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The Walking Dead: The Road to Woodbury (The Walking Dead Series), by Robert Kirkman, Jay Bonansinga
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The first book explained how the Governor was created; this thrilling sequel to The New York Times bestseller further reveals his ruthless, inhuman conquest of Woodbury
The zombie plague unleashes its horrors on the suburbs of Atlanta without warning, pitting the living against the dead. Caught in the mass exodus, Lilly Caul struggles to survive in a series of ragtag encampments and improvised shelters. But the Walkers are multiplying. Dogged by their feral hunger for flesh and crippled by fear, Lilly relies on the protection of good Samaritans by seeking refuge in a walled-in town once known as Woodbury, Georgia.
At first, Woodbury seems like a perfect sanctuary. Squatters barter services for food, people have roofs over their heads, and the barricade expands, growing stronger every day. Best of all, a mysterious self-proclaimed leader named Philip Blake keeps the citizens in line. But Lilly begins to suspect that all is not as it seems. . . . Blake, who has recently begun to call himself The Governor, has disturbing ideas about law and order.
Ultimately, Lilly and a band of rebels open up a Pandora's box of mayhem and destruction when they challenge The Governor's reign . . . and the road to Woodbury becomes the highway to hell in this riveting follow-up to Robert Kirkman and Jay Bonansinga's New York Times bestselling The Walking Dead: Rise of the Governor.
- Sales Rank: #452344 in Books
- Published on: 2012-10-16
- Released on: 2012-10-16
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 9.58" h x 1.12" w x 6.49" l, 1.00 pounds
- Binding: Hardcover
- 288 pages
Review
“An entertaining read.” ―ComicBookMovie.com
“The novel fleshes out . . . backstories and connects them, giving depth to people who remained largely mysteries in the comic books. For comic book readers, the novel is full of easter eggs and surprise connections, making it not only entertaining, but necessarily for filling in the gaps left by the comic books . . . ‘The Road to Woodbury' is an essential read for any fan of ‘The Walking Dead'.” ―Examiner.com
“Zombie-apocalypse stories are perfect for miserable winter weather regardless, but for those obsessed with The Walking Dead (such as yours truly), this is essential reading. This is the epitome of a page-turner, and makes subway rides just breeze by. And, that end -woof.” ―REFINERY29 on The Walking Dead: Rise of the Governor
“An excellent companion to the The Walking Dead comic books. The story is enriched by the novel format, and the characterization of the series' most hated villain is something no fan will want to miss.” ―Examiner.com on The Walking Dead: Rise of the Governor
“This book stands alone and is a compelling read for fans of the series or just fans of zombies. Watch out though, because once you get a taste of the particular Kirkman brand of zombie mayhem, catching up on past issues is just around the corner.” ―The Ossuary on The Walking Dead: Rise of the Governor
“The story makes a great novel. You'll get sucked in and can easily visualize everything that is happening. It's simply a great read.” ―Comicvine.com on The Walking Dead: Rise of the Governor
“It takes great advantage of the literary medium in a way that most tie-in books would not.” ―TVOverMind.com on The Walking Dead: Rise of the Governor
“Not for the faint of heart, this book runs on pressure-cooker suspense, graphically described bloodshed, and dark acts of brutality...This riveting character study adds a new dimension to the oeuvre by fleshing out established characters and plot lines.” ―School Library Journal on The Walking Dead: Rise of the Governor
About the Author
ROBERT KIRKMAN is best known for his work on The Walking Dead and Invincible for Image Comics and SKYBOUND. He is one of the five partners of Image Comics and is an executive producer and writer on AMC's critically acclaimed television series The Walking Dead.
JAY BONANSINGA is a critically acclaimed horror novelist whose works include Perfect Victim, Shattered, Twisted, and Frozen. His debut novel, The Black Mariah, was a finalist for a Bram Stoker Award.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
ONE
No one in the clearing hears the biters coming through the high trees.
The metallic ringing noises of tent stakes going into the cold, stubborn Georgia clay drowns the distant footsteps—the intruders still a good five hundred yards off in the shadows of neighboring pines. No one hears the twigs snapping under the north wind, or the telltale guttural moaning noises, as faint as loons behind the treetops. No one detects the trace odors of putrid meat and black mold marinating in feces. The tang of autumn wood smoke and rotting fruit on the mid-afternoon breeze masks the smell of the walking dead.
In fact, for quite a while, not a single one of the settlers in the burgeoning encampment registers any imminent danger whatsoever—most of the survivors now busily heaving up support beams hewn from found objects such as railroad ties, telephone poles, and rusty lengths of rebar.
“Pathetic … look at me,” the slender young woman in the ponytail comments with an exasperated groan, crouching awkwardly by a square of paint-spattered tent canvas folded on the ground over by the northwest corner of the lot. She shivers in her bulky Georgia Tech sweatshirt, antique jewelry, and ripped jeans. Ruddy and freckled, with long, deep brown hair that dangles in tendrils wound with delicate little feathers, Lilly Caul is a bundle of nervous tics, from the constant yanking of stray wisps of hair back behind her ears to the compulsive gnawing of fingernails. Now, with her small hand she clutches the hammer tighter and repeatedly whacks at the metal stake, grazing the head as if the thing is greased.
“It’s okay, Lilly, just relax,” the big man says, looking on from behind her.
“A two-year-old could do this.”
“Stop beating yourself up.”
“It’s not me I want to beat up.” She pounds some more, two-handing the hammer. The stake goes nowhere. “It’s this stupid stake.”
“You’re choked up too high on the hammer.”
“I’m what?”
“Move your hand more toward the end of the handle, let the tool do the work.”
More pounding.
The stake jumps off hard ground, goes flying, and lands ten feet away.
“Damn it! Damn it!” Lilly hits the ground with the hammer, looks down and exhales.
“You’re doing fine, babygirl, lemme show you.”
The big man moves in next to her, kneels, and starts to gently take the hammer from her. Lilly recoils, refusing to hand over the implement. “Give me a second, okay? I can handle this, I can,” she insists, her narrow shoulders tensing under the sweatshirt.
She grabs another stake and starts again, tapping the metal crown tentatively. The ground resists, as tough as cement. It’s been a cold October so far, and the fallow fields south of Atlanta have hardened. Not that this is a bad thing. The tough clay is also porous and dry—for the moment at least—hence the decision to pitch camp here. Winter’s coming, and this contingent has been regrouping here for over a week, settling in, recharging, rethinking their futures—if indeed they have any futures.
“You kinda just let the head fall on it,” the burly African-American demonstrates next to her, making swinging motions with his enormous arm. His huge hands look as though they could cover her entire head. “Use gravity and the weight of the hammer.”
It takes a great deal of conscious effort for Lilly not to stare at the black man’s arm as it pistons up and down. Even crouching in his sleeveless denim shirt and ratty down vest, Josh Lee Hamilton cuts an imposing figure. Built like an NFL tackle, with monolithic shoulders, enormous tree-trunk thighs, and thick neck, he still manages to carry himself quite gently. His sad, long-lashed eyes and his deferential brow, which perpetually creases the front of his balding pate, give off an air of unexpected tenderness. “No big deal … see?” He shows her again and his tattooed bicep—as big as a pig’s belly—jumps as he wields the imaginary hammer. “See what I’m sayin’?”
Lilly discreetly looks away from Josh’s rippling arm. She feels a faint frisson of guilt every time she notices his muscles, his tapered back, his broad shoulders. Despite the amount of time they have been spending together in this hell-on-earth some Georgians are calling “the Turn,” Lilly has scrupulously avoided crossing any intimate boundaries with Josh. Best to keep it platonic, brother-and-sister, best buds, nothing more. Best to keep it strictly business … especially in the midst of this plague.
But that has not stopped Lilly from giving the big man coy little sidelong grins when he calls her “girlfriend” or “babydoll” … or making sure he gets a glimpse of the Chinese character tattooed above Lilly’s tailbone at night when she’s settling into her sleeping bag. Is she leading him on? Is she manipulating him for protection? The rhetorical questions remain unanswered.
For Lilly the embers of fear constantly smoldering in her gut have cauterized all ethical issues and nuances of social behavior. In fact, fear has dogged her off and on for most her life—she developed an ulcer in high school, and had to be on antianxiety meds during her aborted tenure at Georgia Tech—but now it simmers constantly inside her. The fear poisons her sleep, clouds her thoughts, presses in on her heart. The fear makes her do things.
She seizes the hammer so tightly now it makes the veins twitch in her wrist.
“It’s not rocket science ferchrissake!” she barks, and finally gets control of the hammer and drives a stake into the ground through sheer rage. She grabs another stake. She moves to the opposite corner of the canvas, and then wills the metal bit straight through the fabric and into the ground by pounding madly, wildly, missing as many blows as she connects. Sweat breaks out on her neck and brow. She pounds and pounds. She loses herself for a moment.
At last she pauses, exhausted, breathing hard, greasy with perspiration.
“Okay … that’s one way to do it,” Josh says softly, rising to his feet, a smirk on his chiseled brown face as he regards the half-dozen stakes pinning the canvas to the ground. Lilly says nothing.
The zombies, coming undetected through the trees to the north, are now less than five minutes away.
Not a single one of Lilly Caul’s fellow survivors—numbering close to a hundred now, all grudgingly banding together to try and build a ragtag community here—realizes the one fatal drawback to this vacant rural lot in which they’ve erected their makeshift tents.
At first glance, the property appears to be ideal. Situated in a verdant area fifty miles south of the city—an area that normally produces millions of bushels of peaches, pears, and apples annually—the clearing sits in a natural basin of seared crabgrass and hard-packed earth. Abandoned by its onetime landlords—probably the owners of the neighboring orchards—the lot is the size of a soccer field. Gravel drives flank the property. Along these winding roads stand dense, overgrown walls of white pine and live oak that stretch up into the hills.
At the north end of the pasture stands the scorched, decimated remains of a large manor home, its blackened dormers silhouetted against the sky like petrified skeletons, its windows blown out by a recent maelstrom. Over the last couple of months, fires have taken out large chunks of the suburbs and farmhouses south of Atlanta.
Back in August, after the first human encounters with walking corpses, the panic that swept across the South played havoc with the emergency infrastructure. Hospitals got overloaded and then closed down, firehouses went dark, and Interstate 85 clogged up with wrecks. People gave up finding stations on their battery-operated radios, and then started looking for supplies to scavenge, places to loot, alliances to strike, and areas in which to hunker.
The people gathered here on this abandoned homestead found each other on the dusty back roads weaving through the patchwork tobacco farms and deserted strip malls of Pike, Lamar, and Meriwether counties. Comprising all ages, including over a dozen families with small children, their convoy of sputtering, dying vehicles grew … until the need to find shelter and breathing room became paramount.
Now they sprawl across this two-square-acre parcel of vacant land like a throwback to some depression-era Hooverville, some of them living in their cars, others carving out niches on the softer grass, a few of them already ensconced in small pup tents around the periphery. They have very few firearms, and very little ammunition. Garden implements, sporting goods, kitchen equipment—all the niceties of civilized life—now serve as weapons. Dozens of these survivors are still pounding stakes into the cold, scabrous ground, working diligently, racing some unspoken, invisible clock, struggling to erect their jury-rigged sanctuaries—each one of them oblivious to the peril that approaches through the pines to the north.
One of the settlers, a lanky man in his mid-thirties in a John Deere cap and leather jacket, stands under the edge of a gigantic field of canvas in the center of the pasture, his chiseled features shaded by the gargantuan tent fabric. He supervises a group of sullen teenagers gathered under the canvas. “C’mon, ladies, put your backs into it!” he barks, hollering over the din of clanging metal filling the chilled air.
The teens grapple with a massive wooden beam, which serves as the center mast of what is essentially a large circus tent. They found the tent back on I-85, strewn in a ditch next to an overturned ...
Most helpful customer reviews
22 of 24 people found the following review helpful.
Worth Reading, Now That It's in Paperback
By SteveBassist121
If you're expecting the same thrill ride that you get with other zombie novels, you're going to be disappointed with this one. However, it is better than the first book in this series (The Rise of the Governor) and now that it's in paperback I think it's worth reading.
I realize some people are going to stop here, so here's a 5-star zombie novel that I found recommended in a WD Vol 18 review - Cryonic: A Zombie Novel.
If you do read Road to Woodbury, don't expect to be impressed by the writing. What you will enjoy is learning more of The Governor's backstory, as well as who helped him reach his exalted status. Though, to be honest, the book is more about life in Woodbury than it is The Road to Woodbury.
There are some emotional moments when characters are lost and that gives the book some merit. In addition to The Governor, the novel closely follows Lilly Caul as she struggles to survive the fall of Atlanta. I really enjoyed her moves from one encampment to the next, as my favorite part of zombie stories is surviving "the fall of man."
As you might expect, she ends up in Woodbury and I don't want to give anymore away, but let's just say not everyone will comply with The Governor's desires without question and possibly even rebellion.
32 of 37 people found the following review helpful.
Throw away your thesaurus!
By B. Gildersleeve
My review is directed toward Mr. Kirkman and Mr. Bonansinga, in the hopes that they might find it as useful constructive criticism when they set out to write their next novel. This is a great story with lots of potential, but the writing style is awkward and overly verbose. The authors indulge in cliché metaphors and have a habit of substituting perfectly good descriptive words for replacements dug up from the depths of their thesaurus. I needed a dictionary on hand in order to read this book, which is a rare occurrence for me. It seems that the authors took every opportunity to replace a perfectly normal word with some completely obscure term, to little effect. In many cases, these substitutions resulted in descriptions that were factually inaccurate. One example is the use of the term "Doppler echo" to describe a sound heard by the passengers inside a vehicle. The Doppler effect is only perceived by stationary listeners hearing a moving sound source (or vice versa), NOT those moving along with the sound source... and there is no echo associated with this phenomenon at all. This is a nitpick, I admit, but it just goes to show that the authors (or perhaps the editors) went out of their way to use "grown up words" when they obviously had no idea what they were talking about. The result is that the book feels sloppy and unprofessional. Listen, guys... Just write the story, OK? I am already hooked by the awesome character dramas you have unfolding in this bleak apocalyptic world. I love the comic. I love the show. Just tell me a story. You gain nothing by shoehorning in some obscure vocabulary just for the sake of looking smart. Stop being unnecessarily verbose and focus that energy instead on telling a compelling narrative.
8 of 8 people found the following review helpful.
Chimenea fodder
By Anthony R. Fanning
Having been given this book as a gift, I wasn't aware of its existence or that of the previous book prior to reading it. However, I've been a fan of "the undead" stories since " Night of The Living Dead" came out.
After reading "The Walking Dead: The Road to Woodbury", I found it difficult to believe that it is printed by an actual big publishing house. It reads more like some high school creative writing project, totally lacking in research and originality. The present tense, the poor grammar, the use of unnecessary twenty-dollar words, the use of slang, and yes, even incorrect use of homophones which throw off the rhythm , made this appear to have been edited by spell-check alone. And not only is the book packed full of obscure adjectives, but also words that are used inappropriately. It doesn't even make sense. The characters are flat, the story is weak, and the plot is nonexistent.
I read a few other reviews which talk about the author's lack of experience or familiarity with the military (which I heartily agree) and Georgia's geography, fauna, and crops, so I'd like to throw in his apparently limited knowledge of injury and the nature of fire. Florets of tissue coming from a bullet wound? A machine gun that disintegrates a body? A house fire that doesn't generate radiant heat? (A modern house fire will generate a massive plume of black smoke which rises over a thousand feet into the air.) I'm guessing the writers did their research on these subjects by watching old B grade movies.
There's the "this character looks like this celebrity" bit found in teen writing, and the plotless stream of activity shows the book to be less a story and more just a prop for some splashy scenes. Seriously, the writers cannot even build tension in a scene, they have to tell you the scene is tense.
Honestly, the only reason I finished reading this tripe is because it was a gift, otherwise I'd have dropped it in the trash can where it belongs. This book is just plain stupid.
It seems that as difficult as it is for good writers to get into the publishing business, a publishing house might actually read the book they're publishing before they pee on themselves over the sales potentials.
As I'm writing this review I realize that St. Martin's Press must absolutely believe that readers are complete morons. Then again, I kind of feel like a moron for having finished it.
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