Blake walked slowly ahead of Mort, his back hunched over,and his feet sliding silently across the concourse floor. Mort wondered exactlywhat it is they were doing. Blake hugged the wall, and Mort did the same. Aheadof them the group of people was moving much faster than they were. They watchedas the group ducked into a side door. Blake held his hand up, and then, after afew seconds, he waved Mort on. They pulled open the door and crept down a setof dimly lit stairs.
The emergency lighting made it difficult to see, and asthey reached the bottom of the stairwell, Blake leaned around the corner. Mortleaned around with him, peering down the shadowy hallway of the lower level. Ifthe upper-level could be said to be Spartan, the lower level made the upperlevel look absolutely cozy.
The walls were white, criss-crossed with exposed wiringand the gleam of steel pipes. The ceiling was more of that cold concrete thatmade up the upper concourse, gray and spiderwebbed with cracks. At the end ofthe hall, just around the curve, they saw the group of people moving quietlydown the hallway, purpose in their stride. Mort thought he recognized thedoctor that had worked on Blake.
They crept along until the group came upon a door. Fromdown the hall, they heard a man say, "Let's bust this bitch wideopen." Then there was a banging sound. The hall filled with a loud ringingthat echoed off the concrete walls.
Blake scribbled something on his notepad and handed it toMort. For the last day, Mort had been communicating with Blake solely throughwriting. Mort was out of practice. He had never been much of a reader inschool, and once he had hit the roads and railways, all he ever had a chance toread was random bits of graffiti splattered on the railway cars, and most ofthat was unintelligible. He took the notepad and read Blake's words. "Whatare they doing?" he had written.
Mort took Blake's pen and wrote, "They're trying tobreak down a door." He handed the pad back to Blake, and he read thewords. He shook his head, and they waited. There was a loud crash from aroundthe bend; it sounded as if they had finally succeeded in breaking open the door.The voices down the hallway became more muted, and Mort assumed they hadentered the room. He stepped in front of Blake and leaned around the curvingwall of the concourse to see a soldier approaching the room from the oppositedirection, his rifle in his hand.
Mort leaned back, and listened. Blake grabbed hisshoulder and held the notepad out to him. Mort scribbled "SOLJER" onthe notepad and handed it to Blake. Around the corner, Mort heard a man, shout,"Freeze!"
There were words from inside of the room, but Mortcouldn't make out any of them. Without warning, Blake took off down thehallway, running as quiet as a man could in cowboy boots. The soldier heardBlake before he saw him, but by then it was too late. Blake dove and tackledthe man to the ground, pressing the gun to his chest. They fought on theground, and Mort cursed at his own cowardly paralysis.
The swearing kicked him into action, and then he wasthere, right next to Blake. He didn't want to do it, and he felt awful aboutit, but he kicked the soldier in the head. The soldier went still immediately,his eyes rolling in the back of his head and his arms locking into a frozenposition. Mort's hands came to his face, and he looked around apologetically."I didn't want to," he said.
The doctor came over and dropped to her knees. "Ishe dead?" Mort asked.
Blake stood up, pulling the rifle from the man's hands.He patted Mort on the shoulder and said, "Thanks."
The doctor looked up at him, and said, "He's goingto be alright, but his face will probably never look the same." Mort couldalready see the swelling on the side of the man's cheek. He didn't like what hehad done, so he turned and focused on the room.
The room was filled with all sorts of weaponry, guns,knives, even a couple of swords that had been confiscated from refugees. Thegroup of people that they had followed were gearing up, picking up weapons,scrounging for ammunition, and shoving whatever they could in their pockets.
"Hell yeah," Blake said as he strolled over toa table and lifted up a gunny sack full of weapons and peered inside. To Mort,he looked like a redneck Santa Claus. The bag was full of the weapons thesoldiers had confiscated from Mort as soon as they had loaded Blake onto thehelicopter. Blake set the bag on the floor and rooted through it. He smiled forthe first time since he had lost his hearing as he held up his hunting rifle.He admired it as if he had just discovered the Holy Grail, and then he held itup to his lips and kissed it. Mort watched as he first loaded it and thenflung the rifle over his shoulder. "Grab that bag, and pick out a gun,man," Blake said to him.
Mort did as he was told, although he knew next to nothingabout guns. A tall white man spoke to him as he attempted to load some bulletsinto a handgun. "You guys looking to get out of here?"
Mort looked at the man, smiled, and said, "You showme the way, and I'm right there with you."
"You know how to use that thing?" the man askedhim.
"Not really," Mort said.
"Here," the man held out his hand, and Morthanded him the gun. He cocked the slide, showed Mort where the safety was, andthen handed the gun back to him. "Just aim and squeeze."
Blake stood guard at the door, his rifle in his hands.Mort was loaded down with a bag full of guns and ammo, and the gun in his handsfelt like a living thing. He looked around the room and saw that everyone elsewas armed as well. Adrenaline shot through him, and Mort understood
