Them or Us h-3

by David Moody

  “I was never trying to rebuild a society, you idiot. Don’t you listen? I was just trying to survive. This day has been a long time coming,” he continues, swerving around a traffic circle the wrong way and joining the A12. “Thing is, Danny, people have always been out for themselves, even when they made it look like they were cooperating. Look at this Ankin guy and all those other politicians you remember—elected into power to serve the people, but all they were doing was making sure their own backsides were comfortable and safe, lining their own nests. All the Hate did was accelerate things and help us all cut through some of the bullshit. Look back and you’ll see that everything’s always been built on power and fear. Think back to any story you remember from the news before all of this began, and you’ll be able to trace it back to someone, somewhere who wasn’t prepared to be fucked over by someone else.”

  I don’t do what he says, because I’m sure he’s probably right to an extent. What’s gone is gone. The fact remains, though, I think he’s wrong, and that a small group of Unchanged has survived against the odds is proof positive. We pass a couple more people on the side of the road, fighters and underclass. They all look the same now—pathetically lost and alone, with nothing left to fight for. Hinchcliffe doesn’t even look at them. The bastard truly doesn’t give a damn about anyone but himself.

  “It can’t all be as simple as you try to make it sound. Fighting doesn’t solve everything.”

  “I never said it did,” he says, struggling for a moment to keep control of the jeep in the slushlike snow.

  “That’s what you implied.”

  “You can get people to do what you want without hitting them.”

  “But it’s easier if you do hit them? Or just let them think they’re going to get the shit kicked out of them?”

  “Something like that. Look, it’s survival of the fittest, that’s all I’m saying, and I’m damn sure I’m going to be the one who survives.”

  “What for?”

  “What kind of a question’s that? It’s obvious.”

  “Is it? Spell it out to me, Hinchcliffe, because I don’t get it. If you’re the only one left standing after all of this, how exactly will you be feeling? You’ll be a lonely fucking despot with nothing to do and no one left to order around. There’s a cost to everything, and the more you take, the more you destroy. The last man standing in this world will inherit a fucking empty ruin.”

  “You’ve been spending too much time around Unchanged,” he sneers at me. It’s snowing hard again now, a sudden blizzard, and it blows in through the broken windshield, making it hard to see exactly where we are. I’m aware of the snow-covered shapes of several buildings on either side, and I realize we must have reached Wrentham, just past the midpoint between Lowestoft and Southwold. If I’m going to try to get out of this mess, I need to act fast.

  “Just let me go, Hinchcliffe. Keep the jeep and all the food, just let me go.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because I’m dying. I’m not like you, I don’t want to fight anymore. I just want to go somewhere quiet. Somewhere I’m not going to be surrounded by people taking from me. I’ve got nothing left to give.”

  “My heart bleeds,” he says, clearly not giving a shit. We’re approaching the junction in the road now. He brakes hard and almost loses control of the jeep again, skidding to a slow stop and nudging up against the curb. “But we both know that’s not true, don’t we. We need to find this guy Joseph, remember? So which way now?”

  “You choose,” I say, determined not to help. We’re barely two miles from Southwold, three at the most.

  “Interesting,” he mumbles, opening his window and looking down at the road. Some of the earlier snow has thawed and then frozen again. “Lots of tire tracks here. I’m guessing this was you earlier?”

  I don’t bother answering. He drives forward again, following the tracks he can see, and I slump back into my seat with relief. He’s taken the wrong route and we’re heading toward the bunker now. If he keeps going this way we’ll end up back at the farm, and I’ll make a break for it once we’re there. There’s a motorbike still lying in the yard, I think, and Peter Sutton’s car is probably hidden somewhere nearby. Or maybe I can just trick Hinchcliffe into going inside the bunker, then shut him in? I like the idea of burying the bastard alive down there.

  “Wait a minute,” he says suddenly, “this isn’t right. This road leads inland. You might have come from this direction, but this wasn’t the way you were planning to go back, was it, Danny?”

  My lack of response seems to answer his question. He pulls hard on the handbrake and spins the jeep around through one hundred and eighty degrees, sliding through the ice and slush until we’re facing back the way we came. This time, when we reach the junction again, he looks more carefully at the tracks. I’m hoping enough fresh snow has fallen to make things less obvious, but it hasn’t. He spots the wide sets of tracks left by the van and the delivery truck heading toward Southwold. The fucker is frustratingly smart. The tone of his voice changes as he accelerates toward the coast. He sounds excited, his mouth virtually salivating at the thought of killing Unchanged again.

  “How many of them are there? There’s at least two sets of tracks here, so we must be talking more than five. Ten? Honestly, Danny, you should have known better than anyone that we’d find them eventually.”

  “Just leave them alone, Hinchcliffe. Let them be.”

  He shoots a quick glance in my direction, letting me know in no uncertain terms what he thinks of that idea.

  “You must be sicker than I thought. Leave Unchanged alive? For fuck’s sake, I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”

  He’s riled, and I sense an opportunity to distract him. His temper and aggression might be his undoing. About a mile and a half to go now. Need to act fast.

  “They’re not a threat to you, and just about everybody else worth worrying about is dead. You should just get over yourself, Hinchcliffe. Just fuck off and get on with what’s left of your own life and leave the Unchanged alone.”

  “Listen to what you’re saying, McCoyne. This is Unchanged we’re talking about. They were the cause of this fucking mess, and you want to let them live?”

  “What difference does it make? There’s hardly anyone left alive now. Just go your own way.”

  “You fucking moron! I should kill you!”

  I know where I am now. I can see the snow-covered roofs of the business park where I left the car when Hinchcliffe sent me to Southwold before. Got to do it. Do it now.

  “I’d rather spend the little time I’ve got left with the Unchanged than you, Hinchcliffe,” I tell him, sneering and deliberately antagonizing him now. “It’s fuckers like you who caused this war. At least they’re—”

  He snaps and lunges across the car at me. I duck under his flailing arms and grab the steering wheel from under him, turning it hard right. He tries to shove me back out of the way, but I’ve caught him off guard and I won’t let go. His balance is off center and his reaction is too little, too late. He finally manages to push me away, then looks back out front and tries to steer in the opposite direction, but we’re going too fast and the ground is covered with ice. The jeep skids, lifting up onto two wheels, then overturns and flips over. I tense my body and brace myself as we roll over and over, stopping with a sudden jolt as we hit the side of a building, thumping back down onto four wheels. My head snaps back on my shoulders with the sudden impact, and there’s an immediate sharp, jabbing pain in my right ankle, but I stay conscious. Hinchcliffe is thrown forward, his head smacking hard against the wheel with a sickening crunch. He drops back into his seat and doesn’t move, blood pouring down his face.

  For a moment I just sit there, numb with the shock of the crash, watching Hinchcliffe and waiting for any sign of movement. He’s completely still, not a flicker of life. I unstrap myself and force myself closer, desperate to make sure. I put my ear next to his mouth, terrified he’s about to wake up and lunge forw
ard. Nothing. No sound. I try to feel for a pulse with ice-cold, numb hands, but I can’t feel anything.

  This is it.

  I’m still alive, and what’s left of me is in one piece. The passenger door’s buckled and won’t open, so I have to scramble out through the broken windshield. I look back, once, then I start down the road, wishing I could move faster.

  It’s about a mile to Southwold.

  48

  I CAN TASTE BLOOD in my mouth, and I’m dragging my right foot now more than walking on it, but I’m almost there. I followed the intermittent tire tracks left by the others for as long as I could, then took a shortcut across the fields I worked in when I was last here.

  The ice-cold air seems to numb the pain. The falling snow reminds me of ash drifting down, and I feel a sense of déjà vu, remembering walking along the highway just after the bomb. I remember lying on my back on the warm, sticky asphalt, watching Ellis as she disappeared alone into the radioactive gloom. The memory of everything I lost that day is enough to keep me moving toward the center of Southwold. I might still be able to help the rest of the Unchanged get away. More than that, I don’t want to die out here on my own.

  I stagger into the village, feeling myself fading with every slow step I take forward. Everything looks different here today, so much so that I’m not entirely sure this is Southwold at all. The dusting of snow makes everything look featureless and plain, but that’s not the real reason for my confusion. The tips of the wreckage of those buildings destroyed by Hinchcliffe’s fighters peek out through the ice, almost as if they’re ashamed to be seen, and the pointless devastation is incredible and heartbreaking. Parts of the village have been virtually demolished; all of it now appears uninhabitable. There are row after row of burned houses, almost every building ruined, and my disorientation continues to increase until, at last, the distinctive outline of the lighthouse appears up ahead of me. Perhaps one of the only buildings left undamaged, its outline is blurred by another flurry of snow. Using its tall, tapering shape as a marker, I head straight for it, alternately looking up at its unlit light, then down at the undisturbed snow lying all around me, desperate to find more tire tracks or footprints. They’ll be hiding inside. No Unchanged with any sense would risk being caught out in the open.

  I cross the intersection and walk past the ruins of the hotel from where John Warner used to run this place. The building has been completely gutted by fire, as have many of the surrounding buildings. There’s a mound of charred, snow-covered corpses in the middle of the village square, blackened limbs entwined, burned faces staring into space. I force myself to look away, and I remember this place as it was when I was last here. John Warner had genuinely good intentions, but he was wasting his time, I realize that now. What’s left of my side of the human race is fucked: doomed to repeatedly beat itself into oblivion until there’s nothing left of it but ashes and a handful of empty, hollow men like me.

  I take a wrong turn through the side streets and have to double back and follow my own footprints to get back on track again. Exhausted, I eventually reach the lighthouse and lean up against the curved outside wall of the building for support, slowly sliding around it until I find the door. I half step, half fall inside, relieved to finally be out of the biting wind. The building is silent like a tomb, and I catch my breath with surprise when I step back and trip over the outstretched arm of a corpse. I look down, and, bizarrely, I feel real relief that it’s someone like me and not one of the Unchanged. Judging from the stink and the discoloration of his skin, this guy’s been dead for a while. Probably one of Warner’s lookouts killed by Hinchcliffe’s men.

  I stagger to the foot of the stairs that spiral up inside the lighthouse and listen hopefully, but I don’t hear anything other than my own labored, panting breaths. Maybe they’re hiding at the top of the tower?

  “Joseph,” I shout, my voice echoing around the confined space. I wait for an answer, but none comes. “Joseph, it’s Danny.”

  Still nothing.

  I start to climb, knowing I have no choice but to check every inch of the building to be sure, and wishing we’d agreed on a meeting place with fewer stairs. I have to stop after every third or fourth step, and psych myself up to climb higher. I crane my neck upward, searching for movement in the shadows way above me. Where the hell are they? With each step I take, the more obvious it becomes that Joseph and the others never made it to Southwold. Anything could have happened to them once they’d left the bunker. Those tracks in the snow, they could have been made by anybody. With Lowestoft imploding and much of its surviving population leaving the town, this area might well have been crawling with people who would have killed the Unchanged in a heartbeat—massacred every last one of them before they’d even stopped to question why they were there or how they’d managed to survive for so long—and if the refugees didn’t get them, it was even more likely that Ankin’s troops would have. With hindsight, trying to get away from the bunker now seems the most stupid and sacrificial of moves. Even so, they had to try. They couldn’t just sit there and wait to die. I shout out a couple more times as I continue to climb, but each time the only audible reply comes from my own voice echoing back at me.

  Finally, legs trembling with effort, virtually having to crawl the last few steps on my hands and knees, I reach the top of the lighthouse. I use a rail to haul myself upright, then push myself through the door and out onto the observation platform. The wind’s even stronger and colder up here, and I have to hold on tight just to stay standing. I lean back against the glass that surrounds the huge, useless lamp and stare out toward the sea, barely able to support my own weight any longer. I’m filled with an overwhelming, crushing sense of disappointment that they’re not here, and it’s all I can do to keep myself upright. Looking out into the nothingness of the gray clouds and falling snow, I find myself imagining how the Unchanged might have been caught. I picture Joseph trying hopelessly to reason with Hinchcliffe’s Neanderthal fuckers or Ankin’s troops, whichever found them first. I picture the little girl Chloe trying to run from them, bare feet crunching through the snow as she’s chased down by a pack of the foul bastards …

  I’ve had enough.

  The more effort I put in, the less I achieve. It’s time to stop. Maybe I should just go back inside, drag up a chair, then sit back and watch the sun rise as many more times as I can before I go. No one will disturb me up here. No one will know where I am. More to the point, no one will care.

  Is this the moment where my life starts flashing before my eyes? Isn’t that what’s supposed to happen now? Just for a second I allow myself to drift back and remember things as they used to be before the war: the hellhole of an apartment I used to live in with Lizzie and the kids, doing a mindless job for a pittance pay, barely making ends meet, the endless arguing and struggling with the kids, all the grief I used to get from Harry … but I’d still rather be there than here today. Christ, I spent so much time focusing on the negatives that I completely missed the positives, which were there in abundance. The security, the relationships, being safe within the four walls of our home, the closeness I had with Lizzie and the children … It’s an old cliché, but it’s so true: You never realize what you’ve got until you lose it. I remember the war and all the killing—the joy and euphoria I used to feel whenever I ended an Unchanged life. To think, for a time I was thankful for the Hate and the freedom I thought it gave me. Now, even though I try hard not to, I find myself thinking about Ellis again, remembering what the Hate did to her and what she became. What it did to all of us …

  It must be time now.

  I lean back against the window and look out to sea, numb with cold, weak with effort, and hollow with disappointment. I’d go back inside, but I’m too tired to move. Everything’s too much effort. Maybe I’ll just sit here and—

  Wait.

  What’s that?

  It’s probably just the snow or my eyes playing tricks on me, but I swear I just saw something moving down at st
reet level. I lean forward over the edge of the lighthouse railings and look down, struggling to focus through the blizzard. Then I see it again … a brief flash of movement between two buildings, someone running from right to left. I shield my eyes from the white glare and look out along the seafront, but I can hardly see anything through the haze. I follow the line of the promenade from level with the center of the village all the way out toward the half-collapsed pier. What was it I saw? Scavengers? More refugees from Lowestoft? Or did I just imagine it? Am I going out of my mind and hallucinating now too? Maybe that’d be a good thing …

  I look out toward the remains of the pier in the distance, then fix my eyes on a long strip of virtually empty parking lot that begins outside its dilapidated frontage and stretches away into the distance. I can see the shapes of several long-abandoned vehicles, and a couple nearer the entrance to the pier that aren’t covered in snow. Wait a second … could it be? I lean out over the edge of the lighthouse railings as far as I dare, knowing another few inches won’t make a scrap of difference but praying it will, desperately trying to make out more detail. It looks like a van and a truck. Through a momentary break in the snow I see the side of the truck. Although I can’t distinguish any real level of detail from back here, I’m sure I can make out the outline of the picture of the woman’s face I remember, staring at the truck parked in the cowshed before Peter Sutton showed me the bunker. That’s definitely the van I drove away from Hinchcliffe’s factory yesterday. Jesus Christ, they must have made it. Joseph and the others made it to Southwold! I quickly scan the length of the pier again, this time focusing on the collection of ramshackle wooden buildings on the walkways that stretch out over the ocean—and there, some sheltering from the blizzard in empty gift shops and cafés, others hanging out over the railings, waiting to catch sight of the boat that’s never going to come, I see them. The last of the Unchanged. I make myself move again. Got to get down there.