In that instant before the door opens, something unspoken passes between doctor and patient. Stevens nods, and then opens the door.
“I understand we got a brave little lady in our midst!” the visitor booms as he sweeps into the room like a force of nature. The Governor’s gaunt, coiled body is now clad in weekend warrior garb—a hunting vest, black turtleneck, and camo pants tucked into black combat boots—making him look like a degenerate third-world dictator. His shoulder-length onyx hair shines and bounces as he saunters into the room, his handlebar mustache curled around a smirk. “Came to pay my respects.”
Gabe and Bruce enter on the Governor’s heels, the two men as dour and alert as secret service agents.
“There she is,” Philip Blake says to the girl sitting on the gurney. He walks over to the bed, grabs a nearby metal folding chair, and slams it down backwards next to the bed. “How ya doing, little lady?”
Christina puts her water down, and then chastely pulls the blanket up over the top of her threadbare décolletage. “Doing all right, I guess. Thanks to these folks.”
The Governor plops down on the chair in front of her, resting his wiry arms on the seat back. His stare is the jovial gaze of an overzealous salesman. “Doc Stevens and Alice here are the best … they surely are. Don’t know what we’d do without them.”
Stevens speaks up from across the room. “Christina, say hello to Philip Blake. Also known as the Governor.” The doctor lets out a sigh and looks away, as though disgusted by this whole display of fake conviviality. “Philip, this is Christina.”
“Christina,” the Governor purrs, as though trying the name on for size. “Now isn’t that just the prettiest name ever?”
A sudden and powerful tremor of apprehension trickles down the small of Christina’s back. Something about this man’s eyes—as deep-set and dark as a puma’s—sets her immediately on edge.
The Governor doesn’t take his glittering dark gaze off her as he speaks to the others. “You folks mind if the lady and I speak in private?”
Christina wants to say something, wants to object, but the force of this man’s personality is like a roaring river flowing through the room. Without a word, the others glance at each other, and then, sheepishly, one by one, they file out of the infirmary. The last one out is Gabe, who pauses in doorway. “I’ll be right outside, boss,” he says. And then …
Click.
SEVEN
“So, Christina … welcome to Woodbury.” At first, the Governor keeps his high-voltage smile trained on the injured woman. “Can I ask where you’re from?”
Christina takes a deep breath, looking down at her lap. For some inchoate reason, she feels compelled to keep the TV station she worked at a secret. Instead she simply says, “Suburb of Atlanta, got hit pretty bad.”
“I’m from a little shithole town outside Savannah, name of Waynesboro.” His grin widens. “Nothing fancy like them rich sections of Hot-Lanta.”
She shrugs. “I sure as heck ain’t rich.”
“Them places are all gone to hell now, ain’t they? Biters won that war.” He aims that grin at her. “Unless you know something I don’t.”
She stares at him, says nothing.
The Governor’s smile fades. “Can I ask how you ended up in that chopper?”
For a brief instant she hesitates. “The pilot was … a friend. Name’s Mike.” She swallows back her reticence. “Problem is, I promised him a Christian burial.” She feels the heat of the Governor’s stare like a furnace. “You think I could possibly see to that?”
The thin man scoots his chair closer to the bed. “I think we ought to be able to accommodate you in that department … that is … if you play ball.”
“If I what?”
The Governor shrugs. “Just answer a few questions. That’s all.” He pulls a pack of Juicy Fruit gum from his vest pocket, peels off a piece, and pops it into his mouth. He offers her a piece. She declines. He puts the gum away and scoots the chair closer. “You see, Christina … the thing is … I have a responsibility to my people. There’s a certain … due diligence I gotta tend to.”
She looks at him. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
“Were you and the pilot alone? Or were there other people with you before you took off?”
Again she swallows hard, girding herself. “We were holed up with a few people.”
“Where?”
She shrugs. “You know … here and there.”
The Governor smiles and shakes his head. “Now, see, Christina … that just won’t do.” He shoves the seat back against the gurney—close enough now for her to smell his scent: cigarettes and chewing gum and something unidentifiable like spoiled meat—and he speaks softly now. “In a court of law, a good counselor might see his way to making an objection on the grounds that the witness is withholding information.”
He’s about to cross a boundary, a voice drones in Christina’s head, he’s not to be trusted, he’s capable of anything. In barely a whisper, she says, “I wasn’t aware I was on trial here.”
The Governor’s lean, deeply lined face transforms, any trace of mirth going out of it. “You don’t have to be scared of me.”
She looks at him. “I’m not scared of you.”
“The truth of the matter is, I don’t want to force anybody to do anything they don’t want to do … nobody has to get hurt.” With the casual gesture of a man shooting his cuffs, he puts his gnarled hand on the edge of the bed, between her thighs, provocatively—not touching her, just resting it between her bandaged legs. His gaze doesn’t waver. It stays locked on to her. “It’s just that … I will do whatever it takes to make sure this community survives. You understand?”
She looks down at his hand, at the dirt under his nails. “Yes.”