Mort's relationship with zombies had developed entirely the other way from Harlow's: he had started out fearing them, fearing everything they represented (death; loss of others; loss of self) but as everyone and everything he cared about was gradually whittled away, Mort found it was harder and harder to fear them. Fearing them didn't help. They took what they wanted, anyway. Better to laugh at them. When he got bit, his fear resurfaced so strongly it almost drove him mad, but when it turned out when he was immune, he found he could bury it once and for all.
He knew it was a coping mechanism, and not a very good one at that. Still, it had worked thus far, so why knock it?
Mort decided to latch onto the new topic, not very keen on making others depressed. "After. I'm from Georgia originally, but I was in the mountains of North Carolina when the shit hit the fan. I been roamin'. Wasn't lyin' when I said I was a tumbleweed: travelin's been slow goin', but... Well, on the whole, not all of it sucked." He shrugged. "Thus far, New York don't seem all bad. Li'l bit safer than everywhere else. More people. That's good."