There were probably lots of cults in the world nowadays, thought Keats. Seeing the dead rise and eat the living reinforced a belief in the supernatural, and who knows how many people were just going through the motions of prayer and devotion in order to get food and protection.
But Marco's people wore expressions of genuine love. Maybe it was a good love. Keats had never seen anyone survive a walker bite, not without amputation.
He went outside into the yard. Sitting in an old car was their minder/guard/spy. He nodded to him and walked out into the street.
It was twilight. The air was not much cooler than the day's and the mosquitoes were beginning their shift. He saw a person on a bicycle and two people working in a garden, but most of the population seemed to live closer to the center, near the church.
After cutting through a couple of yards, he came to the fence that encircled the compound. It was about ten feet tall and topped with barbed wire. A hundred yards down the line was a guard tower made out of an old bucket truck. Someone inside it stood with a rifle on his hip.
From far in the woods came a scream. It was high-pitched and forced, like a song off key. It was not the scream of someone caught by a walker, but it was unsettling nonetheless.
A Rottweiler ran up from the brush beyond the fence and bashed against it. He growled and snarled at Keats but didn't bark.
Keats squatted to get eye level with him. Before Lady, he hadn't seen a dog since before the outbreak. If there were any stray packs, they stayed far away from people.
This wasn't a stray. His coat was clean and black, his body stout and healthy.
"How do you survive out here, buddy?" said Keats.
The dog bashed the fence and gave a low, quick bark.
Keats stood up and walked backwards as the dog stared and growled. He reached the back fence and was about to hop over it when something seized his arm.