Them or Us h-3

by David Moody

  As I wait for Hinchcliffe to arrive, I watch three other fighters I don’t recognize crowding around a thin slip of a man who’s trying to repair a radio with shaking hands. Sitting at a desk facing me, keeping to himself and working on a battered old laptop, is Anderson, Hinchcliffe’s “stock-keeper.” He’s another gopher, like Rufus. I’m told he used to be an accountant, but now he’s the man charged with keeping a tally of everything that Hinchcliffe owns and controls: the land, food, weapons, vehicles, people … I walk farther into the room and pass him, but he doesn’t even look up. I glance back and see that he’s playing cards on the computer, not working at all.

  The man trying to fix the radio makes a mistake. There’s a bright spark, accompanied by a sudden loud cracking noise, a wisp of smoke, and the smell of burning, and he yelps with surprise and pain. Obviously not impressed, one of the fighters watching cuffs him around the back of the head, then shoves him into the wall, face-first. Dazed, he reels away with blood dripping from his nose. He wipes his face clean and immediately tries to work on the radio again and avoid another slap, hands trembling, barely even able to focus, frequently stopping to wipe away more drips of blood.

  Hinchcliffe appears through another set of doors, which swing shut into the face of a woman I don’t immediately recognize who’s following behind him. She’s straightening her clothes as she walks, and the reason she’s been here is obvious. It’s unusual to see anyone female around here unless she’s been brought in for sex. It’s another sad indictment of the backward direction this new “society” is taking. The days of women’s lib and equality are long gone. Women fighters are easily as aggressive as men, but generally they’re less physically strong. As a result, fewer of them rise up through the ranks. It’s ironic; the arrival of the Hate temporarily wiped out all the divisions and prejudices that used to split society, but now the war’s ending, they’re flooding back and are even more divisive than before. Hinchcliffe and I talked about it a while back. He told me it’s tough shit, because that’s just the way it is now. There are no human rights groups to help you anymore, he said, we’re all on our own. I don’t care if you’re a black lesbian Jew with one leg, I remember him saying, enjoying belaboring the point, if it comes down to a straight choice between you and me surviving, you’re fucked.

  When he finally notices I’m here, Hinchcliffe says something to the woman and she slopes away.

  “Danny,” he grins, his voice full of obviously false enthusiasm, “how are you this morning?”

  My head aches, my body aches, and my guts are still in turmoil from last night’s dinner of dog, but I spare him the details.

  “Shit.”

  “Excellent!” he says sarcastically. “Come through. I need to talk to you.”

  He turns, and I follow him down a short corridor, up a flight of stairs, and into the first of his private rooms. I’ve been in here a couple of times before, but it still takes me by surprise. It’s more like a teenager’s bedroom than anything else. There’s a flat-screen TV on one wall—possibly the last unbroken TV left in the whole town—and numerous game consoles lying around. There’s a recently vacated, unmade double bed opposite, and the air is heavy with cigarette smoke and other stale and equally unpleasant smells. We continue through to his office, a slightly more businesslike room. There’s a large oval wooden table, covered in as much shit as everywhere else. The grubby cream-colored carpet is stained heavily with blood in several places, no doubt left by those unfortunate people who managed to piss the KC off.

  Hinchcliffe sits at the head of the table on a tall-backed leather swivel chair that’s bigger than the rest. He gestures for me to sit next to him, and I do as he says, still doing all I can to disguise my nerves. Despite his inner circle of fighters, his is the only seat that really matters. He is the lawmaker, judge, prosecutor, defense lawyer, jury, and executioner, all rolled into one, and I try not to let him see how much he intimidates me. I act casual and do my best to maintain eye contact, but the fucker just grins and I’m the one who looks away first. Is he really such a threat, or am I blowing things out of proportion? He reminds me of the senior managers I used to work for at the council, but far, far more intense, and, unlike them, he has a personality. He’s no stronger than many of the people he surrounds himself with, but he’s clever and witty and smart, and that’s the real danger. When he looks at me like this it’s like he’s trying to work out exactly what I’m thinking, trying to get into my head and take me apart so he can understand what makes me tick. The war has made most people shed absolutely every aspect of their former selves. Hinchcliffe, though, is different. He used to be an investment banker who’d probably have sold his own mother to turn a profit. He still has the same arrogance and swagger, but now he trades in lower-value currencies for much higher stakes. The rumor according to Rufus (and I really don’t want to know whether it’s true or not) is that when the Change took him, Hinchcliffe wiped out virtually an entire floor of more than forty City traders single-handed.

  Take it easy. Don’t let him see you’re nervous.

  “You really don’t look so good,” he says, looking me up and down.

  “You’re the second person who’s said that to me today.”

  “How many people have you seen?”

  “Just two.”

  “Well, we both must be right, then,” he says, continuing to stare at me, his face an unreadable mix of fascination and disgust. Then his expression suddenly changes. He ducks down, reaches under the table, and pulls out a four-pack of beer, which he slides over to me.

  “For helping us get rid of those Unchanged fuckers yesterday. Good job.”

  “Thanks.”

  I take the beers and quickly remove them from the plastic rings holding them together. I shove the individual cans into different pockets of my long coat. I might drink one later, but the rest will be going under the floorboards when I get back to the house.

  “I was really pleased with what you did. Biggest Unchanged haul in ages.”

  “Six weeks.”

  “I thought we’d seen the last of them. Thought we’d finally got rid of them all.”

  “Me, too. Maybe we have now.”

  “And we got a few kids, too. Bonus! Wasn’t expecting that.”

  “Neither were they.”

  There’s another long, awkward (for me, anyway), and uneasy silence.

  “I’ve got another job for you,” he finally announces. “Ever heard of a place called Southwold?”

  Southwold is a village a few miles farther down the east coast. I’ve never been there, and I know very little about it other than its name. I shake my head. The more Hinchcliffe thinks I know, the more he’ll expect from me.

  “It’s about ten miles from here,” he explains. “Used to be a nice little spot. Couple of people I knew in the City had second homes down there back in the day.”

  Ten miles. Doesn’t sound far, but distances aren’t what they used to be. People tend to stay put in Lowestoft now and, unless they’re out scavenging, rarely venture more than a couple of miles in any direction. Fuel’s in short supply, so most traveling’s now done on foot, and that puts Southwold the best part of a day away.

  Hinchcliffe lights up a cigarette and leans back, taking a long draw and slowly blowing out a cloud of blue-gray smoke up toward the ceiling. Now there’s an expression of status if ever I saw one. Smoking these days says to anyone who’s watching that you’ve got the means and the connections to be able to get your hands on a steady supply of cigarettes to fuel your pointless habit. Most people struggle to find food, never mind anything else. Hinchcliffe knows I’m watching him. Cocky bastard.

  “Want one?”

  “No thanks. Don’t smoke. Bad for you.”

  He laughs and lifts the cigarette box up in front of me, shaking it.

  “You sure? These are the real thing,” he says. “Word to the wise, if you do decide to start, come and see me first. There are some dirty fuckers making their own smoke
s from scrag ends and dried leaves and whatever else they can get their hands on. Bit of a black market starting to spring up around here…”

  “You were talking about Southwold,” I remind him, eager to get the conversation back on track and get this over with. He leans forward secretively.

  “I might have a problem,” he whispers.

  “Unchanged?”

  “Not this time.”

  “What, then?”

  “Settlers. I need you to check them out for me.”

  “Why me?”

  “Christ, Danny, why do you always ask the same damn questions? You know why. You’re forgettable. No one notices you. No one even gives you a second glance.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You know what I mean. You can handle yourself. Doesn’t matter who or what you come across, you treat them all the same. You don’t rush in there with your fists flying like everyone else I’ve got who could go.”

  Bit of a backhanded compliment, but that’s as good as it gets with Hinchcliffe.

  “So what’s your problem?”

  “Little issue with the neighbors,” he says, grinning again. “There’s something going on down there, I’m sure of it. I’ve been talking to them for a while, trying to get them to pack up and come up here. Thing is, they wanted to stay where they were, so I figured I’d keep them with us and let them get the place organized for me, then get in there and annex them.”

  “I take it things aren’t going to plan?”

  He screws up his face and takes another drag on his cigarette.

  “It’s not that,” he explains, “I’m just starting to get a little uneasy. There are about thirty of them, and they’re not being as cooperative as I’d like. I think they’re stockpiling and digging in, and I need to get a handle on things.”

  “Before someone else does?” I suggest. He pauses, and for a fraction of a second I think I might have overstepped the mark. Then he grins again and points at me.

  “You got it! See, you don’t miss a trick, Dan. That’s why I like you!”

  He doesn’t like me and we both know it. Fucking idiot.

  “So what do you want me to do?”

  “There’s a guy called Warner running things down there. John Warner. He’s a local. Came with the territory.”

  “You don’t trust him?”

  “I don’t trust anyone,” he answers quickly. “Do you know Neil Casey?”

  I struggle for a few seconds to place the name. I know he’s one of Hinchcliffe’s top cronies, but, truth be told, they’re all the same to me. Their personalities have become diluted. Rufus says they’ve been de-individualized, and I know what he means. I can only tell them apart by comparing their scars and their level of aggression. I lose track of which one’s which, but I think I know who Casey is.

  “Tall guy, nasty scar on the back of his head?”

  “That’s him. I sent him down there a few days ago, and he hasn’t reported back to me yet. You know the routine, Dan, if you’re working for me and I send you outside Lowestoft, you make contact at least once every twenty-four hours. That’s the deal.”

  “You think they’ve got rid of him?”

  “I don’t know what I think, and that’s why I want you to go there. Try to get a feel for what’s going on and let me know if there’s anything I should be worried about, OK?”

  I don’t want to go anywhere, but what else can I say? Hinchcliffe doesn’t ask, he tells.

  “OK.”

  “Good man. Take a car from the pool, pick yourself up a radio, and get down there as soon as you can.”

  “Now?”

  “Why? You got something better to do?”

  “No, it’s just that I don’t feel—”

  “Get down there now and report back to me tonight. The sooner you go, the sooner you get back, and the happier I’ll be.”

  Bastard. I can’t stand being used like this, but what choice do I have? It’s do the job or risk a beating, maybe worse. I get up to leave, but I’m not even halfway across the room when the coughing starts again, worsened no doubt by Hinchcliffe’s smoking and the arid, dry heat in here. I’m doubled over before I know what’s happening.

  “You’ve got to start taking better care of yourself, Danny,” Hinchcliffe shouts after me, “you’re a key member of my team.” I glance back at him but I don’t react. Is he being genuine or sarcastic? I can’t tell the difference anymore.

  6

  HINCHCLIFFE HAS BUILT UP a vast collection of cars in varying states of disrepair. He has several mechanics working for him, but their skills are seriously lacking, as are their resources. Crude bodywork repairs are generally managed, but if their engines don’t run the cars are stripped down for spare parts, then dumped, much the same as everything else. Hinchcliffe’s car pools are starting to look more like scrapyards with heaps of discarded body parts building up and fewer complete vehicles. Some cars have been increasingly cannibalized to keep them running. They look like something out of a third-rate rip-off Mad Max movie but without the performance; sheets of metal welded over missing doors, mismatched tires, wire-mesh windows …

  Hinchcliffe keeps most of the better vehicles in a parking lot behind what used to be the police station, and the rest on a guarded patch of wasteland adjacent to the railway station. I always try to take the same car. The guards and mechanics look at me as if I’m crazy because I never go for the one with the biggest engine, the strongest body, or the most space inside. Instead I choose the same little silver, box-shaped car every time—a safe, reliable, old man’s car. Hardly the Road Warrior, but the reason I use this one is simple: I know it’s got a working CD player.

  For a long time at the height of the fighting, driving wasn’t such a great idea. In the weeks leading up to the nuclear bombings, when the Unchanged still outnumbered us and before they squandered their last remaining military advantage in desperation, it was generally too dangerous to risk traveling anywhere by road. Now, though, it’s the lack of people and fuel that makes the roads—what’s left of them anyway—quieter than ever. For me, getting in a car today is a relief, a way of shutting out everything and everyone else for as long as the journey lasts—and when you have music, the effect is so much more complete …

  I leave the railway station with music blasting out, ignoring the bemused stares I get from fighter guards who look at me like I’ve gone insane. I never used to listen to this kind of music, but I don’t care anymore. The name of the piece, the composer, the conductor, the orchestra—none of that matters now. All that’s important is the effect. The sound takes me back to a time when people sang and laughed and played instruments and made CDs and listened to the radio and went to gigs. A time when people didn’t kill each other (that often), and when having a bad day meant you’d missed something on TV or you’d had a run-in with someone at work.

  Checkpoint.

  There are two guards on duty here at the gate that spans the bridge. The stretch of water below is called Lake Lothing, although it’s less of a lake at this point, more a narrow channel that runs into the sea. One of the guards mans the gate in the cordon; the other stands at the side of the road and flags me down. This guy’s always around here. He lost the bottom part of his left leg in the war, but he still keeps fighting. His stump is wrapped up with layers of old, crusted brown dressings, and he rests it on a pile of sandbags level with his other knee so he can stay standing upright. That pile of ballast is probably the closest he’s ever going to get to a false leg. I stop a short distance away (far enough so he can’t hit me without hopping over first) and wind down the window. I refuse to turn off the music.

  “This one of Hinchcliffe’s cars?” he asks, shouting to make himself heard.

  “I’m doing a job for him,” I shout back. “Check with him if you want.”

  “What?”

  “I said check with him.”

  He still can’t hear me. “Turn that shit down, you fucking idiot.”

  “What?” I yell,
feigning deafness. He starts to repeat his request, but I’m just playing with him. I hold up the radio—one of Hinchcliffe’s standard-issue handsets—and he immediately nods his head, signals to the other man, and waves me through. Having a radio is almost as good as having an ID card. There’s no access to these things without Hinchcliffe’s express permission, and he controls them himself. It’s not the danger of having communications interrupted that makes him so anal about this radio equipment, it’s the fact that he’s rapidly running out of batteries and spares.

  The other fighter opens the gate, and as soon as the gap’s wide enough, I accelerate through it, past the underclass crowds, and on toward Southwold, trying not to think too much about what I might find there.

  7

  THE EMPTY ROADS ARE desolate, and I keep driving along the A12 until I reach the village of Wrentham, a strangely skeletal place. Everything of value has long since been removed and taken back to Lowestoft. In the silent center of the village there’s a junction. The road sign directly opposite is bent over double like a drunk throwing up against a wall and it’s hard to make out what it says. I think it’s around a mile and a half to Southwold. Fortunately the road names here are pretty self-explanatory: Lowestoft Road, London Road (note to self—don’t go down that one), and Southwold Road. I follow the Southwold Road, looking out for somewhere safe to leave the car so I can finish the last mile or so of the journey on foot. I’ll draw less attention to myself and have more chance of avoiding any trouble that way. Damn Hinchcliffe, I really don’t want to do this. If there was more fuel in this car I could make a break for it and try to find another place like Lowestoft. Then again, what’s the point? Every surviving town will probably have its own KC.

  Another mile or so and I reach a business park, which seems as quiet as everywhere else. I drive as deep into the property as I dare, then park the car inside a large warehouse, out of sight. I quickly check the building out, but it doesn’t look like anyone’s been here for months. There’s an undisturbed layer of dust everywhere, and that’s reassuring. I need to be careful with the car. Not only will Hinchcliffe hit the roof if I don’t get it back to him in one piece, but it’s also my ticket out of here. I take my CD with me, just in case, shoving it into my backpack along with some clothes, weapons, two books, scraps of food to trade, and Hinchcliffe’s radio.