Rise of the Governor by Robert Kirkman

becoming a routine.
    In the front seat Nick cannot tear his eyes from the carnage behind them. On Nick’s face Brian can see a weird mixture of repulsion and admiration—a kind of thank-God-he’s-on-our-side type of awe—but it only serves to tighten Brian’s gut. He will not throw up, goddamnit, he will be strong for Penny.
    Brian slips down on the floor and holds the girl close to him. The child is limp and damp. Brian’s brain swims with confusion.
    His brother is everything to him. His brother is the key. But something is happening to Philip, something horrible, and it’s beginning to gnaw at Brian. What are the rules? These walking abominations deserve every fucking thing Philip is dishing out … but what are the rules of engagement?
    Brian is trying to put these thoughts out of his mind when he realizes the killing noises have ceased. Then he hears the heavy boot steps of a person outside the driver’s side door. The door clicks.
    Philip Blake slips back inside the Suburban, dropping the bloody hand-axes on the floor in front of Nick. “There’ll be more of ’em,” he says, still winded, his face beaded with perspiration. “The gunshot woke ’em up.”
    Nick peers out the back window at the battlefield of bodies visible in the firelight on the slope, his voice coming out in a monotone, a combination of awe and disgust: “Home run, man … grand slam home run.”
    â€œWe gotta get outta here,” Philip says, wiping a pearl of sweat from his nose, catching his breath, and glancing up at the rearview mirror, searching for Penny in the shadows of the backseat as if he doesn’t even hear Nick.
    Brian speaks up. “What’s the plan, Philip?”
    â€œWe gotta find a safe place to stay for the night.”
    Nick looks at Philip. “What do you mean exactly? You mean other than the Suburban?”
    â€œIt’s too dangerous out here in the dark.”
    â€œYeah, but—”
    â€œWe’ll push it out of the mud in the morning.”
    â€œYeah, but what about—”
    â€œGrab whatever you need for the night,” Philip says, reaching for the Ruger.
    â€œWait!” Nick grabs Philip’s arm. “You’re talking about leaving the car! Leaving all our shit out here?”
    â€œJust for the night, come on,” Philip says, opening his door and climbing out.
    Brian lets out a sigh and looks up at Nick. “Shut up and help me with the backpacks.”
    *   *   *
    They camp that night about a quarter of a mile west of the overturned tanker, inside an abandoned yellow school bus, which sits on the shoulder, well illuminated by the cold glow of a sodium vapor light.
    The bus is still fairly warm and dry, and it’s high enough off the pavement to give them good sight lines on the woods on either side of the interstate. It has two doors—one in the front and one off the rear—for easy escape. Plus the bench seats are padded and long enough for each of them to stretch out for some semblance of rest. The keys are still in the ignition, and the battery still has juice.
    Inside the bus it smells like the inside of a stale lunchbox, the ghosts of sweaty, rambunctious kids with their wet mittens and body odors lingering in the fusty air.
    They eat some Spam and some sardines and some expensive pita crackers that were probably meant to adorn party trays at golf outings. They use flashlights, careful not to shine them off the windows, and eventually they spread their sleeping bags on the bench seats for some shut-eye, or at least some facsimile of sleep.
    They each take turns sitting watch in the cab with one of the Marlins, using the huge side mirrors for unobstructed views of the bus’s rear end. Nick takes the first shift and tries unsuccessfully for nearly an hour to raise a station on his portable weather radio. The world has shut down, but at least this section of