Theman sat up on the cot, his intensity growing. Ace could see the outline of hisbody on the sheets, formed from sweat. His face dripped with moisture as hecontinued: "I twisted it, and he still came after me. Took a bite out ofmy arm, and that's when I stabbed him in the throat."
Ace,his mouth hanging open, had never met a murderer before, at least not that heknew of. "Then what happened?"
Theman's eyes rolled into the back of his head, and just when Ace thought he wasgone for good, they focused on him. "He kept biting me. The cops showedup. Kicked down the door. Told me to freeze. But the pain... the biting. It wastoo much."
"And?"
Theman focused on him again. "I stabbed him through the eye."
Fora second, Ace almost asked if the man had died, but that was stupid. Of coursehe had died. He was lost in his own thoughts, when the man spoke again.
"You'reone of them aren't you?"
Acewas taken aback. His mind, translating English into Japanese, couldn't quitefigure out what the man was implying. The man on the cot across from himscrewed his face up, and Ace knew what was coming next.
Hegot his hands up in front of his throat, just as the man launched himself athim. He was screaming at the top of his lungs, "You're one of them!"over and over. He kept trying to choke Ace, and it was all he could do to keepthe man from getting a good grip on his throat.
"Help!"he screamed every time he managed to break the man's hold on his neck. Theytumbled to the ground, and Ace's world was turned upside down. He was losingthe battle. The man's rough hands seized on his throat, and no matter what hedid, he couldn't break the man's hold. He could hear one of his bandmates, HeyFever, screaming for help from a cell down the hall. His vision began to fade,the last sight he would see would be the face of the snarling madman across thehall, covered in blood, his arms outstretched towards Ace, as if he wanted tojoin in the fun.
Chapter 26: The Shopping Cart of Salvation
Mort's jog from the exploding police car had been asswift as possible. Blood streamed down his face, his elbow ached, and his kneehad stiffened up to the point where he was hobbling. His body was covered insweat, and his face stung where the sweat was seeping into the cuts on hisforehead. He leaned up against a wooden fence that had seen better days. He hadseen people moving about, heard sporadic shots of gunfire, and through it allhe had kept moving, though the years of smoking and minimal physical activityhad his lungs on fire.
He leaned against the rough grain of the now gray andsomewhat wobbly fence, coughing up phlegm and spitting it on the ground. He hadheard sirens, but they had always been heading away.
It began to rain, and Mort lifted his face to the sky tolet it wash away the blood on his face. He wasn't bleeding badly, nothing thatneeded stitches, but the last thing he needed was for cops to see him with hisface covered in blood. His bald head began to steam in the early morning rain.He closed his eyes.
Memories of his youth flashed in his mind. Hiding out inthe night, away from Pop, his slurring voice yelling out in the night,"I'm gonna get you, boy! You bring your ass in here!" The patter ofraindrops on the leaves around him, his heart beating in his ears, threateningto blow out his eardrums. It was a night like this that he had decided toleave, walking through the woods, and never looking back. He wondered how longit had taken Pop to sober up enough to realize that the last of his brood hadfinally left him alone in that shack in Louisiana, drinking and fighting the memoriesof his own youth.
He opened his eyes and focused them on a light in thedistance, always moving, never stopping, as if Pop were going to find him oneday. He put one foot in front of the other and walked towards the light. As hegot closer, he saw that it was a 24-hour supermarket, the lights still oninside. There were a handful of cars parked outside, and as he walked up to thefront doors, a man came out wielding a cart loaded down with water and tons ofcanned food.
Mort thought nothing of it, until the man saw him,skidded to a stop, and raised a handgun in his direction. Fear made his eyesbulge, and he could see the hardness in the other man's stare as he shouted,"Don't come any fucking closer, or I'll blow your goddamn brains out!"
Mort's hands came up instinctively, palms out to show hemeant no harm. "Easy man."
The man steered the cart with one hand to the back of apickup truck. He began tossing stuff into the back of it, one hand pointing thegun at Mort, and the other tossing his goods into the back.
Mort stood in silence, fearing the blackness at the endof the barrel of the gun that the man was holding. He was surprised to findthat the fear was the same despite the fact that he was forty-years older thanthe last time someone had pointed a gun in his direction. At least this man wassane, not rambling about the devil and drunk out of his mind. Mort waitedpatiently. When the man tossed the last jug of water into the back of histruck, he waived his gun at him dismissively, and yelled, "Go on, get outof here. Find someplace safe." Then, without even looking at him twice, hehopped into the cab of the truck and drove away, his bald tires squealing as heaccelerated on the rain-slick pavement.
The rain pitter-pattered on his head as he watched thelights disappear
