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

WHATEVER!!! Nick hurries off, still carrying the pickaxe, while Brian approaches, staring at the dead thing lying facedown in the grass, its skull stoved in. Brian gives it a wide berth. He picks up the nail gun—just in case—and he scans the hill behind the back fence as Philip now holds Bobby in his arms like a giant baby. Bobby is crying, breathing quick, shallow, rattling breaths. Philip comforts his friend, murmuring encouragement and assuring him that it’s all going to be okay … but it’s clear, as Brian cautiously approaches, that things are definitely not going to be okay.
    *   *   *
    Moments later, Nick returns with an armful of large sterile cotton bandages from inside, as well as a plastic bottle of alcohol in one back pocket and a roll of cotton tape in the other. But something has changed. The emergency has transformed into something darker—a deathwatch.
    “We gotta get him inside,” Philip announces, now soaked in his friend’s blood. But Philip makes no effort to lift the fat man. Bobby Marsh is going to die. That much is clear to all of them.
    It’s especially clear to Bobby Marsh, who now lies in a state of shock, staring up at the gunmetal sky, struggling to speak.
    Brian stands nearby, holding the nail gun at his side, staring down at Bobby. Nick drops the bandages. He lets out an anguished breath. He looks as though he might start to cry, but instead he simply drops to his knees on the other side of Bobby and hangs his head.
    “I—I—n-n-nn—” Bobby Marsh tries desperately to get Philip to understand something.
    “Sssshhhhh…” Philip strokes the man’s shoulder. Philip cannot think straight. He turns, grabs a roll of bandages, and starts dressing the wound.
    “Nnn-n-NO!” Bobby pushes the bandage away.
    “Bobby, goddamnit.”
    “NN-NO!”
    Philip stops, swallows hard, looks into the watery eyes of the dying man. “It’s gonna be okay,” Philip says, his voice changing.
    “N-no—it ain’t,” Bobby manages. Somewhere way up in the sky, a crow yammers. Bobby knows what’s going to happen. They saw a man in a ditch back in Covington come back in less than ten minutes. “S-ss-stop saying that, Philly.”
    “Bobby—”
    “It’s over,” Bobby manages in a feeble whisper, and his eyes roll back for a moment. Then he sees the nail gun in Brian’s hand. With his big bloody sausage fingers, Bobby reaches for the muzzle.
    Brian drops the gun with a start.
    “Goddamnit, we gotta get him inside!” Philip’s voice is laced with hopelessness as Bobby Marsh blindly reaches for the nail gun. He gets his fat hand around the pointed barrel and tries to lift it to his temple.
    “Jesus Christ,” Nick utters.
    “Get that thing away from him!” Philip waves Brian away from the victim.
    Bobby’s tears track down the sides of his huge head, cleansing the blood in streaks. “P-please, Philly,” Bobby murmurs. “J-just … do it.”
    Philip stands up. “Nick!—C’mere!” Philip turns and walks a few paces toward the house.
    Nick rises to his feet and joins Philip. The two men stand fifteen feet away from Bobby, out of earshot, their backs turned, their voices low and strained.
    “We gotta cut him,” Philip says quickly.
    “We gotta what?”
    “Amputate his leg.”
    “What!”
    “Before the sickness spreads.”
    “But how do you—”
    “We don’t know how fast it spreads, we gotta try, we owe the man at least that .”
    “But—”
    “I’m gonna need ya to go get the hacksaw from the shed and also bring—”
    A voice rings out behind them, interrupting Philip’s tense litany: “Guys?”
    It’s Brian, and from the grim sound of his nasally call, the news is most likely bad.
    Philip and Nick turn.
    Bobby Marsh is stone-still.
    Brian’s eyes well up as he kneels next to the fat man. “It’s too late.”
    Philip and Nick come over to where Bobby lies in the grass, his eyes closed. His big, flabby chest does not move. His mouth is slack.
    “Oh no …