Authors: David Moody
“That’s a tall order. How are you planning to do that?” I ask. I’m really struggling to keep up with Hinchcliffe’s fast pace now and I’m relieved when he finally stops walking. He turns around and grins. It scares the shit out of me when he looks at me like that.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” he says. “It’s like everything else. It all boils down to supply and demand.”
17
MY EVENING WITH HINCHCLIFFE
is clearly far from over. His speed increases again as we continue farther along the seawall. I’m left dragging behind, panting hard and drenched with sweat, and there’s absolutely no one else around. I look back the way we just came and see that we’ve traveled a surprising distance away from the center of town. The walk back to the house is going to take forever.
“You’re far too tense, Danny,” he says, waiting for me to catch up again. “I know exactly what you need. Help you get rid of some of that pent-up frustration.”
“All I need is some sleep. I’ll be okay in the morning.”
“You’ve been saying that for weeks.”
I notice there are several buildings up ahead, barely visible in the increasing darkness until now. Hinchcliffe pauses to light a cigarette. He blows out smoke, flicks the match over the wall, then moves on, leading me away from the ocean now and up a steep climb along a muddy pathway. As we get closer, I see that there are dull lights flickering in the windows of one of the buildings. It’s hard to make out much detail, but it looks like one of those dime-a-dozen seafront hotels you always used to find in places like this. We cross a road to get closer, and I see that its frontage is painted a grubby powdery blue. There’s a lopsided signpost at this end of the short front yard, two truncated lengths of chain hanging down where the building’s name would once have hung. There’s a guard standing just inside the door. I recognize him right away. It’s Joe Chandra, one of Hinchcliffe’s most prized fighters. He’s a distinctive, ugly-looking bastard. He looks like a comic-book villain with burns covering almost exactly half of his face. I haven’t seen him around in a while. Just assumed he was dead. So what’s Hinchcliffe got him posted all the way out here for? My heart’s pounding suddenly, and this time it’s not because of the effort of the walk.
“What is this place, Hinchcliffe?”
“The solution to a couple of problems,” he replies, giving little away.
“What problems?”
“Regardless of what they turn out to be, we need people to keep having kids. Also, people need food and they have a need to procreate. So here they can fuck and be fucked for food. Sounds like some kind of screwed-up charity drive, eh?”
I’m so taken aback by what I’m hearing that I don’t realize I’ve followed him into the building until we’ve already passed Chandra at the door and gone right inside. The air indoors smells stale. It’s quiet, and Hinchcliffe’s voice echoes off the walls.
“Like it or not, my friend, kids are going to become a valuable commodity. I’m just trying to cover all the bases and keep control of the stock. All that most people are interested in today is staying alive, and they’ll do whatever it takes to achieve that. The women I’ve got here are willing to get pregnant for food, the men are more than willing to try to get them pregnant.”
“So which is it? A brothel or a sperm bank?”
“Both, I suppose!” He laughs, filling the building with his noise. “It’s hardly the love boat, if that’s what you mean, but it does the trick.”
“There are no lines at the door. You’d have thought—”
“Times have changed, mate.
We’ve changed
. Romance and relationships have gone right out of fashion since we all started killing each other, but people still need to fuck.”
“But where is everyone?”
“I’m being selective. You didn’t know about this place until now, and I tell you more than I tell most people. You have to detach yourself from what used to matter now, Danny. These are business decisions. Doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy your work, though!”
“How far have we fallen if sex has just become a business decision?” I ask as we climb a twisting staircase that smells damp. Thin curtains have been draped over the windows, and the faint yellow light comes from infrequently spaced oil lamps.
“Oh come on, don’t get all soft on me,” he groans. “People have been selling sex since year one. You have to face facts, we all do. This is how things have to be for now, and that’s why I’ve been selective with the people I’ve allowed to get involved in this so far. Better that a woman gets pregnant by someone who can still fight than by one of the losers drifting around out there outside the compound. If I started advertising this place there’d be a line of underclass men outside the door twenty-four/seven, desperate to sow their pathetic seed for a quick thrill and a half-decent meal. It’s tough and it’s not fair, but for now this is how it has to be.”
“I don’t think it’s right.”
“To be honest, pal,” he says, stopping at the end of a gloomy landing, “I don’t care. I didn’t bring you here because I wanted your blessing.”
“So why did you bring me?”
“Christ, why do you think?”
“I don’t know … I…”
“You’re not the strongest, Danny, but you’ve got brains, and I know you can fight when you have to. You’ve already fathered one kid like us.”
He grabs my arm and pulls me farther down the corridor.
“But I—”
“You can come here anytime you want,” he tells me, pushing me toward an open door. Light spills across the landing. “The women leave their doors open when they’re ready. Everyone’s a winner here, you know. I give them double rations if they get pregnant, or I would if any of the useless cows had actually managed it.”
My brain’s spinning, struggling to catch up with what’s happening, and my body is numb and unresponsive. I just stand there, staring into the hotel room, remembering the last time I was in a place like this. I remember looking for Lizzie, and I wish she was here today. The memory of her face fills me with pain. Despite everything that happened between us and what we both became, there’s a part of me that still clings to what we used to have and the family we made together. Hinchcliffe shoves me forward again, and I make a desperate, instinctive grab for either side of the door frame, not wanting to go through.
“I’ll see you later, Danny,” he says, taking a few steps back, then standing and watching me. “Enjoy yourself, son.”
I know I’ve got no choice but to do what he says, and I step into the light.
18
INSIDE THE ROOM THERE’S
a woman sitting on a double bed with her back to me. I’m fucking terrified. I’d turn and run if it wasn’t for the fact Hinchcliffe’s bound to be waiting around outside. He’ll want to be sure I’ve done what he told me to do.
I can’t do this. I can’t remember the last time I had a sexual thought or desire or felt anything even remotely erotic. I can’t remember masturbating since the war began, or even wanting to. Apart from the occasional, infrequent, involuntary early morning hard-on, the last time I had an erection was probably when I last shared a bed with Liz, just before the Change split us. Does everyone feel like this, or is it just me? I don’t want to share my body with anyone now, much less with someone I don’t know. I don’t want to do this …
The woman on the bed wearily looks back over her shoulder. How many times has she already done this today? Am I the first or the twenty-first?
“You coming in?” she grunts, her voice flat and unemotional. I take another hesitant step forward. “Shut the frigging door, then.”
“Sorry,” I mumble as I turn and push it closed. I lean my head against the door and try to relax or at least hide my nerves. When I finally turn back around I see that the woman has stood up. What does she look like? It’s just an unexpected, instinctive thought. Does it matter? The light’s behind her and I can’t actually see her face from here, can’t make out any details at all, and maybe that’s for the best. I sense her looking me up and down. What’s she thinking? Is she deciding whether or not I’m good enough stock? I start hoping she’s going to reject me, suddenly acutely aware of how I must look to her. Like most people, I rarely wash anymore. I hack at my hair and my beard with scissors and blunt razor blades when I have to. Can’t remember the last time I brushed my teeth … No matter, this isn’t a mating ritual. Like Hinchcliffe said, this is purely functional, and how I look and feel is unimportant—but I still don’t know if I can go through with it …
This horrible, silent standoff continues for what feels like forever, and I’m on the brink of backing out and running when she finally speaks.
“You healthy?”
“Pretty much.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
What should I tell her? That I cough my guts up first thing every morning? That the skin on my back and neck is burned from the bombs? That sometimes there’s blood when I piss? I want to go into graphic detail and do all I can to put her off me, but I don’t.
“I’m okay.”
“You had kids before?”
“Three. You?”
“This isn’t a date. Your kids, what were they?”
“Two boys and a girl.”
“No,
what
were they?”
“My girl was like us,” I answer, realizing what she was actually asking and forcing myself to block out the faces of my dead children. “The boys were Unchanged.”
She nods and thinks carefully about what I’ve just told her, as if it’s going to make a difference. Then, with a weary sigh of resignation, she undoes the zipper of her baggy trousers and lets them drop down to her ankles in an incredibly unfeminine and asexual movement. She kicks them away, then lies back down on the bed, psyching herself up. The fine detail of her face is still hidden by the shadows, but I can see her a little more clearly now. She seems strangely expressionless, and it’s hard to place her age. Her limbs are bony and long, her muscles taut. Her skin is covered in scratches, cuts, and bruises, and I think for a second about how long Liz used to spend pampering herself each day to look good—using countless creams and lotions, waxing her legs, hunting down every rogue hair with tweezers, razors, or wax … My eyes are involuntarily drawn to the top of this woman’s legs and her unkempt bush of wiry pubic hair. Since everything changed, everybody—male and female, young and old—has become strangely sexless. How we look is unimportant; keeping warm and staying alive is all that matters. Everything’s different now. Back then, before all of this happened, men and women had frustratingly different sexual drives and desires that rarely coincided. Now no one’s bothered. I sense this is as much an ordeal for this woman as it is for me.
“Get on with it,” she says, looking up at the ceiling, not at me. I nervously start to undress, kicking off my boots, taking off my coat, and pulling down my trousers. Without thinking, I start to remove some of the layers of clothing I’m wearing on top, but she stops me. “No need for that. Just get it done.”
Feeling increasingly awkward and embarrassed and now half naked, I climb onto the bed and kneel next to her on the mattress, heart racing, barely able to think straight, too nervous even to reach across and touch her. My pathetic, flaccid cock hangs down between my legs, shriveled up to virtually nothing by the bitter cold. Can’t get hard. Starting to panic. Maybe erectile dysfunction will save me tonight? I try to remember all the things I used to think about to get myself aroused, but they’re hard to remember and they all have the opposite effect. Each image I dredge up from the past, each buried memory that slowly returns, they all hurt too much. It’s obviously not the first time this woman has been faced with someone like me. She reaches up and cups my balls with her hand. She doesn’t speak, she barely even moves, but just the touch of her skin against mine is enough, and my cock finally starts to stiffen. She gently runs her fingertips down the length of my shaft, touching me more tenderly than anyone’s touched me in almost a year.
My head’s clear now, empty of all thoughts but one. I look straight at the woman but I don’t even see her face. There’s a sudden burning, insatiable need low in my gut and I sit astride her and force myself into her. Hard and dry, then warm. It hurts for a second as my foreskin snags, but then it gets easier as I start to move. I don’t think about what I’m doing, I just do it. Again and again, harder and harder, faster now, not giving a damn about what she thinks or feels … harder still, balls banging against the inside of her thighs, hands gripping the headboard.
Then it happens.
A split-second pause filled with something that used to matter, then I feel myself empty into her.
I groan with effort and drop down, our bodies finally close, head next to hers, panting hard. She shoves her hands up under my chest and pushes me away. I roll over onto my back as she slides out from under me. We lie there in silence, side by side for several seconds until, without warning, the most brutal and unforgiving wave of postejaculation regret I’ve ever experienced comes crashing over me. I turn my head to one side and finally look into the woman’s face, and I’m filled with shame and remorse. She just stares up at the ceiling, waiting for me to leave.
“Go,” she says, and I do it without a word. I can’t wait to get away from her. I virtually fall off the bed and scoop up my clothes and my boots from the floor in haste. I have to get out of this room. My cock is still dribbling thick, sticky strings of warm fluid down the inside of my leg as I struggle to hold on to everything and get the door open. I crash out onto the landing and slump back against the wall, freezing cold and still only half dressed but not giving a damn, content to let the darkness of the musty hotel swallow me up, happy to disappear. I look around, half expecting Hinchcliffe to be there, nodding his approval and giving me points out of ten.
I sit down on the ice-cold, threadbare carpet and dress myself. I feel humiliated; empty and defiled. If I could stay in these shadows forever, I think I would.
The shame and regret mutate into anger, then the anger turns to guilt. I can’t understand how I’m feeling but every new thought just adds to the confusion. I think about Lizzie and the pain increases massively. Do I feel so bad because I’ve been unfaithful to her? Am I really feeling remorse because I’ve just fucked someone other than my dead, Unchanged ex-partner?
Fucked
. Wrong word. That wasn’t even fucking. It wasn’t anything like that. As Hinchcliffe made clear, it was a business transaction: a way to keep him happy and for that woman in there—Christ, I don’t even know her name—to earn herself some extra rations. Have things really come to this? Is this the pinnacle of Hinchcliffe’s vision for the future? Is this what we’ve been reduced to?
I start trying to justify and rationalize what I’ve just done, making excuses and looking for reasons why it doesn’t matter. My irradiated sperm’s probably useless, I decide. Even if it isn’t, maybe that woman’s body has been damaged by the war. I remember hearing about kids born after the nuclear bombings in Japan—increased numbers of stillborns, cancers, and deformities …
Who the hell am I trying to fool? I pick myself up and slowly stagger back down the stairs, my mind now filled with memories of sex before the war that I’d tried to keep buried deep down. I remember the last time Lizzie and I made love. We were both terrified that night, but being together was spontaneous and instinctive, powerful and reassuring. We did it to make ourselves and each other feel wanted and protected. In spite of everything that was happening right outside our door, the feelings we shared that night were as intense as they had ever been.
Now, as I push my way out into the dark, freezing-cold night, I’m left thinking about the kids, about Ellis, Josh, and Ed, remembering when each of them was born and the good times we had together before the bad …
What have I become?
Sex used to be something that dragged us out of the daily grind and took us somewhere else. Something that transcended all the bullshit and connected Lizzie and me on every level imaginable. How could I have just allowed something as precious as that to become as brutal and insensitive as everything else?
I feel like I’ve just lost something I’ll never get back, like Hinchcliffe’s just taken what was left of my soul.