"I don't know much about nothing," Mort toldhim. "I'm not sure that I haven't lost my mind at the moment."
The cowboy squatted across from him, and stared him inthe eyes, those sniper's eyes locking him in. "The world is fucked. We'vegot to get out of this place. That shit you saw last night? That shit that youcan't believe? That was just the beginning. This thing is everywhere."
"Everywhere?" Mort said, barely able to believewhat he was hearing.
The cowboy stood up and grabbed a paper cup off of theancient wooden coffee table. He spit a wad of tar-filled spit into the cup,wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, "They called in themilitary. They've declared martial law."
Mort felt a sudden rush of relief. "Well, thenthat's it. We just sit tight and wait. It will all be taken care of."
The cowboy smiled at him, white teeth with sharp caninesthat were yellowing near the gum line. "You'd think so, right? You'd thinkthat America would be able to handle its shit, but think about it this way.There are around 1.5 million troops in the American armed forces. At any onetime, 20% of them are overseas. That leaves 1.2 million soldiers to clean upthis mess. Now, on the news, they're claiming that this epidemic, this whateverit is, is happening all over the world. That means that every city in Americais going through what we went through last night. It don't matter how big thecity is, people are dying and getting back up. Now, if 1.2 million troops seemslike a small number to protect the entire country of America, then you'd beright. Even if they just protected the top fifty most populous cities, thatmeans they're sending out 24,000 troops to each one of those cities... andthere are hundreds and thousands of other cities and towns that aren'treceiving any help. Let's say those top fifty cities are saved... then you'retalking about at most one-fourth of the country's population. That means thatpotentially there could be two-hundred and fifty million of those things outthere. Think about New York. You're sending 24,000 troops to safeguard a cityof eight million... you think they can pull it off? It's a numbers game, man,and we don't have 'em."
Mort leaned back on the couch. Trying to make sense ofall the data the man had spewed at him. He understood the gist, although thenumbers were staggering and had stopped making sense to him soon after the manhad spoke. "Well, none of that matters, does it? We're not in one of thosecities that isn't getting help. We're in Portland."
"Yeah, well. Within a fifty mile radius of thisplace, there's three million people. Three million people who have thepotential to turn into one of those things out there. For everyone one of usthat dies, one of them is born. You think 24,000 troops are going to put a dentin that?"
Mort didn't like what he was hearing. What kind of worldwas he living in when you couldn't rely on the police or the military toprotect you? Well, he was used to the police not protecting him, but themilitary?
The man with the sniper's eyes stalked over to the windowto look outside, his boots clunking on the wooden floor. "On top of that,how many people do you think chose to report for duty when this all happened?Would you abandon your family with this shit going on? This place is atrap," he said. "Things will get better, for a time, and then it'sgoing to get worse, and after that... it's going to get even worse, and afterthat, it's going to get about as bad as it can get."
"What do you mean?"
The man swung his piercing blue eyes in his direction."Think about it. What do you do when you're in a hopeless situation?"
Mort shrugged his shoulders. The cowboy looked at him,and then seeing that Mort wasn't going to give him an answer, he said,"C'mon, man. When they see that it's hopeless, they're going to bring outthe big guns."
Mort thought about all of the hopeless situations he hadbeen trapped in last night, escaping from a cop car, using his head to bash hisway out, escaping a group of the dead on a shopping cart, and finally windingup trapped in a bathroom with no way out except for the arms of the dead. Hehad been in the process of overdosing on sleeping pills when the cowboy hadshowed up... bringing out the big guns. He was going to kill himself ratherthan turn into one of those things. "They're going to bomb the place,"he said. "Kill everyone before they can turn into more of thosethings."
"Bingo," the cowboy said.
"Jesus, we've got to get out of here," Mortsaid, his voice rising in panic. Mort stood on his leg.
"Not so fast, my hobbled friend," the cowboysaid. "We've got to form a plan first."
"Wait, wait, wait. Before we start planning here, Ineed to know something."
The cowboy looked at him and said, "What?"
"What's your name?"
The cowboy smiled his white-toothed smile and held outhis hand, "My name is Blake. Pleased to meet you."
Mort shook his hand. Blake had a strong grip, vice-like."My name is Mort. Thanks for helping me out last night. So what sort ofplan did you have in mind?"
"Step one... we need weapons."
Chapter 6: Getting Wheels
Ace stood in the street, shading his eyes from the sun.In his hand was a black, police-issue revolver. He looked at it, pondering hiscourse of action. His band of freed prisoners had mostly dwindled once theyescaped the police station. Some left for home, some were put off by the weirdways of Ace himself, and some had actually died. There had been nineteen men.Including Ace, five were left. They were mean men, much bigger than Acehimself, but he had something they didn't have. He had charisma. They followedhim. They did what he said. It was the way it should be.
When they broke
