Michonne stares at the young man through bottomless dark eyes. Her voice is as steady as a cleric delivering the holy writ. “I’m going to visit the Governor.”
SIXTEEN
The mute silence that follows Michonne’s declaration seems to hold the entire group rapt for endless moments, as the implications of her pronouncement spread from person to person, from awkward glance to awkward glance, like a disease transmitted by eye contact. It goes unspoken what she has in mind for Philip Blake—although no one dares to contemplate the specifics—and that’s the part that hits people first. But as the silence lengthens and turns uncomfortable in that reeking dark alley, it becomes clear to Martinez, who is gazing down at this transaction from the lift platform, that Michonne’s unstoppable trajectory speaks to something darker than mere vengeance. In these brutal new times, the act of revenge—albeit a lower, baser instinct during the normal course of human events—now seems to take on an apocalyptic inevitability, as natural as shooting a walking corpse in the head or watching a loved one turn into a monster. Infected appendages are quickly severed and cauterized in this horrible new society. Evil people are no longer a thing of legend and forensic cop shows. In this new world, they are like sick cattle that simply need to be separated from the herd. They are defective parts that need to be replaced. Nobody standing at that wall that night could blame or even be surprised at Michonne’s sudden and inexorable decision to circle back and find the cancerous cell festering in that town—the man who desecrated her—but that doesn’t make it easier to watch.
“Michonne, I don’t think—” Rick starts to object.
“I’ll catch up with you,” she says, cutting him off. “Or I won’t.”
“Michonne—”
“I can’t leave without doing this.” She augers her gaze into Rick’s eyes. “Go ahead.” Then she turns and looks at Alice. “Where does he live?”
*
At that moment, on the other side of town, nobody notices two figures slipping into the dark maw of an alley just beyond the S-curve on Durand Street—about as far away from the commotion of the racetrack and the central business district as you can get and still be within the safe zone. No guards stray this far south of Main Street, and the outer concertina-wire fences keep errant biters at bay.
Bundled in denim, with blanket rolls under their arms, the two of them move side by side, staying low. One of them hauls a long canvas bag on a sling over his shoulder, the contents clanking softly with each bump. At the end of the alley, they squeeze through a narrow gap between a semitruck cab and a railroad boxcar.
“Where in God’s name are you taking me?” Lilly Caul wants to know, following Austin across a vacant lot veiled in darkness.
Austin gives her a mischievous chuckle. “You’ll see … trust me.”
Lilly steps gingerly over a patch of thorny milkweed and smells the odor of decay emanating from the adjacent forest, about fifty yards beyond the outer perimeter. The back of her neck bristles. Austin takes her arm and helps her over fallen timber and into a clearing.
“Be careful, watch your step,” he says, treating her with the kid gloves of an old-school father-to-be, which, to Lilly, is at once annoying and kind of adorable.
“I’m pregnant, Austin, not an invalid.” She follows him into the center of the clearing. It’s a private place, sheltered by foliage and deadfall branches. There’s a hollowed-out crater in the ground, scorched and petrified, where some previous visitor had dug a fire pit. “Where did you learn about prenatal care? Cartoons?”
“Very funny, wise guy … sit down.”
Two ancient tree stumps provide perfect—if not exactly comfortable—places for a couple to sit and talk. The crickets roar all around them as Austin sets his bag down, and then takes a seat next to Lilly.
The sky above them twinkles and pulses with the kind of starry heavens only seen in rural areas. The clouds have dispersed, and the air—for once—is clear of walker stench. It smells of pine and black earth and clear night.
Lilly feels for the first time since—well, since as far back as she can remember—like a whole person. She feels as though they might actually have a chance to make this work. Austin is no dream father, nor is he the perfect husband by any stretch of the imagination, but he has a spark to him that touches Lilly’s heart. He’s a decent soul, and that’s enough for now. They have a lot of challenges ahead of them, a lot to work out, a lot of dangerous terrain to navigate. But she believes now that they will survive … together.
“So, what’s this mysterious ritual you dragged me out here for, anyway?” she says finally, lifting her collar and stretching her stiff neck. Her breasts are sore, and her tummy’s been complaining all day. But in a strange way, she has never felt better.
“My brothers and I used to do this thing every Halloween,” he says, indicating the canvas bag. “Came up with it when we were high, I guess … but it makes sense right now for some reason.” He looks at her. “Did you bring those things I asked you to bring?”
She gives him a nod. “Yep.” She pats her jacket pocket. “Got ’em right here.”
“Okay … good.” He stands, goes over to the bag, and unzips it. “We usually make a fire to throw the stuff into … but I’m thinking tonight we’ll try to avoid attracting the attention.” He pulls out a shovel, goes over to the pit, and starts digging. “Instead we’ll just bury the stuff.”
Lilly pulls out a couple photographs she found in her wallet, a bullet from one of her Ruger pistols, and a small object wrapped in tissue paper. She lays the bundle in her lap. “Okay, ready when you are, pretty boy.”
Austin sets down the shovel, goes back to the bag, and pulls out a plastic one-liter bottle and two paper cups. He pours dark liquid in each cup. “Found some grape juice … we don’t want to be drinking wine in your condition.”