David Moody - Them or Us

The man trying to fix the radio makes a mistake. There’s a bright spark, accompanied by a sudden loud cracking noise, a wisp of smoke, and the smell of burning, and he yelps with surprise and pain. Obviously not impressed, one of the fighters watching cuffs him around the back of the head, then shoves him into the wall, face-first. Dazed, he reels away with blood dripping from his nose. He wipes his face clean and immediately tries to work on the radio again and avoid another slap, hands trembling, barely even able to focus, frequently stopping to wipe away more drips of blood.

Hinchcliffe appears through another set of doors, which swing shut into the face of a woman I don’t immediately recognize who’s following behind him. She’s straightening her clothes as she walks, and the reason she’s been here is obvious. It’s unusual to see anyone female around here unless she’s been brought in for sex. It’s another sad indictment of the backward direction this new “society” is taking. The days of women’s lib and equality are long gone. Women fighters are easily as aggressive as men, but generally they’re less physically strong. As a result, fewer of them rise up through the ranks. It’s ironic; the arrival of the Hate temporarily wiped out all the divisions and prejudices that used to split society, but now the war’s ending, they’re flooding back and are even more divisive than before. Hinchcliffe and I talked about it a while back. He told me it’s tough shit, because that’s just the way it is now. There are no human rights groups to help you anymore, he said, we’re all on our own. I don’t care if you’re a black lesbian Jew with one leg, I remember him saying, enjoying belaboring the point, if it comes down to a straight choice between you and me surviving, you’re fucked.

When he finally notices I’m here, Hinchcliffe says something to the woman and she slopes away.

“Danny,” he grins, his voice full of obviously false enthusiasm, “how are you this morning?”

My head aches, my body aches, and my guts are still in turmoil from last night’s dinner of dog, but I spare him the details.

“Shit.”

“Excellent!” he says sarcastically. “Come through. I need to talk to you.”

He turns, and I follow him down a short corridor, up a flight of stairs, and into the first of his private rooms. I’ve been in here a couple of times before, but it still takes me by surprise. It’s more like a teenager’s bedroom than anything else. There’s a flat-screen TV on one wall—possibly the last unbroken TV left in the whole town—and numerous game consoles lying around. There’s a recently vacated, unmade double bed opposite, and the air is heavy with cigarette smoke and other stale and equally unpleasant smells. We continue through to his office, a slightly more businesslike room. There’s a large oval wooden table, covered in as much shit as everywhere else. The grubby cream-colored carpet is stained heavily with blood in several places, no doubt left by those unfortunate people who managed to piss the KC off.

Hinchcliffe sits at the head of the table on a tall-backed leather swivel chair that’s bigger than the rest. He gestures for me to sit next to him, and I do as he says, still doing all I can to disguise my nerves. Despite his inner circle of fighters, his is the only seat that really matters. He is the lawmaker, judge, prosecutor, defense lawyer, jury, and executioner, all rolled into one, and I try not to let him see how much he intimidates me. I act casual and do my best to maintain eye contact, but the fucker just grins and I’m the one who looks away first. Is he really such a threat, or am I blowing things out of proportion? He reminds me of the senior managers I used to work for at the council, but far, far more intense, and, unlike them, he has a personality. He’s no stronger than many of the people he surrounds himself with, but he’s clever and witty and smart, and that’s the real danger. When he looks at me like this it’s like he’s trying to work out exactly what I’m thinking, trying to get into my head and take me apart so he can understand what makes me tick. The war has made most people shed absolutely every aspect of their former selves. Hinchcliffe, though, is different. He used to be an investment banker who’d probably have sold his own mother to turn a profit. He still has the same arrogance and swagger, but now he trades in lower-value currencies for much higher stakes. The rumor according to Rufus (and I really don’t want to know whether it’s true or not) is that when the Change took him, Hinchcliffe wiped out virtually an entire floor of more than forty City traders single-handed.

Take it easy. Don’t let him see you’re nervous.

“You really don’t look so good,” he says, looking me up and down.

“You’re the second person who’s said that to me today.”

“How many people have you seen?”

“Just two.”

“Well, we both must be right, then,” he says, continuing to stare at me, his face an unreadable mix of fascination and disgust. Then his expression suddenly changes. He ducks down, reaches under the table, and pulls out a four-pack of beer, which he slides over to me.

“For helping us get rid of those Unchanged fuckers yesterday. Good job.”

“Thanks.”

I take the beers and quickly remove them from the plastic rings holding them together. I shove the individual cans into different pockets of my long coat. I might drink one later, but the rest will be going under the floorboards when I get back to the house.

“I was really pleased with what you did. Biggest Unchanged haul in ages.”

“Six weeks.”

“I thought we’d seen the last of them. Thought we’d finally got rid of them all.”

“Me, too. Maybe we have now.”

“And we got a few kids, too. Bonus! Wasn’t expecting that.”

“Neither were they.”

There’s another long, awkward (for me, anyway), and uneasy silence.

“I’ve got another job for you,” he finally announces. “Ever heard of a place called Southwold?”

Southwold is a village a few miles farther down the east coast. I’ve never been there, and I know very little about it other than its name. I shake my head. The more Hinchcliffe thinks I know, the more he’ll expect from me.

“It’s about ten miles from here,” he explains. “Used to be a nice little spot. Couple of people I knew in the City had second homes down there back in the day.”

Ten miles. Doesn’t sound far, but distances aren’t what they used to be. People tend to stay put in Lowestoft now and, unless they’re out scavenging, rarely venture more than a couple of miles in any direction. Fuel’s in short supply, so most traveling’s now done on foot, and that puts Southwold the best part of a day away.

Hinchcliffe lights up a cigarette and leans back, taking a long draw and slowly blowing out a cloud of blue-gray smoke up toward the ceiling. Now there’s an expression of status if ever I saw one. Smoking these days says to anyone who’s watching that you’ve got the means and the connections to be able to get your hands on a steady supply of cigarettes to fuel your pointless habit. Most people struggle to find food, never mind anything else. Hinchcliffe knows I’m watching him. Cocky bastard.

“Want one?”

“No thanks. Don’t smoke. Bad for you.”

He laughs and lifts the cigarette box up in front of me, shaking it.

“You sure? These are the real thing,” he says. “Word to the wise, if you do decide to start, come and see me first. There are some dirty fuckers making their own smokes from scrag ends and dried leaves and whatever else they can get their hands on. Bit of a black market starting to spring up around here…”

“You were talking about Southwold,” I remind him, eager to get the conversation back on track and get this over with. He leans forward secretively.