David Moody - Them or Us

Wait.

What’s that?

It’s probably just the snow or my eyes playing tricks on me, but I swear I just saw something moving down at street level. I lean forward over the edge of the lighthouse railings and look down, struggling to focus through the blizzard. Then I see it again … a brief flash of movement between two buildings, someone running from right to left. I shield my eyes from the white glare and look out along the seafront, but I can hardly see anything through the haze. I follow the line of the promenade from level with the center of the village all the way out toward the half-collapsed pier. What was it I saw? Scavengers? More refugees from Lowestoft? Or did I just imagine it? Am I going out of my mind and hallucinating now too? Maybe that’d be a good thing …

I look out toward the remains of the pier in the distance, then fix my eyes on a long strip of virtually empty parking lot that begins outside its dilapidated frontage and stretches away into the distance. I can see the shapes of several long-abandoned vehicles, and a couple nearer the entrance to the pier that aren’t covered in snow. Wait a second … could it be? I lean out over the edge of the lighthouse railings as far as I dare, knowing another few inches won’t make a scrap of difference but praying it will, desperately trying to make out more detail. It looks like a van and a truck. Through a momentary break in the snow I see the side of the truck. Although I can’t distinguish any real level of detail from back here, I’m sure I can make out the outline of the picture of the woman’s face I remember, staring at the truck parked in the cowshed before Peter Sutton showed me the bunker. That’s definitely the van I drove away from Hinchcliffe’s factory yesterday. Jesus Christ, they must have made it. Joseph and the others made it to Southwold! I quickly scan the length of the pier again, this time focusing on the collection of ramshackle wooden buildings on the walkways that stretch out over the ocean—and there, some sheltering from the blizzard in empty gift shops and cafés, others hanging out over the railings, waiting to catch sight of the boat that’s never going to come, I see them. The last of the Unchanged. I make myself move again. Got to get down there.

Heading down the tightly spiraling steps is infinitely easier than climbing up. I stumble down quickly and trip out of the door, then start moving toward the pier, wishing I could go faster but knowing I can’t. Not much energy left, now. Not much time left, either. I head directly for the ocean, moving in a straight line down through the ruins until I reach the promenade, then start the long walk up toward the pier, the bitter wind feeling like it’s knocking me two steps sideways for every step I manage to take forward. The snow is like a dense fog again now, and I’m walking blind, but eventually the building at the shore end of the pier looms large ahead of me, a once proud and grand facade that’s now as crumbling and worn as everything else.

“McCoyne,” a voice shouts at me, and I look around for whoever’s yelling. Can’t tell where it came from or who it was. Didn’t sound like Joseph. Was it Parker or one of the others? The noise of the wind and the waves just adds to the confusion, and I keep moving forward. I stop when I reach the van and the truck and look back. Someone’s walking toward me, following me from the town. Can’t make out who it is. He starts to speed up, but whoever it is, he’s clearly struggling. Is he injured? I take a couple of steps back toward him, then stop. Fuck, it’s Hinchcliffe. I try to get away, but despite his injuries he’s still too fast for me, his hate and anger driving him on, oblivious to his pain. He reaches out and grabs my shoulder, then spins me around and throws me back against the side of the van. The noise echoes through the air like a gunshot, and I bounce back off the metal toward him, straight into his fist. He catches me hard on the chin, and I slam back against the van again, then drop to the ground, face numb, head filled with blinding pain. He picks me up by the collar again, lifting me until our faces are just inches apart. My feet are off the ground, toes barely scraping the slush.

“Hinchcliffe, I—”

“What the hell are you trying to do? I should kill you right now.”

“That’s your answer to everything.”

He throws me back against the van again, and I drop to my knees. I watch him as he comes toward me, drenched with his own blood, fist raised ready to strike again and finish me off. I don’t have the strength to defend myself anymore. Just let it happen …

“I don’t understand,” he says. “Why, Danny? You could’ve had it all.”

“What, like you?” I manage to spit at him, my mouth filled with blood. “We’ve all lost everything, you stupid bastard, and it’s all thanks to people like you. The more you try to take, the more stuff slips through your fingers, didn’t you realize that? You started with a whole town and ended up barricaded into one corner of it. Even then you were a virtual prisoner in the courthouse. You’ve lost that now and there’s nothing left. It’s over. It’s all gone. Just leave me alone, Hinchcliffe.”

Still staring down at me and breathing hard, he takes a step back, then runs forward and punches his fist into the side of the van. I slowly pick myself up, dribbling red into the snow around my feet.

“Just kill me if you’re going to. Why don’t you just get it over with?”

“Because you’re still useful. Look around you, Danny. The fact you’re here at all just proves my point. There are people still fighting and dying in Lowestoft, but you’re safe. We’re safe. It’s like you’ve been observing the rest of us, only getting involved and getting your hands dirty when you absolutely have to.”

“Or when you forced me to.”

“Look what you achieved—”

“I’ve achieved nothing, Hinchcliffe. I’ve lost everything, same as you.”

“But you’re the man who walked free from a gas chamber. You told me stories about how you talked your way out of Unchanged traps. For Christ’s sake, you were almost right under one of the bombs but you managed to get away.”

“Right place, right time…”

“It’s more than that. It has to be.”

“Empty words, Hinchcliffe.”

“No, I swear. Listen to me, we can get out of this mess and start again. I know where we can find food, and there’s a place—”

“You’re out of your fucking mind. You just don’t get it, do you? All you know now is fighting. You won’t ever change. It doesn’t matter where you go or what you do, the end result will always be the same. You don’t need me to help you fuck things up.”

Hinchcliffe walks away, and I can see that he’s losing a lot of blood from his left leg. He’s limping badly. I push myself off the side of the van and try to slip past and get to the front of the pier entrance building, but I’ve barely taken a couple of steps before he sees me. He lunges for me, and I lose my already unsteady footing and hit the deck. I’m on my back looking up at him leaning down over me. He draws a holstered machete.

“Maybe you’re right—”

“Leave him alone, you bastard,” another voice shouts. I lean my head back and see that it’s Parker. He’s aiming a rifle directly at Hinchcliffe, and behind him Joseph Mallon is standing in an open doorway. Hinchcliffe stares at the Unchanged in disbelief, then dives at Parker, unable to suppress his instinctive hatred of the Unchanged. Scrambling back out of the way, Parker fires the rifle but misses as Hinchcliffe anticipates and drops to the ground. Seemingly oblivious to any pain he must be feeling, he immediately gets up again and flashes his blade at Parker. The Unchanged man’s rifle and his severed right arm fall into the snow just a short distance from where I’m lying. Hinchcliffe drags him down and drops onto his stomach, then plunges the machete down again and again into his flesh, totally consumed with Hate, everything else temporarily forgotten. I drag myself back up and push Joseph away.