David Moody - Them or Us

“I’m not telling you anything.”

“Why are you really here?”

“What’s it to you?”

“I know you’re lying to me, Rufus,” he says. “I can read you like a book. My name’s Peter Sutton, and I want answers, same as you.”

12

MY MIND’S RACING, AND I do all I can not to show it. Who is this person? I need to be damn careful here and keep up my act. If he’s working for Warner, then I could be in real trouble. Likewise, if he’s discovered I’m here spying for Hinchcliffe, there’s every chance I won’t get out of Southwold alive. I need to find out which it is.

“So talk.”

He looks around anxiously, despite the fact he already knows the street’s clear, then speaks.

“I don’t think we’re seeing the full picture here.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“We’re only seeing what Warner wants us to see.”

“Isn’t that usually the way with leaders?”

“Yes, but this is different.”

“How?”

“Can’t quite put my finger on it yet, but those trucks are the key. If we knew where they were coming from then things might start making sense.”

“Nothing’s made sense for the best part of the last twelve months. Anyway, why are you so interested in Warner? As long as he provides food, does it matter where it comes from?”

“Yes, but—”

“You make it sound like you think he has an ulterior motive.”

“Maybe he does. Someone’s supporting him, that much is obvious.”

What’s equally obvious is that Peter Sutton doesn’t seem to have any information. He sounds as unsure about what’s happening here as I am. I start to walk back toward town. I’m tired, and I’m desperate not to screw up my “mission” by saying something I’ll regret or getting caught talking out on the street so close to Warner’s food and weapons cache. I need to find somewhere quiet where I can report back to Hinchcliffe, then get some rest in case I end up working another full day tomorrow.

“I should go…”

“Just wait. Just give me a few more minutes.”

“Why?”

“Because I need your help.”

“You need my help?”

Now alarm bells are beginning to sound.

“Just stop and listen to me, Rufus. I’m like you.”

“The only thing we have in common is that we’re both still alive.”

He stands in front of me, blocking my way past.

“I know what you can do,” he says. “I know you can hold the Hate.”

For a second I’m floored, although I try not to show it. I push past him and keep moving. How the hell did he know that? Someone must have told him—although I don’t know who, because no one here knows anything about me. Maybe he came here from Lowestoft too? Oh fuck—is that sick bastard Hinchcliffe playing mind games?

“You know nothing about me.”

“Yes I do,” he says. “I know what you can do because I’m the same. I can hold it too—”

Do I believe him? Does it even matter any more? The Unchanged are extinct, so holding the Hate has become as irrelevant a skill as being able to speak Russian. I’m gripping my knife tightly and psyching myself up to use it if Sutton doesn’t leave. Could I kill him? He might not look like much, but I don’t know what he’s capable of, and it’s all about aggression levels now, not size. The screwiest are often the most unpredictable. I’ve seen people half his height kill others twice their weight. Nope, whatever trouble he’s got himself into, I’m not getting involved. I’ve already got enough on my plate—correction, I’ve got nothing on my plate—and that’s how I intend keeping it. I’m about to tell him as much when he starts talking again.

“When I found out what I could do,” he explains, “I tried to stop fighting, tried to pull away from the war. But there was nowhere to go, and I got tangled up in things I couldn’t get out of. When I learned how to hold the Hate, I started to look at things differently again, started to question what I’d been told and why things were happening. All they wanted me to do was hunt and kill and…”

“Wait, who is ‘they’?” I ask cautiously.

“Simon Penkridge, Selena, Chris Ankin…”

Two of the three names mean nothing to me. I try not to react, but it’s impossible when he mentions Chris Ankin.

“Ankin?”

“I never saw him, but the others said they were working for him. They were sending people into refugee camps to kill like bloody suicide bombers.”

“You refused?”

“You don’t say no to people like that. I went along with it for a time, then managed to get lost in the crowds and got away from them.”

“Wise move,” I’m forced to admit, reflecting for a second on my own experiences. The things he says add some weight to his story, but the fact remains, why should I care? All of that is history now, and I need to focus on today. Does this guy know anything that might be useful to Hinchcliffe? Against my better judgment I decide to ask. “So what’s your connection with this place?”

“Just passing through, same as you.”

“About these trucks. You’ve been watching them for a while?”

“I’ve seen them coming and going, but I don’t know anything about them.”

“So you don’t know where this stuff’s coming in from?”

“No idea, but I’m trying to find out. Fact is, I need all the food I can get my hands on right now, so I’ll take whatever’s going.”

“You don’t look like a big eater.”

“I’m not. Look, where are you heading?”

“How many times do I have to tell you? To find somewhere to crash for the night.”

“I know a place. Come with me, there’s something I want to show you.”

Now alarm bells are really beginning to sound. This guy doesn’t know anything. He’s completely out of his tree. What the hell could he possibly want to show me?

“No thanks. I think you’ve got the wrong man.”

“No I haven’t,” he insists, walking alongside me again. “You’re the only one who can help. I can’t do this on my own anymore.”

“Do what exactly?”

“Not here,” he says, looking around nervously. There’s a small crowd up ahead gathered around the area the food was distributed from earlier. This guy’s a liability and the best way of getting rid of him, I decide, is to get deeper into the crowd, then give him the slip. I’ll keep him talking for a few seconds longer so he doesn’t suspect I’m about to do a disappearing act.

“We’re not the only ones who can hold the Hate, Sutton. I’ve met plenty of others.”

“Yeah? Where are they now?”

“Dead,” I’m forced to admit, remembering the misguided, kamikaze freedom fighters I managed to get myself mixed up with.

“Exactly. See, I knew you’d say that. You’re the first person like me I’ve come across since the bombs.”

“I’m not like you. Stop saying that. I’m not like anyone.”

“Yes you are. I knew it as soon as I saw you out in the field earlier. The questions you were asking just confirmed it. You’re no scavenger. That’s not why you’re here.”

Shit, is he onto me? Has my cover been blown?

“So how could you tell? I didn’t sense that you were any different. For all I know you could be lying to me, feeding me bullshit so you can—”

“No bullshit, I swear. You didn’t see that we’re the same because you weren’t looking for it. It’s not about what you do, it’s what you don’t do that really gives you away.”

“What?”

“I don’t know what really brought you here to Southwold today, but I’m damn sure it wasn’t the promise of a meal and a bed. You didn’t pick up on me because you were preoccupied thinking about something else. It was obvious—the way you asked so many questions to different people, the way you avoided eye contact. We’re not like the rest of them…”