Sooner or later, any successful and popular project “outgrows” its original framework and strives to occupy “additional space”: a comic book turns into a television series, a television series into books, books into films, etc.
This happened with “The Walking Dead” (the original title was “The Walking Dead”): the television series, based on the comic books of the same name, now takes on another dimension, a book one – the book “The Walking Dead. The Rise of the Governor."
One of the authors of the book is Robert Kirkman, the creator of the original comic book series, the man who knows this fantastic, post-apocalyptic universe better than anyone.
The decision to add history and texture to one of the main antagonists, to “humanize” the figure of the Governor, is very correct from a marketing point of view. It both expands fan lore by connecting the book to familiar characters (and removes some of the tension between the comics and the TV series), and makes the book interesting to a reader unfamiliar with the series and/or comics because, from a factual standpoint, the events actually happen “before” (or in parallel - there is no exact calendar chronology) of the main events (thus, the book becomes a kind of prologue to the further confrontation of the heroes).
The plot centers on a small group of survivors: the Blake family, brothers Brian and Philip, and the latter's seven-year-old daughter, Penny, and Philip's school friends, Bobby Marsh and Nick Parsons, who joined them. They are simply trying to survive in the conditions of the coming zombie apocalypse, in the terrible endless and hopeless nightmare that has reigned around them. It is not surprising that ordinary people, not without flaws and psychological problems, turn into worse versions of themselves by the end of the story.
Interestingly, in this fantasy universe, zombies are quite typical: relatively slow, decaying walking corpses, whose bite is a guarantee of transformation into the same creature and "dying" when the brain is destroyed. Zombies react to loud sounds - which explains the desire of the heroes to use the quietest weapons possible (one of the few books where sound is used to distract zombies, and the use of firearms is limited to “the most extreme cases”), which contributes to the appearance of rather graphic, bloody scenes on the pages of the book .
In general, the book “The Walking Dead. The Rise of the Governor” is very close in spirit and style to comics - a lot of action, a lot of graphic and dynamic scenes (to make them more realistic, an interesting subject is used - the narration in the past tense is replaced by small, somewhat abrupt sentences in the present). At the same time, a key role in the plot is played by changes in the psyche of the characters, their reaction to constant stress and tragic events - there are generally a lot of questions about the ethics of, for example, the mass extermination of zombies (is there at least a hypothetical possibility of a reverse transformation, are they really nothing? feel other than hunger). The authors do not focus too much attention on this, but leave wide scope for the reader’s imagination - it is enough, for example, to put oneself in the place of the heroes.

Current page: 1 (book has 14 pages total) [available reading passage: 10 pages]

Robert Kirkman, Jay Bonansinga
The walking Dead. Rise of the Governor

Copyright © 2011 by Robert Kirkman and Jay Bonansinga

© A. Shevchenko, translation into Russian, 2015

© AST Publishing House LLC, 2015

Acknowledgments

Robert Kirkman, Brendan Deneen, Andy Cohen, David Alpert, Stephen Emery and all the good people of the Circle of Dispersion! Thank you very much!

Jay

Jay Bonansinga, Alpert and the entire Dispersion Circle, the lovely people at Image Comics and Charlie Edlard, our helmsman - hats off to you!

Rosenman, Rosenbaum, Simonian, Lerner and, of course, Brendan Deneen - please accept my deepest respect!

Robert

Part 1
Hollow people

Chapter 1

Terror gripped him. It was difficult to breathe. My legs gave way from fear. Brian Blake dreamed of a second pair of hands. Then he could cover his ears with his palms so as not to hear the sound of crumbling human skulls. Unfortunately, he only had two hands, with which he covered the tiny ears of the little girl, who was trembling with fear and despair. She was only seven. It was dark in the closet where they hid, and from outside they could hear the dull crack of breaking bones. But suddenly there was silence, which was broken only by someone’s careful steps across the pools of blood on the floor and an ominous whisper somewhere in the hallway.

Brian coughed again. He had been suffering from a cold for several days now, and he couldn’t do anything about it. Georgia usually gets cold and damp in the fall. Every year, Brian spends the first week of September in bed, trying to get rid of an annoying cough and runny nose. Damn dampness penetrates to the bones, draining all your strength. But this time I won’t be able to rest. He started coughing, squeezing little Penny's ears tighter. Brian knew they would be heard, but... what could he do?

I can not see anything. At least poke out your eyes. Only colored fireworks exploding under closed eyelids from every coughing fit. The closet—a cramped box at most a meter wide and a little more deep—smelled of mice, moth repellent, and old wood. Plastic bags with clothes hung from above, constantly touching my face, and this made me want to cough even more. In fact, Philip, Brian's younger brother, told him to cough as much as he could. Yes, even cough up all your lungs to hell, but if you suddenly infect a girl, blame yourself. Then another skull will crack – Brian’s. When it came to his daughter, it was better not to joke with Philip.

The attack is over.

A few seconds later, heavy footsteps were heard outside again. Brian hugged his little niece tighter when she shuddered from another monstrous roulade. The crack of a splitting skull in D minor, Brian thought with dark humor.

One day he opened his own audio CD store. The business failed, but remained forever in his soul. And now, sitting in the closet, Brian heard music. This one probably plays in hell. Something in the spirit of Edgard Varèse 2
French and American composer, one of the founders of electronic music.

Or John Bonham's drum solo 3
Drummer for Led Zeppelin.

On cocaine. The heavy breathing of people... the shuffling steps of the living dead... the whistle of an ax cutting through the air and piercing into human flesh...

...and, finally, that disgusting slurping sound with which the lifeless body falls onto the slippery parquet floor.

Silence again. Brian felt a chill run down his spine. His eyes gradually got used to the darkness, and through the gap he saw a trickle of thick blood. Looks like machine oil. Brian gently pulled the girl's hand, dragging her into the depths of the closet, into a pile of umbrellas and boots against the far wall. There’s no point in her looking at what’s going on outside.

Still, blood managed to splatter on the baby’s dress. Penny noticed a red stain on the hem and began to frantically rub the fabric.

Straightening up after another crushing attack, Brian grabbed the girl and gently pressed her to him. He didn't understand how to calm her down. What to say? He would have liked to whisper something encouraging to his niece, but his head was empty.

If her father were here... Yes, Philip Blake could cheer her up. Philip always knew what to say. He always said exactly what people wanted to hear. And he always backed up his words with actions – just like now. Now he's out there with Bobby and Nick, doing what he has to do while Brian cowers in the closet like a scared hare and tries to figure out how to calm his niece down.

Brian was always a runt, even though he was born the first of three sons in the family. Five meters tall (if you count his heels), black faded jeans, a torn T-shirt, a thin goatee, unkempt dark hair in the style of Ichabod Crane from Sleepy Hollow and braided bracelets on his arms - even at thirty-five he remained a kind of Peter Pan, forever stuck somewhere between high school and freshman year.

Brian took a deep breath and looked down. Little Penny's moist doe eyes glinted in the beam of light that leaked through the crack between the closet doors. She had always been a quiet girl, like a porcelain doll - small, thin, with airy features and jet-black curls - and after her mother's death she completely withdrew into herself. It was hard for her, although she didn’t show it, and yet the pain of loss was constantly reflected in her huge, sad eyes.

Penny had barely spoken a word in the last three days. Of course they were very unusual days and children usually recover from shocks faster than adults, but Brian was afraid that the girl would become withdrawn for the rest of her life.

“Everything will be fine, honey,” Brian whispered, clearing his throat.

Penny muttered something in response without looking up. A tear rolled down her stained cheek.

- What, Pen? – Brian asked, carefully wiping wet marks from the girl’s face.

Penny muttered something again, but it didn't seem like she was talking to Brian. He listened. The girl whispered again and again, like some kind of mantra, prayer or spell:

- It will never be good again. Never, never, never, never...

- Shhh...

Brian hugged the baby to his chest, feeling the heat of her face, flushed from tears, even through the T-shirt. Outside, the sound of an ax piercing flesh was heard again, and Brian hastily covered the girl's ears. A picture of bursting bones and slimy gray pulp splashing in all directions arose before my eyes.

The crack of the skull being opened vividly reminded Brian of hitting a wet ball with a baseball bat, and the splash of blood was like the sound of a wet rag plopping onto the floor. Another body fell to the floor with a thud, and, oddly enough, at that moment Brian was most worried about the fact that the tiles on the floor might break. Expensive, clearly custom-made, with intricate inlay and Aztec patterns. Yes, it was a cozy house...

And again silence.

Brian barely suppressed another attack. The cough was bursting out like a champagne cork, but Brian held it back with all his might so as not to miss the sounds coming from outside. He expected that now he would again hear someone’s strained breathing, shuffling steps, and wet slurping underfoot. But everything was quiet.

And then, in complete silence, there was a soft click and the door handle began to turn. Brian's hair stood on end, but he didn't have time to really get scared. The closet door swung open and a living person appeared behind it.

- All is clear! – said Philip Blake in a hoarse, smoky baritone, peering into the depths of the closet. His hot face was glistening with sweat, and his strong, muscular hand was clutching a massive ax.

- You are sure? – Brian whispered.

Philip didn't answer. He looked at his daughter and said:

- It's okay, honey. Everything is fine with dad.

- You are sure? – Brian repeated through a cough.

Philip looked condescendingly at his brother and said:

– Could you cover your mouth when you cough?

-Are you sure everything is clean? – Brian asked for the third time.

“Baby,” Philip turned to the girl. Now only the drawling southern accent, which always emerged in moments of excitement, betrayed the animal rage raging within him. - Sit here a little longer. Just a couple of minutes. OK Sweety? I’ll be back soon, and you can get out of the closet. Agreed?

Penny answered him with a barely noticeable nod.

- Come with me, brother. I’ll need help, I need to clean everything here,” Philip told his older brother.

Brian climbed out of the closet, pushing aside the clothes hanging in the closet.

A blinding light hit his eyes and Brian blinked. Then he coughed. Then he blinked again, looked around and simply forgot about the pain in his eyes from the sight that had opened up to him. For a moment, it seemed to him that the luxurious hallway of a two-story colonial-style house, brightly lit by elaborate copper chandeliers, was once again plunged into chaos of repairs and decoration, but this time the painters were either fitful or simply crazy. The pale green plaster of the walls was covered with long purple streaks. The floor was mottled with black and purple stains, as if straight out of Rorschach cards. 4
Rorschach ink blots are one of the tests used to study personality.

And finally, in this chaos, the outlines of bodies appeared.

Six lifeless, broken bodies lay on the floor in strange positions. Faces are mutilated, skulls are crushed. The largest corpse huddled in a spreading pool of blood and bile at the foot of the wide spiral staircase. And those bloody scraps staining the white parquet floor were just recently a woman - probably the mistress of the house, a hospitable lady who did not skimp on traditional southern hospitality and peach lemonade. Gray ooze oozed from a crack in her shattered skull. Brian's throat convulsed as he vomited.

- So, gentlemen, look around carefully. We'll do the cleaning. We need to finish quickly,” Philip turned to Nick and Bobby, his friends... and to Brian too, but his brother did not hear him. He was too shocked by what he saw and at that moment did not hear anything except the furious beating of his own heart. It seemed that none of this was real. He couldn't believe what he was seeing.

In the corridor and on the threshold of the living room, what was left of the other unfortunates still lay - body parts and unidentifiable pieces of meat in pools of dried blood. Two days ago, Philip started calling such remains “double-rare steak.” Apparently, during their lifetime these were teenagers - either children of the owners of the house, or victims traditional southern hospitality, which turned into a nightmare for everyone, including the owners. One bite was enough. From under one body, lying face down on the floor, a thick reddish liquid was still flowing in a thin stream, as if from a leaky faucet. The blades of kitchen knives stuck into the skulls of the dead, driven to the hilt, like flags of pioneers on conquered peaks.

Brian covered his mouth with his hand, trying to hold back the urge to gag. Suddenly something dripped onto the top of his head. He raised his head.

Another drop of blood flowing from the chandelier landed right on his nose.

- Nick, bring some of the tarpaulin blankets we saw in...

At these words, Brian suddenly bent over and fell to his knees. Vomit poured onto the parquet floor. Yellowish-green bile flowed along the grooves between the tiles, mixing with the blood of the dead lying on the floor.

Brian's relief even brought tears to his eyes: he had been sick for four days now, but only now was he finally able to relieve his stomach.

* * *

Philip Blake exhaled loudly, adrenaline still pumping through his blood. His first instinct was to run up to his brother and shake him thoroughly, but Philip restrained himself. Putting down the bloody axe, he looked back at Brian and rolled his eyes. I don't know how he hasn't gotten calluses on his eyelids in all the years he's had to do this. But nothing can be done. This son of a bitch is still his brother. And family is the most precious thing a person has. Especially in times like these. Even in appearance, Brian is very similar to Philip, despite the three-year difference, and nothing can be done about that either. Tall, lean and muscular, Philip Blake, like Brian, inherited from his Mexican mother dark skin, raven hair, and brown almond-shaped eyes. Mama Rosa's maiden name was Garcia, and her bright Latin American features prevailed in her offspring over the genes of Ed Blake, a rude, big drunkard whose ancestors included only Irish and Scots. But Philip inherited from his father at least a height of one hundred and ninety and strong muscles, and Brian, it seems, got nothing. Standing in the middle of the corridor in faded jeans, work boots and a wrinkled cotton shirt, with a long drooping mustache and a prison tattoo of a biker on a motorcycle, Philip glared at his brother with a contemptuous look and felt like he was about to lose his temper. A little more - and he will tell this slave everything that he thinks about him. But suddenly, from the depths of the hallway, from the door, some noise came.

Bobby Marsh, Philip's friend since school, stood next to the stairs, leisurely wiping the blade of an ax on his wide trouser leg. A fat man, thirty-two years old, never finished college, with long, greasy hair pulled back into a ponytail, he was one of those , who was called “doughnut” at school. Bobby looked at Brian and shuddered from bursts of nervous, ragged laughter, swaying with his entire impressive belly. It was unlikely that the sight of a man bent over in the throes of vomiting gave him pleasure - it was not so much real laughter as a kind of nervous tic. When this happened to Bobby, he simply could not help himself.

It started three days ago, when Bobby had his first encounter with the living dead - in the restroom at a gas station near the Augusta airport. Covered in blood from head to toe, the zombie emerged from the stall, dragging a trail of toilet paper behind him, and shuffled straight towards Bobby, already sizing up the juicy piece. But Philip rushed to his friend’s rescue and smashed the dead man’s head with an iron crowbar.

So it turned out that a zombie can be killed by breaking its skull. And that same day, Bobby began to stutter slightly, talk a lot and laugh nervously. It was a kind of defense mechanism or the consequences of shock. Bobby was the only one in the whole company who tried to look for an explanation for what happened: “It looks like some kind of rubbish got into the water. Like some kind of plague, fuck her leg.” But Philip didn't want to hear any stupid explanations and every time Bobby started talking, he quickly shut him up.

- Hey! – Philip shouted at the fat man. - It seems to you funny?

Bobby fell silent.

At the far end of the living room, near the window, stood Nick Parsons, another of Philip's schoolmates. He peered intensely into the darkness - he must have been trying to figure out if there were a couple more dead people lurking in the yard. Nick looked like a Marine: short hair, broad shoulders, stern eyes, khaki jacket. It turned out to be the most difficult for him to come to terms with the idea that they would have to kill what had recently been people. All his life Nick had followed the biblical precepts, and what was happening now had somewhat shaken his beliefs. He watched with sadness in his eyes as Philip loomed menacingly over Bobby from the height of the porch.

“Sorry, man,” Bobby muttered.

“There’s my daughter,” Philip barked in Marsh’s face. He looked down: at any second Brian’s brother could flare up in anger, but there was no point in angering him.

- Sorry...

- Get to work, Bobby. Bring a tarp.

A few steps away from Philip, Brian once again bent over, throwing out the last thing that was still left in his stomach and coughing dryly.

“Be patient, a little longer,” Philip walked up to his brother and carefully patted him on the shoulder.

“I...” Brian paused, trying to collect his thoughts.

- It's okay, brother. Happens to everyone.

- Sorry…

- Everything is fine.

Brian finally pulled himself together, straightened up and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

- So you really killed everyone?

- I think yes.

- Sure?

– Have you checked everywhere? In the basement? In the servants' quarters?

- Yes, everywhere. In all rooms, in the basement and even in the attic. The last dead man came out at the sound of your coughing when you were hiding in the closet. You coughed so hard that you could even wake up the dead. The little girl... she tried to eat one of Bobby's chins.

Brian swallowed loudly.

- All these people... they are lived Here.

“They don’t live anymore,” Philip sighed.

Brian looked back at his brother.

- But they... this is... family...

Philip nodded but remained silent. He wanted to shrug - so what the hell, it was a family? But he didn't say anything. He doesn't want to think that he's killing people who just recently were someone's mother, a mailman, or a gas station worker. Brian, the damn smart guy, yesterday started talking about morality and ethics. From a moral point of view, he said, no one should be killed. Never. But from an ethical point of view, it’s a different matter. Killing in self-defense is completely ethical. Having come to this conclusion, Brian calmed down, but from the very beginning Philip did not care about these speculations. He simply did not consider that he was taking someone's life. Is it possible to kill someone who is already dead? I crushed his skull and moved on - what else is there to talk and think about?

Moreover, now Philip didn’t even think about where they would go next, although he understood that sooner or later this would have to be decided to him: It so happened that it was he who became the leader of their small motley company. But there was no time for that yet. The epidemic began only seventy-two hours ago, and from the moment the dead took on an eerie semblance of life, Philip Blake could only think about one thing: how to protect Penny. That is why two days ago he took the entire company away from his hometown, away from crowded places.

The brothers were from Waynesboro, a small town in central Georgia that turned into a living hell as residents began to die and come back to life one by one. If Philip had been on his own, he might not have left, but Penny had to be saved at all costs. It was because of Penny that he turned to his school friends for help. It was because of Penny that Philip decided to go to Atlanta, where, according to the news, the nearest refugee camp was located. All this is just for the sake of my daughter. After all, for some time now Penny is the only thing that makes him at least somehow move. The only balm for his wounded soul. Long before this inexplicable epidemic, Philip became accustomed to the fact that every night, at exactly three in the morning, a painful spasm squeezes his heart. Because at exactly three in the morning - almost four years ago now - he became a widower. Sarah went to visit a university friend, had a little drink and on the way back lost control on the rain-slick road.

The moment Philip saw his wife’s dead face at the identification parade, it became crystal clear to him: life would never return to normal. Philip worked two jobs so that Penny would not need anything, but there was nothing to fill the emptiness in her soul. He knew for sure that he would never be the same again, and his whole life was concentrated in his daughter. Who knows if this is why all this is happening now? Jokes of the Lord God... When the locusts come and the rivers flow with blood, the one who actually has something to lose will stand at the head of the detachment. - What difference does it make who they were? – Philip finally answered his brother. - Or how they were.

“I guess... yes, you’re right,” Brian answered. He sat cross-legged and watched as Bobby and Nick laid out tarps and garbage bags and, one at a time, wrapped the bodies, still dripping blood, in them.

“The main thing is that this house is now safe.” For now. We'll spend the night here today. And tomorrow, if we find at least a little gasoline, we will already be in Atlanta.

“Something doesn’t add up...” Brian muttered, glancing at the corpses.

- What are you talking about?

- Look at them.

- So what? “Philip already watched as the others rolled the mother of the family into a tarpaulin. - An ordinary family.

Brian coughed into his sleeve and wiped his mouth.

- How the hell could this happen? Here is a mother, father, four children... and that's it!

- What do you mean?

- They all... they turned simultaneously? Or did one person become infected first, and then bit the others?

Philip thought for a second - he still didn’t really understand how infection occurs - but then shook his head, trying to get rid of these thoughts. He already thinks too much. This is not the main thing now.

“Get off your lazy ass and help us,” he turned to his brother.

* * *

They finished it in an hour. While the guys were cleaning, Penny was sitting in the closet. Dad brought her a soft toy, which he found in one of the rooms, and the girl, busy with her new plush friend, did not notice how time flew by.

Brian wiped up the bloody puddles everywhere, and his comrades carried six bodies, two large and four small, into the yard through the sliding doors of the back door, wrapped in blankets and garbage bags.

It's already dark. The dark sky of the September night stretched above them - clear and cold, like a black ocean with a scattering of stars, teasing with their indifferent twinkling. The cool air burned the hot lungs of the three men dragging black bags up the frost-covered steps. Each had a hatchet hanging from their belt, and Philip also had a pistol sticking out of his belt, an old Ruger 22 that he had bought at a flea market several years ago. But now it was dangerous to use firearms: a loud sound could attract even more walking dead, whose shuffling steps and muffled groans could be heard from the neighboring yards.

This year, autumn arrived earlier than usual in Georgia, and this night the thermometers were expected to be plus five, or even less. At least that's what the local radio promised until it drowned in a storm of static electricity. Philip and his comrades tried to follow the news on TV, radio and mobile Internet all the way - Brian had a smartphone.

The media, which were still active, tried to convince people that the government had the situation under control and that the epidemic would be contained within a few hours. Civil defense forces in radio messages asked people to stay indoors, wash their hands thoroughly, drink only bottled water and blah blah blah. It is clear that no one had answers. Nobody knew when or if it would all end. And the worst thing was that every hour more and more broadcasting stations went out of order. But, thank God, there was still gasoline at gas stations and food in stores. Power plants were still working, police stations were still running, and traffic lights on the roads still regularly alternated between red and green.

But there was no doubt that it was only a matter of time: sooner or later the entire city infrastructure would collapse.

“Let's throw them in the trash cans behind the garage,” Philip said in a whisper, pulling two canvas bundles to the wooden fence that separated the three-car garage from the house. It was necessary to act quickly and very quietly so as not to attract new zombies. No sharp sounds, no flashlights and, God forbid, no gunshots. Trying to make as little noise as possible, they dragged the bags along a narrow gravel path between the garages at the back of the houses and a two-meter cedar fence. Nick dragged his burden to the gate and pulled the forged handle.

A dead man was waiting for him on the other side of the gate.

- Carefully! Bobby Marsh yelled.

- Shut up! – Philip hissed, snatching an ax from his belt and rushing towards the gate.

Nick jumped away from the gate.

The zombie rushed towards him, snapping his teeth like castanets, but missed - though only by a fraction of a centimeter. Having dodged the teeth of the dead man, Nick managed to see him: an elderly man in a worn sweater, wide golf trousers and expensive studded boots. His milky sores flashed in the moonlight, and Philip, raising his ax, had time to think: someone's grandfather. Nick backed away, got tangled in his own legs and sat down with a swing on the lawn in front of the gate, overgrown with thick meadow bluegrass. The dead golfer took a step forward, but the rusty ax head had already shot up over his head and landed right on the top of his head. The old man's skull cracked like a coconut, exposing his frontal lobes, and the grimace of animal hunger instantly disappeared from his dead face.

The zombie fell like a bag to the ground next to Nick.

Now the silence was broken only by the heavy breathing of frightened men. Philip just stared at the body for several seconds, but finally noticed that the ax was no longer in his hand: it was still stuck in the zombie's skull.

– Close these damn gates! And quiet! – Philip whispered tensely, still trying to recover. He pressed the head of the corpse to the ground with his heel and abruptly pulled the ax out of the skull. Nick stood up with difficulty and retreated a couple more steps, looking at the corpse with horror and disgust. Bobby dropped his bag and ran to the gate. The latch dropped with a characteristic metallic clang. The echo flew through the courtyards, causing all three to freeze in fear. Philip glanced around the dark courtyard, fighting the rising panic. Suddenly, from somewhere behind, from the side of the house, a sound was heard.

Philip raised his head. There was a light on in one of the windows of the colonial mansion.

Brian stood at the back sliding door, banging on the glass and motioning to his brother and the others to come quickly! His face was distorted with horror, and Philip realized that the dead golfer had nothing to do with it. Something else happened.

Oh my God, not Penny!

Philip threw down the ax and ran as fast as he could towards the house.

– What to do with the corpses? Bobby Marsh shouted after him.

- To hell with them!

Philip crossed the lawn in three leaps, flew up the steps and, breathing heavily, burst into the house. Brian was waiting for him at the door.

– You must see this!

- What's happened? Is Penny okay? – Philip asked, taking a frantic gulp of air. Bobby and Nick were already following him up the steps. “She’s fine,” Brian answered, clutching a framed photograph in his hand. “She said she could sit in the closet a little longer.”

- I want to show you something. We're going to spend the night here, right? Look, there were six dead people here, right? You killed everyone. Six. There were six of them.

- Speak already, damn you.

“Somehow they all turned into zombies at once.” The whole family. Right? – Brian cleared his throat and pointed his finger towards the six packages that remained lying near the garage. “There are six corpses lying on the grass.” Look. Mother, father, four children.

- So what?

Brian held the photo up and showed it to his brother. A happy family, everyone smiling, everyone in their Sunday best.

– I found this on the piano.

Brian pointed his finger at the smallest child in the photo. A boy of eleven or twelve years old. Blue T-shirt, blonde hair, the same smile on his face as the others. Brian looked at his brother meaningfully.

Copyright © 2011 by Robert Kirkman and Jay Bonansinga

© A. Shevchenko, translation into Russian, 2015

© AST Publishing House LLC, 2015

Robert Kirkman, Brendan Deneen, Andy Cohen, David Alpert, Stephen Emery and all the good people of the Circle of Dispersion! Thank you very much!

Jay

Jay Bonansinga, Alpert and the entire Dispersion Circle, the lovely people at Image Comics and Charlie Edlard, our helmsman - hats off to you!

Rosenman, Rosenbaum, Simonian, Lerner and, of course, Brendan Deneen - please accept my deepest respect!

Robert

Terror gripped him. It was difficult to breathe. My legs gave way from fear. Brian Blake dreamed of a second pair of hands. Then he could cover his ears with his palms so as not to hear the sound of crumbling human skulls. Unfortunately, he only had two hands, with which he covered the tiny ears of the little girl, who was trembling with fear and despair. She was only seven. It was dark in the closet where they hid, and from outside they could hear the dull crack of breaking bones. But suddenly there was silence, which was broken only by someone’s careful steps across the pools of blood on the floor and an ominous whisper somewhere in the hallway.

Brian coughed again. He had been suffering from a cold for several days now, and he couldn’t do anything about it. Georgia usually gets cold and damp in the fall. Every year, Brian spends the first week of September in bed, trying to get rid of an annoying cough and runny nose. Damn dampness penetrates to the bones, draining all your strength. But this time I won’t be able to rest. He started coughing, squeezing little Penny's ears tighter. Brian knew they would be heard, but... what could he do?

I can not see anything. At least poke out your eyes. Only colored fireworks exploding under closed eyelids from every coughing fit. The closet—a cramped box at most a meter wide and a little more deep—smelled of mice, moth repellent, and old wood. Plastic bags with clothes hung from above, constantly touching my face, and this made me want to cough even more. In fact, Philip, Brian's younger brother, told him to cough as much as he could. Yes, even cough up all your lungs to hell, but if you suddenly infect a girl, blame yourself. Then another skull will crack – Brian’s. When it came to his daughter, it was better not to joke with Philip.

The attack is over.

A few seconds later, heavy footsteps were heard outside again. Brian hugged his little niece tighter when she shuddered from another monstrous roulade. The crack of a splitting skull in D minor, Brian thought with dark humor.

One day he opened his own audio CD store. The business failed, but remained forever in his soul. And now, sitting in the closet, Brian heard music. This one probably plays in hell. Something in the spirit of Edgard Varèse or a John Bonham drum solo on cocaine. The heavy breathing of people... the shuffling steps of the living dead... the whistle of an ax cutting through the air and piercing into human flesh...

...and, finally, that disgusting slurping sound with which the lifeless body falls onto the slippery parquet floor.

Silence again. Brian felt a chill run down his spine. His eyes gradually got used to the darkness, and through the gap he saw a trickle of thick blood. Looks like machine oil. Brian gently pulled the girl's hand, dragging her into the depths of the closet, into a pile of umbrellas and boots against the far wall. There’s no point in her looking at what’s going on outside.

Still, blood managed to splatter on the baby’s dress. Penny noticed a red stain on the hem and began to frantically rub the fabric.

Straightening up after another crushing attack, Brian grabbed the girl and gently pressed her to him. He didn't understand how to calm her down. What to say? He would have liked to whisper something encouraging to his niece, but his head was empty.

If her father were here... Yes, Philip Blake could cheer her up. Philip always knew what to say. He always said exactly what people wanted to hear. And he always backed up his words with actions – just like now. Now he's out there with Bobby and Nick, doing what he has to do while Brian cowers in the closet like a scared hare and tries to figure out how to calm his niece down.

Brian was always a runt, even though he was born the first of three sons in the family. Five meters tall (if you count his heels), black faded jeans, a torn T-shirt, a thin goatee, unkempt dark hair in the style of Ichabod Crane from Sleepy Hollow and braided bracelets on his arms - even at thirty-five he remained a kind of Peter Pan, forever stuck somewhere between high school and freshman year.

Brian took a deep breath and looked down. Little Penny's moist doe eyes glinted in the beam of light that leaked through the crack between the closet doors. She had always been a quiet girl, like a porcelain doll - small, thin, with airy features and jet-black curls - and after her mother's death she completely withdrew into herself. It was hard for her, although she didn’t show it, and yet the pain of loss was constantly reflected in her huge, sad eyes.

Penny had barely spoken a word in the last three days. Of course they were very unusual days and children usually recover from shocks faster than adults, but Brian was afraid that the girl would become withdrawn for the rest of her life.

“Everything will be fine, honey,” Brian whispered, clearing his throat.

Penny muttered something in response without looking up. A tear rolled down her stained cheek.

- What, Pen? – Brian asked, carefully wiping wet marks from the girl’s face.

Penny muttered something again, but it didn't seem like she was talking to Brian. He listened. The girl whispered again and again, like some kind of mantra, prayer or spell:

- It will never be good again. Never, never, never, never...

- Shhh...

Brian hugged the baby to his chest, feeling the heat of her face, flushed from tears, even through the T-shirt. Outside, the sound of an ax piercing flesh was heard again, and Brian hastily covered the girl's ears. A picture of bursting bones and slimy gray pulp splashing in all directions arose before my eyes.

The crack of the skull being opened vividly reminded Brian of hitting a wet ball with a baseball bat, and the splash of blood was like the sound of a wet rag plopping onto the floor. Another body fell to the floor with a thud, and, oddly enough, at that moment Brian was most worried about the fact that the tiles on the floor might break. Expensive, clearly custom-made, with intricate inlay and Aztec patterns. Yes, it was a cozy house...

And again silence.

Brian barely suppressed another attack. The cough was bursting out like a champagne cork, but Brian held it back with all his might so as not to miss the sounds coming from outside. He expected that now he would again hear someone’s strained breathing, shuffling steps, and wet slurping underfoot. But everything was quiet.

And then, in complete silence, there was a soft click and the door handle began to turn. Brian's hair stood on end, but he didn't have time to really get scared. The closet door swung open and a living person appeared behind it.

- All is clear! – said Philip Blake in a hoarse, smoky baritone, peering into the depths of the closet. His hot face was glistening with sweat, and his strong, muscular hand was clutching a massive ax.

The walking Dead. Rise of the Governor Robert Kirkman, Jay Bonansinga

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Title: The Walking Dead. Rise of the Governor
Author: Robert Kirkman, Jay Bonansinga
Year: 2011
Genre: Horror and Mystery, Thrillers, Foreign science fiction, Foreign fantasy, Foreign detectives

About the book “The Walking Dead. Rise of the Governor" Robert Kirkman, Jay Bonansinga

There is no more monstrous character in The Walking Dead universe than The Governor. A talented leader... and a calculating dictator. He forced his captives to fight zombies just to entertain the crowd, and killed those who crossed his path. The moment you've been waiting for has finally arrived - now you can learn about how the Governor became one of the most tyrannical characters in the series.

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