Miles Littleton kicks the brake pedal and skids the Challenger across a weathered macadam in the middle of Thomaston Woods. He comes to a screeching halt on a hairpin that sits at the top of Mullins Hill. His headlights throw two beams of silver through the foggy, dense wall of birches in front of him. His heart races. His mouth is dry. He stares as he registers what he’s seeing. He slams the shift lever into park, leaves the engine running, and gets out. He pads across the shoulder, down a gravel slope, and through about fifteen feet of oily-dark forest, batting away the gnats and vines and slender pine boughs that claw him in the face. He comes to a gap in the undergrowth, and peers out through the opening. In the distance, down in a vast patchwork of fallow brown tobacco fields, in the pale moonlight, he sees the shadows of the slow-moving motorcade. From this distance, illuminated by the pinpricks of light from torches and headlamps, the convoy vehicles look as tiny as figures in an ant farm, and harmless—almost festive—as they churn westward, traveling in a narrow, single-file formation in the center median of Highway 74 like a radiant yellow string of fireflies.
What do You think about The Walking Dead: Invasion?
