Simon Spurrier - The Culled

Poor fuckers.

I chewed rat and didn't think about it.

Somewhere nearby, Nate was singing a song to himself and laughing after every verse. Totally wasted, totally out of his tree. It would have been funny – would have been endearing – if he didn't glance up every now and again, all casual, and stare at Malice's kid. I was noticing it now. The little hint of… what? Intensity, that visited his face in those moments.

I shivered again.

The crew slept in shifts. Two on watch at all times. Malice volunteered to take the last shift alone and I offered to accompany her. She shrugged, like:

Do what you want, asshole. It's your lack of sleep.

I dreamed of seagulls wearing robes, man-sized spliffs running up and down along the George Washington Bridge on little stubby feet, and of a great wound in the heart of New York; bleeding a fine mist of QuickSmog up into the air, where it separated into colossal blood cells that floated and wobbled like lava-lamp clouds.

I dreamed of Bella saying:

"Doesn't matter. Not your problem. But that's why I'm going."

Then she flopped over in my arms, gave me a look of bored disinterest, and poked me in the rigs.

"Hey," she said. "Hey, Patchwork…"

Malice, waking me up for the watch. I tried to conceal my hard-on.

"So."

"So."

"What's this all about?"

I scratched my manky ear through its equally-as-manky dressing. "Which 'this', specifically?"

She nodded out into the dark.

"Going west. Highway 80. Lake Erie. What's there, patchwork man?"

I smiled.

"Probably nothing."

She thought about that for a moment. "That's a long way to go. Lot of trouble, for probably nothing."

We sat in silence for a minute or two, listening to the deafening silence of the world. It wasn't a cold night, exactly, but there was something… shivery, yeah, about such profound darkness. Like living in oil.

Yeah, we had a rifle each. And yeah, we could scramble inside and be manning Tora's collection of hardcore artillery within a second or two. But still, we were tiny. We were nothing. There were stars and sky and road and hills, and nothing else, and we were just parasites. Fucking fleas on the back of an elephant.

I told you already, I get abstract when I'm bored.

"Okay," I said to Malice, suddenly feeling talkative, catching her eye. "Long way to go. You're right. You mind if I ask you something?"

She shrugged.

"It might piss you off."

"Would that stop you?"

"Probably not."

"Then shoot."

I fiddled with the rifle, keeping my eyes fixed – uselessly – on the night. Somewhere far, far away I thought I could hear engines, a muted throb that died away almost instantly, and left me doubting my own senses.

"Let's say there's something you want," I said. "Let's say you… you had it once. Lost it. Want it back."

Her eyes narrowed, just a fraction. I wondered if she knew Tora told me about her other kid, and if she'd blow my head off for raking the past. She didn't look the type to enjoy in-depth discussion about personal tragedies long bygone.

I know the feeling.

"Let's say," she said, cold.

"Right. Now let's say you find out there's a chance. This thing, getting it back, it's… It's the world. It'll make everything better. It's important – and, shit… not just to you. To everyone."

She didn't move. I blundered on, forcing myself not to jump when a bird launched from some perch out in the dark, cawing noisily.

"Far as you know, it's gone. For good. And okay, that's a shitter, and you'd pay money for it to be otherwise, but what's done is done. You're a realist. You bottle it up, you put it away, you get on. You get by."

I could see it in her eyes, and in that quiet little instant we were so the same I could have reached out and touched her and felt my own fingers against my own arm.

The silence got a little thicker.

I stared at her. "And now suddenly there's a chance. One in a million. Defies all logic, as far as you know. No reason to believe it, no reason to give it headroom. But still…

"Just in case."

She swallowed, lips tight.

"How far," I finished, "would you go?"

Her jaw rocked back and forth once or twice.

"Long way," she whispered.

I nodded.

We sat.

We waited.

I smiled.

"You should go inside." I said.

She glared. "Pardon me?"

"You should go inside." I drew the knife from my belt and passed her the rifle.

"And why the fuck would I do that?"

"Because there are two men approaching the truck from two different directions, and we're sitting ducks up here."

Even in the gloom, I could see her eyes go big. Disbelief, maybe. Surprise.

"They pulled up a mile out on motorbikes. Probably from that crew that passed by earlier on. Listen."

"But I don't h…"

"There. A twig. And another bird. Fucking amateurs."

She just stared.

"Don't worry." I said, and I smiled again because I couldn't help it, and I couldn't be bothered to stop. "I won't be long."

And I slipped off the edge of the truck and onto the concrete, panther quiet, and went out into the shadows with a savage joy.

Don't you fucking give up, soldier!

It snarled. It burned.

Sir, no sir! Etc etc.

When I got back Hiawatha was sitting on the roof, waiting, fiddling with something small and silver.

"You get 'em?" He said.

I wiped blood off the knife and stared.

Letting the humanity come back into me. Slowly.

Reluctantly.

First rule of stealth combat. Advanced training, third year:

Don't fear the predator in the dark.

Be it.

"I can see you," Hiawatha said, conversationally. "Properly, I mean. All that… conditioning. All those changes. You're a wolf, mister Englishman. You know that? Inside your head. They made you a wolf."

The adrenaline was still up. Heart still going. Beast still just below the surface.

I spat on the ground. Couldn't be fucked with any more mystical bollocks.

Hiawatha smiled and said nothing.

"Who were they?" I said, not bothering to sound impressed or spooked-out or anything but bored. My hands were shaking with the desire to hunt and hurt, and this snotty little idiot was getting on my tits.

"Collectors," he said, after a pause.

"And they are?"

"They're… I mean…" He stopped and scowled, and I could see again the person coming through, the scared kid chipping-away at the 'Know-it-all Straight Jacket'. Then it was gone.

"They're scouts." He said, voice rising and falling in that same lilting chant. "Men of money and misery. Mercenary filth. Cells of aggression, unfaithful, unloyal, sent ahead of the crucified god and his robed horde to…"

"Cut the crap, yeah? Just tell me who they are."

He blinked.

And slowly, boyishly, smiled.

"Fuckheads." He said.

"Fuckheads. Right. And what do these fuckheads want with us?"

He shrugged.

"Clergy sends them, mostly. Or at least, that's where they get their shit. Trading with the Clergy. They… roam round. Outside of cities. Finding things the Church'll pay for."

"Things like what?"

"Like guns. Food. And… mostly… mostly kids." He looked away. Jaw tightening.

"Kids."

"Yep. No Klans out here, see? No loyal fucking scavs to hand over their own kin. Only the Clergy and the scum they pay, helping themselves. That's… that's what this is all about. You being here."

"I don't follow."

"I know. But you will."

I huffed and shook my head, too tired to push it. "Whatever. Doesn't explain what they want with us."

"No… But they came from behind, on the road. From the city, probably."

"And?"

And then the boy was gone, and fucking Hiawatha was back, smiling and staring and rolling his eyes.