The Walking Dead_ The Road to Woodbury - By Robert Kirkman Page 0,115
a strap at his side. “Boss, the natives are getting restless out there.”
“What?”
“Lost both fighters ages ago, nothing but dead bodies and biters on chains out there. Nobody’s leaving, though … they’re just getting wasted on their BYOBs and throwin’ shit at the zombies.”
The Governor wipes his face, smooths down his Fu Manchu. “Tell ’em there’s gonna be an important announcement in a minute.”
“But what about—”
“JUST TELL ’EM!”
The farm kid gives a meek nod and turns away, latching the door behind him.
The Governor shoots a look across the room at the big black man in gore-splattered denim. “Bruce, go get Stevens and his little lapdog. I don’t care what they’re doing, I want their asses in here right now! On the double!”
Bruce gives a nod, shoves his pistol in his belt, and hurries out of the room.
The Governor turns to Martinez. “I know exactly where you got that fucking stun gun…”
* * *
The time it takes Bruce to go fetch the doctor and Alice is interminable for Lilly. Sitting next to Martinez, a slimy layer of zombie spoor drying on her skin, the wound in her leg throbbing, she expects a bullet to come smashing through her skull at any moment. She can feel Gabe’s body heat behind her, only inches away. She can smell his BO and hear his thick breathing, but he doesn’t say a word the whole time they’re waiting.
Nor does Martinez speak.
Nor does the Governor, who continues to pace across the front of the room.
Lilly doesn’t care about dying anymore. Something inexplicable has happened to her. She thinks of Josh rotting in the ground and she feels nothing. She thinks about Megan hanging by that makeshift noose and it stirs zero emotion. She thinks of Bob sinking into oblivion.
None of it matters anymore.
The worst part is, she knows the Governor is right. They need a Rottweiler on these walls. They need a monster to stanch the blood tide.
Across the room, the door clicks and Bruce returns with Stevens and Alice. The doctor enters in his wrinkled lab coat, walking a few feet in front of Bruce’s gun. Alice brings up the rear.
“Come on in and join the party,” the Governor greets them with an icy smile. “Have a seat. Relax. Take a load off, sit a spell.”
Without a word the doctor and Alice cross the room and sit down on folding chairs next to Martinez and Lilly like children sent to their rooms. The doctor says nothing, just stares at the floor.
“So the whole gang’s here now,” the Governor says, coming over to the foursome. He stands inches away, a coach about to give a halftime chalk talk. “Here’s the thing, we’re gonna strike a little agreement … a verbal contract. Very simple. Look at me, Martinez.”
It requires herculean effort for Martinez to look up at the dark-eyed man.
The Governor latches his gaze on to Martinez. “The agreement is this. As long as I keep the fucking wolves from the door, keep the gravy boats full around here … you don’t ask questions about how I do it.”
He pauses, standing in front of them, waiting, his hands on his hips, his blood-caked features grim and set, his gaze meeting each of their traumatized stares.
Nobody says anything. Lilly sees herself springing to her feet and kicking her chair over and screaming at the top of her lungs and grabbing one of the rifles and cutting the Governor down in a storm of gunfire.
She stares at the floor.
The silence stretches.
“One more thing,” the Governor says, smiling at them, his eyes dead and mirthless. “Anybody breaches this contract, sticks their nose in my business, Martinez dies and the rest of you get banished to the sticks. You got that?” He waits in silence. “Answer me, you cocksuckers! You understand the stipulations of our contract? Martinez?”
The reply comes on a haggard breath. “Yeah.”
“I can’t hear you!”
Martinez looks at him. “Yeah … I understand.”
“How about you, Stevens?”
“Yes, Philip.” The doctor’s voice drips with contempt. “Great closing argument. You should be a lawyer.”
“Alice?”
She gives him a quick, jittery nod.
The Governor looks at Lilly. “How about you? Are we clear on this?”
Lilly looks at the floor, says nothing.
The Governor presses in closer. “I’m not getting a consensus here. I’ll ask you again, Lilly. You understand the agreement?”
Lilly refuses to speak.
The Governor draws his pearl-handled .45 army Colt, snaps back the slide, and presses the muzzle to her head. But before he can say another word, or send a bullet into her brain, Lilly