David Moody - Them or Us

“You asleep?”

I shake my head and look around quickly. Not asleep, just daydreaming.

“Sorry,” I say to the short, nervous-looking man who’s standing next to me with a shovel. He’s just finished filling a wheelbarrow with soil, and I’m supposed to be emptying it. He stares at me through glasses held together with tape. Long strands of greasy black hair blow wildly in the wind—the comb-over from hell whipping back and forth across his otherwise bald pate like a lid.

“Focus on the job,” he whispers to me. “They won’t feed you otherwise.”

He makes it sound like they’re fattening us up so they can eat us. I’ve got to get this sudden cannibal fixation out of my head, but where else is Warner getting all this food I keep hearing about, and why is he so eager to share it? I push the wheelbarrow over to the mound of earth that’s already been dug up and empty it out. The distance I’ve covered is short, but I’m exhausted and I take my time so I can get my breath back. I pause and look out over a low stone wall. I can see another working party in a field in the distance, and I decide I’m glad I ended up over here. Looks like the people there really drew the short straw. They’re plowing a huge, odd-shaped field by hand. There is a single horse, but it’s painfully thin, its ribs exposed like it’s swallowed a xylophone. It hardly seems able to support its own weight, let alone do anything else. It’s the first time I’ve seen a horse in as long as I can remember. I watch as it bends down, tired legs shaking, and begins nibbling at the weeds on the edge of a sandy pit. There are other pits dotted around, and I realize that I’m looking at what’s left of a golf course. The people working there don’t appear to have made much progress, and I’m not surprised. Even though it’s approaching the warmest part of the day, the soil here is still frozen hard.

When I return to the others, almost everyone else is taking a break. As I was late to the party (and also because my dawdling and lack of effort have been noticed), I’ve been told in no uncertain terms to keep working. One other man is left working with me. He’s a strong, thickset fighter who continues digging at the bottom of the pit. His head glistens with sweat, his thinning silver hair slicked back. He looks like the type of man who’s done this kind of work all his life: solid and muscular but not particularly athletic. He’s hardly said two words since I’ve been here, but as the others are a safe distance away and I’ve got my back to them, I risk trying to make conversation. It’s not easy. He’s buried chest deep in the large, six-foot-square pit, and he digs constantly, only pausing to either swap his shovel for a pick or pass up another bucket of soil for me to dump into the wheelbarrow.

“You been here long?”

“Couple of weeks,” he says, barely acknowledging me. I try offering information to get him to talk.

“I just got in this morning. Looks like a pretty well organized place.”

“Warner does okay,” he says, grunting with effort as he shifts another bucketful of dirt.

“You get much trouble here?”

“Only from people who ask too many questions.”

“Sorry.”

A handful of sheep have wandered into the field and are milling around, as hungry looking as the horse. Their fleeces are patchy and mangy looking. They drop their heads and try to graze, but the grass is thin and unsatisfying. They barely look up when I push the wheelbarrow past them to empty it, too weak to run away. When I return to the pit I take a chance and try again.

“Look, I heard what you said about asking questions, but what exactly are we doing out here?”

“Digging a fucking big hole,” he answers, no hint of sarcasm in his voice.

“I know that, but what’s it for?”

He stops working momentarily and looks over the lip of the pit, back across the field. No one’s looking at us. They’re far enough away for him to feel comfortable enough to talk.

“You won’t do yourself any favors if you keep asking questions like that, I already told you.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

He glances around again.

“We lost a few people over the last couple of weeks,” he finally explains. “We would have burned them like usual, but Warner’s got this idea that things here have gone too far the wrong way. He said he wants them buried like we used to. Says if someone doesn’t start making a stand, we’ll be living like savages again before we know it. We’ll end up going the way of the Brutes.”

“So what happened?”

“A few of them got sick…”

“And the others?”

“An accident,” he tells me reluctantly. “A handful of people got hurt, two were killed.”

“What kind of accident?”

I know instantly from the expression on his face that I’m pushing too hard.

“You really need to stop talking and get working. I’ve told you all I’m going to.”

10

THE SUN HAS SET by the time I’m finally allowed to stop. I’m exhausted; weak with effort and numb with cold.

The pit was finished a while back. Warner, his right-hand man Ben, and a crowd of others pulled a trailer loaded with corpses into the field. I tried to watch from a safe distance and I counted at least five bodies. They were wrapped up in blankets and black plastic, so it was impossible to tell who they were or how they’d died. I’m sure one of them must have been Casey, Hinchcliffe’s missing soldier. I even volunteered to help fill in the grave so I could get a better look. That was a mistake. A load more unnecessary effort and I couldn’t see a damn thing.

Something’s definitely not right here. Warner and several others stood silently around the edge of the pit, watching the dead being buried and muttering and whispering to each other. I can’t make up my mind whether Warner is genuinely hankering back to prewar values of respect and dignity, or whether this was a mock burial to throw people off the scent. Is all of Southwold just an elaborate facade? Were they burying evidence and trying to hide their crimes?

After they’d buried the bodies, a couple of us were sent into a copse of trees to fetch firewood, which we loaded onto the back of the trailer. Virtually everything’s dead, so it took less time than expected to gather up a large enough load. Other people arrived from the center of the village a while back to take the firewood away, and I’ve been called over into a nearby house with the rest of the group I was working with.

The house is just a shell. There are a couple of faded photographs hanging on the walls, but those are the only traces I can see of the people who used to live here. Everything else—the furniture and all their belongings—has gone. A fire has been built in the hearth, and most of the others are already sitting around in its orange glow, trying to get warm, staring silently into the flames and waiting for a dented pot of water to boil. I find myself a space on the muddy, threadbare carpet and lean back against the wall. The floor’s cold but I’m too tired to care. What heat the fire provides is negated by icy drafts sneaking in through broken windows and the gaps beneath doors. I wrap my arms around myself to try to keep warm and look around at the six other people here with me.

A large, straw-haired woman (Jill, I think, one of the work gang leaders) eventually gets up and makes hot drinks, which she hands around in chipped mugs. The wood on the fire crackles and pops as it burns. The chimney’s blocked, and the house is filling with smoke.

“There’ll be food in the square outside the hotel later,” she says. “It won’t be much, but it should help keep the cold out.”

“What about tomorrow?” the man with the tape-repaired specs and the comb-over asks, sitting opposite, leaning back against the wall.