David Moody: Them or Us

Seven Minutes Later

THEY DRAGGED THE BODIES they could find from the surf beneath the collapsed pier, most of them dead, some injured, one of them dying. They carried the dying man to safety and hid him in an empty building along with the others who’d managed to get back to shore. They made him as comfortable and warm as they could. There was nothing more they could do for him than that.

They stayed there for more than half a day.

When they were finally ready to move, Danny McCoyne briefly regained consciousness but quickly slipped away again. He drifted in and out of darkness for a couple of minutes longer, enough time to know that the Unchanged were carrying him. He could hear the snow crunching beneath their feet. Or was it shingle? He looked up, and between flashes of brightness, he saw a face he recognized. The man put a reassuring hand on his shoulder and spoke to him.

“Not long now, Danny. Almost there.”

Two Days Later

THE NEXT TIME HE woke for anything more than a couple of minutes, the whole world felt like it was moving. The ground was shifting and rolling beneath him. He felt the same hand on the same shoulder, gently shaking him awake this time. He tried to sit up but he couldn’t. No strength left.

When Joseph saw that he was awake, he called for help. Two men wrapped Danny up in blankets and helped carry him outside. The brightness hurt his eyes and his vision was blurred, but he could see and feel enough to know they were at sea. They sat him down in a chair, and Joseph sat next to him. Danny looked around and, very slowly, his eyes began to adjust to the daylight. At first all he could see was the gray above and the blue-green around them, but soon he saw distant browns and blacks, too. The world slowly began to come into focus. He was looking back toward the land and the blackened, smoldering ruins of yet another dead town.

“We’ve been out here for the best part of two days,” Joseph said quietly. “Found this boat just outside Southwold and managed to get it going. I just wanted you to know that we made it. Thought you’d like to see what you did before…”

He didn’t need to finish his sentence. Danny knew what he was avoiding saying, and he was right, he didn’t have long. He was surprised he was still here. Maybe he was dead already? He didn’t think that was the case. He could still feel his body running down. Parts of him ached; other parts he couldn’t feel at all. He hurt less than he had before, but he knew that wasn’t a good thing.

The boat slowly turned through the water, lazily sailing back toward the shore. The sun was right above them now, hazy yellow, just about visible through the wispy cloud cover. It hurt Danny to look, but it was too beautiful not to.

“This is what’s left of Felixstowe, I think,” Joseph said. “We’ve stopped a few times to look for supplies, but everywhere has been pretty much the same as this. Everywhere is dead. Not a soul left alive. Oh, we found your jeep before we left Southwold, by the way. Got all the supplies you brought with you. Quite a hoard you had there, Danny.”

Joseph waited for a response, but none came.

“We’re going to keep heading down this way. My guess—my hope—is that if we can get south of what’s left of London, we might find somewhere. Kent, maybe. Dungeness.”

“Isle of Wight,” Danny managed to say, his weak voice sounding like someone else’s. “It’s supposed to be nice there.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Joseph said.

Danny said nothing else. He just sat back and listened to the normality of the moment. The waves lapping against the bow of the boat, the engine chugging contentedly, people talking, kids playing …

“You still here, Danny?” Joseph asked, startling him. “I was hoping you were going to stay with us a while longer.”

“Don’t know if I can.”

He rested his hand on Danny’s arm. “You should try. You deserve it. You did a good thing, you know.”

“I did more bad things than good. We all did.”

Danny looked across the deck of the boat. He saw people standing out in the open with each other, surveying the dead town they were approaching. Just a couple of days ago, they’d been trapped underground with little realistic prospect of ever seeing daylight again. He watched as Chloe played with Peter Sutton’s grandson, both of them wrapped up in as many layers of clothing as they could comfortably wear. At the bow of the boat, a man and a woman stood together, locked in a passionate embrace, wind blowing the woman’s hair, the two of them looking like characters from some film.

“You want a drink?”

“No. Save it.”

“You should try to have something.”

“No point. Just want to rest now.”

Danny closed his eyes, the brightness finally too much to stand. In the darkness he thought back and remembered the people he’d lost. He wished that Lizzie and their three children were on this boat now instead of him. Or maybe here with him …

A few seconds passed. Or had it been minutes? The dead town seemed closer than when he’d last looked.

“You still with us, friend?”

Danny’s eyes flickered open again. “Very tired, Joe.”

Joseph wrapped another blanket around his shoulders. Danny let his head loll forward, but then snapped it back again quickly when he heard a child yelp with pain. The noise startled him. It made him panic, made him remember.

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing,” Joseph said, immediately sensing his dying friend’s unease. “Just kids being kids, that’s all.”

Danny watched as a woman separated Jake and Chloe, both of them bickering over half a can of soda.

“She stole it off me,” Jake protested. He yanked Chloe’s hair, then grabbed the can from her and knocked the rest of it back in one gulp.

“That was mine!” Chloe screamed, lunging for him again. “I’ll get you for that,” she sobbed.

Exhausted, Danny’s eyes flickered shut.

ALSO BY DAVID MOODY

Hater

Dog Blood

Autumn

Autumn: The City

Autumn: Purification

Autumn: Disintegration

Autumn: Aftermath

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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THEM OR US. Copyright © 2011 by David Moody. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.