Joan didn't know anything about heaven. She had neverbeen religious, but seeing the shape the world was in, she doubted even morethat such a place existed. But that wasn't going to help Blake. "Yeah, I'msure you will."
He hadn't been reading her lips, so he just continued,"I always thought heaven was like this place where you would be the bestversion of yourself. Like, your grandpa would be like 25 when you got there,and you wouldn't know him at first until he introduced himself. Wouldn't thatbe something?"
Blake wasn't looking at anyone in particular. He wasn'tlooking for a response. He was just rambling now. "I think he's a bitdelirious," Joan said.
"It don't matter," Mort said. "Just let'em talk. He ain't got a whole lot of time now."
Before their very eyes, Blake seemed to shrivel. He knewit was happening, and he continued his rambling speech. "I'm thinkingabout myself. What version of myself will I be when I get to heaven? Will I bethe man I am now? I feel like who I am now is the best version of me, but thenI think about how I can't hear, and I think, well, then maybe I want to be thesecond best version of myself. Maybe I want to be the guy that could hear, butwas kind of an asshole. You know I had kids out there? Did I ever tell any ofy'all that?"
Blake looked around the room, his eyes gleaming withfever. "Yeah, buddy. Met me a girl when we were both young. So stupid. Wedidn't get along too good. She liked to drink. I liked to drink. So we ended it,but not before we had a couple of kids."
Blake stopped talking, his eyes in the distance, his headbobbing like the head of a cobra. "I always said I'd stick around. I'dstay in the picture, be the greatest distant dad those kids could have askedfor. But I didn't."
Blake turned to Mort. Mort picked his hand up and held it.Tears fell from Blake's eyes. "I'm afraid, man," Blake said, lookingMort in the eyes.
"I know, brother," he said reassuringly,patting Blake's hand.
"I'm afraid I'm going to be standing up at themgates, and they're going to be standing there too, yelling at me. And I'm notgoing to be able to hear what they say, and that's going to keep me fromgetting in there, man. Then I'm going straight down."
Mort squeezed Blake's hand, and he became quieter,despondent. His eyes were unseeing, and he had nothing else left to say.Sadness permeated the room, and the only sound was that of the dead onesoutside, still hammering, still trying to find a way inside.
Mort got it now. He understood why Lou hadn't killed thewoman upstairs. He understood that Blake was someone, Blake was a human being,and he was experiencing his last moments on earth. The other side of thatexperience, death, was an unknown. Blake was standing on that precipice, tryingto see inside the swirling mists of death, wondering how things were going togo. It would be wrong to rob the man of any second of his time on earth becauseno one knew what was on the other side.
Though Blake was no longer with them mentally, he wasstill there, the infection coursing through his brain. What was the moment whenhe would stop being who he was? The moment he breathed his last breath, a fewmoments after, or was it sometime before. Was it happening right now, asBlake's eyes still blinked. Was this Blake in front of him now, or was it justthe baby stages of the undead taking over his brain and turning him intosomething mindless.
"Mort?" Blake said.
Mort gave his hand a squeeze in reply. It was the onlyway they could communicate now, a gentle squeeze of the hand. Joan waved herhand in front of his eyes, and he seemed to see nothing. "What is it,Blake?"
"Mort... if you can hear me. I want it to beyou."
Mort's head hung. He had always intended for it to behim. He wouldn't back away from his duty. You had to kill the one's you caredabout. He had heard horror stories at the Coliseum, stories of survivorskilling the ones they loved... and yet, each one of those people seemed moreprepared for the world around them, more well-adjusted, more at peace. Takingcare of their own filled the potential void that could be created when deathwas not given as a gift, but brought about as the result of a random calamity.
Mort imagined in the future that this was how funeralswould be. Loved ones would gather around the afflicted person, say theirgoodbyes, and then they would designate who they wanted to kill them. Ratherthan it being a chore, it would be a great honor. Mort felt it; he felt thathonor. As twisted as it was, he appreciated Blake asking him.
Mort just squeezed his hand. And Blake smiled. Theydidn't need sight or sound to communicate. They had known each other for only alittle while, but it felt like more. Every day in this world felt like a year.Every laugh felt like a reason to live. Every death was an eternity and anopportunity.
Over the next few hours, they huddled in the darkness,sitting and thinking. Sweat rolled down their faces as the afternoon heatbecame trapped inside the mostly windowless building. Still, they sat in thegloom behind the rattling door that had miraculously held up, and the wallsthat had withstood the staccato pounding of rotten fists for an entire day.Blake had lapsed into silence long ago.
Blake's eyes had closed, the useless clouded things, andhe had begun to breathe deeply. Mort had never let his hand go. He sat, holdingBlake's hand with his right hand, Blake's rifle resting across his lap for whenthe time came.
He could have shot him already; part of him wanted to,but he remembered the lesson Lou had taught him upstairs by helping a completestranger. She was hurt, immobile, and
