Them or Us (2 page)

Three Months, Three Weeks Ago

JOHANNSON WAS GONE, KILLED
in a battle over hunting grounds several weeks back. In the days preceding her death, her growing army had slowly drifted east toward the coast, ultimately reaching the edge of territory controlled by a man called Thacker. Although nowhere near as ruthless a warrior as Johannson, Thacker had other qualities that inspired hordes of fighters to follow him, and their numbers ultimately gave him a crucial edge. In contrast to much of the now nomadic population, he ran his operations from an established and easily defendable location that provided shelter and a place to store food, weapons, and other supplies. When Johannson had challenged him, her own people had turned against her, realizing they’d be better off with this new lord and master. Thacker was different. As well as being aware of the importance of finding the next Unchanged to kill, he was already thinking about what might happen tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. Unlike just about everyone else, he had started to plan ahead.

Thacker, his fighters, and an ever-increasing horde of accompanying scavengers had occupied the coastal town of Lowestoft. The most easterly point on the map, before the war it had been a curious mix of industrial port and seaside resort, and its relative remoteness seemed to have shielded it from the worst of the fighting. Sure, it was a mere shadow of the place it had once been and it had been stripped of pretty much everything of value, but unlike most of the rest of the country’s towns and cities, it remained remarkably intact. Unbroken windows, secure doors, and the like were still few and far between, but most buildings remained standing, and its basic physical infrastructure was sound.

A sensible man (in his prewar life he’d been national operations manager for a large and successful chain of hotels), Thacker immediately recognized the potential value of a place like Lowestoft in this new, postwar world. Its coastal location was important and easy to defend. Furthermore, its size was ideal: large and established enough to cope with a decent-sized population, but sufficiently compact to be managed effectively by him and his small army.

*   *   *

First light.

McCoyne reported for duty and joined the back of the line of volunteers as he did every morning. The hunting parties he’d been forced to be a part of since being picked up off the road after the bombs exploded had begun to gradually change in purpose over the last few weeks. The Unchanged were becoming harder to find each day, and the competition to be the one who actually made the kills when they found them was intensifying. Like an increasing number of other people (Switchbacks, Thacker liked to call them—Christ, McCoyne thought, why does everyone have to have a label these days?), McCoyne volunteered daily to head out into the wilderness alongside the hunting parties to scavenge. Other people, those who weren’t particularly capable fighters but who had retained useful skills from their prewar vocations—builders, mechanics, medics, and the like—found some useful employment in the town and were paid by Thacker with scraps of food to repair and rebuild as best they could with limited resources. There was no call, though, for a useless, second-rate desk jockey like the man McCoyne used to be. His career options had been reduced almost overnight to a simple choice: scavenge or beg. At least scavenging sometimes enabled him to find the odd extra scrap, which he’d shove in his pocket when no one was looking to either eat himself or trade with later.

Lowestoft was as good as it was going to get. McCoyne knew what he needed to do to survive, and he knew the town was his best chance. He wasn’t stupid. Tired, apathetic, and sick of fighting constantly perhaps, but not stupid.

*   *   *

A fleet of battered vans left Lowestoft each morning at daybreak: a couple of fighters in each sitting up front, a handful of scavengers crammed into the back behind them. Thacker’s generals (as the few fighters who exerted sufficient influence over the rest of them had come to be known) dispatched the vehicles out toward villages and towns in a steadily widening arc. Once they’d arrived at their predetermined locations, the teams were under orders to split up and search, looking for Unchanged first of all, then food, water, and fuel. Then anything else they could find.

McCoyne stood behind the van in the middle of a dead village he didn’t even know the name of and looked around dejectedly. The hissing gray rain had stopped momentarily, and now all he could hear was the water dripping off roofs and trees and trickling down drains. It was already obvious that this was a lifeless place, and he silently cursed whoever it was who had decided to send them out this way. There were clear signs that numerous other scouting parties had been here before them. It probably wouldn’t have made any difference where they went, he thought to himself: Everywhere was like this now.

Hook, the lead fighter who’d driven the van this morning, shoved McCoyne toward a row of buildings on the other side of the road, grunting at him to check them out. McCoyne stumbled forward but managed to keep his balance and didn’t protest for fear of provoking a reaction. A momentary scowl over his shoulder was as defiant as he dared to be. Grumbling under his breath, he wrapped his arms around himself and limped toward the buildings, chest rattling with the cold.

He peered through a grubby, cobweb-covered window into the first of five narrow row houses. He couldn’t see anything inside and moved on, more interested in the takeout place next door and the newsagent’s next to that. The newsagent’s seemed the most sensible place to start. The door was stuck, but he managed to shove it open, the unexpected noise of an old-fashioned entrance bell ringing out and announcing his success at gaining entry. He stood still in the middle of the shop and waited for a moment, wondering if anyone was going to come to the counter. It was a dumb, instinctive reaction. The owners of this place were almost certainly long gone or dead, and judging by the stench in this gloomy, icy-cold building, he was betting on the latter.

Once his eyes had become accustomed to the low light, he swung his empty backpack off his shoulders and started picking his way through the waste scattered all around the musty, enclosed space. He took everything he could find, no matter how insignificant: newspapers and magazines to help light fires, a couple of paperback books, some string, scissors, bits of stationery … Around the back of the counter he found some sweets—several bars of chocolate and a handful of lollipops, which he split unequally between Thacker and himself, shoving his personal hoard into the pockets of the trousers he wore under his baggy overtrousers, where Hook and the others wouldn’t find them. He checked the rest of the building but found little: some garden tools in an outhouse, some bedding, and a few pieces of cutlery. He briefly checked inside a half-empty storeroom but didn’t waste much time there. He could tell from the droppings that covered the floor and the holes that had been gnawed in the sides of the few cardboard boxes that remained on the shelves that he wasn’t the first scavenger to have been there. There was a body slumped against the back wall, and he could see the flesh of the corpse had been picked clean by rodents’ teeth. Yellow bone was visible beneath flaps of heavily stained clothing.

McCoyne returned to the road outside to dump his stash. The rest of the party had busied themselves clearing out a service station and hotel, and by the looks of things they’d already found a damn sight more than he had. Hook, who just happened to be looking up at the wrong moment, stormed out to meet him and snatched his backpack. “This it?”

“There’s nothing left. What am I supposed to do if there’s nothing left? I can’t magic stuff out of thin air.”

Hook angrily shoved McCoyne in the chest. He tripped back and fell on his backside in the gutter at the side of the road, getting soaked with dirty rainwater. Hook grabbed another empty bag from the back of the van and threw it at him.

“Keep looking,” he ordered. “Find more.”

McCoyne wearily picked himself up again and trudged toward the takeout restaurant, praying he’d find enough stuff inside to avoid the inevitable beating that fucker Hook would give him if he came back empty-handed. His body ached and he felt permanently tired these days. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take.

Inside the shop, a waist-high counter separated the public area from the rest of the building. He fumbled with an awkward brass latch, then lifted up a hinged section of counter and went through.
Please let me find food,
he thought to himself. He started making desperate contingency plans just in case, for a while even considering trying to creep back to the van, steal some of what the others had already found, then hand it back in again as his own and try to make it look like it was newly discovered stash.

The kitchen was disappointingly—but not unexpectedly—empty. It had obviously been ransacked like the shop next door, and subject to the same ferocious vermin infestation. McCoyne checked every cupboard and shelf, desperate to find something that might appease Hook, but there was nothing. He walked along a hallway into a small and compact living area behind the kitchen and stared out into the overgrown back garden. He was trying to decide whether he had enough strength (or desire) to try to get back to Lowestoft by himself, and avoid facing that bastard Hook altogether, when he heard something. It was directly above his head—footsteps in a room upstairs.

McCoyne quietly laid down his bag, unsheathed one of his knives, then crept slowly toward the bottom of the staircase. Whoever or whatever was up there, he knew it might be enough to help him avoid a battering. There was silence now, but he hadn’t imagined it. With his pulse racing and his mouth dry, he climbed the steep steps to the second floor. It was dark, but he didn’t need to see to know that there was someone up here with him. The smell gave it away—a pungent, inescapable whiff of sweat and fresh human waste. He needed to take his time and not screw this up. It was either someone like him who’d turned their back on what was left of society (and he’d come across several people like that before now), or it was one of
them
.

The room above the kitchen was empty. There was a bed that looked like it had been recently slept in, and a pathetically small store of supplies. Whoever had been staying here had shown some initiative and had been living off the vermin who were living off the food downstairs and next door. Three dead rats were hung by their tails from a clothes drier, and next to them was the deflated husk of something that had been either a cat or a small dog, he couldn’t tell. Regardless of what else turned out to be here, this pathetic stock of meat meant that McCoyne did at least now have
something
to give to Hook. He opened a pair of threadbare curtains, filling the room with dull morning light, and looked around for something to put his booty into.

As McCoyne walked back toward the top of the stairs to check the other rooms, he noticed that a wooden chest of drawers he’d just passed was in an unusual position. There was a gap of a couple of inches between the back of the unit and the wall. Curious, he leaned over the top of it, looked down, and saw that there was a small hole in the wall between this building and the next, just wide enough for someone to crawl through. Clever little fucker, he thought to himself as he carefully pushed the chest of drawers out of the way. Whoever he’d disturbed in here had got their escape route planned, and that was no doubt how they’d survived undetected for so long. By now they’d probably either have disappeared out through the back of the building next door or locked themselves away in some other equally devious hidden hideaway. He crouched down and looked through the gap but couldn’t see anything other than complete darkness on the other side. He leaned farther in and was about to crawl right through when he heard scurrying footsteps running up fast behind him. He tried to back out and turn around but couldn’t move quickly enough in the confined space. He heard someone give a grunt of effort, then felt sudden, intense pain as he was cracked across the back with a plank of wood. He screamed out in agony and managed to roll over in time to see a scrawny figure sprinting out through the bedroom door.

“Up here!” he yelled, hoping that someone outside would hear him and help. “Unchanged!”

He limped out of the room, legs weak and back throbbing, then staggered downstairs. By the time he got outside, Hook and another fighter had already caught and killed the Unchanged man. His body was spread around the front of the restaurant, bright bloodred splashes of dribbling color among the dust-covered gray. Hook was standing on the sidewalk, the euphoria on his face clear even from a distance.

“Bastard was hiding,” McCoyne said, groaning and stretching for effect. “Came up behind me and—”

Hook grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and threw him against the side of the van. McCoyne, stunned, couldn’t move.

“You’re fucking useless, McCoyne,” Hook sneered. “Couldn’t even kill one starving Unchanged. You need to watch yourself, pal. Fuck up like that again on my watch and you’ll be the next one I kill.”

“I won’t,” McCoyne tried to say, his strangled voice barely audible.

“That Unchanged,” Hook continued, pointing at the man’s remains smeared up the window, “he had more backbone than you, you prick. At least he made an effort. You, you’re just a waste of oxygen. Completely fucking useless.”

Seven Weeks Ago

MCCOYNE STOOD OUTSIDE THE
recently built cordon that had been erected around the very center of Lowestoft, jostling for position in the middle of a crowd of some fifty others. None of them wanted to be there, but had to. They kept themselves to themselves and barely spoke or acknowledged each other, but, given the unseasonably low temperature and biting wind, the shelter and warmth provided by having other people in close proximity was welcome.

In the days immediately after the bombs, if anyone had asked McCoyne if he thought things could possibly get any harder, he’d have said no. How could life get any worse? But that was before he’d reached Lowestoft. Sick and malnourished, he’d spent every day since then hunting and scavenging for little return, only to have the scraps he did manage to find immediately taken and added to Thacker’s “central store.” That was then, and Thacker was no more now. He’d been usurped and disposed of in a very public manner by one of his prize fighters, an evil fucker by the name of Hinchcliffe. The people on the streets called him KC. King Cunt. McCoyne had always harbored doubts that Thacker, and before him Johannson, had been bloody-minded and ruthless enough to cling to power in this screwed-up new world disorder. There were no such questions over Hinchcliffe’s suitability for the role. In the short time since he’d assumed power, Lowestoft had been transformed and McCoyne’s position (like that of every other nonfighter) had deteriorated rapidly. Now used to attacking first and talking second, those with the most strength ruled the place with their fists. The strongest fighters had, by default, assumed positions of authority, which they weren’t about to give up.

Hinchcliffe’s first move had been to blockade an area around the very heart of town where he and his army of several hundred fighters based themselves. Just half a mile square in size, it was more than large enough to house Hinchcliffe, his people, and all the supplies, vehicles, and everything else of any value that had been scavenged since Thacker and the others had first moved in. On one side was the ocean and on the other the main A12 road, which ran through the center of Lowestoft and was barricaded at either end of the compound. Two large metal gates had been erected across both the A12 and the A1144 at the northern edge of the town, with a single blockade-cum-checkpoint positioned across the full width of the road bridge that spanned the narrow channel of water at the mouth of Lake Lothing to the south. All other access points were sealed with row upon row of empty houses being boarded up along the remaining edges of the compound, and every minor road rendered impassable with piles of rubble, abandoned cars, and the like. The area was completely sealed off from the rest of the town, and no one came in or out without the KC’s approval. Many of the so-called Switchbacks were allowed inside if they were useful or could fulfill a particular function, but the rest of them could go to hell as far as Hinchcliffe was concerned. McCoyne, with no discernible talent or incentive, had become one of a thousand-strong underclass, living in the ruins.

The outskirts of Lowestoft had come to resemble a shanty town. Many of the underclass occupied abandoned houses; many more camped out on the streets or in the gaps between buildings in makeshift shelters, reminding McCoyne of what he’d seen in the squalid Unchanged refugee camps before they’d been nuked. The people here were different, but many of the problems they experienced were the same. Disease was increasingly becoming an issue, and violence frequently erupted in the outlying regions. Food was in desperately short measure, with Hinchcliffe occasionally deigning to provide essential rations to a fortunate few. A briefly burgeoning black market collapsed quickly. The commodities became the currency, and there was never going to be a good enough supply to satisfy the population’s constant demands.

Those who were in the best position outside Hinchcliffe’s compound were those who continued to volunteer to scavenge the wastelands. They were paid for their efforts with a meager cut of whatever they found. The terms were grossly unfair, but that was tough. For the most part, with nowhere else to go (and no means of going anyway), the ever-growing underclass population remained in and around the town, building up on street corners like drifting snow. Hinchcliffe tolerated them and used them when it suited him. He controlled the food supplies (carefully coordinating storage across numerous sites so that he was the only one who knew where everything was), and he controlled the fighters. Far more than his predecessor, Hinchcliffe had wormed himself into an apparently unassailable position. His foot soldiers were rewarded for their loyalty with a life that was more comfortable than many would have ever thought possible again when the war had been at its bloody peak. On the right side of the compound wall there was a supply of fairly clean water, enough food for all, and, occasionally, heat and power. On the other side: nothing.

The crowd McCoyne had joined this morning was gathered in front of the larger of the two gates at the northern edge of the compound. Word had spread that a scavenging party was heading out west today into an area that had, until now, remained relatively untouched. Over the last couple of months it had been established that at least six cities (more precisely, six refugee camps) had been destroyed by the nuclear strikes last summer: London to the south, Edinburgh to the north, and several others, including Manchester and Birmingham. Without the means to measure pollution and radiation levels, it had been assumed that the bottom third of the country and a wide strip running the length of the land from the south coast right up into Scotland was most probably uninhabitable. Now, however, almost six months after the bombs, necessity had forced the foragers to start looking farther afield for supplies. A Switchback who’d once been a high school science teacher had done some basic research for Hinchcliffe in what was left of the Lowestoft library. She’d used reference works and other, less scientifically accurate books documenting what had happened in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and had eventually come to the unsupported conclusion that although the bomb sites were nowhere near completely safe, the risks involved in scavenging a little closer to them had probably reduced enough by now to be worthwhile. Hinchcliffe didn’t care. He wasn’t the one going out there.

The metal gate across the road was pushed open. Two trucks drove out of the compound, the nose of the first gently nudging through the crowd, which quickly parted. Once they’d driven out and the gate had been closed behind them, the trucks stopped again. A shaven-headed fighter jumped down from the cab of the second truck. People scurried out of his way, leaving a bubble of empty space around him, their sudden distance a mark of fear, not respect. This nasty bastard was Llewellyn, and he was one of the few fighters known by name to virtually everyone left in and around Lowestoft. With a military background and undoubted strength and aggression, he was Hinchcliffe’s right-hand man. His reputation was second only to that of his boss. He was older and quieter, but no less deadly.

“I’m looking for about fifteen of you,” he said. McCoyne squirmed forward, trying to squeeze through a gap that wasn’t there. The person on his right reacted and pushed him back the other way. He tripped over someone’s boot and landed on all fours at Llewellyn’s feet. Llewellyn grabbed his collar and pulled him up.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Volunteering,” McCoyne said quickly. Llewellyn screwed up his face and looked him up and down.

“Suppose you’ll do,” Llewellyn said, throwing him toward the back of his truck before reaching out and grabbing someone else, “and you, and you…”

McCoyne climbed into the empty truck and found himself a dark spot at the very back of the vehicle, where he could watch the others and keep all his options open. He pulled his knees up tight to his chest to try to get warm.
Get out there,
he told himself,
get what you can, then get back.

*   *   *

The drive away from town was long, slow, and disorienting. Conversation in the back of the windowless truck was sparse, and the time dragged painfully. It reminded McCoyne of another journey he’d taken like this, many months ago now, almost a year. Back then his eventual destination had been a gas chamber, from which he’d barely managed to escape with his life. What the hell was he going to see when they opened up the back of the truck today? He felt bad—an uncomfortable mix of travel sickness and nerves. Or was it more than that? He knew that every mile they drove in this direction took them deeper into the deadlands with its poisoned, radiation-filled air.

The journey ended abruptly. There were sudden murmurs from the people all around McCoyne, some of whom he could hear getting up and moving about. He stayed where he was, fingering the hilt of one of the knives he always carried attached to his belt, just in case.

The roller-shutter at the back of the truck was thrown open, flooding the inside of the vehicle with unexpectedly bright light.

“Out,” one of the fighters ordered, and the volunteers did exactly as they were told. McCoyne was the last to move. He jumped down onto gravel, then looked around and grinned, caught off guard by his unexpectedly bizarre surroundings.

“What the hell’s this?”

In front of him was a picnic area and an iced-over, duck-free duck pond, to his right a children’s playground.

“I came here with the family once,” a stooping, painfully thin man next to him whispered, grinning wryly. “Place has gone downhill since then…”

The group of volunteers and their fighter escort were stood in the first of several immense, interconnected, fieldlike parking lots. McCoyne shielded his eyes from the hazy sun and looked around. Behind him was a huge billboard covered with faded pictures of smiling kids’ faces, cartoon characters, roller coasters and rides, and other things he’d hadn’t thought about in what felt like an eternity. A theme park. He’d heard of this one. He’d even talked about bringing the kids here once with Lizzie, but he’d managed to get out of it because, as he’d told her at the time, it was too far from home, and the entrance prices were obscene, and then he’d have had to pay to feed them all, then the kids would have wanted to go to the gift shop and …

“Hey, you!” an angry voice shouted in his direction. McCoyne spun around and realized he was on his own. The others were already shuffling away along an overgrown path that led through a copse of bare trees, deeper into the park. “Stop fucking daydreaming,” the fighter yelled at him. “You’re here to hunt, not fucking sightsee.”

McCoyne ran after the others, legs already aching, struggling to catch up. He tried to focus on the job at hand, but it was all but impossible in these unexpectedly surreal surroundings. He crossed an artificially rickety wooden bridge over a murky stream, then caught his breath with surprise when he looked down and saw a frozen figure standing ankle deep in the water. It was a mannequin—a caricature of an old-time gold prospector with fading paint and exaggerated, cartoonlike features—but the plastic man still looked in better shape than he felt.

Ahead of the group, the silent heart of the theme park began to appear through the trees. Initially all they could see was the tops of the tallest, long-since-silent rides, the occasional scaffolding tower or the curving arc of a stretch of roller-coaster track. Being in a place like this was unexpectedly painful. It wasn’t so much that it made McCoyne think about who and what he’d lost; rather, it made him realize what he’d never get back again. When finding the basic necessities to survive each day was such a struggle, would there ever be a time when places like this fulfilled a useful function again? Playing, laughing, time-wasting … it had been a long time since anyone had done anything even remotely pleasurable, and he thought it would be another age before any of them did again.

The group stopped in an open courtyard at the edge of the theme park proper, crowding dutifully around Llewellyn as if he were their tour guide. There were numerous buildings around, small and insignificant beneath the erstwhile attractions, all done up in a mock gold-rush style. The prospecting theme felt strangely appropriate. Directly in front of them was a large, odd-shaped concrete building with a faux-rock fascia and a large sign hung across its frontage announcing simply
THE MINE
. Its door had been roughly boarded up, like the windows of the house in a zombie movie where survivors were hiding, gaps between the overlapping planks for undead arms to reach through. McCoyne couldn’t tell whether the boards were real or just there for effect.

Llewellyn, wearing a face mask and with a rifle now slung over his shoulder, flanked by similarly masked fighters on either side, addressed the volunteers.

“Hinchcliffe figures we’ll find good pickings here,” he announced, voice muffled. “Places like this have been overlooked, not looted over and over like the towns. If you don’t bring me back as much stuff as you can carry, then you will be officially designated as being fucking useless and I will leave you here to rot. Understand?” No response, but no arguments either. Llewellyn continued. “And the quicker you move, the less chance there is you’ll get sick. There’s probably all kinds of nasty shit still hanging around in the air here.”

Llewellyn’s second comment got more of a reaction than the first. Even the vaguest mention of radiation and poisoning was enough to cause concern in the underclass ranks. McCoyne couldn’t understand it. Why were they so stupid? He knew from what he’d seen and heard that Hinchcliffe certainly was no fool, so would he really have sent them here to collect poisoned food from a poisoned place? It was just scare tactics, designed to increase the tightness of the stranglehold grip he already had on the rest of the population. Was Danny the only one who could see him for what he was? Maybe they all realized but, like him, had chosen to keep their mouths shut rather than risk incurring Llewellyn’s wrath?

The group split up. McCoyne kept his distance from everyone else, deliberately keeping to himself. If he didn’t collect enough stuff today, he was a dead man.