Chokehold

by David Moody

  Johannson’s waiting deeper in the bowels of the building with her other general. Nina marches up and takes the folded map out of her leathers. She lays it out on a table in front of them. “Well? What did you find?” Johannson demands.

  “I did like you said and went straight down the A14.” She follows the line of the road with her finger. “Got to this point, and there’s a guy up in a tree, some kind of lookout.”

  “Doesn’t prove anything.”

  “He was Unchanged.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Seventy-eighty percent.”

  “Go on.”

  “I carried on, then doubled back. Passed by again a few minutes later, and he’d gone. He was reporting in to someone that he’d seen me, I’m sure of it. As sure as I can be, anyway.”

  “That’s not conclusive,” Ullah says, unimpressed.

  “You’re right, it’s not—” Nina starts to say before Johannson interrupts.

  “But it’s enough. We’d already narrowed it down to a few squares on the map, and what she’s saying puts them right in the middle of that space. This information is good enough for me. That’s where they’re hiding, it has to be. Well done.”

  “Thanks, boss,” Nina says, smug.

  Johannson talks tactics with Ullah and Myndham. Other interested parties hang back and listen in, desperate for any scraps of information that might give them an advantage on the battlefield. Bryce loiters because he knows he needs to stay one step ahead of the rest of the pack. He’s determined to show Johannson what he’s made of.

  “They’ve got to be dug in deep to have stayed hidden from us for so long, and if they’re that well hidden, it’ll take them just as long to dig themselves out. Mobilize everyone. Tool them up. We’re moving out.”

  35

  The Travelodge

  Matt peels himself off the bedding. His wound has leaked again. He lifts himself up onto his elbows and looks behind. The bedclothes are heavily stained with yellow and red. He lies back down, faint and freezing cold, his head pounding. At least I’m not dead is the most positive thought he can come up with. He wonders how much blood he lost, what kind of infections he might have picked up from the wound, and not for the first time, it strikes him just how vulnerable everyone is these days. No doctor to ask for advice. No medical supplies to use. No books or websites to consult. Relatively trivial injuries could easily become life-threatening now. It’s frustrating. Frightening.

  The room is empty. No sign of Jason. A piece of paper has been taped to the back of the chair he was sitting in when Matt was last conscious. With considerable effort, Matt swings his legs around and gets up to read what Jason has written. “Room 17.” He wraps a duvet around his shoulders and then, dragging his feet, leaves his room and knocks on the door of number 17. Jason answers quickly, instinctively looking up and down the corridor before he lets Matt in. “Good, you’re alive,” he says without a hint of sarcasm.

  “Thanks again for sorting me out.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “But if you hadn’t—”

  “No, really, don’t mention it. I don’t want to hear it. I’d like to think you’d have done the same for me.”

  Matt looks around the room. Jason’s been working hard in here, that much is clear. He appears to have pooled all the supplies in the hotel and is sorting them into some kind of order: food, drink, clothes, bedding. He’s a man on a mission this morning.

  “Planning something?”

  Jason barely looks up. “There’s some good stuff here. Can’t afford to leave it behind. If we can’t find a way of transporting it, then we might have to come back.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Maybe not today, no, but when we’re—”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Matt says again. “Not today, not tomorrow. Not for a long time yet, if ever.”

  “You can’t stay here.”

  “I think you’ll find I can. It’s relatively secure, hidden from the road by the Starbucks, and you’ve found us a decent stash of food and water to keep us going for a few weeks.”

  Jason just looks at him, aghast. “You’re kidding, right? You’re saying you’re going to just abandon all the others?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. They already abandoned me, remember? Abandoned us, actually. I wasn’t aware of anyone rushing back to check you were okay.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s because they knew it’d be too dangerous. This is different.”

  “How? Think about it logically; we’re not exactly sure where the outpost is, and even if we were, how are we supposed to get access to it? Do we just go running up to the front door waving a white flag? From a distance, they’ll think we’re Haters whatever we do. They’d take us out before we got anywhere close.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “What difference do you think the two of us are going to make?”

  Jason shakes his head. “You’re a selfish fucker.”

  “I’m a realist, that’s all. And if that means I come across as a miserable prick, then so be it. Sorry about that. At least you’ve got your own room, neighbor. I’ll go back to my place and we’ll shut the door on each other. We’ll probably get along better that way.”

  “And this is all the thanks I get?”

  “What?” Matt just stands there and stares at him, dumbstruck. Where does he start? What does he want thanks for? “Have you forgotten everything that happened before we got to this place?”

  “No, I’m just trying to make the best of a bad situation. I’ve been through the entire building and got all this stuff together. I found some more antibiotics, too.”

  “Great. Thanks very much. To be honest, though, I’d trade all of it for a way to make you see sense.”

  “I am seeing sense. We need the group.”

  “I’m not arguing with that. Problem is, I don’t reckon they need us. We’ll struggle to get anywhere near them in one piece, and between the noise we made leaving Thornhill and the noise the others would have made before us, there are probably Haters everywhere out there right now. The countryside will be crawling with them. We struck lucky here, and we need to make the most of that luck, not throw it away.”

  Matt sits down on the end of Jason’s bed and helps himself to some food from a box. Jason looks crestfallen.

  “What are you most pissed off about?” Matt asks him. “Being stuck here, or being stuck here with me?”

  “Do you really think I’m that shallow? Look, Matt, I get it. You’ve never liked me. You fought to get back to your house, and when you did, the first thing you saw when you opened the door was me. I used to think about that a lot, about how that must have felt. It wasn’t my fault, though. And you’re quick enough to crucify me because of what happened to Jen at the end, but that wasn’t my fault, either. If I’d told you she wasn’t there and you’d gone after her, everyone would have died that night, you, me and Jen included.”

  Matt’s emotional. He struggles to keep his feelings hidden and curses himself, worried that Jason will have noticed. He clears his throat. “Doesn’t change anything. We’re stuck here. We need to make the most of what we’ve got left, and that’s not a lot. Harsh as it is, right now, we need to forget everything and everyone else and focus on keeping ourselves alive.”

  36

  The CDF Outpost

  It’s late in the day when the attack begins. The conditions are atrocious. Light fading fast.

  It’s been almost two days since any of the enemy were seen near the outpost, and the soldiers and civilians guarding the place are caught off guard. A spotter catches a glimpse of movement through the gloom and quickly passes word along the line. One soldier tells the next, then the next, and so it continues until the entire length of the trench protecting the eastern flank of the outpost is alive with nervous anticipation. Killing doesn’t come naturally to these people, no matter how much is at stake. To the approaching enemy, however, slaughter has become a wa
y of life. It’s a necessity. To leave any Unchanged alive would be an unforgiveable sin.

  The longer the lookouts are peering out into the overcast early evening, the more concerned they become. Andrew Ryman is in position again, and he can see at least seven figures approaching—no, make that nine—and he’s starting to think this might be the big one, the coordinated attack they’ve longed feared. He scrambles down from his tree-mounted position to report back. He’s less concerned with getting the news to the chiefs, more worried about being caught out here and cut off. It’s a relief when he finds he’s not the only one to have abandoned their post. There’s an air of barely contained hysteria inside the outpost. Moira Kay is keeping a tally of numbers. More than twenty Haters have been spotted now. The most they’ve so far seen in any one attack.

  Jesus, but these are particularly vicious bastards, more like wild animals than human beings now. The number of fighters in the trenches has been ramped up, but this feels different from previous incursions. The approaching Haters show absolutely no fear.

  Chappell is watching the advance through his binoculars. “They’re acting differently.”

  Estelle just looks at him. “You’ve really not seen a lot of action, have you? Of course they’re acting differently. They know we’re here.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Not impossible. It was only ever a matter of time.”

  The first of them reaches the edge of the trench. When she sees the Unchanged faces looking back up at her, she throws herself down there and attacks. Three CDF fighters lay into her with clubs—wet thud after wet thud like they’re tenderizing meat—but her ferocity is such that she kills one soldier and mortally wounds another before she’s brought down.

  By the time the first Hater has been dealt with, four more have breached this section of trench. Some of the Unchanged fighters have become adept at killing, slitting the Haters’ throats and covering their mouths until they’ve bled out, but these people are the exception. Most of those who are defending the outpost are inexperienced amateurs, and the odds are stacked against them.

  Another spotter races back to base. She winds her way along the trenches, jumping corpses and avoiding fights, then scrambling up the muddy bank to the service station building and shoving her way through the crowds. Moira intercepts her. “Problem?”

  “One got away,” she says, breathless.

  Moira panics. “What the fuck?! How did that happen?”

  “It’s chaos out there, I swear. One of them did an about-face and disappeared. Just turned around and ran. He gave us the slip.”

  “Shit. Get trackers out there to deal with him. We can’t risk any more of those fuckers finding where we are.”

  * * *

  There are always several heavily armed CDF fighters ready and waiting in the wings for this kind of eventuality. Caleb Jones and Tony Shepherd are two of the best. They’re old hands: both of them long in the tooth, and both having seen action all around the world in their many years of military service. They know each other of old, their paths having crossed on numerous occasions in numerous trouble spots before both of them ended up stationed here at this bullshit service station at the arse end of nowhere. Neither will admit as much to the other, but today, chasing one lone bogie across the Cambridgeshire countryside, feels more daunting than facing any number of religious fanatics or other militants in any of the old-world flashpoints.

  They both know how the other operates. There’s an unspoken communication between them, which is a bonus because to make any unnecessary noise out here in the wilderness could easily be the end of either or both of them. Shepherd takes the lead initially. He’s the tracker, following the trail left by the clumsy Hater who’s given them the slip but who foolishly also made no attempt to cover their tracks. Thing is with these bastards, Shepherd thinks, they’re so focused on the fight and the kill that they forget about everything else. They’ve got no chance with Shepherd on their trail. He’s a pro. He increases his speed, and soon the would-be killer is in sight, disappearing into a thin copse of spindly trees. Both soldiers know all that matters here is stopping this foul creature before he can get back and alert others of his kind. He knows where the CDF base is now. He has to be dealt with.

  Jones allows himself the tiniest of wry smiles. Silly prick has fucked up and run himself into a dead end. The two soldiers follow him down along a narrow, tree-lined track that ends at the entrance to what used to be a farmer’s animal shelter: a high-sided, open-ended corrugated metal construction on the outermost edge of a mud-churned field. The Hater’s just a kid, swift and lithe. He accelerates and disappears into the building, and Shepherd and Jones split, more than matching his pace and taking one of the building exits each. Shepherd heads for the rear while Jones takes the end through which the Hater just went. He has his silenced pistol drawn, ready to take the monster out with the minimum of fuss. He pauses, steeling himself for the kill, then bursts into the open barn.

  And stops. Doesn’t fire.

  Fuck.

  The building’s full of people.

  They’re Haters. All of them. He knows that’s true, because several of them are already lynching Shepherd at the other end of the building. They’ve got him pinned against the wall. One of them is eviscerating him with a wicked-looking blade.

  Jones tries to focus and raises his pistol to fire, but it’s too little, too late. What good will one shot be when there are more than thirty of them here? His brain is flooded with panicked thoughts, and he turns to try to get back to base, but there are even more of them out here, blocking his way out. He starts to fire, but raising his arm leaves his midriff exposed, and one of the enemy impales him with a sharpened metal railing. The pain is unreal, and for a split second, Jones feels like he’s floating, watching all this happening to someone else. He feels the spike going in, then he feels it pushing out the other side, then he feels nothing at all.

  Ullah stands over the soldier’s corpse. “That’s it. We’ve got the bastards. Get a message back to the boss. Tell here we’ve located them.” He goes to walk away but pauses. “And do something with the bodies. Let those Unchanged fuckers know we’re coming. The more nervous they are, the easier they’ll be to kill.”

  37

  When the insipid gray sun reluctantly climbs above the horizon next morning, the full implications of what happened last night are revealed. The two corpses have been left in full view of the outpost. One lies in the mud, hacked into pieces, while the other has been impaled and left propped up like a scarecrow.

  “We should get out there and recover the bodies,” Chappell suggests.

  “And what would that achieve, exactly?” Estelle snaps at him.

  “It’s about respect.”

  “Respect? We’re a bit far gone for worrying about people’s feelings, don’t you think? Anyone who’s made it this far knows what we’re up against. The enemy knows exactly where we are now. There’s no point pissing around moving corpses off the battlefield.”

  She’s right, of course, but that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow. Jones and Shepherd were good men. Experienced men.

  “This changes everything,” Chappell says.

  “It changes nothing. If anything, the fact they’ve found us makes the mission easier.”

  “You think?”

  “I know. We’re not hiding any longer. We can stop pussyfooting around and start using some of the firepower we’ve got. Think positive. Stop looking for problems.”

  Estelle sounds less than impressed with Chappell’s attitude. He checks himself, biting his tongue and forcing himself to show his commanding officer the respect her rank deserves.

  “What are your orders, ma’am?”

  She thinks carefully, though it’s not as if she hasn’t spent countless hours preparing for this moment. “They’ve blinked. They’ve given themselves away. They’ve played their hand too soon, and they’ve completely underestimated the weaponry we have at our disposal
here. They’ll attack us in much larger numbers now, there’s no doubt about that. We need to make sure everyone knows what’s expected of them and get them ready to fight. We’re going to wipe out every last one of those evil bastards once and for all.”

  * * *

  Joseph Mallon has done everything he can to avoid the front line, but he senses his already limited options are rapidly reducing. Even when the level of his own personal hate was at its fiercest, in the days and weeks following the slaughter of his family in front of him in their home, fighting back was never something that came naturally. He had to force himself to retaliate, every push and every punch taking ten times more mental effort than physical. That was why he looked for alternative solutions. Maybe, if he was honest with himself, he tried so hard to stop the killing because he couldn’t stand the thought of having to get his hands dirty himself.

  Right now, he knows that trouble’s on the horizon. Closer than it’s been for a while. The bodies displayed on the battleground are a clear signal that the inevitable last battles are looming, and the closer they get, the harder he tries to distance himself. He does anything he can to keep himself out of the trenches, volunteering to do the things no one else will do, the shittiest of shitty jobs. This morning, he’s at the death pit again, maintaining a 24-7 vermin watch. The food chain’s all tied up in knots since the bombs, and there’s not so much wildlife left roaming these days—most creatures have been poisoned or eaten, either by other animals or starving humans of one type or another. Joseph’s mission here, when he’s not dealing with the dead, is to keep the area rodent-free. Mangy dogs, foxes, and rats are attracted to the rotting meat in the pit, and there’s always been the worry that increased levels of animal activity might attract even more dangerous predators. Joseph’s scared himself stupid before now, imagining a pack of Haters hunting down a pack of rats and somehow ending up here.