The Walking Dead: The Fall of the Governor - Part One (The G(14)
The Sterns stand up, Austin also slowly rising and stretching like a sleepy cat.
“Grocery store’s been trashed, cleaned out,” Martinez announces. “We’re S-O-L.”
Lilly looks at him. “What’s the good news?”
“There’s a warehouse out behind the store, no windows, locked up tight. Looks like people have left it alone. Could be a gold mine.”
“What are we waiting for?”
Martinez levels his gaze at Lilly. “Not sure how safe it is in there. I want everybody locked and loaded, and on their toes. Bring all the flashlights, too … looks like it’s pretty dark in there.”
They all reach for their weapons and gear. Lilly digs in her rucksack. She pulls out her guns—a pair of Ruger .22 semiautos—and checks the ammo magazines. She has two curved clips, each one loaded with twenty-five rounds. Bob taught her how to use the high-capacity mags, which make the pistols slightly unwieldy but also give her staying power if things get hectic.
“Austin, I want you carrying the duffels,” Martinez says, tipping a nod toward the pile of canvas bags in the corner. “Keep ’em open and ready.”
Austin is already standing over the bags, gathering them up and slinging them over his shoulder. The others check their ammo supplies, holstering their weapons in quick-release rigs on their hips and belts. Barbara shoves a Colt Army .45 down the back of a sash wrapped tightly around her thick midriff, David handing her two extra clips.
They work with the practiced concentration of veteran bank robbers. They’ve done this many times. Still, there’s a certain tension crackling around the dim enclosure as Martinez takes one last look through the open tarp. “Gonna pull around back,” he says. “Be ready to rock and roll, and watch your backs on the way in … the noise of the truck’s already drawn more biters.”
A quick succession of nods around the cargo hold, and Martinez vanishes.
Lilly goes over to the rear hatch and braces herself on the jamb as the sound of the cab doors slamming is followed by the revving engine. The truck lurches out of there and then rumbles around the side of the supermarket.
Forty-five seconds later, the air brakes hiss and the truck jerks to a stop.
Lilly takes a deep breath, draws one of the Rugers, pushes the tarp open, and hops out.
She lands hard on the cracked pavement, the sun in her eyes, the wind in her face, the smell of burning rubber wafting in from some far-off cataclysm. Martinez is already out of the cab, the .357 with the silencer holstered and banging on his thigh, Gus hustling around the front of the truck. The bald man climbs behind the wheel.
The warehouse sits off to their right, on the edge of the back lot, nestled in a jungle of weeds and razor grass, an enormous corrugated metal box the size of three movie theaters. Lilly sees the unmarked metal door at the top of a small flight of stairs, situated right next to the loading dock, and two huge rolling garage doors in the shadows of the overhang. Everything looks congealed and petrified with age, rusted shut, scarred with graffiti.
She glances over her shoulder and gets a glimpse of a cluster of walkers, a hundred yards away, out by the busted Piggly Wiggly sign, slowly turning toward the commotion and starting to shamble in their direction.
Austin comes up behind Lilly. “Let’s go, let’s go,” he mutters, lugging the duffel bags. “While we’re young and in one piece!”
David and Barbara come up fast behind Austin, the older couple staying low, with eyes wide and alert. Martinez gives a hand signal to Gus, pointing off toward the loading dock. “Back it up, Gus, and keep the radio open and an eye on things outside.”
“Roger that.” Gus revs the engine, then starts to put the truck into gear.
“We’ll be coming out the loading dock side,” Martinez informs him. “So keep the engine running and be ready to roll at a moment’s notice.”
“Got it!”
Then things get moving very quickly, very efficiently, as Gus backs the truck up to the dock while the others swiftly and silently creep toward the unmarked side door, moving with the cold competence of a SWAT team. Martinez climbs stairs, pulls a long metal shim from his belt, and starts working on the padlock, pounding the shim with the butt of his gun. The others huddle behind him, glancing over their shoulders at the encroaching dead.
The lock snaps, and Martinez pries the door open on squeaking hinges.
They plunge into darkness and overwhelming stench—rotting meat, acrid pukelike smells, ammonia odors—the door slamming behind them, making them jump. A single skylight way up above the cobwebbed gantries provides barely enough illumination to reveal silhouettes of aisles and overturned forklifts scattered between the high shelves.
Each one of the intruders—including Lilly—pauses to smile as their eyes adjust enough to see all the canned goods and packaged food rising to the rafters. It is, indeed, the gold mine Martinez had hoped for. But as instantly as they all register their good luck, they hear the noises building in the deeper shadows, as if on cue with their arrival, and one by one their smiles fade—
—as they glimpse the first of the shadowy figures emerging from behind well-stocked shelves.
FOUR
On Martinez’s signal, they start firing, the collective snapping of silencers and flickering muzzle flashes lighting up the dark warehouse. Lilly gets off three quick blasts, and takes down two at a range of about fifty feet. One of the targets—an obese man in tattered work clothes, his flesh the color of earthworms—jerks against a shelf, his skull gushing cerebral fluids as he knocks over a row of canned tomatoes. The other biter—a younger male in greasy dungarees, perhaps a former forklift operator—collapses in a cascade of blood jetting out of the fresh hole in his skull.