by David Moody
Mark looked down at the man in the phone booth again. He hadn’t moved. Was he just sleeping? He casually tapped the glass with his knuckles, but the man didn’t react, so he did it again. Then, moving slowly, he shook the door. Still no reaction. Was he dead? Whatever it was that was wrong with him, Mark saw that he had a plastic grocery bag tucked inside his filthy raincoat. It had to be food. Other than weapons and drugs, food was the only thing worth hiding now. He kicked the glass again, this time cringing inwardly as a couple of other people either turned around or glanced up before remembering themselves and looking away again.
The appearance of a small boy walking along the wall around the base of his old work building distracted him. The poor kid looked hopelessly lost and exhausted, all life and energy drained out of him. It said something about this crisis that even the kids were affected to such an extent. He’d seen film of children playing resiliently around the ruins of their homes in World War II bombsites before now, and other footage of kids laughing and running through disease-ridden subcontinent slums, but this … this was different. Even the most innocent and naive members of society knew how dire this situation was becoming. The boy shouldn’t have been on his own. Who was he with? Was he lost? Abandoned? Orphaned? He’d adopted the same safe, emotionless, and almost vacant gaze as everyone else, trying to separate himself from the rest of the world but unable to escape its close confines. Mark had no way of knowing if this kid was okay or if he was sick or … He forced himself to stop. He had to look away and block him out. He couldn’t afford to care.
This morning, before he’d left the hotel, Mark had argued with Kate. Neither of them had meant for it to happen, but once they’d started shouting, weeks of pent-up frustrations meant neither of them could stop. Kate was becoming increasingly claustrophobic in the hotel room, and the lack of privacy was driving her insane.
“What am I supposed to do?” he’d said to her. “Until things change, this is all we’ve got. There are no hospitals or clinics or—”
“So what happens when the baby comes?”
“We deal with it.”
“How?”
“I don’t know … we get some towels and water like they said and—”
“What towels? Where’s the water going to come from? Christ, Mark, I won’t even be able to wash the kid. We don’t have enough water to drink, let alone—”
“Calm down, Katie. You’re just—”
“Calm down! Jesus Christ, why should I? I’m fucking terrified, and you’re expecting me to give birth to our baby on the floor of a hotel room in front of my parents.”
“It’s months away yet. Four months. Think how much might change in another four months—”
“Think how much worse it might get.”
“Now you’re just being stupid.”
“I’m scared.”
“We’re all scared.”
“I’m scared about the baby.”
“Millions of women give birth every year, don’t they? And they used to manage before hospitals and—”
“It’s not that—”
“What, then?”
“I’m scared about what our baby might be. What if it’s not like us? What if it’s one of them and it…?”
“Don’t be stupid. I’m normal and you’re normal. Our baby will be normal, too.”
“But what if it isn’t? You don’t know that for sure, do you? No one knows why we’re like we are and why they’re different…”
She was right, of course, but he kept on trying to persuade her that everything would be okay, doing his best to keep up the bullshit and pretense because it was all he could do.
A sudden noise nearby diverted Mark’s attention back to the present. There was a disturbance deep in a crowd of people on the other side of the road. He couldn’t clearly see what was happening. It looked like a fight—someone had probably cracked under the strain of the impossible situation that they, and everyone else, found themselves in. The sudden, unexpected outpouring of long-suppressed emotions provoked a range of reactions from the other refugees nearby. Some ran. Some did all that they could do pretend it wasn’t happening. Others forgot where they were and all that they’d been through and responded with the most basic, natural of reactions and fought.
Mark didn’t give a damn what was happening or why. Taking full advantage of the situation and the distraction it caused, he shoved the door of the phone booth hard. When the lifeless man on the ground still didn’t react, he pushed the door again until there was a wide enough gap for him to squeeze his arm through. He grabbed the man’s grocery bag, shoved it inside his coat, and walked back toward the hotel.
17
JESUS, MY HEAD HURTS.
Where the hell am I? It’s dark, pitch black almost. I’m lying flat on my back on a narrow bed, naked but for a T-shirt and shorts. I try to move, but my ankles and wrists have been chained to the four corners of the metal bed frame. There’s no slack, and I can’t even lift my hands up off the mattress. The harder I try, the tighter the chains seem to get. I try to move my head, but there’s some kind of strap right across my forehead, keeping me down. When they come back I’ll kill the fucker that’s done this.
My eyes are getting used to the lack of light in here, but there’s not a lot to see. It’s a narrow, rectangular room with this bed against one wall and a chair opposite. There’s nothing on the walls except for a lopsided crucifix just to the side of the solid wooden door. Istretch my neck back as far as I can. There’s a small, boarded-up window behind me, the faintest crack of light showing around the edges.
How long have I been here? Have I just woken up, or have I been out cold for days? I feel myself starting to panic, and I make myself breathe slowly and work my way back through what I remember … the children at the school, traveling with Paul, the fighting at the hospital, the Unchanged in the streets who chased me down and drugged me … We were set up, and the bastards who did it must be the ones who brought me here. I pull on my chains again, but I still can’t move. I don’t understand this. It doesn’t make sense. If they really were Unchanged, why didn’t they just kill me? Why bring me here, wherever here is?
Someone screams. Can’t tell where the noise is coming from. Don’t know if they’re screaming for help or crying with pain. Is this a torture chamber? A place where sick, perverted Unchanged fuckers tie us up and make us suffer? Bastards could come in here any second and start on me and there’d be nothing I could do. Maybe they’re experimenting? Trying to find out what makes us better and stronger than them by cutting us up? How many others before they get to me? Is it my turn next?
Concentrate.
Calm.
Focus.
I think about killing to keep me strong. I think about all the Unchanged I’ve massacred over the months and how I’ve gotten rid of each one of them. I remember all the pointless lives I’ve ended and how easy it was and will be again.
Ellis.
Just for a second, from out of nowhere, I think about Ellis, and everything comes crashing down again. The chains feel tighter and the darkness closes in and I can’t move a fucking muscle. I’ve failed her. She’s out there on her own somewhere while I’m locked up here like a fucking animal. Every minute she’s alone out there increases the chance of her ending up like the kids in the school. I try to move again, pulling as hard as I can and thinking for a second that I can break the chains and get out of here, but nothing happens and the ties just get tighter. I feel like I’m in the line outside the cull site again, standing there and waiting to die. And there’s nothing I can do about it.
My arms hurt. They feel heavy and numb. Shoulders are burning with pain. Got an itch on the side of my right leg, just above the knee, and all I want to do is scratch it. I try to ignore it, but it won’t go. Now it’s all I can think about, and the more I think about it, the worse it gets. Now it’s like someone’s dragging the point of a needle up and down across my skin, and it’s driving me fucking crazy.
&nb
sp; Good.
Focus.
Concentrate on the pain and block everything else out.
18
HAVE I BEEN ASLEEP? I can’t see the window when I tilt my head back and look behind me. Is it dark outside? Was it even an outside window? Am I in the same room, or did they move me while I was asleep, if I was asleep? Maybe I’ve been awake all the time. I could have been lying here for hours. Might be longer. Might have been here for days.
Everything’s quiet. Just a slow drip in the corner of the room. Sounds like a leaking pipe. Steady. Constant. I count to eight between drips.
Throat’s dry. Need water. Want to call out, but I can’t. Don’t know who’s listening. Won’t lower myself to speak to Unchanged even if …
“How are you feeling?”
The voice from the darkness scares the shit out of me. I can only move my eyes, and all I see is nothing whichever way I look. Did I imagine it? My heart’s thumping in my chest like I’ve run ten miles. I try to move, but I’m still held tight. Someone’s next to me. I can hear their footsteps and their breathing. Can’t see them, but I know they’re close. I feel them brush against my hand, and my whole body stiffens. The door opens inward a fraction, just enough to let a narrow wedge of dull yellow light trickle into the room.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” the deep male voice continues in an African-sounding accent. “I’ve been watching you for a while. Just wanted to make sure you were all right.”
The man stops speaking and stands over me. I can see his short but broad frame outlined by the light from outside. Is he waiting for a response? He’ll be waiting a long time ’cause I’m not speaking to anyone until I know who and what they are and why I’m here.
What’s he doing now? He crouches down, and I can hear him messing with something on the floor beside the bed.
“You might want to close your eyes. I’ve got a lamp here.”
I try to keep my eyes wide open, but they shut involuntarily when he strikes a match and lights a bright gas lamp. I force myself to open them again, ignoring the pain, desperate to see as much of my surroundings as possible after what feels like hours and hours of darkness. The brilliant bright light burns my eyes, and all I can see is the mantle of the lamp, glowing white-hot. The roar of the burning gas jet fills the room, incredibly loud after so much silence.
The intense glare of the light begins to fade as my eyes get used to the brightness. The man puts the lamp on a chair opposite the bed. He turns back around, and I get my first proper look at his face. The bastard is Unchanged. Can’t help but react. I try to lunge forward, the chains still holding me down. I arch my back and try to break free, but I can hardly move. He shuffles back into the corner of the room, too scared to get too close. Need to kill him. Need to get rid of him, but I can’t. Losing control. All I can do is spit. The spittle hits the wall and starts to drip down. Mouth’s too dry to make any more …
“Finished?” he asks. Bastard. I relax my aching muscles, feeling searing, agonizing pain in my shoulders, wrists, legs, and neck. Can’t stand being this close to one of the Unchanged and not trying to kill him. My guts are in knots. Can’t think straight. Can’t move. Can’t do anything. Need to kill him, but it’s physically impossible. Bastard. Haven’t even got enough strength to spit again.
The dark-skinned Unchanged man picks the lamp up off the chair again, then puts it on the floor and sits down. I manage to turn my head to the side slightly, and I stare at him. Won’t take my eyes off the fucker. I’d kill him in a heartbeat if it wasn’t for these chains. Five-five, five-six at the most, he’s overweight—as round as he is tall. The whites of his eyes are bright and clear. I imagine them bulging as I wrap these chains around his neck and pull them tight …
“Take it easy,” he says. “Calm yourself down.”
He’s unarmed. He’s sitting casually in the chair, and he’s grinning at me with a look in his dark, staring eyes that’s cold and evil. His legs are apart, arms uncrossed, palms open and facing upward. Textbook body language. Does he think I’m stupid? Fucker’s doing all he can to try to seem open and nonconfrontational, but I don’t buy it. Inside he’s terrified, scared shitless because he knows what I’ll do to him when I get free. Can’t stand being this close to him, breathing the same air …
“Bet you’ve got more than a few questions to ask,” he says. He’s right, I have a hundred questions ready. He knows I won’t ask any, but he still waits for me to speak. Wish he was close enough to kill. If I just had one hand free I’d have wrapped these chains around his throat and garrotted him before he’d known what was happening. If I could I’d smash his head into the wall, or burn him with the lamp or break the glass and grind it into his face or …
“My name’s Joseph Mallon,” he says, his heavily accented voice sounding composed, calm, and unhurried. “I’ll be working with you while you’re here.”
Working with me? What the hell’s he talking about?
“You were lucky to get away from the hospital by all accounts,” he continues. “Now that says to me you were either incredibly lucky or very smart. I’m hoping it’s the latter. You look like you’ve lasted well out there. You’re in good shape.”
Does he want to kill me or fuck me?
“I’ll tell you what I know about you, just to get us started.”
He pauses, and in the gap between his words I almost forget myself and speak. But at the last second I remember what he is and I stay silent, feeling my body tensing up again.
“I’ve been through your stuff,” he says. “It’s all safe, by the way. I know your name’s Danny McCoyne. It’s funny how we still carry things like wallets around. I guess it’s just habit, isn’t it? Even someone like you, someone who’s so desperate not to be anything like the person he was before, you still had your wallet kicking around at the bottom of your bag. Couldn’t bring yourself to get rid of it, eh? You’ve got no use for it, but there it was, full of useless banknotes, credit cards you’ll never use again, pictures of your family. Lovely-looking kids, by the way.”
At the mention of my family I automatically try to move and pull against my chains again. He grins. That was exactly what he wanted. I curse myself for being so transparent.
“That touched a nerve, didn’t it?!” he laughs, looking pleased with himself. “Might explain why a big, hard man like you is carrying a doll and a kid’s clothing around in his bag. Were you looking for someone?”
I look away, deliberately breaking eye contact and staring up at the ceiling. Undeterred, Mallon gets up and leans over me. I arch my back again, trying to get closer and freak the fucker out, but this time he stands his ground. The light shining up from the lamp on the floor casts strange shadows over his foul face. He grins and leans closer, staying just out of reach. I can almost feel his breath on me.
“Just relax. You’re going nowhere, Danny McCoyne.”
There’s a noise outside that distracts him, the dull, muffled thump and rumble of a distant explosion. Mallon walks to the window and pulls the board away slightly to look outside. He doesn’t say anything about what he sees, but the fact that he’s able to look outside and I can’t reminds me again that I don’t even know where I am. I don’t know where this place is. Add to that the fact that I don’t know how long I was unconscious for … Jesus, I could be anywhere.
“Questions,” Mallon suddenly announces, carefully replacing the board, then sitting down again. “If you’re not going to talk to me, let me see if I can hazard a guess at some of the questions you’re too proud to ask. We’ll start with the basics, shall we? Who am I? Where are you? What are you doing here? How come you’re still alive? How long will you stay alive? What are we going to do to you? Tell me, Danny, am I on the right lines?”
He’s right, and I need to know all of that and more, but I still won’t answer. I can’t answer. Won’t even look at him. I clench my fists, tense my muscles and grind my teeth, and stare up at the ceiling, doing all I can not to give him the satisfac
tion of a response. He shakes his head and sucks his teeth. If I stay quiet for long enough, maybe he’ll tell me anyway? Bastard seems to like the sound of his own voice.
“Not going to talk to me at all this evening?”
Don’t react. He wants you to react. He’s trying to antagonize you.
“You know I can keep you here as long as I like, don’t you?”
Ignore him.
“I’m thinking you’re uncomfortable lying there like that. If I leave you all night it’s going to get pretty bloody painful.”
He won’t undo these chains whatever I do. More bullshit.
“And you’re gonna get mighty hungry. How long’s it been since you’ve eaten? A day? Longer? And water, too … your throat must be burning.”
Fucker’s playing mind games. Don’t bite.
He waits. Watching me. Trying to outpsych me.
“Danny McCoyne,” he sighs, voice full of mock disappointment, picking up the lamp and leaning closer, “you need to spend some time thinking about your predicament. You’ve lost all control, sunshine. What happens to you now is totally up to me.”
He stares down at me for a moment longer. I meet his gaze, determined not to be the one who’ll crack. After a few seconds that feel like minutes, he stands up straight and moves back toward the door.
“Well, I’m not wasting any more time on you tonight. I’m hungry. We’ve got good supplies here, better than most. Going to fetch myself something to drink and some food, then get some sleep. It’s been good talking to you.”
With that he leaves, taking the lamp with him. He pulls the door shut with a loud thud, then locks it. I hear his footsteps walking away, then silence. The quiet is deafening and is interrupted only by the fading sound of a far-off helicopter or plane and the steady drip of the water in the corner.
