by David Moody
She stops speaking for a moment, time enough to let a swell of enthusiastic support build around her. It’s deafening. Bouncing off the partially collapsed and partially submerged walls.
“Quiet,” she bellows, and silence is restored almost immediately.
“Now you lot might think I’ve gone soft because of what’s happened today. You might think I’ve lost my nerve. Believe me, I haven’t. All I want—all we want—is to finish this, and that’s exactly what we’re going to do. But we need to get it right because we won’t get a second chance. So this is what’s going to happen. Today was all about testing the water and seeing what they’re made of. Tomorrow, we get back out there and we fight again. They’ll come at us with their tanks and their rockets and whatever they’ve got left, and we’ll flood them, moving in and around and between them, and we’ll take them out. Some of us will die, but that’s just how it goes. There are more than enough of us to do this. We’ll breach their lines, get into their damn base, and wipe out the whole fucking lot of them.”
41
The CDF Outpost
Everything has changed.
Now that the enemy knows exactly where the CDF outpost is, there’s no longer any need for the several hundred people here to remain silent. Folks are finally able to move around and do their work with a degree of freedom that would have been unimaginable just a couple of days ago. That’s a good thing, because converting this place from a discreet, covert base into a heavily defended fortress was never going to be doable in silence.
Since the first waves of fighting ended, the place has been transformed. The tanks, howitzers, and rocket launchers now have increased prominence, ensuring there are no aspects of the outpost remaining that a Hater can approach without finding themselves staring down the barrel of a big fucking gun. There are snipers on the roof of both the service station and the hotel next door, ensuring that any intruders who somehow manage to breach the initial defenses can be easily picked off. And the trenches, for so long little more than a system of barely discernible black scars zigzagging around the perimeter of the site, are now alive with activity. CDF militia and other volunteers are spaced equidistant along the lines, ready to repel any attack. It’s strange—despite the threat level having reached a new high, the number of willing volunteers has increased dramatically. Is it because they think there’s an end to the war in sight? Do they believe the odds have tipped in their favor today? Or do the civilians just see this as an opportunity to exact some long-overdue revenge on the bastards who’ve destroyed their lives? Maybe these people simply feel braver now because they believe the worst that could happen has already happened? The earlier Hater attack was insignificant in comparison to the horror and devastation wrought by the atomic bombs that rained down on the country not so long ago.
As he catches his breath and readies himself to shift another crate of munitions, Darren wonders if the Doomsday Clock is still a thing. If it is, he decides, it’s probably stuck at something like a quarter past midnight. He hoists up the crate and turns around and walks straight into Parker, another civvy he’s spoken to on a couple of occasions.
“Jesus. Careful, mate. You don’t want to drop that lot.”
“Sorry,” Darren says, and he puts the crate back down and massages his back. “This is all new to me.”
“It’s new to all of us.”
They’re in a large, hangar-like building that was clearly part of the construction workers’ compound. There’s more roadworks material here than war supplies.
“Is this all the ammo we’ve got?”
“As far as I know,” Parker replies. “The plan was always to keep it away from the main buildings. Last thing the chiefs wanted was for this lot to go up and take out what’s left of the human race in the process.”
“Not a lot, though, is it?”
“I’m no soldier. I couldn’t tell you what kind of damage any of this could do.”
“I get that. I’m no soldier, either. But in terms of fighting a war, it doesn’t look a lot.”
“You’re right. It isn’t,” another voice replies.
Both men look around and see Aaron Rayner in the doorway, his stocky shape silhouetted by the gray light outside.
“So what happens if they keep coming?” Darren asks him, sounding nervous.
“I guess we just keep firing at them for as long as we can, then switch back to clubs and fists. Resort to caveman tactics.”
“Jesus. Don’t fancy my chances in a fistfight with those vicious bastards.”
“Then let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” He takes the crate of ammo from Darren. “I’ll take this to the gunners. You two find something useful to do.”
“I’ll go help Joseph and Dean at the pit,” Parker suggests.
“Good shout.” Aaron looks at Darren. “You go with him. There’s a backlog.”
* * *
They find Joseph dealing with a huge number of bodies that have been collected from the battlefield after today’s fighting. There’s no time for niceties this morning. “Help me with that pile over there,” he says, gesturing toward an unruly heap of dead flesh, arms and legs sticking out in all directions.
Parker’s straight to work, but it’s the first time Darren’s been over here. He peers into the pit. The sight of rotting dead faces combined with the noxious stench makes him gag. He forces himself to drag a body off the pile. “These are Haters?” he asks.
“Mostly,” Joseph says.
“They look different from the ones we saw before we got here. More meat on their bones.”
“They’re stronger in packs, I guess. Strip them before you dump them. Weapons, clothes, food, anything. If you find stuff worth keeping, pile it up over there.”
Joseph wrestles to remove the boots belonging to the cadaver he’s currently dealing with, then ties the laces together to keep them as a pair and throws them into a repurposed waste bin.
The next body Darren drags off the pile isn’t a Hater. It’s an Unchanged woman. Nice girl. He was watching her with a young girl—her daughter, perhaps—yesterday morning. He crouches down and starts checking her pockets, feeling awful for doing so. “Bloody horrible job, this.”
“You just have to switch off. Forget they’re people,” Joseph says, watching him.
“Easier said than done.”
“I know. I also probably know what you’re thinking right now.”
“You do?”
“You’re thinking, all this effort, all this killing, and we haven’t moved a single step forward. Either that or you’re thinking if we can’t look after people like this girl, what’s the point?”
“It’ll be different after the fighting’s done, though, won’t it?” Darren says. Parker and Joseph just look at him.
“Will it? When exactly do you think that’ll be?” Parker asks. “I’m starting to think this is how it’s always going to be from now on. As long as there are people with guns in their hands, there’s always going to be fighting.”
“From what I’ve just seen, there are hardly any bullets left. What happens then?”
Joseph stops working and stands and stares at him. “Now that, my friend, is the million-dollar question. Between you and me and this pit full of bodes, I don’t intend on hanging around to find out.”
42
The Travelodge
Matt stirs.
No matter how long he spends here, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to waking up in a proper bed again. He feels guilty, like he’s doing something he shouldn’t. A soft mattress and a decent pillow are the height of luxury these days.
There are noises coming from elsewhere in the building. He props himself up on his elbow and listens, concerned at first. Whatever—whoever—it is, their movements are controlled and considered, not rushed. If it’s Jason, there’s no need to panic. If it’s a Hater that’s just killed Jason and is coming for him next, there’s still no point panicking. It won’t make any difference. He’ll be dead s
oon anyway.
Matt’s dangerous, split-second moment of apathy quickly passes, and he gets up. He almost loses his balance, and when he tries to correct himself, he wrenches his shoulder wound, almost opening it up again. He steadies himself, but his legs almost give way. He feels fucking awful this morning. He’s burning up. Tetanus? Sepsis? It could be anything.
Matt inches toward the door and opens it a crack, just enough to see that everything looks as he last saw it. It must have been Jason he heard, but what’s he doing? With far more effort than it should take, Matt shuffles along the corridor to the next room, opens the door, and asks. Jason’s answer is disarmingly simple and straightforward. “I’m leaving.”
“How many times do we have to have this conversation?”
“It’s not a conversation. I’m not discussing anything. I’m leaving for the outpost, and that’s all there is to it.”
“Fine.”
“And that’s all you’ve got to say?”
“You just told me you didn’t want a discussion. It obviously won’t change anything. You’re obviously going to go, and I’m obviously going to tell you you’re a complete fucking idiot if you do. It’s too dangerous out there.”
“The fighting stopped yesterday, remember?”
“The fighting paused.”
Jason screws up his nose. “Christ, you still stink.”
“Swift change of subject.”
Jason ignores him. “Seriously, that shoulder’s not getting any better. You’ll need to get it cleaned up properly.”
“I’ll ride it out.”
“Good luck with that.”
“The risk of me dying of blood poisoning or something similar is a heck of a lot less than the risk you’ll be taking if you go back out there. The only way the fighting’s over is if we’ve already lost.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“You’ll never make it on your own out there.”
“Well, you did.”
Jason’s words catch him out. He’s right.
Soaked with sweat and struggling to stay upright, Matt slumps into a bucket chair in the corner of the room and watches Jason packing his few scavenged belongings into a rucksack.
“Even if I wanted to go, I don’t think I could.”
“I know. You’re better on your own, though, aren’t you?”
Matt sighs and shakes his head. “Look, I know I’m probably wasting my breath, but I really think you should reconsider.”
Nothing. He tries again.
“I know I’ve been a bit of a prick to you at times—”
“A bit of a prick?”
“—and I’m sorry about that, but you’re making a huge mistake. You’re risking everything.”
“Yeah, Matt, I get that, but what’s worse—risking everything or risking nothing? It’s always about risk management with you. Fucking accountant. I can’t just sit here while our people are struggling. I couldn’t live with myself.” He hoists his pack up onto his shoulders and walks away, pausing at the open door. “Oh, wait, I’m talking to the wrong bloke, aren’t I? Here’s me thinking about what I can do to help the others; you’re usually thinking about what they can do to help you.”
“That’s not true.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Remember all the things you told me about how you survived while you were trying to get back to Jen? About using the noise other people made to keep yourself safe? About using their deaths as camouflage?”
“Yeah, but that was different.”
“Really? From where I’m standing, it looks exactly the same. I bet you were rubbing your hands together when all the fighting was going on around the outpost yesterday, because the more noise they were making and the more of them were dying, the better your chances of staying alive.”
“You’ve got this all wrong.”
“Don’t think so. See you later, Matt.”
And with that, he’s gone. Matt gets up and staggers after him. “Do you even know where you’re going?”
Jason holds up a folded tourist map of the area. “Got it all marked out. Did it while you were asleep.”
Still he keeps walking.
“You’re making a huge mistake.”
“So you keep telling me.”
Matt leans against the wall, drenched with sweat, feeling angrier than he expected, feeling completely alone. Feeling like he’s let Jason down, then feeling like he’s letting the rest of the group down, then feeling like he shouldn’t give a shit about any of them, because none of them have ever given a shit about him.
He returns to his own room, shuts the door, and collapses onto the bed. He can’t relax. Can’t lie still. Nothing feels right.
It’s only been a couple of minutes when he hears noises in the distance. Bangs and crashes begin to ring out through the otherwise empty countryside. Distant dull explosions shake the hotel’s foundations.
Right on cue, the fighting around the outpost has begun again.
43
Outside the Outpost
When the second Hater onslaught begins, the CDF fighters are ready for them.
It begins as it did yesterday with a number of enemy-driven vehicles racing toward the outpost, this time from several different directions at once. The CDF soldiers are prepared, but there’s barely contained panic inside the service station; the non-fighting civilians are more afraid today than when the first unexpected Hater attack was launched. Perhaps it’s because they now know what to expect. Perhaps it’s because they’ve again seen firsthand how hard and how vicious those Hater bastards are prepared to fight.
From the first-floor observation deck, Estelle and Chappell marshal the troops. In the absence of radio contact, messages are relayed between the commanders and their fighters by civilian runners who push and shove to get past each other on the steps, such is the number of frantic orders being given. “Get those vehicles stopped at all costs!” Estelle screams. “Don’t let any of them through!”
There are six vehicles approaching through the gray mist and hissing rain now. One of them—it was an unremarkable family car before the war—steers an arrogant path straight across the battlefield, its driver apparently unfazed by the relentless volleys of gunfire that are aimed at his vehicle. Tracer fire burns iridescent against the early-morning gloom, numerous shooters all now focusing their fire on this one unassuming car, the farthest advanced. Despite his vicious intent, its driver is killed, and the vehicle grinds to an ignominious slow stop in the middle of nowhere.
But the attention paid to the first vehicle means that, in contrast, others are allowed to make more progress. A mud-splattered ambulance, blue lights flashing like it’s responding to an emergency, and another car driving alongside it both get dangerously close to the trenches. The ambulance driver confuses everyone by making an abrupt change in direction, skidding through the mud, then driving parallel with the front of the service station outpost, managing somehow to avoid being caught in any of the cross fire. The other car almost breaches the CDF defenses before a concentrated volley of machine-gun fire reduces it to scrap.
The next two vehicles are flatbed trucks. From Chappell’s high vantage point, it’s difficult to make out exactly what they’re both carrying. The flatbeds themselves are covered over with dark tarpaulins, and his mind starts to race. “What the hell have they got there?” he demands, knowing no one’s going to answer.
The flatbeds are immediately forgotten because now there’s another complication. A mass of lights burn bright up ahead, and the fog itself seems to part as the final vehicle of this first wave begins its approach.
This thing is fucking huge.
Whoever’s behind the wheel of this monstrosity must surely have driven machines like this before the war. The truck looks like it was designed to transport abnormally sized loads, but it’s been adapted to suit a different purpose today. Sheets of metal have been welded across the windshield and side windows to protect th
e driver, narrow slits cut out to enable them to see. Having a limited field of view clearly isn’t a problem, because the truck’s intended target is obvious; it’s heading directly for the service station building. Okay, so the trench that surrounds the base will offer some degree of protection, but the sheer size of the machine now rolling closer makes it a threat. This aspect of the battlefield gently slopes downward, and it seems that even the elevation of the land is beginning to conspire against the CDF this morning.
Estelle is acutely aware of the danger. “Sweet Jesus. We need to stop that thing.” She turns around, desperately looking for more runners. When none appear, she leans over the balcony and yells out to anyone who’s listening, “Focus all fire on that vehicle! Destroy it before it gets anywhere near us!”
Her orders are cascaded at lightning speed, and almost immediately it seems that every single weapon is directed at the slow-moving beast. Closer and closer it gets, but its speed is increasing if anything. Bullets fail to have any noticeable effect, sparking as they ricochet off the welded sheet metal. A rocket fired through an unprotected side window blows the roof off the cab, but the now driverless truck’s velocity is such that its progress continues unimpeded. Its speed increases until a second rocket strike hits the base of the engine compartment, causing the massive machine to buck like a horse, then crash back down on its nose. The tractor unit falls one way, the trailer the other. It’s like its neck has been snapped.
