All Roads End Here

by David Moody

  Matt thinks pretty much anywhere would be better but, much as it pains him to admit, he also knows Jason’s right.

  Another half hour and they find themselves nestled up against the improvised border wall. At least there’s a little shade here, though everyone wants to get under cover so it means even more people bunched together in an even tighter space. A group of CDF soldiers are handing out cups of water about a hundred meters from here, well away from the queues, but neither Matt nor Jason dare risk leaving the line to fetch any. “Bastards do it on purpose, I’m sure they do,” Jason says under his breath, less than impressed. “Wouldn’t hurt them to walk down the line with drinks once in a while.”

  It’s getting increasingly difficult to stay still here. Matt’s being jostled from either side by other people, yet he knows he can’t risk letting his frustrations show. If you act like the enemy, you will be treated like the enemy. But there’s only so much he can take, and when a group of people behind become agitated and start pushing him forward, he loses his temper. He angrily spins around, ready to take out his frustrations on the idiot that’s just shoved into him, but he doesn’t.

  “What the hell?”

  At the bottom of this part of the improvised wall is the wreck of a coach. The space under its chassis has been filled with rubble, and other ruined vehicles have been piled up at either end of it to block the way. More rubble dropped on top of the coach has caused its roof to buckle in the middle, but for the most part it’s still in one piece and its windows are largely intact. And that, Matt thinks, might not be a good thing.

  More people are leaving their places in the queue. Some drop back, reversing away from the coach blockade, while others clamor farther forward. Many of them, he notices, now have their faces pressed against the coach’s dusty windows and are looking through and out the other side into No Man’s Land. Matt does the same, and his worst fears are immediately realized.

  Haters.

  There’s a mass of them coming toward the camp, maybe as many as a hundred. This is a coordinated attack, that much is immediately clear. Most of them are on foot, but the farthest forward are driving battered old cars and trucks. One vehicle in particular catches Matt’s eye. It’s a huge supermarket lorry, being driven at what he suspects is its maximum speed, straight at the city wall.

  Jason’s right behind him, pushing to get a better view, preventing Matt from moving. Matt turns and grabs him by the collar, then pushes him away. “Move!”

  Jason trips as he starts to run and Matt picks him up off the floor, all thoughts of getting food and water forgotten because he knows what’s coming next. Other people realize too, but most remain oblivious. The British cliché of folks standing in queues and refusing to give up the spaces they’ve rightfully earned has never been truer or more risky. Matt retreats a safe distance away, and the whole world becomes silent like a vacuum as he waits and watches.

  The Hater-controlled truck has been well aimed. Its driver steers into the back end of the coach rather than hitting it square on, and physics takes care of the rest. The rear of the coach is punched out of line, and its sudden, violent displacement has two immediate effects. First, much of the precariously balanced ballast on top of the coach comes crashing down. Second, a breach opens up in the barrier that’s just wide enough for the enemy to start piling through.

  Sheer fucking panic.

  The fastest Haters are through and onto the slowest Unchanged in seconds, killing them with such savage ferocity that other people are stupefied and unable to react. Like many others, Jason just stands still and watches as the enemy pour into the camp in serious numbers.

  Matt, however, does not.

  While most people who aren’t numb with shock have now turned tail and are sprinting deeper into the camp, Matt instead drags Jason sideways across the narrow road. Jason tries to protest and run with the others. “Got to get out of here. Fucking hell, man, we’ve got to—”

  Matt’s not having any of it. “You run if you like, but if you go either backward or forward right now, you’re a dead man.”

  Jason’s still struggling. “Let me go … got to get away from the wall…”

  Matt almost loses his grip on the other man, but then rugby-tackles him, wrapping his arms around his waist and moving at such a pace that the pair of them don’t stop until they hit the wall opposite. Jason’s still fighting with him, but Matt’s not reacting. Instead he rolls them both along until they reach a door, then he kicks it open and they fall inside a skeletal shell of a once proud office building.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Jason screams. “You’ll get us both killed, you fucking—”

  His words are silenced by gunfire. Standing to one side of a broken window, the two men look out onto a horrific scene outside. “Did you not see them coming?” Matt asks, shouting over the noise.

  “The Haters?”

  “No, the CDF.”

  Truth is, Jason was too preoccupied trying to get away from the Hater threat that he didn’t see what Matt saw: a line of CDF fighters advancing toward the breach in the city wall, all guns blazing. Now the troops are standing in a ragged line which stretches the width of the street, hacking down the waves of furious Hater fighters who continue pouring through into the camp. The firing only started a few seconds ago, but the casualties from both sides are already massive in number.

  “So what are we supposed to do now?” Jason demands.

  “You do what you like, I’m getting out of here.”

  “And how do you think you’re going to do that? We should have got out while we still had the chance. We take one step out that door now and they’ll kill us. Shoot first, ask questions later.”

  “So we wait.”

  “You think that’s going to work? Jesus, you don’t have the first clue, do you?”

  “I’m still alive, aren’t I? My tactics worked for the last three months. Now shut up before someone hears you.”

  There’s little chance of that, because the cacophony of noise outside is incredible. Matt risks looking out again and sees that the defensive CDF line is slowly advancing back toward the breach. A few seconds later and the volume increases still further. A jet roars over the city from out of nowhere and begins carpet bombing the Haters on the other side of the city wall.

  “See?” Matt says. “We wait. We sit here until the fighting stops, then sneak away when no one’s looking.”

  “And that was your survival strategy out there, was it?”

  “Pretty much. Like I said, it worked.”

  Matt moves away from the window. The building they’re in is a dilapidated ruin. Ransacked and stripped-out, this place has been abandoned. He thinks it’s strange that it’s been completely overlooked, though, when there are people living in just about every other building he’s come across. Too close to the city boundary for safety, perhaps? When there are more muffled explosions nearby and the wall he’s leaning against shakes wildly, he realizes it’s more likely the building’s unused because it’s on the verge of collapse.

  “We should go,” he tells Jason.

  “Were you not listening to me just now? We can’t get out.”

  “Not through the front door, no. Just need to look for another exit. Need to bide our time.”

  “You do realize if any of those CDF bastards catch us they’ll kill us.”

  “Then don’t let them see you.”

  “Christ, you’re infuriating. Do you have any idea how you—”

  Jason stops talking. Matt’s relieved, but the relief is short-lived. There’s a new noise now. Not as loud as gunfire or bombers, but much more concerning. It’s not the sound itself that worries him, it’s where it’s coming from.

  He goes through a doorway without a door into a long, partially collapsed corridor, then uses a mound of rubble to climb. He jumps up and catches the edge of a first-floor floorboard with his fingertips and manages to haul himself up onto the next level. Jason’s standing directly below and Matt gru
dgingly helps him up.

  The noise is louder up here, because the outer walls of this building have collapsed in places, leaving it just an exposed frame. “What is it?” Jason asks.

  “Did you notice the gunfire’s mostly stopped?”

  “So what are they doing?”

  Matt’s answer is simple. “Construction work.”

  They peer through an egg-shaped hole in the brickwork. Matt’s right. Apart from a few guards stationed in key positions to pick off rogue Haters, the rest of the CDF troops are now working to rebuild the barrier. Vehicles are being maneuvered into position—some manhandled, others pushed into position by tanks. Crowds of people are fleeing the area, scurrying out of the way like a pack of rats, terrified of being trapped.

  Trouble is, the barrier’s moved. It’s being rebuilt about fifty meters closer to the center of town.

  “We’re on the wrong side of the wall now. Christ, you picked the perfect building to hide in, idiot. Now we’re really screwed,” Jason yells.

  Matt doesn’t react. Instead he turns back and jumps the hole in the floor through which they just climbed. Jason follows, creeping around the edges of the chasm rather than risking jumping it.

  “And now you’re going the wrong way,” he shouts.

  “Up is the right way,” Matt shouts back.

  The entire building shakes as the construction continues on one side and the carpet bombing restarts on the other. Another wave of aerial bombardment obliterates the remaining Haters still foolish enough to be anywhere near the battle zone.

  Matt finds another staircase and goes up, then ducks out through a gap in the rafters. He lies down on his belly on a flat section of roof near the eaves. He’s out of sight but has a panoramic view of the frantic activity below. Jason stays a short distance behind him, remaining under cover. “What now?”

  Matt glances up at him. “Now we wait.”

  * * *

  They’re up on the roof for several more hours. Matt changes position frequently, peering down onto the chaos below from different angles. Jason won’t shut up. “What’s your problem?” Matt asks. “You didn’t have an issue queuing up for food for hours on end. This is even easier.”

  “We could have died.”

  “Yeah, but we didn’t.”

  “We’re not home yet, there’s still time.”

  “Too soon. Just need to wait a little while longer.”

  “We’re never going to get out of here.”

  “We are.”

  “We don’t have any food. Jen and the Walkers will need food.”

  “I know. I’ll deal with it.”

  “You’re full of shit, you know that?”

  Matt says nothing.

  * * *

  Another hour and it’s time.

  Matt makes his move. He doesn’t wait for Jason or tell him he’s going, but the other man’s up and on his feet immediately and sticks to Matt like glue. “How are we going to—?” he starts to ask, before Matt silences him with a stare.

  Cautiously working his way back down through the creaking, warrenlike building, Matt goes from room to room. This was once some kind of medical practice. Right at the opposite end to the door through which they originally entered during the gunfight is a fire exit. Matt carefully prizes it open, peers through, then waits.

  “You been here before? Did you know this door was here?”

  “No, but there’s always another way out. Have you ever been in a building that only had one way in or out?”

  “Suppose not.”

  “Tell me, Jason, when we were up on the roof just now, what were you thinking about?”

  “What, apart from how we’re going to get out of this mess?”

  “Yes, apart from that.”

  “Nothing really.”

  “That’s what I thought. You’re going to have to do a lot better than that. You need to start paying attention. Focus.”

  “Who the fuck do you think you are, talking to me like that?” Jason’s about to give him a mouthful of abuse, but Matt’s already gone. Jason follows him outside, squeezing through the fire escape before it swings shut.

  Out on the street, Matt has emerged behind a pile of corpses; Haters and friendlies alike, all dumped together, all the same now they’re dead. The smell is appalling, but he doesn’t react. Instead, he gets down on his hands and knees and crawls around the pile, then slides under a CDF truck full of guards looking the other way, before getting up and nonchalantly walking away, melting into the crowds like nothing’s happened.

  It’s only when they’re halfway home that Jason realizes Matt’s carrying a bag full of food, ripped from the tight grip of a dead man’s hand.

  * * *

  “How was it out there today?” Jen asks when they get back. The two men exchange glances.

  “It was okay, actually,” Matt says. “About what I expected. A lot easier now I’m on the right side of the city wall.”

  “That’s good,” she says, and she looks relieved. “I was worried. I don’t like the idea of either of you being out there.”

  “Needs must,” Jason says.

  “We’ve got to eat,” Matt adds, and there’s so much else he could say, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t tell her about the fighting or the bodies or any of what they’ve been through. Right now, he thinks, she doesn’t need to know. He thinks she’s already been through enough.

  10

  They don’t agree on much, but both men know they have to go back out again next morning. Jason needs food, Matt needs to recce the camp. It’s shaping up to be another sweltering, cloudless day and as soon as they’re awake and dressed, Jason and Matt are back out.

  The roof of the City Arena comes into view a short distance ahead, looming over the other buildings, the curve of its roof glinting in the rapidly rising sun. Matt heads straight for it. He wants to see as much of the camp as he can today. “I got caught napping yesterday,” he says, angry with himself.

  There are people here in absolutely staggering numbers this morning, and still more are being herded into the camp. “It’s always like this first thing. Most new arrivals come in overnight,” Jason tells him.

  Matt bites his tongue and doesn’t react when a kid barges into him and almost knocks him flying. He looks for the little shit in the crowds but is distracted by the state of the fancy new swimming baths the council opened here a year or so ago. It’s a trendy, modern-looking, angular glass and metal building with floor-to-ceiling windows at the front and a first-floor gym. There’s no exercising going on in there today, though. There are people all over the cross-trainers and treadmills and spinning machines, but no one’s using them to keep fit. They’re just there for folks to sit on or lean against. There are dour-looking children with their faces pressed up against the glass, gazing out over the sun-baked masses with empty eyes.

  “We’ve just got to remember that this is all temporary,” Jason says when Matt catches up with him again. “Okay, so it’s all a bit shitty right now, but the most important thing is keeping the outside out like we saw yesterday. We can put up with all this crap because it’s short-term, know what I mean?”

  Matt’s not convinced, but there’s no point arguing. They round the next corner, then stop. The approach to the City Arena is a single, endless, unmoving mass of people. “Fuck me. This is the queue?”

  “No, mate, this is the queue for the queue. I told you, it’s always like this first thing. The lines move faster than you think.”

  “Unless the Haters turn up.”

  “They won’t, not here.”

  “And you can guarantee that, can you?”

  Jason doesn’t bother to reply.

  Up ahead, an advertising billboard has been covered over white, with black paint used to display key messages. It looks disturbingly amateurish: the letters are smaller and cramped together toward the far side of the sign.

  FOOD AVAILABLE

  OPEN 24 HOURS—7 DAYS

  ONE PACK PER PERSON P
ER DAY

  NO TROUBLE—ARMED GUARDS

  They join the end of the line and wait. Already there are many more people queuing behind them. Matt lasts less than twenty minutes. “I can’t do this,” he says.

  “Can’t do what?”

  “Stand here like this. We’re sitting ducks. You remember what happened yesterday, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, but it won’t happen here. They’d have to get through the whole bloody CDF first.”

  Matt’s unconvinced. He’s hemmed in, and he knows the longer he’s stuck here standing shoulder to shoulder, the more chance there is he’ll crack. There are soldiers looking down from forklift lifting platform watchtowers, adding to the pressure.

  “What’s going on over there?” he asks Jason, keen for a way out.

  “Where?”

  He points way over to the right, over the heads of the crowds and out toward another complex which looks busy but far less congested than the grounds of the arena.

  “It’s where you sign up for work.”

  “I’m going to check it out.”

  “Don’t be an idiot.”

  “I told you, I’m not going to stand here and wait for another attack.”

  “And I told you, it won’t happen. It’s different here.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “We need food, Matt. We can’t go home without food.”

  But Matt’s not listening.

  * * *

  The building Matt’s approaching is an odd-looking affair. He remembers it being built: some kind of trendy experimental school paid for by a local university, all the latest facilities and technologies for a select few kids. There are queues here too (there are queues everywhere), but the numbers heading into this place are considerably lower than around the arena. Times are changing, that much is true more than ever today, but some constants remain. The reason for the diminished crowds is obvious—a single four-letter word which has been splashed in thick black paint across the whitewashed front wall of the building, right above the main entrance: WORK.