Free The Walking Dead Collection by Robert Kirkman, Jay Bonansinga Page B

lot, with scores of cars, some burning, most of them tangled in the chain reaction.
    Philip pulls the Suburban over and brings it to a stop on the shoulder fifty yards from the dwindling flames. “That’s just fantastic,” he says to no one in particular, wanting to launch a barrage of profanity, but barely containing himself (on account of Penny’s ears being inches away).
    From this distance—even in the flickering darkness—several things are clear. First, and foremost, it is obvious they are either going to have to find a team of firefighters and heavy-duty towing equipment in order to continue on course or they’re going to have to figure out a fucking detour. Second, it looks as though whatever happened here took place in the very recent past, perhaps earlier today, perhaps only hours ago. The pavement around the wreck is blackened and scarred, as though a meteor had punched a hole in it, and even the trees lining the highway are charred from the shock waves. Even through the closed windows of the Suburban, Philip can smell the acrid stench of burning diesel and melted rubber.
    “What now?” Brian finally says.
    “Gotta turn around,” Nick says, looking over his shoulder.
    “Just lemme think for a second,” Philip says, staring at the overturned truck cab, the roof sheared off it like the lid of a tin can. In the darkness, charred bodies lie sprawled across the muddy median. Some of them are twitching with the lazy undulations of snakes waking up.
    “C’mon, Philip, we can’t get around it,” Nick says.
    Brian speaks up. “Maybe we can cut across to 278.”
    “GODDAMNIT, SHUT UP AND LET ME THINK!”
    The sudden flare of rage makes Philip’s skull throb with the force of a splitting migraine, and he grits his teeth, clenching his fists and stuffing the voice back down inside himself: Crack it open, do it, tear it open now, tear the heart out  …
    “Sorry,” Philip says, wiping his mouth, glancing over his shoulder at the frightened little girl huddling in the darkness of the backseat. “I’m real sorry, punkin, Daddy lost it there for a second.”
    The little girl stares at the floor.
    “What do you want to do?” Brian asks softly, and from the forlorn tone of his voice it sounds as though he would follow his brother into the flames of hell if Philip thought that was the best option right now.
    “Last exit was—what?—maybe a mile or so back there?” Philip glances over his shoulder. “I’m thinking that maybe we should—”
    The slapping noise comes out of nowhere, cutting Philip off mid-thought.
    Penny shrieks.
    “SHIT!”
    Nick jerks away from the passenger window, where a charred corpse has materialized out of the darkness.
    “Get down, Nick. Now.” Philip’s voice is flat and unaffected, like a radio dispatcher, as he quickly leans over to the glove box, pops the tiny door, and fishes for something. The thing outside the window presses up against the glass, barely recognizable as human, its flesh blistered to a crisp. “Brian, cover Penny’s eyes.”
    “SHIT! SHIT!” Nick ducks down and covers his head, as though in an air raid. “SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!”
    Philip finds the Ruger .22 pistol where he left it, already with a round in the chamber.
    In one fluid motion Philip raises the weapon with his right hand, while simultaneously jacking down the power window with his left. The burned zombie reaches through the opening with its scorched, emaciated arm, letting out a guttural moan, but before it can grab hold of Nick’s shirt, Philip squeezes off a single shot—point-blank, into the thing’s skull.
    The bark of the Ruger is enormously loud inside the Subrban’s interior, and it makes everybody jump, as the charred corpse whiplashes—a direct hit above its left temple sending brain matter spitting across the inside of the windshield.
    The thing slides down the outside of the passenger door, the muffled sound of its body hitting the pavement barely audible over the ringing in