The Fall of the Governor, Part 2 (7 page)

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 dark 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.”

Lilly wonders if Bob really believes this. The seriousness and duration of the induced coma—Bob's best guess is that it was brought on by a combination of hypovolemic shock and all the painkillers and anesthetic administered to the man during the rough patch immediately after the attack—is impossible to predict. As far as Lilly can tell, the man could wake up any day now, or remain a vegetable for the rest of his life. Nobody has any experience with such things. And the uncertainty is driving Lilly crazy.

She starts to say something else when she notices the sound of heavy footsteps on the wind—somebody trotting swiftly down an adjacent sidewalk—the noise interrupting her thoughts. She glances over her shoulder and sees Gus trundling quickly toward them. Built like a fireplug, the little man looks like he just got served with a subpoena, his bulldog features filled with urgency.

“Lilly,” he says breathlessly as he waddles up to them, “been looking all over for ya.”

“Take a breath, Gus, what's the matter?”

The man pauses, leaning over with his hands on his knees, catching his breath. “They want to use up the rest of that gas we got stored in the warehouse.”

“Who does?”

“Curtis, Rudy, and them other guards.” He looks at Lilly. “Say they need it for the rigs at the wall. Whaddaya think? That's the last of the fuel; that's all we got left.”

Lilly sighs. In the Governor's absence, more and more of the townspeople have been coming to her for advice—for decisions, for guidance—and she's not sure she wants to be the one giving it. But somebody has to. At last she says, “It's all right, Gus … let 'em take it … we'll go on another run tomorrow.”

Gus nods.

Bob looks at her for a moment, a strange expression crossing his deeply wrinkled features—a mixture of fascination, concern, and something unreadable—as though he knows something is different about her. Gasoline has become the lifeblood of Woodbury, not only an energy source but also a sort of morbid gauge of their odds of survival. Nobody fucks around with the rationing of fuel.

Lilly looks at Bob. “It'll be okay. We'll find some more tomorrow.”

Bob gives her a tepid nod, as though he knows she doesn't really believe anything she's saying.

*   *   *

Over the course of the next three days, they do find more fuel. Lilly sends a small contingent of guards—Gus, Curtis, Rudy, Matthew, and Ray Hilliard—out in one of the military cargo trucks. Their mission: to scour the auto centers at the ransacked Walmart and the two Piggly Wigglys on this side of the county line. They hope to find one of the underground holding tanks still containing a few gallons of residue. Plan B is to siphon as much as possible from any stray wreck or abandoned car that hasn't been stripped to the bone by looters or two years of hard Georgia weather.

By the time the men return on Wednesday evening, they are exhausted but successful, having stumbled upon an abandoned KOA campground in Forsyth, forty miles to the east. The garage out behind the clubhouse, padlocked since the advent of the Turn, held a couple of rusted-out golf carts and a huge holding tank half-full of the sweet unleaded nectar of the gods—nearly a hundred and fifty gallons of the stuff—and Lilly is delighted with the windfall. If folks are frugal with it and ration it wisely, the fuel will provide Woodbury with another month or so of power.

For the rest of that week, Lilly keeps a lid on things as best she can, oblivious to the fact that events are about to spiral out of control.

 

FIVE

On Friday night—a night Lilly and her inner circle will later mark as a significant turning point—a warm front rolls in from the south, turning the air as muggy as a greenhouse. By midnight, the town has settled down and fallen silent, most of its inhabitants slumbering on sweat-damp sheets, a regiment of guards quietly keeping watch on the walls. Even Bob Stookey has taken a break from his round-the-clock vigil with the Governor and now sleeps soundly on a cot in one of the adjacent service bays under the racetrack. Only the infirmary—still blazing with the harsh halogen light of an operating room—buzzes with the muffled clamor of angry voices.

“I'm sick of it,” Bruce Cooper complains, pacing in front of the broken-down monitors and gurneys shoved up against the back wall of the medical bay. “Who made her Queen Bitch? Bossing people around like fucking Cleopatra.”

“Settle down, Brucey,” Gabe mutters from his chair angled next to the Governor's bed, the wounded man lying as still and pale as a mannequin under the sheets. It's been a week since the Governor tangled with the girl in the dreadlocks, and over the course of those seven days, Philip Blake has remained mostly unconscious. Nobody is comfortable with calling it a coma—although Bob has labeled it as such—but whatever grips the man seems to have its hooks deep within him. Only on two occasions has Philip stirred ever so slightly—his head lolling suddenly and a few garbled syllables coughing out of him—but each time he sank back into his twilight world just as abruptly as he came out of it. Nevertheless, Bob thinks this is a good sign. The Governor's color continues to improve with each passing day, and his breathing continues to clear and strengthen. Bob has started increasing the amount of glucose and electrolytes in the IV, and keeping closer track of the man's temperature. The Governor has been at 98.6 for over two days now. “What's your problem with her, anyway?” Gabe asks the black man. “She never did anything to you. What's your beef with her?”