Chapter X

Notable Notables

(What follows are two of the dozens of stories that I've gathered during my time researching and chronicling Dante's deeds and adventures. These stories were validated but cannot be placed among the others in proper chronological order.

My first tale I procured in Sea Isle New Jersey. My host is a White man of about fifty years old. He is bald with quick eyes and an easy "aw shucks" smile. He seems eager to tell his story but I can tell that he is nervous.)

UH, JUST SPEAK INTO THE MICROPHONE?

No you can just speak normally and it'll pick it up, you don't have to bend over.

Oh, okay. Well where do you want me to begin?

Wherever you want.

All right, my name is Jonas Franklin. I am a retired Corporal formerly of the United States Army. I was one of those left behind during World War Z. I was uh, stationed in a decent sized defensive position on the western side of Ohio with several units of the 10th Mountain Division. We were responsible for approximately one thousand civilians.

Tell me about your time there.

During Stalemate, we were lucky. We had access to the Great Lakes for food and water and being above the snowline meant we only had to deal with Zack two and a half seasons out of the year. That lake-effect snow was a bitch but it made for safer living.

Our commanding officer was a hard-assed bird Colonel from West Point. Graves was his name. He had a black and white view of the world, and how things should be but it kept us sharp. We had typical duties and kept our position much the same way as we would any post. Stand-to, stand-down, and patrols; we kept those duties in two-week rotations. We had post patrol; just the inside and outside walls from just after stand-to to just after stand-down. Then we had short-range patrol which took a full day to complete, and long-range patrol which took even longer.

Our patrol groups were four-man teams. On short-range and long-range patrol you'd go out and visit outposts that we set up, tree-houses basically, manned by two soldiers. The job there was to keep an eye out for Zack and signal back to base using a mirror during the day or flashlight or torch at night, whenever significant numbers got close. During Stalemate, you'd be surprised how far the glow from a torch could be seen.

The long-range patrol took about three days to complete. We didn't have manned posts that far out but there were ones built and lightly stocked. The mission was to visit those, man them for a period of a few hours each, and document what we saw. From those outposts we could keep an eye on the highways and the fringe neighborhoods of the formerly populated area nearby. We would note the amount of Zack roaming around and use those numbers to predict whether or not we could expect an attack. I enjoyed short and long-range patrols the most.

Why is that?

Life behind the walls of our position was BORING. Getting outside of them, for any reason, was a blessing. It was a way of escaping the unnecessary pomp and circumstance of military humdrum. I understand the need to maintain discipline, believe me. I've heard stories from a few places where the armed force went rogue, but there wasn't a whole lot of need for all of it. Anyway, it was during one of those beloved long-range patrols that our world came to an end.

We figured something was wrong when, on the way back, we passed the short-range outposts and didn't get a greeting from the teams manning them. When we crested the hill and got a look at home base, we saw that the place was completely overrun. We could see Zack wandering the walls. There weren't even any sounds of shots or screams from inside. A decent amount of them were roaming the open ground between the tree-line and the wide-open gates.

If the base comes under attack, don't they send a signal of some sort?

Yeah they send up a yellow flare first to get our attention at the outposts and then either a green flare or red flare depending on the situation. We saw none of it. To this day I don't know why. Being out as far as we were, we missed the whole thing. The manned stations had known something was wrong and gone running back to base. They were dead or moaning. The fight was clearly over. The base was gone. The civilian population had already been consumed, infected, or fled. The four of us, Bobby Flynt, Jerry Mackey, Lindsey Papis, and I just looked at each other. We went back to the closest outpost and got up and out of the way so we could figure out our next move.

You can guess that we were scared shitless. Not one of us was what you would call "G.I. Joe". We'd all joined the service for selfish reasons. Hell, Lindsey joined for the sake of his idiot father who had been a First Sergeant. He was a computer analyst by MOS not a grunt. He'd maybe fired his rifle six or seven times prior to that point. Bobby was a cook, and Jerry was a clerk. He'd seen some action but he wasn't the leather-faced, steely-eyed veteran. I had the training and I had downed a decent number of Zack before getting stuck in Ohio but I was no expert tactician. We stayed there for three days before coming to a decision. We were going to make for the Rockies using the snowline. Fall was about a week away and the first frost was due to come about a week after that. If we followed the snowline and kept our heads, our walk to the Rockies would be a fairly easy one.

Being of the highest rank and the only real grunt, I took command. We raided the outposts for ammunition and supplies and headed out. Using basic land navigation we got ridiculously lost. We almost walked right into Cincinnati. So then we just relied on the sun and basic direction and managed to get back on track. Right about the time the frost was supposed to show up and make our lives a bit easier, it didn't. We weren't where we supposed to be yet and the weather was still Zack-friendly. We wanted to be just on our side of the Canadian border. Up there the frost was coming in and Zack would be freezing for the winter. We were well south of that.

Then I came up with the absolutely BRILLIANT idea, I'm being sarcastic of course, to cut through Chicago and trace the lake all the way north to the border. Encounters with Zack were on the rise and our ammo was on the far side away from being suitable. We spent more time running than anything. Cutting through Chicago would shave almost twenty miles and nearly a week off our journey. All of our 'regs' and even the civilian manual said to avoid cities at all cost. The temptation was too much. I believed we could navigate Chicago in less than a day. In less than a day we would be well on our way to safety. We'd buddy-set/buddy-move through the city and not have to fire our weapons once. That was the plan. That was not the reality.

Chicago had been a nightmare during the Panic. Every street was clogged with cars and debris. We avoided the more car-clogged streets avoiding the zombies trapped inside them. We practiced good precise movement but it wasn't as much a straight-through as I thought. The clouds rolled in around four in the afternoon. The rain started around suppertime and it was pitch-black not fifteen minutes later with water coming down in Biblical amounts.

We kept pushing, even after sundown because we couldn't find a safe place to bunk in. Finally, soaked to the bone and freezing, we came to a barricade made from stacked cars. Lindsey made his fiftieth recommendation that we find cover and I was ready to agree with him. We moved to a building that turned out to be a shopping center and broke inside. I know what you're thinking, "You moron!" That sound about right? Yeah, I know now.

We had entered into an emergency stairwell. The lights on our rifles still worked so we put night filters over them before sparking them on. We went silent. I led us from the stairwell into a service hallway. It wasn't warm in that place, but it was dry. I thought that we could make use of whatever we found in there. Find a somewhat secure position, and hunker in for what was probably going to be a sleepless night of playing 'what the fuck was that noise?'

The halls in this place had concrete floors and concrete ceilings with sheetrock walls. Nice echoing effect. As hard as we tried, we couldn't step silently. Our boots, wet and squeaking gave away our position every time we moved. That's why I was amazed when we managed to sneak up on a group of Gs feasting on the corpse of a dog.

We rounded a corner and I was able to make them out before the lights from our rifles would give us away. We quickly backed off and headed through the nearest door into this goth-punk clothing shop. We secured the door behind us and moved through the store. There the floor was carpeted and all the fabric in the place muffled our squeaking boots and heaving breaths. A lightning flash from outside showed us how big the shopping center was. Three levels around a large food court. Across the way I saw a big sporting goods store whose gates were still down. The place looked secure. It would be perfect for what we needed.

We moved out of the store and into the main corridor staying in standard formation with about three meters between us. I covered the front, Bobby and Lindsey covered our flanks and Jerry covered the rear. The food court was underneath a plexiglass dome allowing some light from outside to come in. It was just enough that we could douse our lights and still see well enough to move. Lightning flashes would give us split-second views of our surroundings and the pounding rain masked our footsteps. We crossed into the center of the food court among the tables and were nearly there when this blast of lightning lights up the place.

It was so bright I thought the building had been hit. It completely whitewashed our vision for a few seconds. I stopped where I was, so did Lindsey and Jerry. Bobby tripped over a table and went crashing to the floor. The sound seemed louder than the thunder that followed the lightning. Dots flickering in all of our eyes we looked around and found him bent over the edge of a table cursing and rubbing his eyes and his stomach. I wanted to laugh at him and I probably would have but the moans earned all of my attention.

Lindsey yanked Bobby to his feet and we instantly took up fighting postures. Jerry called "contact" as a group of Gs came shuffling from our rear. Our silencers had long lost their usefulness and rifle-fire would draw more attention than we needed. I gave the order to move forward and we took three steps towards the sporting goods store when Bobby called "contact".

A bigger group was coming from our right. Lindsey joined the others in finding enemy targets approaching. I ordered us closer together as we moved across the court but then another bolt of lightning revealed that we were surrounded. I frantically looked around for a way out but I couldn't see anything. Lindsey was asking for the order to fire. The zombies were closing ranks on us. I had made up my mind and was going to try to get us back out the way we came when they showed up.

They?

We heard things zipping by and suddenly the Gs to our right went down. Then the Gs in front got taken out. I could see people running in the shadows and then the Gs on the left got clobbered. This kid stepped where we could see holding this compound bow with arrow notched and fired the thing over my shoulder to take out a G coming up from behind. He told me not to fire my weapon and to follow him while the others finished up. He didn't have to tell us twice.

We followed him out of the food court and into a service hall where we went up a flight of emergency exit steps to the office suites above the shopping center. The kid introduced himself as Tyler and told us, "it's damned lucky he saw you coming in." He asked us what door we broke into. I told him.

The office suites had been turned into a ramshackle apartment complex. The desks and shelves had been taken out of the cubicles and tents were set up inside. There were at least one hundred people living there. Tyler took us up another flight of steps where we met with this big guy named Burt.

Burt was the one that laid everything out for us. He was the leader of the group. They called themselves the Nomads. They had control of several buildings in Chicago where refugees were holed up. He said that we had stumbled into the one area of their building that they had yet to pacify. I thanked him for spotting us and sending the group of guys to pull our asses out. Burt just shook his head and told me that I was thanking the wrong person. "I didn't spot you and if it was up to me, you'd be dead. No offense, but we got families and children up here. Night is no time to be fighting Zack indoors. I didn't decide to save you. He did."

I turned and saw him standing among a group of kids. He was dressed in that leather suit everyone talks about, but he didn't have the hood thing on. He looked at me and threw me a two-finger salute. Burt showed us where we could rack out and asked us the usual questions, most of which we had no answers to. We told him our story and he welcomed us to stay with them. Lindsey took him up on the offer. Bobby, Jerry, and I decided to move on the next day.

Did you manage to speak with Dante?

Yeah, he got around to talking to us later that night. He was a cool guy. He gave us a map of places where we could hole up on our way to The Wall. Lindsey gave over his supplies and his weapon and ammo after he decided to stay. The next day we were following Dante's directions out of Chicago.

We followed the route, ran into no Zack, and were well outside of the city limits and the local suburbs when nightfall came on. About two months later, we reached The Wall. I told the commanding officer about Dante and he started laughing. A few of the other guys started telling me stories and I felt gypped. I never got to see him fight. I didn't even see his hammer.

Author's Note: Research has revealed that the Nomads, a former motorcycle gang, occupied and secured ten buildings in Chicago's downtown and uptown areas. Burt was found to be Burton Reed a veteran of military service. Government records indicated that the Nomads remained at their post throughout Stalemate and notations from reports submitted by ARO-D name the Nomad-occupied buildings as safe-houses for military personnel performing operations in the Chicago area.

The Nomads were reported to have dispersed upon reclamation of Chicago. Further records on the activities of the Nomads have not yet been found. A motorcycle gang bearing their name does continue to exist though primarily in the southwestern United States. Burton Reed was given honors at ceremony in Chicago five years ago. He died the following summer of cancer at the age of sixty-five.

X

(At first glance, my host is an unremarkable man. I use that description to preface this chronicle because he and others describe him as a "king". He is Mortimer Feldstein, a 59 year-old former superintendent of a now-demolished prominent high-rise that dominated Philadelphia Pennsylvania's Society Hill neighborhood. Mortimer, or "Mort" as his friends call him is just shy of five feet seven inches tall, weighs a pudgy two hundred ten pounds, and is nearly bald. If not for his gregarious and even ostentatious personality the man would fade into obscurity almost the instant I enter his presence. Still he greets me warmly, shaking my hand and offering me a seat complete with a drink of bourbon.)

It's nice to meet you, young sir. I doubted your dedication until you showed up at my door. How has your quest fared thus far?

I'm quite pleased at the progress that I've been able to make. Thank you for asking.

How may I assist you?

Tell me of your encounter with Dante.

That is an easy tale to tell. I will start with a bit of background. I saw you study me upon your entrance. I know that you, like others believe me innocuous. It's quite all right, and quite correct. Prior to my ascension to power, I was nobody, as innocuous as a man could get. I was but a servant in a palace of great nobility. (He peers around me and takes a sip of bourbon. After a moment he seems to relax.) Sorry about that, I have to keep up appearances or things tend to get complicated. I hope that little act of mine didn't throw you off.

For a moment, it did.

Yeah, well it's a bitter necessity. Anyway, like I said I was a bum, a complete nobody. I was the super at… can I say the name of the building? Ah, it's easier to just leave it out. I don't want the former owners getting their balls all twisted. Like I was saying, I was the super at this high-class swank joint where the rich and famous liked to live. I was the go-to guy for management when it came to maintenance. I kept the place in damned good shape for its age. There wasn't a part of that building I didn't know or a single item I couldn't turn a wrench on. Being a live-in super, I was always on-call and made sure that those stuffed white collar shmucks and red-carpet walking yentas had blazing lights, flushing toilets; baking heat in the winter, and freezing cool in the summer. I made ways out of no way.

How did you come by those skills?

I got my associates, bachelors, and second PhD at M.I.T. Engineering was my game. I originally worked for the government and then a select few tech companies before making my way to a shithole apartment in that testament to stepping on the backs of the little guy. I can see you're wondering how a former white collar badass ended up a blue collar shlub. The answer lies at the racetrack, A.C., Vegas, and anyplace else that I could lay down a bet. I was a horrible gambler. Don't get me wrong, when I won, I went on streaks that would see six, seven figures end up in my bank accounts, but then I'd blow the money just as quickly. Three jobs, several IRS audits, one foreclosed house, a divorce and loss of child custody later, and I find myself unclogging toilets for the rich and famous.

Were they aware of your education?

Nope, and before the war I gave them no clue. I was trying to kick the gambling habit and hit the "reset" button on my life. Having a super that can quote Shakespeare in Latin tends to raise a few eyebrows. A couple of inquiries from the wrong people and I'd end up back on unemployment. I just made myself essential to their needs, kept my head low, and did my job while I took my twelve steps.

How were you treated?

How do you expect I was treated? Like the kid who delivers grit. I was their personal doormat. I always took too long to show up to their critical emergency, took too much time to fix the problem, and was never grateful enough that they suffered my presence. Don't get me wrong, some of them were civil. Those that went from not having money to having money knew what it was like. They treated me with dignity and respect. To the rest of them, I was a pest they were forced to tolerate.

What happened during the war?

Well the Panic hit Philly in full force just before Yonkers. Philadelphians are not a stupid group of people like the idiots in New York and L.A. want the rest of the country to believe. We saw the writing on the wall and the city began emptying out. I chose to stay. Not being an idiot, I knew that Philly is above the snowline, and that one of the safest places to be was in a high-rise, provided that no one inside was infected. Most of the tenants got scarce with the rest of the city. Out of those that were left, I was able to get a decent look at them all. Those that had the look, got narc'd on. The rest, I forgot about while I made sure that I would be comfortable.

I had ensured that my apartment was set up to have its own electricity via a solar powered generator, carefully set up on the roof. Once a few friends in the government started sending me doomsday e-mails, I collected plenty of non-perishable food and began storing water in little pockets of secrecy in the basement. I also bought a hunting rifle, a shotgun, and a decent stock of ammunition. As the city was beginning to empty I made a few suggestions to management. I got access to the fire stairs restricted, closed off all exterior access to the basement, and I shut down all elevators except the freight elevator, which was always under my control.

Management offered me a tidy sum to stay behind and secure the building offering placating assurances that the crisis would be over within a reasonable time and that I would be further amply compensated upon the return of normalcy. I didn't believe half the shit they were telling me, but, hey, where was I going to go? As soon as management bailed, I secured the lobby, shut down the elevators, and hunkered in for the wait. Just about when the Fightin's should have been talking about the playoffs, Philadelphia, my building in particular, was a ghost town.

At first, Zack was as thick as fuck just about everywhere. Those weren't locals, though there were a few. Naw, they were from up north from numb-fuck New York. Once they started coming around fairly regular, I painted over my windows so that I could have lights at night. During the day I would patrol the stairwells and the basement. The lobby doors were made of glass so they didn't last before the living and not-so-living knuckleheads broke in. There was a catwalk on the Mezzanine level where you could stand and get a full look at the lobby. After the doors got taken out, there were always a few zombies loitering around. They never stayed long and I made sure to stay out of sight.

At night, I was in my apartment with the door braced, just to make sure. I was always a light sleeper so the slightest noise would wake me up, even coming from outside. It was a noise from inside that woke me up one night just before Thanksgiving. Someone was attempting to break into my apartment. I remember jumping out of bed and grabbing my shotgun. I loaded it with shaking fingers. I only had my weapons as a last resort; I didn't think I would actually use them. My mind raced as I got into my "fighting position", jeez, I just knelt behind my couch. What had I missed? Was someone able to break into the fire doors? It would take a while but if you worked at it long enough, you'd be able to.

I kept my lights out, completely used to the darkness of my apartment by that point. There was a flashlight I had taped to the underside of my shotgun. When the door came open, I'd turn on the light and see what had come for me. If it was a person, maybe I'd reason with 'em. If not, I'd take out as many as I could before making sure that I wouldn't be around for the finale. After several bashes, the brace gave and the door swung open. I flipped on the light and found one of the tenants, a hotshot corporate lawyer standing in my doorway covering his eyes. Behind him was another tenant, an accountant for one of the larger financial firms in Philly. Looking around the lawyer, she could see that I was armed. She begged me not to shoot.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" I yelled at them.

"We didn't leave!" she said. "We thought they'd get everything fixed. Now the power's out and the water's out and we've got nothing to eat. Please don't kill us."

Ever the arrogant ass, the lawyer says, "He won't shoot. He knows what's good for him."

I replied with reason, "Oh, I won't? What's going to happen? You see any fucking cops around here, bub?" That pulled him up right and quick. He went from high and mighty to "now let's not do anything hasty". From them, I learned the extent of the situation.

First, they were two of thirty. The others had scoffed at the idea at coming to find me. The accountant had wandered down to my floor on several occasions after the Panic and she saw light coming from under my door. She knew I was still there. No one else believed her. The lawyer had only come down probably to look brave enough to get into her pants. They were out of power, out of water, running out of food, and out of ideas. The accountant told me that someone was actually planning to leave the building and go to Penn's Landing to try and see if he could sail that big boat restaurant down the Delaware and out to sea. He figured it was possible since he had a boater's license.

I asked if anyone had gone down to the lobby. Thankfully all the bluster and braggadocio was just that and they hadn't done anything stupid yet. I let my two guests in and closed the door. I got my robe and made sure my guns were good and hidden before telling the accountant to take me to the others. On the way there, the lawyer actually asked me to turn on the elevators. He really was a putz. We took the long way up. I found the others massed in the lawyer's apartment.

Who exactly was there?

Now, now, I've signed several confidentiality agreements in the time since my reign. I don't intend to renege on my word. You want those answers; you'll have to find out on your own. I'll say this; there were actresses, an actor, and a few business-folk. In any case, they were surprised by my arrival, my apparel, and my demeanor. Instantly the old attitudes returned. I was to restore power to the building so that they could use their lights and their televisions to monitor the situation. I was to go to the local grocery store five blocks away and get food. I was to restore water to the building so that they could shower. Oh, and I was to do all of this immediately. Once the lawyer made it known that I had a weapon, all the alpha males began baying for it.

"I hunt every season" and "I've been on safari in Kenya" and "You clearly can't handle a weapon". I listened to their ranting and raving taking a seat in one of the lawyer's chairs. Finally they stopped demanding and just stared at me.

"Are you all done?" I asked them. When no one answered, I continued. I told them that they were not going to get a damned thing from me. I would not be restoring power to the building. I calmly told them that we would attract every single zombie that was able to see the lights. I also told them that every marauding sociopath that was able to survive beyond our walls would be burning down our doors, which would bring the zombies as well.

I advised them that they would not be getting my weapons and if they wanted to test my ability with firearms they were welcome to try. It was a bluff of course, but white collar arrogance will always fold under the might of blue collar determination. I also told them that I did not have enough food or water for them all. They immediately erupted, offering everything, and I mean everything for a share of my bounty. I had an Oscar nominee offer to place her talented lips on the darker aspect of my white tuchus in return for food.

I calmly told them that none of that would be necessary as I too was running out of food and we were a long way off from Reclamation. I had been mulling over some ideas for getting food. They were completely silent. I told them that if they wanted to survive, they would have to do exactly as I said.

How'd they take it?

The smarter ones would have taken notes if they could see properly. The skeptics started murmuring. People with the lawyer's mentality left the room. After a while one of the more elder businessmen was able to bring everyone around. The following day we set to work. Above the penthouse apartments but below the roof there was an observation lounge that was just a large room with huge windows. In the past, it had been used for hosting "ain't I just the richest, most wonderful fucker?" parties. Now I had a better use for it. I had a few of the snottier folks go around to all the apartments and loot them for their plants, well the soil anyway. Any plants would be either dead or inedible.

I took some of the more robust individuals and we went down to the bottom of the stairwells. I had an idea to further secure our little home with the careful application of wrenches. I had those boobs dismantle the stairs at the bottom while I installed pulley systems creating a "drawbridge" effect. It was just after noon when I went back up to the observation lounge and found hundreds of pots of good soil. I was right that none of the plants were both alive and edible, but the soil was the important part. I had the lawyer rip up the carpet exposing the foam pad underneath and then the rest of them started dumping the soil onto the floor while I built a border and walls out of wood studs from the abandoned apartments and plastic sheeting.

You were building a greenhouse?

Yes.

Where did you get the plants?

We got everything from the apartments. The power hadn't really been out that long and the temperatures allowed for some preservation of foods like tomatoes, peas, and one bowl of apples that had one good apple left and allowed us to grow a miniature orchard. Some carefully applied plastic tarp and, boom, instant greenhouse. Thanks to my hunting buddies, we set up a coop on the roof that was perfect for catching birds, plus some smaller traps in the basement that were good for catching rats. In three days we had begun either growing or catching all the things that we would need to eat. The big problem was getting water.

How did you manage that?

It posed an interesting problem. I decided to attack it from multiple angles. First we set up rain catches on the roof using tarp and troughs from the basement. The greenhouse only took up half the observation lounge, so I put up some more tarp and made a giant dew trap. Then there were the urine stills. We didn't have running water so everyone, me included, was pissing in buckets and then I was using the urine and sunlight to make water. Once I got the place's old boiler up and running I set up some condensation traps down there.

The building had an actual boiler?

Yep. They updated the heating/cooling system in the mid-eighties going completely electric. My solar generator was not pumping enough juice to power the building's heating system, so we used the boiler. I reattached the vent system and then as long as I had fuel I could heat the majority of the building. By Christmas I had all of the duct work done. I had everyone moved onto the same floor so that I only had to heat those units plus the observation lounge. The last thing that I needed was fuel and that was easy to find.

Where did you find fuel?

I got my fuel from, literally, the pompous asses of my new charges. After mulling it over and making several attempts with some very attractive and very antique furniture I found a constantly renewable fuel source. It was the one thing that all of my charges and I were completely full of… shit.

You used human feces?

Yep. Burns slow and we were constantly making it. Plus, the way it burns leaves a char that can be re-burned with the next batch. That was a nice job for the lawyer in the beginning. He got to go around and collect piss for the stills and shit for the furnace. After a while, I felt bad for him and started rotating the duties. By New Years we had sprouts in one half of the lounge and were making about two gallons of water a day in the other half. The rain catches were yielding another seven to twenty gallons in a moderate storm. The condensation traps were getting a decent amount as well. The birds left when the weather changed but we were getting serious catches in the traps in the basement. Rats, mice, squirrels, cats, whatever managed to crawl its way into the building to avoid being eaten by the zombies ended up being eaten by us. All things considered, we lived pretty well.

All thanks to you?

Indeed, young sir, all thanks to me and they knew it. In return for keeping the place going, I got whatever, whenever, and however I wanted. I moved into the penthouse apartment with all the accruements that it had to offer and there I sat, king of the building and ruler of all I surveyed. It was a wonderful existence.

So how does Dante fit into all this?

He showed up one day in the summer and was standing in the lobby when one of the others walked by on patrol. They said that they crossed the mezzanine and there he was. He saw them walking by and just waved. He pointed at one of the fire doors and, for some reason, they let him in. At first I was more than a bit upset, but he assured me that he wasn't looking to stay permanently only that he just wanted a place to crash for a few days. When we were alone, I laid down my conditions, and he said, "Fair enough". As far as I'm concerned, I got the better of the deal.

What was the deal?

Like I said, I lost everything to my gambling addiction; my life, my wife, and my son. I was born and raised in Philly but left to pursue my career. I only came back because my wife and son were living in Mantua. When The Great Panic hit the City of Brotherly Love, things went south very quickly and I was not exactly talking to my family. They didn't even know I was back in town. By the time I tried to make contact, all communication lines were being used by the city for emergency management. I couldn't make the trip out there. It wasn't safe. I mean, they live less than ten miles away and I couldn't even get to them. It had been an eternity since I had seen them and I wanted to know if they were okay. I gave Dante their address and told him that if he could find out what happened to them, he could stay with us permanently.

After we talked, he left. He was back the next day with a letter from my son. My ex and he were alive and holed up in one of the high rises that belonged to Drexel University. They were doing well and were happy to hear from me. I can't tell you what that meant. Prior to Reclamation, Dante came back about five more times, and every time he had letters from my family. He'd only stay a day or two but then he'd be gone and he'd take letters to them. My gambling and stupidity caused the loss of my family. It was because of Dante, that I got them back.

(The door opens. My time is up. I stand and give Mort a hearty handshake)

Thank you for your time and your information.

My dear, sir, it was a pleasure to have you. If there is anything, and I mean anything that I can do for you, just send word to my advisor here and I will make sure that it happens. You have the word of the king.

(His Highness' "advisor" is an orderly at a county-run psychiatric hospital just outside of Philadelphia. I've been told that I cannot reveal the location of the facility just that it exists in Montgomery County. He executes a deep bow and ushers me outside. I ask him if he believes anything Mort says.)

You betcha. Everything Mort told you is one hundred percent the truth. He was a big-wig working for the Department of Defense before his first meltdown which led to careers at (companies' name withheld for legal reasons) before he finally ended up the super of that building. He did everything he said he did. Come here and take a look at this.

(He shows me Mort's visitor log)

Most of these are fake names, of course, but here. (He shows me pictures of some of the most famous and influential individuals of our time. He does not correlate images to pseudonyms) Barons of industry, super-hot models, actresses, and financial wizards were in that building and all of them owe Mort their lives. None of them have forgotten that. They all come and see him on a regular basis. This guy right here, he comes to him for professional advice. Mort has almost a fifty percent share in that guy's engineering firm. Those two stop by and see him just because and this chick here comes by every Tuesday for some physical therapy if you catch me.

I can't believe it. (And I can't) But if it's all true then how did he end up in here?

When Reclamation hit Philly, the Army came knocking. King Mort had a bit of a breakdown and actually attacked the troops that came to his door. Why he did it was anybody's guess. He took that hunting rifle of his and emptied a magazine at them. They managed to take him down without killing him. It looked lights out for him. They were going to just brand him a psycho LaMOE, a Last Man on Earth, and throw him in jail but that's when King Mort's subjects came to his aid.

The lawyer mounted a most spirited defense and, instead of spending the rest of his life taking it in the ass in jail, he's poking the pooper of (name withheld for legal reasons) in here. You see all that furniture in there? None of the other rooms have those kinds of amenities nor do any of the other patients enjoy the same privileges that he does. He's done the easiest time and he's about finished. His case comes up for review at the end of the month and I know just like you do that he's not crazy.

His little breakdown aside, the closest he comes to crazy is like a fox. When he gets out he'll be worth several tens of millions of dollars. Oh, and he's kicked his gambling habit; doesn't even play cards. He's going to waltz out of this place filthy stinking rich with one of the hottest women in the world salivating at the thought of being able to suck the life force from his scepter.

Unbelievable.

Whatever you wanna call it, bub, but it's the truth. It's like Mort always tells me, "It's good to be the King."