Free Rise of the Governor by Robert Kirkman

center of gravity.
    They decide to stick with the Chevy Suburban. The thing is a tank.
    Which is exactly what they’ll need to get into Atlanta.
    *   *   *
    His stubborn cold now settling into his lungs, causing a perpetual wheeze that may or may not be early-stage pneumonia, Brian Blake focuses on the task at hand. He packs three large coolers with food stamped with the furthest expiration dates: smoked lunch meats, hard cheeses, sealed containers of juice and yogurt and soda and mayonnaise. He fills a cardboard box with bread and beef jerky and instant coffee and bottled water and protein bars and vitamins and paper plates and plastic utensils. He decides to throw in an array of chef’s knives: cleavers, serrated knives, and boning knives—for whatever close encounters they might stumble into.
    Brian fills another box with toilet paper and soap and towels and rags. He rifles through the medicine cabinets and takes cold remedies and sleeping pills and pain relievers, and while he’s doing this, he gets an idea: something he should do before they depart.
    In the basement, Brian finds a small can half full of Benjamin Moore Apple Peel Red and a two-inch horsehair paintbrush. He finds an old three-by-three-foot-square piece of plywood, and quickly but carefully, he writes a message: five simple words in big capital letters, large enough to be seen from a passing vehicle. He nails a couple of short legs on the bottom edge of the sign.
    Then he takes the sign upstairs and shows it to his brother. “I think we should leave this outside the gate,” Brian says to Philip.
    Philip just shrugs and tells Brian it’s up to him, whatever he wants to do.
    *   *   *
    They wait until after dark to make their exit. At the stroke of 7 P.M. —with the cold, metallic sun drooping behind the rooftops—they hurriedly pack the Suburban. Working quickly in the lengthening shadows, while monsters swarm against the barricade, they form a sort of bucket brigade, quickly passing suitcases and containers from the side door of the house to the open hatch of the SUV.
    They take their original axes with an assortment of additional picks and shovels and hatchets and saws and cutting blades from the toolshed out back. They bring rope and wire and road flares and extra coats and snow boots and fire-starter blocks. They also pack a siphoning tube and as many extra plastic tanks of gasoline as they can fit into the rear storage well.
    The Suburban’s tank is currently full—Philip managed to siphon fifteen gallons’ worth earlier in the day from an abandoned sedan in a neighbor’s garage—as they have no clue about the status of local gas stations.
    Over the last four days, Philip had discovered a variety of sporting guns in neighboring homes. Rich folks love their duck season in these parts. They love picking off green heads from the luxury of their heated blinds with their high-powered rifles and purebred hounds.
    Philip’s old man used to do it the hard way, with nothing but waders, moonshine, and a mean disposition.
    Now Philip chooses three guns to stow in vinyl zip-up bags in the rear compartment—one is a .22-caliber Winchester rimfire, and the other two are Marlin Model 55 shotguns. The Marlins are especially useful. They’re known as “goose guns.” Fast and accurate and powerful, the 55s are designed for killing migratory fowl at high altitudes … or, in this case, the bull’s-eye of a skull at a hundred-plus yards.
    *   *   *
    It’s almost eight o’clock by the time they get the Suburban packed, and get Penny situated in the middle seat. Bundled in a down coat with her stuffed penguin at her side, she seems oddly sanguine, her pale face drawn and languid, as though she were about to visit the pediatrician.
    Doors click open and shut. Philip climbs behind the wheel. Nick takes the front passenger seat, and