David Moody - Them or Us

“How long?”

“About three months.”

“Jesus.”

“I told you that Devon and Cornwall were probably livable, but the fact is the contamination’s so bad we haven’t even been able to get down there. Truth is we don’t hold out much hope of anyone being left alive there now. You know how it all happened, the refugee camps drew people into the cities, and where the Unchanged went…”

“We followed.”

“Exactly. Most of our people were drawn inland toward the fighting. Up north, Glasgow and Edinburgh were taken out with two bombs within hours of each other, and the cumulative effect of that was devastating. Much of Scotland is uninhabitable now. In fact, the only parts of Scotland we think are still livable are the places where hardly anyone lived anyway—and out in those extreme parts of the country, if there is anyone left alive, they’re going to have a hell of a job living through the winter.”

“So what exactly are you saying to me? That the whole country is dead?”

“I’m saying that this area is far more important than I originally led you to believe.”

“Wait, are you saying that this is it?”

He pauses before answering. “Pretty much. There were other towns, other outposts, but not anymore. It’s all so fragile, Danny. All it takes is for a few cracks to show and they fall apart.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“So you can understand why I need to get into Lowestoft, can’t you? It’s the largest center of population there is.”

“On this side of the country?”

“No, in the whole country.”

“Fuck me. You are joking, aren’t you? Lowestoft?”

I can tell from the expression on his face that joking is the very last thing on his mind.

“I’m sure there are more people left alive than there are just in Lowestoft, but they’re scattered over massive areas. There’s nowhere else left like this right now. Lowestoft is unique, probably the biggest concentration of people there still is, we think—and as I said, any people who are left out on their own through the next few months are going to find it awfully hard to survive. No regular food supplies, an extreme winter because of the bombs…”

“But if you’re as well supported as you say you are, why not just take Hinchcliffe out and take the damn place by force?”

“It’s an option, and I haven’t ruled it out, but it might not be as easy as it sounds. Thing is, like anybody else, Hinchcliffe and his fighters will do all they can to protect themselves. Remove him and some other tough bastard will just rise up and take his place. If we were to go in heavy-handed, there’s a real danger we could bring the whole damn place crashing down around us, and then what? Having you here has given us an unexpected opportunity to try to negotiate and break this cycle of violence. We all need Lowestoft intact. We need the people to survive, the buildings to survive, Hinchcliffe’s food stocks to survive—”

“He won’t tell you where the food is. No one knows but him.”

“I’m sure he won’t, but that just further underlines my point. This is our very last chance.”

Ankin’s words have become a blur of noise. I’m still struggling to grasp the concept that the small, run-down port on the east coast where I’ve been trapped for the last few months has, by default, become the most important place in the country. The new capital, even.

“So what about you?” I ask him. “Why are you here now?”

“We’ve been on the road for most of the time.”

“On the road?”

“We were originally based around Hull, but that wasn’t an ideal location. The pollution levels up there became too dangerous, and with the numbers of people we’ve been trying to coordinate, it just became impractical. We needed to find somewhere safer and more central, and that’s Lowestoft.”

“So that’s your real reason for coming here, isn’t it? You’re a king without a kingdom.”

“Not at all, though I suppose you could look at it like that. The fact is, it’s less about the kingdom and more about the subjects. We need numbers to get this country functioning again. If we’re going to be able to salvage anything from the ruins of what we’ve all lost, we need to get people together in decent numbers. We can criticize his methods, but Hinchcliffe’s managed to do just that. From what I’ve heard, though, he’s only interested in feathering his own nest and everyone else can go to hell.”

“That’s pretty much it.”

Ankin looks down at his boots. He seems defeated and lost, all the bullshit and spin suddenly knocked out of him.

“We have to do this, Danny. This might look like a minor skirmish in comparison to the things we’ve all seen and done over the last year, like two tribes scrapping over a strip of land, but it isn’t, it’s much more than that. Everything I’m hearing tells me Lowestoft can’t continue to survive how it is right now, and at the same time my people can’t survive without Lowestoft. If we don’t make this happen, then this country will die. This is our very last chance. The pressure’s not just on your shoulders, but you can make a crucial difference here. You’re in a unique position to help stop our slide back into anarchy.”

“I think you might be too late.”

“Well, I don’t, and while there’s breath in my body and even the slightest of chances, I’m going to do what I can to make it happen.”

I have to give him his due, he’s good. For a fraction of a second I almost buy into his story, but it’s all irrelevant to me now. None of it matters. Everything I ever cared about is gone. Ankin seems to know that and anticipates it.

“I assume you don’t owe Hinchcliffe anything,” he says, his voice flat and unemotional now, “so what could I do to make you help me?”

“There’s nothing. All I have now is time, and I’m rapidly running out of that. I just want to spend the days and weeks I’ve got left on my own. No more fighting, no more bullshit politics and exploitation, no pressure … No offense, Ankin, but you can fight your own battle with Hinchcliffe tomorrow.”

I try to walk away, wanting to end this pointless conversation, but there’s nowhere left to go. A gust of cold air and the sudden movement catch me by surprise, and before I know it I’m doubled over coughing. I lean on the back of a chair for support, hacking my guts up. I manage to turn away and avoid the embarrassment of showering Ankin with bloody spittle.

“You don’t sound so good,” he says. “Come to mention it, you don’t look so good either.”

“I’m sick.”

“You don’t say. Been suffering long?”

“Since the bombs.”

“What, some sort of cancer, is it?”

“That’s what I’m told.”

“What are you doing about it?”

I manage to stop coughing temporarily. I collapse into the chair, panting hard.

“What can I do? Live with it till you die from it, that’s the advice the doctor gave me.”

“Must frustrate you, though, knowing that before all this happened, there might have been some drugs you could have taken or something else you could have done.”

“It breaks my fucking heart. It’s this goddamn war that’s made me sick.”

“I agree, and that just reinforces everything I’ve been trying to say to you. It’s so important we finish the work we’ve started here and try to put what’s left of this broken country back together. I don’t suppose medical care is very high up on Hinchcliffe’s list of priorities, is it?”

“He doesn’t give a shit unless he’s the one who’s hurting.”

Ankin stops and thinks for a moment longer, watching me as I cough again, then wipe my mouth. I instinctively hide the smear of blood on the back of my hand.