Authors: David Moody
19
I’M FINALLY BACK AT
the house, but all I want to do is head back into Lowestoft and kill Hinchcliffe. Fucking bastard. I kick my pile of books across the living room and they hit the wall with a momentarily satisfying noise, but then all I’m left with is silence.
What the fuck have I become?
Since Hinchcliffe found out what I can do, I’ve been allowed to stand on the outskirts of this vile, fucked-up ruin of a world and observe. I’ve just about managed to cope with what I’ve seen because of the distance I’ve been able to put between me and everything else, but what I did today with that woman—what Hinchcliffe made me do—has dragged me down to the lowest possible level, and it hurts. He’s stripped away everything and now there’s nothing left.
Fuck this. I can’t take any more. I’m getting out. First thing in the morning I’ll leave and I’ll take my chances on my own. I’ll pack my stuff tonight, then help myself to one of the cars by the railroad station at first light. I’ll load it up with the supplies I’ve hoarded away here, then get as far away from Lowestoft as I can and leave everything and everyone that’s here way behind me. I don’t need anyone else. More to the point, I don’t
want
anyone else. I’ll go somewhere I can be alone and I’ll never come back. Maybe I’ll head straight for the deadlands around the bombed cities. Even a slow death from the pollution and radiation will probably be better than this.
I tried to make myself eat something in readiness for leaving, but tonight, more than ever, the thought of food is making my stomach churn. I managed a few mouthfuls, but that was all. Fortunately, the beer Hinchcliffe gave me was easier to swallow. The gas made me retch, but the alcohol has taken the slightest edge off my anger. I forced myself to finish the first can, then immediately started another. Halfway through the second can I ran out of the side door and threw up on the driveway.
I slump back into my chair and struggle with cold, unresponsive fingers to open the ring pull on my third can. I put it down on the table, the beer frothing and fizzing over the rim, then strap on my miner’s lamp reading light and pick up the first book I can find. My eyes are tired and hard to focus, but I stare at the cover. It’s a picture of a man and a woman, locked together in a passionate embrace that’s a million miles from what I had to endure earlier today. Even though the figures on the cover are airbrushed, overly perfect caricatures of how people used to be, I can’t stop staring at them and remembering. The man is rugged, strong and powerful, clean-shaven with short, black, slicked-back hair … Then I look at the woman he’s holding: her full figure, tight clothing, painted lips … when the light starts to flicker and fade (didn’t get those damn batteries from Hinchcliffe), I throw the book across the room in frustration, and I’m left staring at my own reflection in the cracked screen of the useless flat-screen TV that sits in the corner of this room. I look like a fucking prisoner of war—spine curved, eyes bulging, arms and legs spindly and thin, skin scarred …
The beer makes me belch, but I keep drinking. It must be having an effect, because now I can’t stop thinking about my kids. Usually I try to stop myself from remembering, but tonight I’m desperate not to forget.
It’s been a long, long time since I’ve drunk like this. I feel like I’m floating above my chair now, looking back down and watching myself below, and I don’t like what I see. In the darkness and quiet there are too few distractions. I keep looking around, half expecting to see Ellis standing there like she used to appear at the side of Lizzie’s and my bed when she couldn’t sleep, all wide-eyed and vulnerable. I keep waiting to hear Ed arguing with Josh, or playing his crappy music too loud, or switching the TV in his room on again after I’d told him to turn it off. My kids were annoying little fuckers at times, but that didn’t matter. I miss them.
Hinchcliffe’s vision of the future is terrifying me. I don’t want to be responsible for bringing another life into this world. I imagine a child like the kids I fathered before, trying to survive in this foul and hostile place. What if they were born Unchanged? I picture Hinchcliffe backing them into a corner, leering over them and either screaming at them to fight if they won’t, or locking them away in isolation and trying to break them if they’re too feral and wild to control. What if it’s twins? One Unchanged and one like us? Would they fight in the womb … that’s more ridiculous than it sounds. Now I know I’m drunk.
I force down more beer, but I’m starting to feel really sick. My mouth’s watering like I’m going to throw up again. I’ll stay still in this chair for a while until the nausea has passed, then start packing my stuff. Whatever happens, I’m leaving this godforsaken place tomorrow.
20
MY HEAD IS FUCKING
killing me. Feels like someone’s split my skull in two with an axe.
Rufus is pounding on the door again. Why can’t he just leave me alone? I’m sure no one else has to put up with this much bullshit. I moved out from the center of town to put some distance between me and the rest of the population of Lowestoft, but certain people seem to spend most of their time out here hassling me. Fuckers. Jesus, it’s not even light yet. Couldn’t he have at least waited until morning? He can fuck off and leave me be. Whatever he wants, I’m not interested. I’ll wait until he goes, then pack up and get out of here. I’d have gone already if I hadn’t let the booze get the better of me.
He’s not going anywhere.
The knocking has moved now. Persistent little shit. Now he’s banging on the living room window. I screw my eyes shut and stifle a cough, doing all I can to swallow it down so the noise doesn’t give me away. Jesus, I feel bad. My guts are more sensitive than ever, and my head’s about to explode. There’s a welcome moment of silence; then the noise changes again. That’s the side door this time. He’s shaking the handle, rattling the chains I used to secure it after the vagrant woman broke in. Maybe it’s another one of those useless underclass fuckers, trying to get in and steal from me. Bastards.
Got to move.
I reluctantly get up from my chair and immediately lurch over to the right, reeling from the aftereffects of the booze. Feeling faint, I stoop down and grab a heavy wrench I keep by the front door for dealing with unwelcome visitors like this. I’ve just about managed to stand upright again when another coughing fit hits me hard. Whoever’s outside must know I’m here now, and they’re still not going anywhere. When the coughing subsides for a second I angrily yank the front door open and run along the side of the house, wrench held high, ready to attack or defend myself. A combination of sudden surprise and the ice-cold temperature outside immediately sobers me up and stops me in my tracks. Standing in front of me is Peter Sutton, the bastard who stalked me around Southwold.
“How in hell’s name did you find me?”
He walks toward me, and, hands raised, I lift the wrench again and block his way. Fucker’s not going anywhere.
“I guessed you had some connection with those fighters who turned up in Southwold yesterday morning.”
“They were nothing to do with me.”
“I didn’t say they were. But you turned up, then they did. It seemed a pretty safe bet that it was more than just coincidence.”
“So what’s this? Revenge?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“That still doesn’t explain how you found me.”
“I just went into town and asked for Rufus.”
“But I’m not—”
“I know who you are now, Danny McCoyne. Here’s a tip for you: If you’re going to use a false name, never use the name of someone who actually exists. I asked for Rufus at the barricades and ended up being introduced to your friend. He seems like a decent enough guy, but you might want to have a word with him about his loose tongue. I described you to him, and he says, ‘Ah … you’re looking for Danny McCoyne.’ So here I am, Danny, and here you are, too.”
“Rufus told you where I was just like that?”
“Pretty much,” he answers. “He didn’t need to say a lot. He told me about this place and he said you were the only one here. I just started knocking on windows and doors until I found you. Wasn’t that hard, really.”
“How come? There are hundreds of houses—”
“I know, and I’ve been here for fucking ages. However, yours is the only house with a fresh puddle of vomit on the drive. I thought there was a good chance you might have something to do with it.”
Sutton’s breath billows in clouds around his face. We’re both shaking with cold. There’s been a heavy frost overnight, and everything glistens with ice, white-blue in the first light of dawn.
“Okay,” I say, still shivering but still not letting him in, “you found me. Now what do you want?”
“Can we talk inside?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m fucking cold and this is fucking important.”
He’s insistent if nothing else, but the fact he won’t talk outside the house just increases my unease. Either what he’s got to say is genuinely important or he’s trying to trick me.
“It’s out here or nothing.”
He thinks for a minute, shaking with cold. My hand starts to feel like it’s freezing to the wrench.
“Remember that truck? The one you said you didn’t see?”
“What about it?”
“Want to know where it came from?”
“Not really.”
“That’s what I figured, but I’m sure your boss will.”
“My boss?”
“Whoever sent you to Southwold. Hinchcliffe, is it? Come on, Danny, stop playing games. Let’s talk. This is important.”
I need a piss, and the bitter cold out here is making it worse. Oh, what the hell … he’s obviously no fighter. One step out of line and I’ll finish him off with a smack on the head with the wrench. That’ll solve all our problems. Against my better judgment, I decide to let him in.
“You’ve got five minutes,” I warn him.
“Thank you,” he says, scurrying past me to get into the warmth. I gesture for him to go through to the living room, making sure he gets another eyeful of the wrench as I use it to point the way.
“Try anything and I’ll kill you.”
“I won’t, I swear. I don’t want any trouble.”
I follow him into the house, watching his every move. “Okay then, talk.”
He paces the room, taking his time and choosing his words carefully.
“I guess your boss assumed those supplies came from him. Did he find out who was supplying Warner?”
“Hinchcliffe’s not the investigative type. So do you know?”
“Not yet, but I need to find out.”
“Why?”
“Look, you’re the only other person like me I’ve found in months,” he says, teeth still chattering, “the only person I think I can trust.”
“You’re not making any sense. For fuck’s sake, Sutton, stop beating around the bush and just tell me.”
He pauses ominously.
“Those supplies you saw weren’t from Lowestoft.”
“Where, then?”
“Come with me and I’ll show you.”
21
SUTTON HAS A CAR
with a quarter tank of fuel, which he says he took from the aftermath of the fighting in Southwold. He told me he got out of the center of the town as soon as he heard the first of Hinchcliffe’s fighters arrive, then hid on the outskirts until they’d cleared out again. If that’s true then he’s been a damn sight more alert than I have recently. He drove up to within a couple of streets of the house this morning, and in my alcoholic daze I didn’t hear a bloody thing. He could have been anyone.
This car was once a fairly decent and spacious high-end model, but, like most everything else, it’s seen better days. It’s full of trash, and the upholstery is slashed and torn. Outside it’s snowing, but it’s not quite cold enough to settle.
No matter how smooth the ride might once have been, today the surface of the road we’re traveling over is rough and uneven. Sutton drives straight over a pothole that’s full of water and deeper than expected. He doesn’t even bother to try to steer around it, and the sudden lurching downward movement makes the liquid in my stomach swirl and wash around again. I swallow down bile and try to concentrate on the music he’s playing. He tells me it helps calm his nerves, but it’s doing nothing for mine. The fact he still listens to music like me is a good sign, I guess, but this morning the uncomfortably loud noise just makes me feel even more unwell.
“It must be because of the smoke from the bombs,” he says suddenly. He’s talked nervously for most of the journey without saying anything of any substance. I still don’t fully know why I’m here, but I keep telling myself it was worth agreeing because there’s the slightest chance he’ll show me something worth seeing before I leave Lowestoft forever. Another place like Southwold, or John Warner’s mysterious benefactor perhaps? Fact is, I need a way out.
“What’s because of the smoke?”
“The drop in temperature. All the snow and ice.”
“It’s the middle of winter.”
“I know, but it’s not usually this bad, is it?”
“There are fewer people around than this time last year, fewer cars and no factories, hospitals, or schools. No emissions or exhausts. Think of all the fumes that aren’t being belched up into the atmosphere anymore.”
Sutton glances across at me and nods enthusiastically, and something about the expression on his face makes alarm bells start to ring again. I’d put his sudden change of mood down to relief that I’d agreed to come with him, but I’m wondering now if I’ve made a huge mistake and he really is the psycho I’d first feared. I start silently plotting my escape. When he next slows the car down I’ll try to get out. I’ll roll away along the ground like they used to in action movies, then I’ll work out where the hell I am and try to get back to Lowestoft. If Sutton dares turn up on my doorstep again, I’ll introduce his face to my wrench, then dump his useless body. No one will miss him.
“Be interesting to see what happens to the environment now, won’t it?” he says.
“Will it?”
“I think so. You’ve got all that pollution and contamination on one hand, and the fact that a huge number of people are dead on the other. Will they cancel each other out? Who knows, McCoyne, maybe genocide will turn out to have been a blessing in disguise!”
He laughs manically, loud enough to drown out the music for a moment, and I want out of here. We pass through Wrentham and turn right at the junction I turned left at for Southwold yesterday. After another mile or so I see something at the side of the road that distracts me temporarily. I’ve been here before. It’s the site of a vicious battle that Llewellyn bragged about once. He said it was like something out of the movies. He was with a group of ex-soldiers that had been cornered by some Unchanged military. They were massively outnumbered, he’d said (although I’m sure he was exaggerating), and yet twenty or so of them had dug in and held off their attackers for hours on end. In frustration the Unchanged commander had requested air cover. Hearing bombers approaching, Llewellyn had ordered his fighters to attack, and then, as the bombs began to fall, they fled. The Unchanged, or so he told me, bore the brunt of their own side’s munitions; then Llewellyn’s people returned to finish them off. I’m sure he embellished the story with more than a liberal sprinkling of bullshit, but there’s no disputing the fact that something huge did happen here. When I first saw this place, the cratered ground was blackened by fire and still covered with the remains of the dead, the tangled blades of a downed helicopter sticking up into the air like the legs of a dead spider. Today it looks almost completely different—overgrown and wild. In a couple of years, no one will know that anything ever happened here. It’ll just look like part of the natural landscape.
“Not far now,” Sutton says suddenly. I curse myself for allowing myself to become distracted, but I don’t respond. Instead I go over the route we’ve followed again so that I can get back to Lowestoft on my own if need be: Take the coast road out of town to Wrentham, then right at the junction and head farther inland. Out of the corner of my eye I notice Sutton is watching me. “You’ve got to believe me, McCoyne,” he says, his voice now serious again, no doubt picking up on my unease, “what I’m going to show you is important.”
“You keep telling me that,” I reply, sliding my left hand down into my inside jacket pocket until the tips of my outstretched fingers rest on the hilt of one of my fighting knives, checking it’s still there, “but you still haven’t given me any details. I’m starting to think this was a bad idea.”
“It’s hard to explain.”
“Try.”
“It’s difficult. I’m not sure how you’ll react or what you’ll think.”
What’s he hiding? Is
he
behind the stolen supplies? Is it worse than that?
“You’re not making me feel any better about this.”
“I swear, when we’re finished you can just walk away if you want, and you’ll never see me again—but I don’t think you will.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because you’re like me,” he says again, starting to sound like a broken record. Sutton takes a sudden hard right turn off the road, driving through an open metal gate and out along a narrow gravel track. The front of the car clatters through a deep water- and ice-filled dip, then rattles over a cattle grid, and I have to concentrate again just to stop myself from throwing up.
“We’re here,” he says, slowing down and steering around the curve of the track toward a motley collection of ramshackle farm buildings. The farmhouse and its outbuildings appear deserted, black smoke damage visible around the edges of some of the windows and doors. We drive through a large yard full of furrows and puddles, most of them filled with ice. Bizarrely, Sutton has to slow down to allow a lone cow to wander across in front of us. It’s as starved and thin as every other animal I’ve seen recently. When it looks around and sees us it panics. Its hooves skid in the slippery mud as it tries to change direction, and it looks like it’s got that “mad cow” disease they used to talk about on the TV news. First cow I’ve seen in months.
“Don’t see many of them here anymore,” Sutton says, watching me watching the animal. “Quite a few survived, but I doubt they’ll last the winter. Brutes drove most of them away.”
“Brutes? I thought the Brutes were all dead.”
“As good as.”
“Why would Brutes be here?”
“Because they knew.”
“Knew what?”
Sutton doesn’t answer. He drives the car into a dark, open-ended barn and stops it deep in the shadows, parking next to a filthy, beaten-up delivery truck with a faded picture of a woman’s face on its side, advertising something you can’t get anymore, which probably wasn’t that important anyway. I look up and stare into the face; still as beautiful and perfect as the women on the covers of the books I read. Sutton switches off the engine, and the sudden silence is unsettling.
“The Brutes knew what we were doing here,” he explains as he opens his door and gets out. “Don’t ask me how, but they did.”
Now I really am starting to get worried.
“So what are we here for? Is this where the trucks are from or—”
“Nothing like that,” he says, leaning back into the car. “This isn’t about John Warner’s supplies. Sorry, Danny, I haven’t been completely honest with you.”
“Fuck it,” I shout at him, refusing to move. “I knew I shouldn’t have come here. Either give me the keys or take me back to Lowestoft.”
“You’ve come this far,” he replies, obviously having no intention of doing either, “might as well see now. This is important, I swear. What I’m going to show you changes everything.”
With that he walks away, moving with suddenly revitalized energy and speed. Shit. What are my options?
Kill him?
I don’t know if I could.
Make a run for it?
The hungover state I’m in this morning, I wouldn’t get far. Oh, what the hell … even though I’m sick, I’m armed, and I’m still probably stronger than he is.
Sutton turns back and beckons me to follow him along another track, this one leading away from the farm buildings. The dirt track climbs steeply and snakes away across uneven grassland that’s bleached yellow and brown. He’s not that much faster than me, but I’m happy to let him build up a decent lead, figuring that putting a little distance between us will make the situation easier for me to control and give me more of a chance of getting away if I need to. I’m distracted by a sudden noise and movement way over to my left. I grab one of my knives, ready to defend myself against an attack, then freeze. Jesus, it’s a Brute. My heart starts thumping at the prospect of having to fight. Months ago I’d have relished any conflict, but not today, and definitely not with one of our own. Most of these poor bastards lost all sense and perspective during the war, driven out of their minds by the intensity of their Hate, and killing’s all they know now. It’s all they have left. Now that there are no Unchanged, apart from the occasional emaciated cow, it seems we’ve suddenly become an obvious target.
This Brute is old and female. She swaggers slowly toward me like a drunk, unable to move in a straight line, still several hundred yards away. Far removed from the strong and vicious fighter she probably once was, this woman is now a grotesque physical wreck. She’s completely naked and blue with cold; her bare flesh is a mottled gray-brown and is covered with dirt and countless cuts and abrasions. There are traces of blood around her mouth. Her heavy, pendulous breasts swing from side to side with every clumsy, lumbering movement. Loose flesh hangs down from her arms and her gut like she’s wearing a dirty, oversized skin-colored coat. Poor bitch. She’s probably starving.
“Sorry,” Sutton says, scrambling back down the rise. “Should have warned you about that one. She’s usually wandering around here somewhere. Damn strong, she is, but slow. You’ll easily outrun her if she gives you any trouble. Don’t know how she keeps going after all this time. Sheer contrariness, I guess.”
He stands and looks at the barely human woman in the distance with an expression on his face that seems to almost approximate pity. I’m surprised by his reaction. Most people, me included, wouldn’t give a dying Brute a second thought. Christ, I’ve seen people carve up their carcasses and spit-roast them before now. It’s all meat, they say as they shove them on the fire.
Concentrate
, I tell myself.
You’re getting distracted. This could still be a trap
.
The Brute’s speed is negligible, but she’s still a very real threat. Sutton nudges me to start moving again, then scampers back up the steep bank, following the meandering track. Still holding my knife (and telling myself repeatedly that I
will
use it if he crosses me), I follow him. The gradient’s steeper than it looks, and the ground beneath my feet is increasingly uneven. I climb the hill like an old man, bent over double and pushing down on my knees to keep myself moving forward. Sutton has to wait for me at the top. I stop to catch my breath and look down over the other side. There’s a crumbling, low-roofed redbrick building at the edge of the track a little farther ahead. Looks like a bungalow. What is this? His fucking holiday cottage?
“Almost there now,” Sutton says, and before he can move away again, I grab his arm.
“You’d better not be fucking with me,” I warn him. He shakes his head, then pulls himself free and walks on. “I’ll kill you if you try anything,” I shout after him.
“No you won’t,” he shouts back as he disappears into the ruin of the building up ahead. Is this safe? I’m not convinced. The exterior walls might still be standing at the moment, but they look like they’d fall down if anyone leaned hard enough against them. The mortar between the damp, moss-covered bricks is powdery and fine. The farthest corner of the cramped, rectangular-shaped house has been overwhelmed by ivy, brambles, and other crawling weeds.
Sutton leans back out of the building. “This is it, McCoyne. In here.”