Brian sees himself grow still.
Brian sees the target at the front of the room, twenty-five feet away.
Brian sees himself take a single step away from the vending machine, reaching behind his belt, grasping hold of the beavertail grip of the .38-caliber pistol, while Gavin continues hollering orders up front, oblivious, pacing across stoic portraits of Woodbury’s forefathers.
Brian sees himself taking three more tactical steps, moving down the center aisle, while simultaneously drawing the .38 from his belt in one smooth instinctual movement. He holds the gun at his side as he completes the fourth additional stride—coming within fifteen feet of Gavin, finally getting Gavin’s attention, causing the Major to pause and look up—and that’s when Brian raises the muzzle and empties the entire cylinder of lethal, hollow-point Glaser Safety Slugs into the general vicinity of Gavin’s face.
This time, the townspeople jerk in their seats at the noise but, oddly, nobody screams.
* * *
No one is more shocked by Brian’s actions than Brian, and he stands frozen for one excruciating moment in the center aisle, the .38 still raised and empty, his arm locked in the shooting position, the spectacle of Major Gavin’s remains slumped on the floor against the front wall. Gavin’s upper body is riddled, his face and neck pumping deep red arterial blood in oily bubbles.
The spell is broken by the sound of squeaking chairs, the shuffle of people rising. Brian lowers the gun to his side. He looks around. Some of the townspeople are moving to the front of the room. Others are staring at Brian. One of the men kneels by Gavin’s body, but he doesn’t bother feeling for a pulse or looking too closely. The one named Martinez comes over to Brian.
“Don’t take this personally, brother,” Martinez says, his voice a low, grave murmur. “But you better get your ass outta here.”
“No.” Brian feels as though his center of gravity has returned, his very soul rebooting like a computer powering back up.
Martinez stares. “Gonna be hell to pay when those goons get back.”
“It’ll be okay,” Brian says, reaching into his pocket for the speed-loader. He dumps the empty shells, then fumbles the fresh round into the pistol. He’s unskilled at the maneuver but his hands are rock steady. He has stopped shaking. “We outnumber them ten to one.”
Some of the townspeople are gathered by the vending machine, clustered around the body of the one named Detroit. Dr. Stevens is feeling for a pulse as the sound of someone softly crying reaches Brian’s ears. He turns toward the group gathered there.
“Who’s armed in here?” he asks.
A few hands go up.
“Stay close,” Brian says, then weaves his way through the stunned, milling townspeople to the exit. He stands inside the door, gazing out through the panes of safety glass at the blustery, overcast autumn day.
Even through the door’s window glass, the unmistakable drone of zombies can be heard way off in the distance, under the wind. They now sound different somehow to Brian’s ears. Segregated behind makeshift barricades, sectioned off from the stubborn little enclave of survivors by thin membranes of wood and metal, the low, ubiquitous symphony of moaning noises—as ugly and dissonant as wind chimes fashioned from human bones—no longer whisper of doom. They now speak of opportunity. They sound to Brian like an invitation to a new way of life, a new paradigm that is just now forming within Brian like the birth of a new religion.
A voice next to Brian snaps him out of his trance. He turns and sees Martinez, giving him an inquisitive look. “I’m sorry,” Brian says. “What did you say?”
“Your name … I didn’t catch it before.”
“My name?”
Martinez nods. “I’m Martinez … and you are…?”
Brian pauses for the slimmest of moments before replying, “Philip … Philip Blake.”
Martinez reaches out to shake Brian’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Philip.”
With a firm grip, the two men clasp hands, and in that single gesture a new order begins to take shape.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
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 hit 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.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously.
THE WALKING DEAD: RISE OF THE GOVERNOR. Copyright © 2011 by Robert Kirkman and Jay Bonansinga. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
“In My Dreams” by Jeanie B! copyright © 2004 by Jeanne Bonansinga. Used by permission.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.stmartins.com
e-ISBN 9781429995788
First Edition: October 2011
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Document creation date: 30.11.2012
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