David Moody - Them or Us

I don’t do what he says, because I’m sure he’s probably right to an extent. What’s gone is gone. The fact remains, though, I think he’s wrong, and that a small group of Unchanged has survived against the odds is proof positive. We pass a couple more people on the side of the road, fighters and underclass. They all look the same now—pathetically lost and alone, with nothing left to fight for. Hinchcliffe doesn’t even look at them. The bastard truly doesn’t give a damn about anyone but himself.

“It can’t all be as simple as you try to make it sound. Fighting doesn’t solve everything.”

“I never said it did,” he says, struggling for a moment to keep control of the jeep in the slushlike snow.

“That’s what you implied.”

“You can get people to do what you want without hitting them.”

“But it’s easier if you do hit them? Or just let them think they’re going to get the shit kicked out of them?”

“Something like that. Look, it’s survival of the fittest, that’s all I’m saying, and I’m damn sure I’m going to be the one who survives.”

“What for?”

“What kind of a question’s that? It’s obvious.”

“Is it? Spell it out to me, Hinchcliffe, because I don’t get it. If you’re the only one left standing after all of this, how exactly will you be feeling? You’ll be a lonely fucking despot with nothing to do and no one left to order around. There’s a cost to everything, and the more you take, the more you destroy. The last man standing in this world will inherit a fucking empty ruin.”

“You’ve been spending too much time around Unchanged,” he sneers at me. It’s snowing hard again now, a sudden blizzard, and it blows in through the broken windshield, making it hard to see exactly where we are. I’m aware of the snow-covered shapes of several buildings on either side, and I realize we must have reached Wrentham, just past the midpoint between Lowestoft and Southwold. If I’m going to try to get out of this mess, I need to act fast.

“Just let me go, Hinchcliffe. Keep the jeep and all the food, just let me go.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I’m dying. I’m not like you, I don’t want to fight anymore. I just want to go somewhere quiet. Somewhere I’m not going to be surrounded by people taking from me. I’ve got nothing left to give.”

“My heart bleeds,” he says, clearly not giving a shit. We’re approaching the junction in the road now. He brakes hard and almost loses control of the jeep again, skidding to a slow stop and nudging up against the curb. “But we both know that’s not true, don’t we. We need to find this guy Joseph, remember? So which way now?”

“You choose,” I say, determined not to help. We’re barely two miles from Southwold, three at the most.

“Interesting,” he mumbles, opening his window and looking down at the road. Some of the earlier snow has thawed and then frozen again. “Lots of tire tracks here. I’m guessing this was you earlier?”

I don’t bother answering. He drives forward again, following the tracks he can see, and I slump back into my seat with relief. He’s taken the wrong route and we’re heading toward the bunker now. If he keeps going this way we’ll end up back at the farm, and I’ll make a break for it once we’re there. There’s a motorbike still lying in the yard, I think, and Peter Sutton’s car is probably hidden somewhere nearby. Or maybe I can just trick Hinchcliffe into going inside the bunker, then shut him in? I like the idea of burying the bastard alive down there.

“Wait a minute,” he says suddenly, “this isn’t right. This road leads inland. You might have come from this direction, but this wasn’t the way you were planning to go back, was it, Danny?”

My lack of response seems to answer his question. He pulls hard on the handbrake and spins the jeep around through one hundred and eighty degrees, sliding through the ice and slush until we’re facing back the way we came. This time, when we reach the junction again, he looks more carefully at the tracks. I’m hoping enough fresh snow has fallen to make things less obvious, but it hasn’t. He spots the wide sets of tracks left by the van and the delivery truck heading toward Southwold. The fucker is frustratingly smart. The tone of his voice changes as he accelerates toward the coast. He sounds excited, his mouth virtually salivating at the thought of killing Unchanged again.

“How many of them are there? There’s at least two sets of tracks here, so we must be talking more than five. Ten? Honestly, Danny, you should have known better than anyone that we’d find them eventually.”

“Just leave them alone, Hinchcliffe. Let them be.”

He shoots a quick glance in my direction, letting me know in no uncertain terms what he thinks of that idea.

“You must be sicker than I thought. Leave Unchanged alive? For fuck’s sake, I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”

He’s riled, and I sense an opportunity to distract him. His temper and aggression might be his undoing. About a mile and a half to go now. Need to act fast.

“They’re not a threat to you, and just about everybody else worth worrying about is dead. You should just get over yourself, Hinchcliffe. Just fuck off and get on with what’s left of your own life and leave the Unchanged alone.”

“Listen to what you’re saying, McCoyne. This is Unchanged we’re talking about. They were the cause of this fucking mess, and you want to let them live?”

“What difference does it make? There’s hardly anyone left alive now. Just go your own way.”

“You fucking moron! I should kill you!”

I know where I am now. I can see the snow-covered roofs of the business park where I left the car when Hinchcliffe sent me to Southwold before. Got to do it. Do it now.

“I’d rather spend the little time I’ve got left with the Unchanged than you, Hinchcliffe,” I tell him, sneering and deliberately antagonizing him now. “It’s fuckers like you who caused this war. At least they’re—”

He snaps and lunges across the car at me. I duck under his flailing arms and grab the steering wheel from under him, turning it hard right. He tries to shove me back out of the way, but I’ve caught him off guard and I won’t let go. His balance is off center and his reaction is too little, too late. He finally manages to push me away, then looks back out front and tries to steer in the opposite direction, but we’re going too fast and the ground is covered with ice. The jeep skids, lifting up onto two wheels, then overturns and flips over. I tense my body and brace myself as we roll over and over, stopping with a sudden jolt as we hit the side of a building, thumping back down onto four wheels. My head snaps back on my shoulders with the sudden impact, and there’s an immediate sharp, jabbing pain in my right ankle, but I stay conscious. Hinchcliffe is thrown forward, his head smacking hard against the wheel with a sickening crunch. He drops back into his seat and doesn’t move, blood pouring down his face.

For a moment I just sit there, numb with the shock of the crash, watching Hinchcliffe and waiting for any sign of movement. He’s completely still, not a flicker of life. I unstrap myself and force myself closer, desperate to make sure. I put my ear next to his mouth, terrified he’s about to wake up and lunge forward. Nothing. No sound. I try to feel for a pulse with ice-cold, numb hands, but I can’t feel anything.

This is it.

I’m still alive, and what’s left of me is in one piece. The passenger door’s buckled and won’t open, so I have to scramble out through the broken windshield. I look back, once, then I start down the road, wishing I could move faster.

It’s about a mile to Southwold.