Free The Fall of the Governor, Part 2 by Robert Kirkman

wreck or abandoned car that hasn’t been stripped to the bone by looters or two years of hard Georgia weather.
    By the time the men return on Wednesday evening, they are exhausted but successful, having stumbled upon an abandoned KOA campground in Forsyth, forty miles to the east. The garage out behind the clubhouse, padlocked since the advent of the Turn, held a couple of rusted-out golf carts and a huge holding tank half-full of the sweet unleaded nectar of the gods—nearly a hundred and fifty gallons of the stuff—and Lilly is delighted with the windfall. If folks are frugal with it and ration it wisely, the fuel will provide Woodbury with another month or so of power.
    For the rest of that week, Lilly keeps a lid on things as best she can, oblivious to the fact that events are about to spiral out of control.

 
    FIVE
    On Friday night—a night Lilly and her inner circle will later mark as a significant turning point—a warm front rolls in from the south, turning the air as muggy as a greenhouse. By midnight, the town has settled down and fallen silent, most of its inhabitants slumbering on sweat-damp sheets, a regiment of guards quietly keeping watch on the walls. Even Bob Stookey has taken a break from his round-the-clock vigil with the Governor and now sleeps soundly on a cot in one of the adjacent service bays under the racetrack. Only the infirmary—still blazing with the harsh halogen light of an operating room—buzzes with the muffled clamor of angry voices.
    â€œI’m sick of it,” Bruce Cooper complains, pacing in front of the broken-down monitors and gurneys shoved up against the back wall of the medical bay. “Who made her Queen Bitch? Bossing people around like fucking Cleopatra.”
    â€œSettle down, Brucey,” Gabe mutters from his chair angled next to the Governor’s bed, the wounded man lying as still and pale as a mannequin under the sheets. It’s been a week since the Governor tangled with the girl in the dreadlocks, and over the course of those seven days, Philip Blake has remained mostly unconscious. Nobody is comfortable with calling it a coma—although Bob has labeled it as such—but whatever grips the man seems to have its hooks deep within him. Only on two occasions has Philip stirred ever so slightly—his head lolling suddenly and a few garbled syllables coughing out of him—but each time he sank back into his twilight world just as abruptly as he came out of it. Nevertheless, Bob thinks this is a good sign. The Governor’s color continues to improve with each passing day, and his breathing continues to clear and strengthen. Bob has started increasing the amount of glucose and electrolytes in the IV, and keeping closer track of the man’s temperature. The Governor has been at 98.6 for over two days now. “What’s your problem with her, anyway?” Gabe asks the black man. “She never did anything to you. What’s your beef with her?”
    Bruce pauses, thrusting his big hands into the pockets of his camo pants, letting out an angry breath. “All I’m saying is, nobody made it official that she should be the one in charge right now.”
    Gabe shakes his head. “Who gives a shit? She wants to be temporary honcho, let her be temporary honcho.”
    â€œSome stupid bitch from some fucking gated community?!” Bruce snaps at him. “She’s a lightweight!”
    Gabe levers himself out of his chair, his back still a little stiff from the debacle in the alley a few days ago. He balls his fists as he comes around the Governor’s gurney and stands toe-to-toe with Bruce. “Okay, let’s get something straight. That lightweight bitch you’re talking about, she saved my fucking ass the other night. That lightweight bitch has more cojones than ninety percent of the men we got living in this place.”
    â€œSo what?—So fucking what ?!” Bruce stands his ground,