moving. At the same time, they must be careful. A few bad apples have passed through the group in recent months and have threatened its very existence. “Something we can help you with, sir?” the priest says to the stranger.

The thousand-kilowatt smile brightens. The man shoots his threadbare cuffs as though beginning a sales meeting. “Didn't want to sneak up on you back there.” He sniffs and casually spits. “You never know who you're going to run into out here in the wilds of walker country. You folks seem to have it down to a science. Traveling in that little cavalcade of yours, always moving, safety in numbers, no moss growing on y'all. It's sheer genius, you ask me.”

“Thank you, son.” The priest keeps his artificial smile plastered to his face. “That's a honey of a vehicle you got there.”

“I thank you for that.”

“That a Caddy?”

“Yessir. Two thousand and seven Escalade XL, runs like a top.”

“Looks like it's been in some rough scrapes.”

“Yessir, it surely has.”

The priest nods pensively. “What can we do for you, son? You seem like a man … has something on his mind.”

“Name's Garlitz. Jeremiah Garlitz. Fellow shaman and holy soldier like yourself.”

The priest feels a twinge of anger. “Always good to meet a fellow minister.”

“Had a church down in Jacksonville, then lit out after the Turn, tried to keep it up.” He jabs a thumb at the battered SUV behind him. “Now all that's left of the Pentecostal People of God is them two good old boys in there … along with a real nice lady from a church up to Jasper.”

“Uh-huh.” Father Murphy scratches his chin. He knows what's coming and he doesn't like it one bit. It doesn't feel right. “What can we help you with? We got a little extra biodiesel, if that would be something you'd be interested in. Maybe some bottled water?”

The big preacher pours on the charm. “That's mighty kind of you. These are difficult times. Them walkers out there are often the least of our problems. You gotta be real careful. I wouldn't expect you to just take in any old stray you find along the road.” His expansive expression softens, his eyes filling with sadness and humility. “Father, we are good, hardworking, God-fearing people who need a place of refuge … need medical treatment, food, and the safety of fellowship. Never occurred to us that solace might be found in a moving target like the one you got here.”

The daylight has dawned enough now for Father Murphy to clearly see the young men and the woman hunkered in the Escalade, nervously waiting. The priest swallows, licks his dry, chapped lips. “I'm gonna ask if the folks in the Caddy could maybe go ahead and show their hands.”

The preacher turns and gives them a nod. One by one, the people in the SUV hold up their hands, revealing that they are unarmed.

The priest nods. “I appreciate that. Now may I ask the number and type of weapons you might be carrying?”

The preacher grins. “It ain't much. Got a couple of nines and a shotgun. Lady's got a snubby. Not much left over in the way of ammo, I'm afraid.”

Father Murphy nods and starts to say, “Fair enough, and now if I might ask you to—”

Out of nowhere, a number of unexpected noises and quick movements in the priest's peripheral vision interrupt his spiel and make him flinch as though a bomb has just gone off. A figure from behind him approaches at a dead run, arms pumping excitedly, voice caterwauling: “FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST, IT'S HER, I TOLD THEM IT WAS HER—I JUST KNEW IT—!!”

The young African-American boy in the flopping braids and ragged hoodie charges toward Jeremiah's Escalade. The preacher jerks back, reaching for his knife, taken completely by surprise.

“It's okay, he's one of ours!” Father Murphy calls out, shooting his hands up in a conciliatory gesture. “It's all right, he's harmless!”

Behind Jeremiah, the SUV's side door bursts open, and Norma Sutters struggles out. Her face aglow with emotion, her eyes wet as she spots the kid, she opens her plump arms. “I'll be damned if you ain't a sight!”

The young man plunges into Norma's softness and musky odors.

“I thought you was dead for sure,” he murmurs, his face pressed into the crook of her neck. The woman hugs him back, stroking his head with maternal tenderness. The young man begins to softly weep.

Norma shushes him and strokes him and mutters soothing words. “I ain't dead yet, child.… Still in one piece, still the cranky-ass old bitch you left in Jasper.”

The young man sobs into her neck. “I missed you so damn much, I thought of going back, but I didn't, but I should have, I'm a chickenshit, that's all, too scared, too proud, and you said I'd be back with my tail between my legs, I just … I just didn't…”

Norma shushes him and strokes his braided hair. “That's enough now, everything's gonna be okay, that's enough now, child.” She glances over at Jeremiah. She gives the preacher a furtive look. “What's the deal, Preacher Man? We stayin' with these folks or what?!”

Jeremiah looks at Father Murphy, and the old Irishman shrugs and then smiles. “Looks like you're already part of the family.”

The transaction is seamless. Within minutes, the two groups come together, pool their resources, and Jeremiah and company begin to build goodwill, getting to know the other members of Father Murphy's traveling caravan. By noon that day, the procession has pulled back onto the road, continuing its endless looping journey across the panhandle as though the preacher and his people had always been part of the group.

*   *   *

Nearly a week passes without incident. They travel mostly during daylight hours, resting their bodies and machines at night within the confines of caves and clearings. Jeremiah makes a special point to introduce himself to each and every member of the caravan. There are thirty-three in all, commandeering fifteen vehicles, including six full RVs and three heavy-duty trucks. There are four children under the age of twelve, five married couples, and a few senior citizens. They have an impressive array of weaponry (much of it scavenged from Camp Blanding, a deserted military base outside Jacksonville); and they have enough canned goods to last another six months if rationed carefully.

The alpha dogs are mostly good old boys from central Florida—blue-collar tradesmen with dirt under their fingernails and sun-reddened faces—and Jeremiah instantly ingratiates himself with these hillbilly types. He speaks their language—God, guns, and whiskey—and he further solidifies his place in the pecking order by pitching in with vehicle maintenance; the preacher once worked as a grease monkey in a service station as a teen, and the skills serve him well here. Reese and Stephen also show their willingness to get their hands dirty by going along on numerous side trips and detours to obtain the raw materials for cooking up more fuel.