The Fall of the Governor, Part 1

by Robert Kirkman

  Behind Rick, a voice murmurs something that Martinez doesn’t catch at first.

  Rick starts, spins, and looks at Michonne. Glenn does the same. In fact, they all turn and look at the black woman, who stands in the shadows, looking grim and stoic as she stares off at the night.

  “I’m not leaving yet,” she utters in a voice so cold and committed it could be a declaration of name-rank-and-serial-number.

  “What?!” Glenn gawks at her. “What are you talking about?!”

  Michonne stares at the young man through bottomless dark eyes. Her voice is as steady as a cleric delivering the holy writ. “I’m going to visit the Governor.”

  SIXTEEN

  The mute silence that follows Michonne’s declaration seems to hold the entire group rapt for endless moments, as the implications of her pronouncement spread from person to person, from awkward glance to awkward glance, like a disease transmitted by eye contact. It goes unspoken what she has in mind for Philip Blake—although no one dares to contemplate the specifics—and that’s the part that hits people first. But as the silence lengthens and turns uncomfortable in that reeking dark alley, it becomes clear to Martinez, who is gazing down at this transaction from the lift platform, that Michonne’s unstoppable trajectory speaks to something darker than mere vengeance. In these brutal new times, the act of revenge—albeit a lower, baser instinct during the normal course of human events—now seems to take on an apocalyptic inevitability, as natural as shooting a walking corpse in the head or watching a loved one turn into a monster. Infected appendages are quickly severed and cauterized in this horrible new society. Evil people are no longer a thing of legend and forensic cop shows. In this new world, they are like sick cattle that simply need to be separated from the herd. They are defective parts that need to be replaced. Nobody standing at that wall that night could blame or even be surprised at Michonne’s sudden and inexorable decision to circle back and find the cancerous cell festering in that town—the man who desecrated her—but that doesn’t make it easier to watch.

  “Michonne, I don’t think—” Rick starts to object.

  “I’ll catch up with you,” she says, cutting him off. “Or I won’t.”

  “Michonne—”

  “I can’t leave without doing this.” She augers her gaze into Rick’s eyes. “Go ahead.” Then she turns and looks at Alice. “Where does he live?”

  * * *

  At that moment, on the other side of town, nobody notices two figures slipping into the dark maw of an alley just beyond the S-curve on Durand Street—about as far away from the commotion of the racetrack and the central business district as you can get and still be within the safe zone. No guards stray this far south of Main Street, and the outer concertina-wire fences keep errant biters at bay.

  Bundled in denim, with blanket rolls under their arms, the two of them move side by side, staying low. One of them hauls a long canvas bag on a sling over his shoulder, the contents clanking softly with each bump. At the end of the alley, they squeeze through a narrow gap between a semitruck cab and a railroad boxcar.

  “Where in God’s name are you taking me?” Lilly Caul wants to know, following Austin across a vacant lot veiled in darkness.

  Austin gives her a mischievous chuckle. “You’ll see … trust me.”

  Lilly steps gingerly over a patch of thorny milkweed and smells the odor of decay emanating from the adjacent forest, about fifty yards beyond the outer perimeter. The back of her neck bristles. Austin takes her arm and helps her over fallen timber and into a clearing.

  “Be careful, watch your step,” he says, treating her with the kid gloves of an old-school father-to-be, which, to Lilly, is at once annoying and kind of adorable.

  “I’m pregnant, Austin, not an invalid.” She follows him into the center of the clearing. It’s a private place, sheltered by foliage and deadfall branches. There’s a hollowed-out crater in the ground, scorched and petrified, where some previous visitor had dug a fire pit. “Where did you learn about prenatal care? Cartoons?”

  “Very funny, wise guy … sit down.”

  Two ancient tree stumps provide perfect—if not exactly comfortable—places for a couple to sit and talk. The crickets roar all around them as Austin sets his bag down, and then takes a seat next to Lilly.

  The sky above them twinkles and pulses with the kind of starry heavens only seen in rural areas. The clouds have dispersed, and the air—for once—is clear of walker stench. It smells of pine and black earth and clear night.

  Lilly feels for the first time since—well, since as far back as she can remember—like a whole person. She feels as though they might actually have a chance to make this work. Austin is no dream father, nor is he the perfect husband by any stretch of the imagination, but he has a spark to him that touches Lilly’s heart. He’s a decent soul, and that’s enough for now. They have a lot of challenges ahead of them, a lot to work out, a lot of dangerous terrain to navigate. But she believes now that they will survive … together.

  “So, what’s this mysterious ritual you dragged me out here for, anyway?” she says finally, lifting her collar and stretching her stiff neck. Her breasts are sore, and her tummy’s been complaining all day. But in a strange way, she has never felt better.

  “My brothers and I used to do this thing every Halloween,” he says, indicating the canvas bag. “Came up with it when we were high, I guess … but it makes sense right now for some reason.” He looks at her. “Did you bring those things I asked you to bring?”

  She gives him a nod. “Yep.” She pats her jacket pocket. “Got ’em right here.”

  “Okay … good.” He stands, goes over to the bag, and unzips it. “We usually make a fire to throw the stuff into … but I’m thinking tonight we’ll try to avoid attracting the attention.” He pulls out a shovel, goes over to the pit, and starts digging. “Instead we’ll just bury the stuff.”

  Lilly pulls out a couple photographs she found in her wallet, a bullet from one of her Ruger pistols, and a small object wrapped in tissue paper. She lays the bundle in her lap. “Okay, ready when you are, pretty boy.”

  Austin sets down the shovel, goes back to the bag, and pulls out a plastic one-liter bottle and two paper cups. He pours dark liquid in each cup. “Found some grape juice … we don’t want to be drinking wine in your condition.”

  Lilly grins. “You’re gonna drive me crazy with this Jewish mother routine.”

  Austin ignores the comment. “Are you warm enough? You need another blanket?”

  She sighs. “I’m fine, Austin … for God’s sake stop worrying about me.”

  He hands her a cup of juice, and pulls a small baggie from his pocket.

  “Okay, I’ll go first,” he says. Inside the Ziploc are half an ounce of marijuana, a little metal pipe, and some rolling papers. He looks wistfully at the paraphernalia and says, “Time to put away childish things.” He raises his cup. “Here’s to a lifelong love affair with weed.” He looks at the bag. “You got me through a lot of rough shit but it’s time to go.”

  He tosses the pot in the hole.

  Lilly raises her cup. “Here’s to sobriety … it’s a bitch but it’s for the best.”

  They drink.

  * * *

  “I can’t believe she just left us like that,” the young man named Glenn says after climbing up the wall. His body armor creaks as he stands in the wind on the edge of the lift platform, helping Alice scale the wall. The nurse is having trouble—her upper body strength not what it could be—and she labors to pull herself onto the perch. Glenn grunts with effort as he pulls her over the precipice. “Should we help her? I’m not crazy about that guy either.”

  Rick stands on the platform behind Glenn, watching Martinez reaching down to Stevens, hoisting the doctor up the side of the barricade. “Trust me, Glenn,” Rick says softly, “we’d probably just slow her down. Our safest bet is getting out now while we can.”

  The doctor struggles up the wall and cobbles onto the platf
orm to join the others.

  Martinez makes sure everyone is okay. They all take deep breaths, turning and gazing out at the wasted landscape on the other side of the rampart. They can see the neighboring woods through a narrow gap between two derelict buildings. The night wind swirls litter across empty dirt roads, the crumbling ruins of train trestles in the distance like fallen giants. The moon has risen full and high—a lunatic’s moon—and the milky light puts an exclamation point on all the dark crevices, shadowy alcoves, and snaking ravines that could potentially contain biters.

  Rick takes another breath and gives Glenn a reassuring pat on the back. “Michonne can take care of herself,” he says in a low voice. “Besides, I get the impression this is something she’d want to do alone.”

  “Ladies first,” Martinez says to Alice, indicating the far edge of the platform.

  Alice takes a tentative step toward the ledge, filling her lungs with breath.

  Martinez helps her find a foothold, and then he lowers her down the outer wall. “There you go,” he says, his hands gripping her under the armpits. He accidentally brushes the sides of her breasts. “You’re okay. Almost there.”

  “Just watch the hands,” Alice says, scuffing and grunting down the side of the wall, until she finally hops down to the dirt road, raising a small cloud of dust. She crouches instinctively, looking around the danger zone, her eyes wide and her hackles up.

  Martinez lowers Glenn down next, and then the doctor. The two men land next to Alice in the dirt, raising more dust. The silence is broken by their heavy, tense breathing—and the drumming of their hearts in their ears—as each of them turn and survey the dark road ahead of them, which leads out of town and into the black oblivion of night.

  They hear the scuffling sounds of Martinez coming down the wall. The tall man lands with a thump, the weapons slung over his back rattling, and then he gazes back up at the parapet. “Okay, Rick … let’s go.”

  Up on the platform, Rick tucks his bandaged stump against his sternum. “This ain’t going to be easy,” he murmurs. “You guys got me?”

  “We got you, brother.” Martinez reaches up for him. “Just ease on down.”

  Rick starts awkwardly lowering himself down the outer wall with one hand.

  “Jesus,” Alice says, watching. “Don’t drop him. Be careful!”

  Martinez catches the hundred-and-eighty-pound man with a grunt, easing him to the ground. Rick exhales a pained breath and looks around.

  Across the dirt clearing, Dr. Stevens stands in the shadows of an abandoned storefront, a weather-beaten sign hanging by a thread, with the words MCCALLUM FEED AND SEED. He lets out a sigh of relief and checks his satchel for any damage. The glass vials of antibiotics and painkillers remain intact, the instruments in good order. “I just can’t believe we made it out of there so easily,” he mumbles, checking the last of the bag’s contents. “I mean, the walls aren’t exactly meant to keep people in … but…”

  Behind the doctor, a shadow moves in the depths of the ramshackle doorway of McCallum’s. Nobody notices it. Nor does anybody hear the clumsy, shuffling footsteps faintly crackling over detritus and packing straps, moving toward their voices.

  “I’m just so damn relieved,” Stevens is saying, snapping the satchel shut.

  The figure lurches out of the doorway—just a blur of teeth, ragged clothing, and mottled fish-belly skin in the darkness—and clamps its jaws down on the closest human flesh in its path.

  * * *

  Sometimes the victim doesn’t even see it coming until it’s too late, which is maybe, on some fundamental level, the most merciful way for things to go down.

  The creature that sinks its teeth into the nape of Dr. Stevens’s exposed neck is enormous—probably a former field hand or stock clerk accustomed to loading sixty-pound bales of fertilizer or cattle feed into truck beds all day, day in and day out—and it latches down on the doctor’s jugular so firmly, a crowbar couldn’t loosen its jaws. Clad in moldy bib overalls, its thinning hair reduced to spidery wisps on its veined white skull, it has eyes like yellow pilot lamps and makes a watery, garbled coughing sound as it roots its rotten incisors into live tissue.

  Dr. Stevens stiffens immediately, arms going up, eyeglasses knocked off his face, satchel flying, a horrid shriek bursting out of him in complete involuntary shock. He can’t see or detect the agent of his demise—only the Day-Glo red shade of hot agony snapping down over his gaze.

  The suddenness of the attack catches everybody by surprise, the group bristling in unison, reaching for weapons, scrambling backward.

  Alice lets out a scream—“DR. STEVENS!!”—and she sees the weight of the massive biter, combined with the doctor’s involuntary writhing and staggering, pull Stevens backward, off balance, and onto the ground.

  Stevens lands on top of his assailant with a wet grunt, the blood washing over and baptizing the giant biter underneath him in a torrent of fluid as black and oily as molasses in the darkness. In a strangled, insensate voice, the doctor jabbers, “What—? What is it? Is it—? Is it one of them? Is it—? Is it a biter?”

  The others lunge toward him, but Alice has already reached for the sentry’s AK, which dangles on its strap over Martinez’s shoulder, her voice booming, “GIVE ME THAT!”

  “Hey!” Martinez can’t tell what’s happening, the tug on his shoulder accompanied by voices yelling all around him, and the other men pushing past him.

  Alice already has the AK up and aimed, and then she’s pulling the trigger—thank God the kid on the wall keeps his weapon locked and loaded, the safety off at all times—and the gun barks.

  A bouquet of fire sparks and flickers out of the short muzzle as the shell casings fly, and the tracers burst a chain of holes in the biter’s temple, cheek, jaw, shoulder, and half its torso. The thing twitches and wriggles in its death throes beneath the wounded doctor, and Alice keeps firing, and firing, and firing, until the magazine clicks empty, and the slide snaps open—and she keeps firing.

  “It’s okay … it’s okay, Alice.”

  The faint sound of a male voice is the first thing that penetrates her ringing ears and her traumatized brain. She lowers the gun and realizes that Dr. Stevens is addressing her from the blood-soaked heap of a funeral bier on which he lies.

  “Oh-God-Doctor—DR. STEVENS!” She tosses the assault rifle to the ground with a clatter and goes to him. She drops to her knees, and reaches for his neck, getting her fingertips wet with his arterial blood as she feels for a pulse, trying to remember the CPR lessons he provided her, the trauma unit protocols, when she realizes he is tugging at her lab coat with his blood-spattered fingers.

  “I’m not … dying … Alice … think of it … scientifically,” he utters around a mouth filling up with blood. In the darkness, his face looks almost serene. The others press in behind Alice and look on and listen closely. “I’m just … evolving … into a different … a worse … life form.”

  The horror spreads from person to person hovering over him, from face to face, as Alice fights her tears and strokes his cheek. “Doctor—”

  “I’ll still exist, Alice … in some way,” he utters in barely a whisper. “Take the supplies, Alice … you’ll need them … to take care of these people. Use what I taught you. Now go … go … go on.”

  Alice stares as the doctor’s life drains out of him, his intelligent eyes going glassy, and then empty, gaping at the nothingness. She lets her head loll forward but no tears will come. The desolation in her core won’t allow tears to come now.

  Martinez stands over her, watching all this with nervous intensity. A fist of contradictory emotions grips his insides. He likes these people—the doctor and Alice—regardless of their hatred of the Governor, their petty betrayals, their scheming and gossiping and sarcasm and disrespect. God help Martinez—he likes them. He feels a weird kinship with them, and now he’s groping for purchase in the dark.

  Alice rises to her feet, picking up the satchel of medical supplies.
r />   Martinez touches her shoulder, and softly says, “We gotta move.”

  Alice nods, says nothing, stares at the bodies.

  “People in town will think the shots were just the guard taking out biters that got too close to the fence,” Martinez goes on, his voice hurried and taut with tension. He glances over his shoulder at the other two men, who stand by, looking rattled. Martinez turns back to Alice. “But the sound will attract more biters—and we need to be gone before they get here.”

  He looks at the doctor’s slack face, stippled with blood, frozen in death.

  “I—He was a good friend,” Martinez adds finally. “I’ll miss him too.”

  Alice gives one last nod, and then turns away. She nods at Martinez.

  Without another word, Martinez grabs the AK and gives a hand gesture to the others, and then leads the three survivors down a side road—and on toward the town limits—their silhouettes swallowed within moments by absolute, unforgiving, implacable darkness.

  * * *

  “Damn it, honey—eat it!” The Governor lowers himself to his hands and knees on the foul-smelling carpet of his living room, holding a severed human foot by its big toe in front of the dead little girl. The Japanese sword lies on the floor close by—a treasure, a talisman, a spoil of war that the Governor hasn’t let out of his sight since the debacle at the racetrack—its implications now the furthest thing from his mind. “It’s not completely fresh,” he says, indicating the gray appendage, “but I swear this thing was walking not two hours ago.”

  The tiny cadaver jerks against its chain eighteen inches from his hand. It emits another little growl—a broken Chatty Cathy doll—and turns its frosted-glass eyes away from the tidbit.

  “C’mon, Penny, it’s not that bad.” He inches closer and waves the dripping, severed foot in front of her. It’s pretty big, hard to tell if it’s male or female—the toes are small but all natural, no remnants of polish—and it has already begun to turn blue-green and stiffen up with rigor mortis. “And it’s only going to get worse, you don’t eat it now. C’mon, sweetie, do it for—”