Rise of the Governor by Robert Kirkman Page A

Interstate 20 is equally still. The edges of the woods remain quiet.
    When it’s Brian’s turn to sit watch—up to this point he has only managed a few minutes of fitful dozing on a squeaky bench seat in back—he gladly takes his place in the cab with all the levers and the dangling pine tree air fresheners and the laminated photograph of some long-lost driver’s baby son. Not that Brian is very comfortable with the prospects of being the only one awake, or for that matter, having to fire the goose gun. Still, he needs some time to think.
    At some point just before dawn, Brian hears Penny’s breathing—just barely audible over the faint whistle of the wind through the ranks of sliding windows—becoming erratic and hyperventilated. The child has been dozing a few seats away from the cab, next to her father.
    Now the little girl sits up with a silent gasp. “Oh … I got it … I mean…” Her voice is barely a whisper. “I got it, I think.”
    â€œSsshhh,” Brian says, rising from his seat, creeping back down the cabin to the little girl, whispering, “It’s okay, kiddo … Uncle Brian’s here.”
    â€œUm.”
    â€œIt’s okay … ssshhhh … let’s not wake your dad.” Brian glances over at Philip, who is tangled in a blanket, his face contorted with troubling dreams. He took half a pint of brandy before bed to knock himself out.
    â€œI’m okay,” Penny utters in her mousey little voice, looking down at the stuffed penguin in her small hands, squeezing it like a talisman. The thing is soiled and threadbare, and it breaks Brian’s heart.
    â€œBad dreams?”
    Penny nods.
    Brian looks at her and thinks it over. “Got an idea,” he whispers. “Why don’t you come up and keep me company for a while.”
    The little girl nods.
    He helps her up, and then, draping a blanket around her and taking her hand, he silently leads her back up to the cab. He flips down a little jump seat next to the driver’s perch, and says, “There ya go.” He pats the worn upholstery. “You can be my copilot.”
    Penny settles into the seat with her blanket pulled tightly around her and the penguin.
    â€œSee that?” Brian points to a filthy little video monitor above the dash, about the size of a paperback book, on which a grainy black-and-white image reveals the highway behind them. The wind rustles through the trees, the sodium lights gleaming off the roofs of wrecked cars. “That’s a security camera, for backing up, see?”
    The girl sees it.
    â€œWe’re safe here, kiddo,” Brian says as convincingly as possible. Earlier in his shift he had figured out a way to turn the ignition key to the accessory position, lighting up the dash like an old pinball machine coming to life. “Everything’s under control.”
    The girl nods.
    â€œYou want to tell me about it?” Brian says softly a moment later.
    Penny looks confused. “Tell you about what?”
    â€œThe bad dream. Sometimes it helps to like … tell someone … you know? Makes it go away … poof .”
    Penny gives him a feeble little shrug. “I dreamed I got sick.”
    â€œSick like … those people out there?”
    â€œYes.”
    Brian takes a long, anguished, deep breath. “Listen to me, kiddo. Whatever these people have, you are not going to catch it. Do you understand? Your daddy will not let that happen, never in a million years. I will not let that happen.”
    She nods.
    â€œYou are very important to your daddy. You are very important to me .” Brian feels an unexpected hitch in his chest, a catching of his words, a burning sensation in his eyes. For the first time since he departed his parents’ place over a week and half ago, he realizes how deeply his feelings go for this little girl.
    â€œI got an idea,” he says