by David Moody
The rust of inertia has worn away since the Hater attacks began, and the troops are now fighting with increasing effectiveness. Another trench is filled with fire, but there are soldiers primed straightaway, immediately dealing with the Haters trying to find a way through. Skilled marksmen and women who feel like they’ve been brought out of retirement take out the stragglers on the fringes and those who’ve managed to breach the lines. When a lone Hater makes it almost as far as the entrance to the hotel where the troops have been billeted, he’s brought down by a mass of CDF fighters itching to get involved. Right now, looking out over this increasingly chaotic landscape, it’s getting harder to keep track of the battle lines.
* * *
Not everyone’s involved in the fighting. Outside the service station, one of the invaders sneaks quietly through the chaos, sticking to the shadows. He has more control than most. While the Haters can barely stop themselves from fighting, and many of the Unchanged are dragged into the battle because it’s that or just capitulate, he moves through the gray fringes between them, going completely unnoticed. He waits for a moment, stepping back out of the way as an Unchanged soldier sprints past, arms loaded up with ammo for the gunners protecting this section of the base. Coast clear, he continues on his way, down toward a section of the trench that was ablaze just a couple of minutes ago. The fire’s out now, everything carbon black. He climbs down, dropping half the distance, then uses a pile of wreckage farther down to climb back up and out the other side. He crawls away on his belly with fighters crisscrossing around him, completely unaware that he’s even there. He keeps shuffling forward in stop-start bursts until he’s sure he’s clear.
He’s back at the car at the prearranged point a short time later. He collapses into the passenger seat, weak with effort and covered in grime. “You look like shit, McCoyne,” Bryce says.
“Thanks.”
The only noise is the rain hammering on the roof of the car and McCoyne’s labored breathing. “Well?” Bryce demands, impatient.
“Wait,” McCoyne says, clearly struggling.
“I’m done waiting. Talk.”
He swallows hard and tries to speak, but his words are lost in a coughing fit so fierce it’s like his body’s trying to turn itself inside out. Bryce grudgingly hands him a bottle of water, and McCoyne manages to swallow a couple of mouthfuls. He opens the door and spits up a wad of sticky phlegm, then wipes his mouth and leans back in his seat.
“I don’t feel so good.”
“There’s not one little bit of me that gives a shit, McCoyne. Now tell me what you saw in there.”
“Not a lot is the honest answer. Most of them were shut away inside, and like I told you, I’m not going to risk getting any closer in case I get recognized again.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, mate. You’re instantly forgettable.”
“Apparently not, remember? Anyway, I told you it would work. Going in quiet with a few volunteers was a smart move. They’re shitting themselves in there now, total fucking panic stations. They’ll be awake all night, waiting for us to hit them again.”
“What about gear? What kind of stores are they sitting on?”
“I wasn’t in there for long, but I know they’re not flush with stuff. I didn’t see a lot in the way of supplies. I reckon it’ll be easy to starve them out. Block off their escape routes and they’re fucked.”
“Go on.”
“It’s like I’m always saying, it’s not all about fighting, is it?”
“Not when you’re a lazy fucker like you,” he goads.
McCoyne shakes his head. “I know how you feel about me, Bryce, but forget that for a sec; it’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
“We’ve been taking heavy losses. Avoidable losses. We’ve just shown what we can do with a few people and a bit of fuel, so why bother exerting all that effort and taking massive risks, when all we need to do is keep the Unchanged locked down? Scare the fuck out of them, then wait until they turn on themselves and destroy everything from the inside out. It worked before in the city, and if it worked there with tens of thousands of people, then a few hundred Unchanged stuck in close confines like that will stand absolutely no fucking chance. Bide your time, Bryce, and start positioning yourself. Go back to Cambridge and find anyone else who’s getting tired of Johannson. Start building yourself a fan base, because at some point soon, people are going to realize the boss is running out of ideas.”
46
The Travelodge
Matt’s sick. Really sick. He feels like death. He’s been lying on his sweat-soaked bed for what feels like forever. Fever dreams have swirled around his head: nightmare images of Jen burning, of him being pursued by Haters, of dying alone in this damn hotel … It’s no way to go out, but right now he can’t see any alternatives. His head’s pounding, and his throat’s on fire. He’s burning up.
He knows he must have been asleep, but he’s not sure when or how long for. The light levels outside seem to change every time he opens his eyes. Might be a storm. Might be midnight. Matt’s not sure he even cares anymore. He’s really starting to think he might not make it through another day.
He thinks about everything and nothing while he’s lying here. Mostly he remembers the time before the war. It feels so long ago as to be impossible, like his life before all this belonged to someone else. Remember a time when things were so easy that the biggest hurdle to getting through the day was making it through a meeting without being shouted down or submitting a report before the deadline was up? Even in his current less-than-lucid state, he wishes he were back there again, trying to keep his head above water in the corporate world filled with trivialities and inconsequential nothings. And to think, he used to worry about all that vapid, empty stuff like it mattered.
Right now, he needs to find himself a corner of reality to hold on to, an anchor to the here and now, stop himself slipping further away. He reaches out a heavy-feeling arm and, on the third attempt, picks up what’s left of a bottle of water from the side of the bed. He half drinks the dregs, half throws them into his face, but that’s good because the tepid water is cold enough to drag him back from the brink momentarily. But the slight shock doesn’t last long, and soon he’s drifting again. The rain spotting against the glass becomes a clattering storm, and the storm becomes another distant battle. In his head, he pictures the outpost he’s never actually seen under siege from Haters, and he confuses that with memories of the times he went out hunting for the enemy with Franklin and his crew. He imagines one of the killers seeing him and starting to chase, only for more and more to follow. Before long, in his mind, he’s running for his life with a thousand of them on his tail, all of them leaving the outpost and the people there behind just to get a piece of him.
And now he’s stuck up in a tree, looking down on hundreds of them looking back at him. And now the tree is the canopy of the fuel station next door, and the Hater who fell and died is calling all the others over to come and get him.
And now he’s imagining Jason standing at the end of his bed, shaking him to wake him up from this stupor.
“Matt. Matt, wake up!”
Too real.
“Come on, for fuck’s sake. Wake up!”
When Jason punches Matt’s arm, the searing agony in his injured shoulder leaves him in no doubt this is no hallucination. He sits up, the sickening pain returning him to full consciousness.
“What are you doing back here?”
“We need to hide.”
“I’m already hiding. What from?”
“No time to explain. Shift! Now!”
Over the noise of Jason’s nervous jabbering, over the sound of the driving rain and swirling wind, Matt’s now aware that he can hear something else.
“What is it?”
“Now, Matt!”
Jason drags him off the bed and across the room. Matt stumbles and pulls him back, trying to keep his balance. “What’s going on?” he asks as Jason franticall
y leads him through the hotel to reception. He answers without answering.
“Don’t think they saw me. Need to get out of sight. Need to climb. Can you climb?”
“Don’t know. My shoulder’s pretty bad, and—”
“I’ll help you up,” Jason says, cutting across him, and before Matt can protest, they’re out in the open with Jason pushing him up onto the roof of the van that’ll allow them to climb onto the roof of the car wash, then onto the fuel station canopy. Whatever that noise is, it’s getting louder, getting closer.
Once they’re both up, the two of them lie side by side. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Matt asks, whispering. “What have you gone and done? Have you brought them back here with you?”
“I haven’t done anything. Just shut up.”
Engine noise. Marching boots. Voices shouting.
Matt inches closer to the edge of the canopy and peers down. Can the fighting around the outpost have spread this far so quickly? The road running past the Travelodge begins to fill up with people. CDF? There’s no one he recognizes. Haters? These people look strong and well organized, nothing like the feral savages he’s seen since leaving the printing house shelter. Whoever and whatever, there are more people down there than he’s seen in one place since the night the city-camp fell. It’s an endless procession of packed vehicles and personnel.
There are cracks in the colored Perspex that covers the canopy. Since he was last up here, great chunks of plastic have dropped down and shattered near where the dead Hater’s body still lies on the tarmac. The metal skeleton of the structure is exposed, and through the crossbeams and welded joints, Matt realizes he can get a better view while keeping out of sight. He slides across, head still pounding, body still shivering. For a moment, he imagines the entire structure giving way beneath him, buckling as he shifts his center of gravity. He pictures the whole damn thing dropping down, handing him on a plate to whoever is down there. It’d be funny were it not so completely fucking terrifying.
A millimeter movement feels like a mile up here. Matt spreads his weight as he watches the activity down at street level. The structure sways slightly and groans somewhat, but it’s holding steady, and any noise is inaudible over the combined din of engines and marching feet below. He feels confident enough to whisper to Jason.
“They’re traveling the opposite direction from how we got here. East to west. All it’s going to take is another burst of fighting near the outpost for this lot to make a cross-country diversion.”
“I know. Look at the number of them. Christ, Matt, that’d be the end of Estelle and the CDF.”
“Exactly.”
They watch more and more vehicles go past—all shapes and sizes, military and civilian, no uniformity—with literally hundreds of men and women on board and alongside. At one point, the burned-out Starbucks and the hotel attract some attention, and for a time the petrol station forecourt below them is swarming with people. Matt’s heart sinks when a squad of ten or more disappear into the hotel, then emerge a short time later, their arms loaded up with what’s left of his stuff.
It takes the best part of half an hour for this army—because an army is unquestionably what it is—to pass. For a while longer, Matt and Jason stay exactly where they are, not about to risk moving in case they’re seen. Eventually, Jason’s confident enough to ask the obvious question. “Who the hell are they?”
“No idea. Wait, they didn’t see you out there, did they? Jesus, Jason, don’t tell me they’re looking for you.”
“No, I swear. I was trying to cut across the fields to get to the others, but I took a wrong turn. Few wrong turns, actually. I saw that lot coming in and I didn’t know what else to do, so I doubled back on myself.”
“Hell of a risk. You could have brought them back here.”
“Fuck’s sake, Matt. It would be great if you could stop worrying about yourself for just one second. Better to have brought them back here than for them to have followed me to the others.”
“You’re right. Sorry.”
“They must be Haters.”
“Yeah, the strutting gives it away. Fuckers weren’t trying particularly hard to keep a low profile.”
“We need to do something, Matt.”
“Like what?”
“Like warn Estelle and Darren and the others. I don’t know how many people we’ve just seen, but I doubt there are that many at the outpost. There was only a fraction of that number back at Thornhill. Add to that whoever they’re already fighting over there, and their odds will likely be slashed to zero. We have to tell them. We owe it to them. Not to mention the fact those wankers just helped themselves to all your stuff.”
Matt rolls over onto his back in the rainwater, looking into the roiling black clouds overhead, the rain spotting at his face. The thought of leaving here fills him with dread, but damn it, he knows Jason’s right.
47
The CDF Outpost
The atmosphere inside the service station is nothing like it was. The halfhearted Hater attack in the small hours was successfully repelled, and as of yet, there have been no further incursions. There’s a sense of freedom now that these people are no longer hiding, and something else, too … Optimism? Hope? Maybe those words are too strong, but there’s an undeniable swell of positivity among the soldiers and civilians gathered here. The mood is further lifted by Estelle’s saber-rattling. She’s currently standing up on the observation platform balcony, preaching to the masses. Given the fact they’ve been starved of information for longer than they’ve been here, they’re lapping up her every word.
“For a while, we were thinking we were the underdogs,” she shouts, uninhibited, her voice echoing off the walls of the cavernous space, “but we were wrong. In the time we’ve been waiting to strike back, those people out there have regressed to the point where they’re little better than animals. They’re uncivilized and uncoordinated now. They’ve lost sight of who they used to be, and they’re nothing but mindless brutes.
“It took them months to find this place, and in that time, we consolidated and grew our numbers. We planned and we prospered. We readied ourselves because we knew this day would come eventually and that, at some point, we’d have to fight.”
Joseph, Darren, Parker, and Dean are sitting outside what used to be a branch of WHSmith. “She talks a good talk,” Dean says.
“But she’s full of shit,” Parker whispers back.
“Since the Haters discovered our location, they’ve launched numerous attacks, and every time they’ve hit us, we’ve dealt with them easily and driven them back. They tried a different tactic overnight and, again, we beat them. The mass grave we dug out back is overflowing with corpses. We’ve slashed their numbers, and yet we’ve suffered only a handful of casualties ourselves. When this war first began and the CDF was formed, we strategized on the belief that because of their extreme aggression, every individual Hater had the potential to kill many of us. From what I’ve seen this week, that logic no longer applies. From our position of strength here, with the weaponry we have at our disposal, we now find ourselves with a huge tactical advantage. They’ve tried to intimidate us, they’ve tried to break us by force, they’ve tried stealth attacks, full-on attacks, they’ve thrown everything they have at us, and nothing has worked.”
A ripple of spontaneous applause breaks out in part of the building, and the noise quickly spreads. Even the cynics at the back have to admit that this long-overdue collective expression of positive emotion stirs the spirits. A sea of expectant faces look up at Estelle, many of them daring to wonder if they might really have a chance of some kind of future in the battle-scarred remains of this fucked-up world after all.
“They will attack again, that much is certain,” she continues, “and when they do, we will be ready for them. We expect that next time they strike, they’ll do so in even greater numbers and with far more force than before. Stay strong. There’s no need to be afraid. Whether they’re in twos and three
s or in their hundreds, we will beat them. Whatever they throw at us, we will beat them.”
“What are you basing this on?” a lone dissenting voice asks. “What information do you have?”
Estelle is unfazed by the interruption, almost encourages it with the enthusiasm of her response. “You’re absolutely right to ask. Information these days is limited and hard to come by. Since the first attacks began, we’ve risked going farther afield. We’ve also had their bodies and equipment to examine and evaluate.”
“And?”
“And their equipment is basic, and they’re in generally poor physical condition.”
“I’m in poor physical condition!” the ownerless voice shouts back, eliciting a little laughter. It’s strange sounding. A little laughter is as much as anyone’s heard in an age.
“They’re generally weak and malnourished. Many of them bear scars from the bomb. There’s evidence of radiation sickness. Some looked so bad it was only the Hate keeping them alive.”
“But how many of them are left?”
“As it happens, just a few hours ago, Moira returned from a recce of the wastelands. That’s why I wanted to bring everyone together like this. Moira’s been able to gather a lot of useful information about our enemy that we didn’t know previously.”
There’s a new noise from the crowd now, a nervous hubbub.
“And there’s me thinking this was just a cozy team-building chat,” Parker says. “A healthy dose of propaganda to help keep our chins up.”
