by Terry Tyler
I get off too, I start laughing, and he throws his arms around me.
"We did it," he says again, shoving his face into the crook of my neck, and then we're touching each other’s freezing cold faces with our gloved hands, laughing―and before I know what's happening his icy lips are on mine.
I don't know if it's just a victory kiss, just for the hell of it, like before, but I kiss him back and it feels fucking wonderful, even better than the first time.
"You were amazing," I say, when we finally draw apart.
"I was." He laughs. "You did good, too. You rode with me, so I could hardly feel you were there, and you didn't lose it."
We kiss again, more confidently this time; he pulls me to him, wrapping his arms around me, so I do the same back and that feels pretty damn wonderful as well, so good that I forget, just for a moment, why we're here.
We come up for air, but he doesn't let go of me.
"We'd best find the others. Talk with King about a better way to get to Waxingham―we might have to go down through Suffolk and back up towards the coast through South Norfolk, if those squads are already hitting the north."
King. Seems so long since I saw him and Yara, and Colt. My world has centred round my brother and sister, Ace and this bike, for six days that feel like as many weeks; I'd forgotten anyone else existed.
Ace smiles, a lovely lopsided one that makes his right eye crinkle up (seriously attractive), and kisses me again. Just briefly, but it's enough to make me want to drag him into the nearest house and forget all about the rest of the world for a couple of hours.
Doesn't he feel it too? Could it feel this good if it wasn't mutual?
"C'mon, then." His arms fall away and he squeezes my hand, just once, then we get back onto the bike and head up the village to the community.
"I'm not looking forward to this," Ace says, as we walk up the path to the house where we first met.
He takes my hand again. He's not a megacity guy, constantly expressing every thought and emotion via his com, adding ani-mates to avoid ambiguity; perhaps the taking of my hand says it all.
Inside, to our surprise, the place is buzzing with activity. People in the hall, two talking on the stairs, and the hum of conversation coming from the living room. We forge our way through to the sliding doors of the back room where all the important stuff goes on, to be greeted by Yara, blocking our entrance.
The room is packed with people.
She doesn't look at me; shoving her hands in her pockets, she directs her animosity towards Ace.
"You any idea what's been going on while you've been off on your jolly?"
"Probably more than you." Ace pushes her out of the way―no small feat―and there is King, sitting in front of the radio like he hasn't moved since we left.
"Got some stuff to tell you," says Ace. "It's bad."
King looks up. "Bad like squads of arseholes in khaki tearing up communities?" He taps the radio mouthpiece. "Heard from Dino up in Kersall this morning. They're hoping to get over to Wicklow. You heard the same?"
"Yeah, at Vince's―the squads were in Cumbria the day before yesterday, as far down as South Lincs, and we only just managed to avoid 'em on the way here―saw a truck filled with people. We gotta move. Like, now."
Q stands up. "Yes, but where to?"
Ace gives them a quick rundown of everything we've seen and heard since yesterday evening, in his usual economical fashion. "Rae's sister's fella and his mates, they got boats. Dan reckons he's got room for us all."
Yara frowns. "Reckons? No guarantee?"
Ace pinches a cigarette out of King's packet. "You want guarantees, I'll give you one. Anyone who stays here is going to end up in one of those trucks we saw. Could be Hope Village, could be worse."
"What do you mean, worse?"
Ace blows smoke out, narrowly missing her face. "I mean that it's not like anything we've seen before. The drop-ins have all shut down. They're closing roads."
"So what d'you think it means?"
Ace looks at her in the way he did with me a couple of times at the beginning. "It ain't difficult to work out. They're rounding us up."
"Ugh, don't," says Thea. "Sounds like the Nazis."
Near her, a young guy shudders, and says, "Don't let's talk it up. This is 2061, not the 1940s."
Ace takes another deep, deep drag. "And that means we're going to be treated decently, does it? All I know is that as far as wastelanders are concerned, it's now okay to shoot to kill. I'm telling you, this is serious. Right now, we've got the chance to leave. Give it another day, and we might not have."
Chapter 33
Truck
Dylan stops for the night in an old building, without wondering what it used to be or who might have lived or worked there; he doesn't care. He curls up in the sleeping bag that Kendall so kindly provided, and eats some of the food. Misery curbs his appetite, but he makes himself eat because he knows he must. That was one thing Willa taught him, all those years ago in that first Hope: you have to put enough good food inside your body, or you can't function properly. Kendall has also packed a bottle of a green smoothie that looks and smells like cold kale, and he forces himself to drink that, too.
He wakes at first light, empties his bladder, eats, drinks, cleans his teeth using the toothbrush and toothpaste from Kendall's toiletries bag, and is overcome by sadness all over again, because he liked her and wanted to stay at lovely Lake Lodge, but such luck never visits his life.
Perhaps he should have fought harder. Gone to each person there, and talked to them. But they wouldn't have cared; he was nothing to them.
He's never been anything to anyone, much.
Maybe he would've been, if he hadn't wandered too far from his home in the wasteland, that day eighteen years ago. Maybe he would have had a happy life, with people who loved him.
When he feels ready to do so, he drags himself up and changes his underpants and socks; Kendall has provided clean ones, and even a bag, into which he can put his dirties, should he find anywhere to wash them. That's one problem with not being back at Hope; worrying that he smells. Will he become so used to the smell of himself that he won't know?
He gets his kit together and opens the door, no longer caring if Rocky finds him. If he does, he'll just tell him to get lost.
Outside, he pulls up the hood of his jacket and ambles along the old road, enjoying the colours of the new day's sky against the empty, overgrown fields that stretch out to the horizon, but in the distance he sees a ziprail track, indicating that civilisation is not far away. All those people, packed together in their megacities and Hope Villages, the silver tubes taking those who matter to their jobs that amass more money for those who matter the most.
He wonders if he will find Fennington and Rae, or if she will be gone, if he will spend the rest of his life like this, wandering aimlessly. How pathetic he is, clinging on to a note left by a woman he met only two days ago, hoping it will lead him to something, anything. A life, a home. Something better than Hope. Would he want to be back there, instead of here? Not really. He doesn't think he could bear all those people around him.
He's better alone, like this. A nowhere man.
A tear runs down his cheek. He can't do life. He's no good at it.
As the sun rises higher in the sky, he reaches a small village, empty of people. Along the main street a faded sign says 'Cappuccinos'; it is a café, boarded up. He's a rat now, so he tears down boards and smashes windows without caring that he might get into trouble for doing so; he doesn't know what he hopes to find, but he wants to go inside. He wants to sit at a table to eat his lunch, like a proper person.
There is nothing worth taking, not so much as a sachet of sugar. The back doors are broken down; anything worth thieving must have been lifted by rats who came before.
He finds a grimy towel behind the counter and uses it to wipe thick dust from a table by the window, then sits down to eat his bread roll, cheese and apple. Good nutrition, all of it.
He drinks the rest of the disgusting smoothie, too, and some water, then he gets up, says goodbye to the sad little place, and continues his journey.
He must have been walking for another half hour before he hears the rumble of a vehicle behind him. Even as he is turning round to look, he knows that it might be the wrong thing to do.
It's an army truck. A huge one, like a lorry, that slows down as it approaches.
Dylan resumes his walk, trying to look casual, nauseous with apprehension. Did Steve phone the police? Are they looking for him, to arrest him for murder?
The truck rolls on, swerving to a stop just in front of him, blocking his path, and a man in combat gear jumps out of the cab.
"Hey, you!"
Dylan stops, but says nothing.
The soldier walks towards him; he is armed. "Where are you on your way to?"
He thinks, quickly. What would Rocky say? "What's it to you?"
"Just answer."
Dylan can hear another door opening, footsteps behind him. "South. I'll know when I get there."
"You a rat?"
"No."
Laughter behind him. The soldier laughs, too. "Come on, mate. You've got nowhere to go, you look like a rat, and my guess is that you'll smell like one, too, if I get too close. Okay, in the back."
"What?" Dylan hears the sound of a gun being cocked, and turns round. There are two of them, weapons at the ready, grinning at him.
"I said, in the back."
"Why?"
"'Cause we're cleaning up the countryside." He walks forwards, and gives Dylan a gentle push. "Go on, in you get."
He doesn't move.
"Fuck's sake, mate, don't give us a hard time. You're getting in this truck whatever happens, so you might as well come quietly."
Dylan glances back, then forward. He can do it. He can run. Over the fields, where the truck can't follow.
Bullets can, though. One shot, and it's all over.
One of the other guards gives him a nudge with the muzzle of his gun, and Dylan accepts the inevitable. He walks round to the back of the truck, where the doors hang open.
Inside, possibly forty people are packed in, some on the floor, others on benches. Blank eyes stare at him.
He turns round to the soldier behind him. "Where are you taking them?"
"Not just them; you, too. Somewhere you'll be warm and fed. There's nowt to worry about. Just get in." When Dylan doesn't move, he sighs with exaggerated weariness. "Move. You don't want to turn up at your new home with a bloody nose."
"No." Anger surges in his chest, anger born of years and years, a whole lifetime of being pushed around, of never making his own decisions. "I'm not getting in there, and I'm not going to wherever you think you're taking me. I've had enough of being told that I've got to live here, I've got to live there―well, it's not fucking happening. You can fuck off. All of you, you can just fuck off."
And he turns and walks off, back down the road he has just covered, hearing cheers and applause from the people in the truck, no longer caring what they do to him, if they shoot him in the back―fucking let them, at least he'll die walking away, on his own terms, not rolling over and taking it, not this time―
His brain only registers the bang on the head for about a quarter of a second before the world goes black.
When he comes round, Rocky is there. Next to him. He hears people talking around him. Muffled, like they're far away.
He's waking up!
You alright, mate?
...bleeding ... not too bad.
Bro. They got you too, then. I tried to run, I fought―hey, how do you think I got this nose?
...mark of resistance. We can't just take it, can we?
Dylan sits up, hand to his head. So many pairs of eyes peer at him; he looks around at them, still dazed.
"Where am I? Where we going?"
Rocky takes hold of his arm, pulling him up into a sitting position, but Dylan pushes him off.
"Get out of my face. I know what you told Steve and Kendall about me."
"Yeah ... sorry 'bout that." Rocky grins. He actually fucking grins. "My bad, bro, but I woke up in the middle of the night and you weren't there, and then I saw you coming back from that hut where my sis was sleeping. I was scared, yeah? I thought, fucking hell, he's gone and told on me. Had to protect myself, you know?"
"No, I don't know."
Another man says, "What's he talking about? Told on you about what?"
Then the sound goes muffled again; he can see their mouths opening and closing but they sound as though they're talking under water.
Dylan is just about to announce that Rocky is a murderer when pain shoots across his brow; he cries out, and clutches at his head.
"... tablets here," says someone else. Ah. That's better. He can hear the voices when they're close to him. A hand stretches out in front of him, then another, offering a bottle of water.
"Thanks." He takes them, and looks up to see two kind faces; a small, fair woman and a boy of about ten. He smiles back and gulps down the water, then looks at the bottle and realises he has drunk half of it. "Sorry―I didn't mean to take all that, I've got some in my bag, you can have it."
"Don't matter." She puts her hand on his arm. "I'm Stella and this is Arlo."
"Dylan."
"Good to meet you, Dylan. Where did they take you from, then?"
"... on his own," says another voice. "... roadside."
"Yeah? That was bad luck." Stella puts her hand to his cheek, and strokes it. "Same here. Like, half an hour ago it was just another morning, we were going out to pick mushrooms, not doing anyone any harm." She looks up. "Anyone know where they're taking us?"
"Hope Village is my guess," says a young man next to him. "Spent my whole life in those places; I only got out a year ago. Bastards aren't putting me back in."
"Don't reckon you'll get much choice," says someone else.
The conversation buzzes around Dylan as he holds his head, screwing his eyes tight shut in an effort to block out the noise. The sound is all wrong.
The truck stops; the engine is still running, and a few seconds later it moves off, slowly, before stopping again.
The voices grow quiet; Dylan can almost feel them all holding their breath. And then the back doors are hauled open, and light floods in.
"Out! Everyone out!"
Dylan feels oddly comforted by the presence of Stella and her son on either side of him as he moves towards the doors, then it is his turn to jump down and take stock of their new surroundings.
The light hurts his eyes until he becomes accustomed to it; he puts his hand to his head and feels warm blood, just below his right temple.
Stella holds on to his arm, though he feels she is supporting him rather than the other way round.
Arlo says, "Where are we?" and Dylan looks around. They face square, grey buildings, mostly windowless, or with small windows only at the top; it is not unlike a Hope Village, but newer, even more basic. They're not proper buildings, but huts thrown together. Around the outside of the compound are high fences. Armed guards, everywhere.
"Christ," whispers Stella, beside him. "What the hell is this?"
Conversation floats around him; people shout out, asking where they are and why, demanding answers. A child cries and two women make a run for it, heading back towards the gate they just passed through; they don't last long before they are hauled back, guns pointed at their backs. Another young woman leaps at a guard, attacking him; she is dragged off, shouting obscenities, while a man surges forth and slams another guard with a heavy punch in the stomach.
The guard staggers back and―crack!
His attacker crumples to the ground. Blood oozes out of his head onto the tarmac.
The crowd gasps, and falls quiet. Nobody moves.
A soldier climbs onto to the back of one of the empty trucks.
"Listen up, and listen good. The towns and villages in which you lot have squatted, rent free, for the past twenty-
odd years, are to be demolished, so the land may be put to use. In other words, the party's over. This is a temporary holding station where we will assess you and sort you into groups, to determine where you will be best employed and housed. You will attend registration at Hut A, to my left. Toilet and washing facilities can be found in Hut B, your meals in Hut C; you will queue for these in an orderly fashion, when told to do so. You will be allotted beds in Huts D, E and F. Acts of aggression will not be tolerated; as long as you co-operate you will not come to any harm." With his rifle, he gestures towards the dead man on the ground. "In other words, don't do what that wanker did. First on the agenda: registration in Hut A."
The crowd turns and moves as one. Dylan looks around at the people nearest to him, visibly shaken by what they have just seen. They keep their heads down, talk in hushed tones.
" ... going to take that body away?" whispers a voice behind him.
"My guess is that they're leaving it there for now, to keep us scared," says Stella.
"It's working," says another man.
"Quiet!" shouts a guard.
And everyone stops talking, mid-sentence or not.
Some turn to sneak a glance at the body, and shudder.
Hut A already has many occupants. Each of the new arrivals has a number stamped onto their wrist. They are assured that these temporary identification marks will wash off within a week or so, but Dylan is aware of a darkness filling his soul as he examines his own six characters.
PX1649.
He pulls his sleeve down, remembering old Bob Hodges from Hope 9 telling him about the concentration camps of World War Two, in which each prisoner had their number tattooed indelibly onto their inner arm. He licks his finger and rubs, but it shows no signs of fading.
They are told that the first health and competence tests will soon commence, in Hut G; they should queue at Hut C for food, then wait back in Hut A for their number to be called. After they have been seen, they must retire to their allocated dormitory hut.
The food is a Nutri-Smartmeal, like they used to get in Hope. Synthetic meat, pasta and unrecognisable vegetables in a sauce. One minute in the zapper, no kitchen staff needed, except to dole them out. On his return, Dylan waits on the floor of Hut A for a long, long time. A number is called only once every fifteen minutes. At first he talks to Stella and Arlo, to two men and a woman who sit near him, but the room is so crowded, the hum of so many voices muddling the sounds in his head.
