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Terry didn’t much care for it. It was every man for himself, and you stood a better chance of getting your throat slit for your canteen than you did of getting a little help from anyone.
    Terry and Blaze happened upon an early-outer, swinging from a maple tree in his own front yard. His face was purple and his eyes bulged from their sockets. Pinned to his shirt was a note, detailing his many regrets, and proclaiming, ‘There is no God!’
    “So, this is Castle Rock…. Not what I expected,” Terry said, “Let’s go, boy.” He nudged Blaze to a gallop and didn’t stop until he happened upon a little hardware store. There wasn’t much left, but he did find one piece of the missing puzzle: a shiny, blue, enamelware percolator.
    “You were wrong, bud. There is a God and here’s proof. Now...where’s the grocery store in this joint?”
    Castle Rock was small, and it didn’t take long to find it. It was just a hole in the wall, mom and pop shop with a hand painted banner on a bed sheet. ’CLOSED DUE TO ILLNESS. GOD BLESS!’
    Beside the banner was the other storefront window, busted out, mostly lying on the sidewalk. Apparently, people weren’t waiting for God or for the shopkeepers to reopen shop. God helps those who help themselves and help themselves they did. The place was trashed and mostly empty, but Terry did find a can of coffee and a carton of smokes. He didn’t smoke, and he didn’t plan on taking up the habit anytime soon, but he did think they may come in handy for bartering. After all, what good was cash? Well, it was good to wipe your ass or start a fire with, but that was about it. The new currency were things like ammo, booze, toilet paper and food.
    Terry and Blaze rode along toward Olympia. The people were getting thicker now. They were everywhere. Militant survival types and religious zealots filled the streets. The helpless and the hopeless meandered about; many were sick.
    “The time of judgment is here! Repent ye’ sinners!”
    Some threw stones and bottles at the urban preacher while others sang his praises, “Hallelujah!”
    “Get me the fuck out of here,” Terry muttered. Blaze didn’t seem to care much for the commotion either. He was high stepping and fidgety. His ears darted to and fro and back and forth, making Terry nervous. He was getting more comfortable on the horse, but he was still a long way from being an equestrian.
    Someone threw a Molotov cocktail into the street behind them and a German Shepard dashed directly in front of them. This was the final straw for Blaze and he went positively apeshit. Or is it horseshit? Kicking and bucking, he threw Terry off into a light post. He made a beautiful arc through the air, then stopped short with a dull thud and slid to the ground. So much for my eight seconds of glory , went through his mind before he blacked out.
    Blaze was gone and Terry was shit out of luck. Everything he owned rode off into the sunset on the back of that horse. Of course, Terry didn’t know that yet. He was unconscious and being robbed. A thirteen-year-old, pimpled faced kid slipped the pistol from out of Terry’s waistband and ran away as fast as he could down an adjoining alley.
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    Terry woke up shackled to a cold, dusty bed in a dark and dingy basement. “Hey!” he cried, “What the fuck is this?” It hurt his head to yell. It was bandaged up, wrapped with gauze and throbbed. Not throbbed, actually; it banged, like a drum.
    After a minute, though it felt more like five, a short, pudgy, bald man entered, dressed in a brown robe with a respirator on his face.
    “Hey, Friar Tuck, you wanna let me outta here? Where’s my horse?”
    “Are you—sick?” Friar Tuck kept his distance.
    “No, I’m not sick. Now unchain me!”
    “Any fever, vomiting, coughing?” he asked.
    “None of that, now let me go!”
    “All right then.” The Friar slipped off his respirator and edged closer. “What is your name?”
    “My name is Terry Burrows. Now could