The Fall of the Governor, Part 2

by Robert Kirkman

  A sudden noise to his immediate right straightens his spine—the clatter of a tin can rolling across pavement—and he pulls the trigger. Half a dozen high-velocity slugs trace through the dark like Roman candles, ricocheting off the adjacent brick in a necklace of dust puffs.

  Gabe stops and listens, the blasts echoing in his ears. Nothing moves. Nothing makes a sound. Maybe he has the wrong alley. He could have sworn the thing lumbered into this one, but the darkness works on Gabe now, steals his confidence, sends tremors of panic down his bones.

  What the fuck?

  He approaches the end of the alley, a dead end crowded with garbage Dumpsters and strewn with trash. He reaches for his Zippo with his free hand, his other hand propping the rifle on his ample hip. He can hear the low putter of a generator nearby—probably inside the wall—as he pulls the lighter out and thumbs the little flywheel, sparking a minuscule yellow flame.

  The flickering cone of light illuminates a huge figure with milk-glass eyes in a tattered burial coat standing three feet away.

  Gabe lets out a yelp and drops the lighter, jerking back and fumbling for the trigger as the biter lunges at him, chewing at the air. Gabe loses his balance. He falls on his ass hard, hitting the pavement with a grunt. The biter pounces—this one hungry and twitchy and full of fight—and Gabe flails impotently at the thing with the short barrel of the rifle, unable to get a good shot.

  The gun discharges once, the muzzle flash capturing a snapshot of the monster going for Gabe’s throat with green, mossy incisors. Gabe manages to dodge the snapping teeth but loses his grip on the gun in the process, the MIG clattering to the pavement beside him. He squirms and writhes and lets out a throttled cry of rage and finally gets his hand around the grip of the Randall knife in his boot.

  With one violent jerk he thrusts the blade up at the biter’s head.

  At first the knife merely lands a glancing blow to the monster’s jaw, ripping open a flap of mortified flesh. Gabe’s eyes have adjusted to the dark enough now to see shapes—wet, fleshy blurs—and he slashes madly at the top of the creature until the knife impales the monster through the left nostril. The point penetrates the nasal cavity and the rotten skull fissures down the middle with the adrenaline-fueled force of Gabe’s stabbing blow.

  The biter gushes fluids all over him as the cranium splits in half.

  Gabe gasps and rolls away, the dead thing deflating and going still in a puddle of its own fluids, which spread on the paving stones like black oil. Gabe manages to roll toward his rifle. But before he can get to the gun—his heart racing now, his adrenaline sparking in his eyes like sunspots—he senses a change in the alley behind him. Movement as black as bat wings floods his peripheral vision as the noise of inhuman growling—a chorus of guttural, rusty gears grinding—rumbles slowly toward him. He smells the telltale stench of rancid proteins and black rot flooding the alley. Dizziness courses over him as he rises up on shaky legs and slowly turns. His eyes suddenly dilate—an involuntary shudder traveling down his spine—as he takes in the horror.

  At least ten biters—maybe more—shuffle toward him with implacable dead stares—an entire pack blotting out any hope of escape, an insatiable regiment of monsters moving as one, closing in on him, silhouetted like deadly marionettes by the light spilling across the mouth of the alley behind them. Gabe lets out another garbled, defiant scream, and darts toward his gun.

  It’s too late. Before he can scoop the weapon up, the lead walker goes for his beefy shoulder. He kicks at its midsection with his jackboot, reaching for his Glock, when another monster moves in from his other flank, clawing at his neck. Gabe puts his head down and raises the pistol and tries to steamroll his way through the center of the pack—firing wildly—the muzzle barking and flashing with the surreal, intermittent flicker of a nickelodeon.

  There’s too many of them. Dead arms reach for him before he clears the jumble, cold fingers curled into grappling hooks, latching onto him, driving him to the pavement. He lands on the stones, wrenching his back, gasping for breath, his clip already empty, the air knocked out of his lungs. He tries to roll away, but the creatures descend on him—a pack of wolves going for his jugular—and he ends up on his back, wedged against the wall, trapped, staring at the inscrutable starry night sky looking down at him with impassive silence. He can’t breathe. He can’t move. The shock sets in, seizing up his stocky limbs, and he realizes with an odd measure of chagrin that this is it. This is all she wrote. Fuck. The monsters converge on him. They hover over him, their putrid maws dripping the drool of bloodlust, their eyes as shiny as Buffalo nickels. Everything slows down, as if Gabe is dreaming, as they close in for the feeding. The end … the end …

  * * *

  He always wondered if the end would be like they say it is in the movies—your life passing before you, or some bullshit woowoo thing like that—but it isn’t. Gabriel Harris learns in that horrible moment before the first set of rotten teeth clamp down on him that the end doesn’t come in gossamer wings and angelic visions. It comes in a loud pop—like a balloon exploding—and a final image steeped in wish fulfillment. He sees the closest walker whiplash suddenly in a gruesome eruption of tissue and blood, its head coming apart at the seams and raining blood on him in a slow-motion ritual baptism. He stares as the popping sounds continue—the dry, muffled snapping noises recalling a string of wet firecrackers—and more heads erupt.

  The monsters collapse around him in a gruesome sequential massacre.

  He comes back to his senses in time to see his savior out of the corner of his eye. She stands silhouetted in the center of the alley—thirty feet away—a matching .22 caliber Ruger rimfire pistol blazing in each hand, the muzzles silenced by noise suppressors. The last biter goes down, and the dry clapping noises cease as quickly as they started. The woman with the guns lets up on the triggers. Without any emotion or ceremony, she thumbs the magazine release on one gun, then the other, the empty mags dropping to the pavement with a clatter. The guns lower, dangling at her side now, as she scans the scene with the casual authority of a surveyor taking the measure of a building site.

  Gabe tries to sit up, but his back complains, the nerves pinched, his sacrum sprained. “Holy fucking shit,” he mutters, kicking away a wet corpse that had fallen on his legs. He rises to a sitting position and cringes at the pain.

  Lilly walks up to him. “You okay? Did you get nipped? Did they break the skin?”

  Gabe takes in a series of deep breaths, glancing around the alley at the carnage. The dozen or so biters now lie in contorted bundles of morbid flesh across the width of the alley, their heads blossoming with the red jelly of breached brain matter, the paving stones around them running red with their diseased blood. “No … I’m … no,” Gabe stammers, trying to get his bearings. “I’m good.”

  At the mouth of the alley, an arc light sweeps across the gap and penetrates the darkness. Lilly kneels by Gabe, and she shoves her pistols down the back of her jeans. The light puts a silver halo around her head, highlighting wisps of her chestnut-brown hair. “Lemme give you a hand,” she says and helps him to his feet.

  Gabe groans slightly as he levers his bullish body to its full height. “Where’s my gun?”

  “We’ll get it,” she says.

  Gabe stretches his sore neck. “That was about as close as I ever want to come.”

  “I hear ya.” She glances over her shoulder. The sounds of voices raised over the din of gunfire begin to fade. Lilly lets out a breath. “There’s no excuse for this,” she says. “We need all hands on deck from now on.”

  “Copy that,” Gabe says.

  “C’mon, let’s get you checked out and clean up this fucking mess.”

  She starts toward the mouth of the alley when he grabs her and gently stops her.

  “Lilly, wait,” he says, and licks his lips. He’s not good with words, but he needs to say something to her. He looks into her eyes. “Thanks for … you know … I’m just saying … I appreciate it.”


  She shrugs and gives him a smirk. “I need you in one piece.”

  He starts to say something else when he notices Lilly suddenly flinching, doubling over slightly. She holds her tummy.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah … just a little cramp.” She breathes through her mouth, blowing breaths over her lips for a moment. “Girl stuff. Don’t worry about it.” The pain passes. “C’mon … let’s go kick some ass.”

  She turns and walks away, stepping over the corpses of the dead.

  * * *

  That night, Lilly and her inner circle stay up late, working behind the scenes to shore up the town’s defenses. Bruce marshals every last able-bodied man on Martinez’s crew to reinforce the barricades. They repair the north wall, strengthening the ramparts with extra sheet metal and timbers, and they move more trailers across the weak spots. They keep a close watch on the surrounding wetlands.

  All the noise and confusion of the walker attack has stirred more of the dead out of the adjacent woods. Gabe supervises a rotating shift of gunners positioned at the .50 caliber perches off each corner of the wall. Well into the wee hours, the armor-piercing rounds crackle and flare at regular intervals, picking off stragglers shambling out of the trees in groups of two or three, and sometimes as many as nine or ten clumped together in ragged phalanxes. Nobody really notices the fact that the behavior of the dead is changing, their number growing, their movements becoming agitated like schools of fish reacting to vibrations in a vast fishbowl. Nobody pays much attention to the growing threat of herds forming. Everybody is too busy worrying about an assault from the living.

  Second-guessing the intentions of these violent strangers becomes an almost obsessive-compulsive activity for Lilly and her comrades that night. They talk about it under their breaths as they work on the wall, they discuss it in secret in dark back rooms, they agonize over it silently to themselves as they perform their individual tasks—taking inventory of their arsenal of firearms and ammunition, making plans for another run to the National Guard station, formulating countermeasures in the event of a raid, laying traps, constructing escape routes, and generally preparing for the worst. Lilly believes they could be attacked at any moment. Since becoming pregnant, she has been vacillating between debilitating fatigue and manic bursts of energy, but now she has little time for food, rest, even a break—despite Austin’s entreaties to take it easy for the sake of the baby. Maybe it’s the rush of hormones from the early stages of her first trimester. Senses are heightened during this phase, blood flow increases, brain activity sharpens. Lilly channels this surge of energy into a whirlwind of activity—Austin has to pound Red Bull and PowerBars just to keep up with her, following her around like some harried government attaché—and she rises to the occasion with relentless attention to detail.

  Nobody says it aloud, but Lilly has almost imperceptibly slipped into the role of surrogate leader. Austin fears that it’s too much for a woman in her condition to be taking on such responsibility, but for Lilly it cuts the other way—she’s taking all these risks because she’s pregnant, not just in spite of it. She’s not only fighting for her own life—not to mention the future of the town—but she’s also fighting for the life of her unborn child. She will do what has to be done until the Governor is back in action. On a deeper level, she’s learning what Woodbury means to her. She almost feels as though she understands the Governor on a more fundamental level now. She would kill for this town.

  With the dawning of the next morning, Austin finally talks her into having something to eat—he makes her ramen noodles on the Sterno pot—and then convinces her she should get off her feet for a few hours. Gabe offers to take over supervisory duties while she rests, and the town goes about its business of surviving another day.

  The rumor mill quiets down—for the time being, at least—thanks to Barbara and David Stern, who assure the townspeople that the Governor is safe, and sending regular dispatches from the hinterlands. No, he hasn’t found the escapees yet. And no, there’s no immediate danger. And yes, everybody should just stay calm and tend to their families and not worry and take comfort in knowing the town is safe and in good hands and blah-blah-blah.

  Of course, during this strange limbo—which continues for days—nobody suspects what’s in store for Woodbury—least of all Lilly. Despite her relentless attention to stepping up their defenses and planning for every imaginable contingency, she would never dream in her wildest nightmares what is on the horizon.

  * * *

  “Let’s take a gander at that throat,” Bob Stookey says with a wink to a little boy sitting on a peach crate in a cluttered studio apartment. The child—a freckled, cherubic eight-year-old in a faded SpongeBob T-shirt with a cowlick of black hair—says “Ah,” as Bob gently inserts a tongue depressor into the boy’s mouth.

  The place smells of liniment and sweat and coffee grounds. Packing blankets drape the windows, and a ratty old sleeper couch in the corner has yellowed sheets on it. The woman of the house—the plump, olive-skinned matron who stopped Dr. Stevens during the escape—hovers over Bob and the child, wringing her hands nervously. “You see how red it is, Bob?”

  “Little sore is it, sport?” Bob says to the boy, pulling the depressor free.

  The boy nods sheepishly.

  Bob reaches down to a medical bag and rifles through the contents. “Gonna fix you right up, little man.” He pulls a small vial out of the bag. “Have you screaming at your sister again in no time.”

  The mother gives the medicine a skeptical look. “What is it?”

  Bob hands the pill bottle to the woman. “Mild antibiotic. I’m thinking we got a little bug going around—nothing to worry about. Give him one of these three times a day with food, fix him right up.”

  The woman chews her lip. “Um…”

  Bob cocks his head at her. “There a problem?”

  The woman shrugs. “I got nothin’ to trade, Bob. I can pay you back in food or something.”

  Bob smiles, closing the bag with a snap. “There’s no call for that, Marianne.”

  She looks at him. “Oh … Bob, you sure?”

  “This is Woodbury.” He winks at her. “We’re all family here.”

  Marianne Dolan once stopped traffic with her olive-skinned French-Canadian beauty, her hourglass figure, and enormous blue-green eyes. A decade and a half of hard housework and single parenting took its toll on her looks, and the plague times deepened the lines around her mouth and eyes, but now, as she breaks out in a guileless, warm smile, the splendor of her once-lovely face returns. “I really, really appreciate it, Bob, you’re a—”

  A loud knocking on the door interrupts her. Marianne blinks with a start, and Bob glances toward the door.

  Marianne turns and calls out. “Who is it, please?”

  From the other side of the door, the sound of a clear, forceful, feminine voice rings out. “It’s Lilly Caul, Marianne. Sorry to bother you.”

  Marianne Dolan goes across the room. “Lilly?” she says after opening the door and finding Lilly standing alone in the corridor. “What can I do for you?”

  “I understand Bob’s here?” Lilly says. She wears her trademark ripped denim and baggy cable-knit, her hair in mussy tendrils, a web belt loaded with mag pouches around her waist. Something about her complexion, the way she’s carrying herself, speaks of vigor, sturdiness, strength—the likes of which Marianne hasn’t seen in this woman before. The web belt is not a fashion statement.

  “He certainly is,” Marianne says with a grin. “He’s helping Timmy, in fact. Come in.”

  Bob stands as the two women approach. “Well, well … looks like the cavalry’s here. How ya doin’, Lilly-girl?”

  Lilly looks impressed. “Look at you, Bob—making house calls now.”

  Bob smiles and gives her a shrug. “It’s nothing … just trying to do my part.”

  The look on Bob’s weathered face—now alert and clear-eyed—says it all. His pouchy eyes glitter with pride, his da
rk hair neatly combed back. He is a new man, and it delights Lilly.

  She turns to Marianne. “You mind if I borrow the good doctor for a minute? Austin woke up a little under the weather today.”

  “Not a problem,” Marianne says, and then, turning to Bob, she adds, “I can’t thank you enough, Bob.” She looks at her son. “Whaddaya say, Timmy?”

  “Thanks?” the little boy mutters, gazing up at his mom and the other adults.

  Bob pats the child’s head. “Don’t mention it, sport. Hang in there.”

  Lilly leads Bob out the door, down the corridor, and out the exit.

  “What’s the problem with pretty boy?” Bob asks as they stroll down the brick path in front of the Dolans’ building. The sun is high and bright in the cloudless sky, the heat pressing down on them. The Georgia summer isn’t far off—the vaguest hints of asphalt baking and miserable muggy days on the breeze.

  “Austin’s fine,” Lilly tells him, leading him into a little alcove of poplar trees for some privacy. “I didn’t want to ask you about the Governor in front of Marianne.”

  Bob nods and gazes across the street at a row of storefronts, where some kids are playing kickball. “He’s okay, far as I can tell. Still in a coma, but his breathing seems normal. Color’s good, pulse is strong. I think he’s going to make it, Lilly.”

  She nods and lets out a sigh. She gazes into the distance, thinking. “I’ve done everything I can think of to keep us safe while he’s out.”

  “You done good, Lilly. We’re gonna be fine. Thanks to you taking the ball.”

  “I just wish he would wake up.” She thinks about it some more. “I don’t want people getting nervous, panicking. They’re already wondering why he would be out on the search for so long.”

  “Don’t you worry, he’ll come back to us. He’s as strong as a bull.”