Them or Us (25 page)

“Are you bribing me now?”

He grins. “Suppose I am. Still, it’s a genuine offer, Danny. You help me, and I’ll help you.”

“And you think your people
can
help me?”

“Like I said, I doubt we can save you, but I’m sure we can make things a little easier. We could either give you a while longer or make the wait a little shorter, whichever you choose. You interested?”

“Not really.”

“Come on, Danny,” he says, his frustration clear. “Just talk to Hinchcliffe for me. They say he listens to you.”

“Hinchcliffe doesn’t listen to anyone.”

“You underestimate yourself.”

“No, you overestimate me.”

“That’s not what I’m hearing. Look, there’s nothing you can do or say to change the fact that we’re marching on Lowestoft tomorrow, you included. Go on ahead and talk to him for me, pave the way for us, and I’ll guarantee your safety.”

“Just how are you going to do that?”

“Leave it to me. Llewellyn will travel with you. He’ll get you in, then he’ll get you out again. After that, the time you have left is your own, I promise. A few more hours, one meeting with Hinchcliffe, then I swear you’re free to go.”

35

IT’S PITCH BLACK AND
rain is coming in through the broken window when Llewellyn barges into my freezing-cold room and hauls me up onto my feet. Christ, it must be the middle of the night. He drags me downstairs, ignoring my protests and hardly saying a word, then shoves me out through the museum door. With my right arm held in his viselike grip, he leads me through the muddy quagmire outside.

“Time for your checkup,” he says, virtually throwing me into the back of a long red and white truck, then slamming and locking the door behind me. It’s as dark inside the truck as it is outside, and I work my way along its length looking for another way out. It’s some kind of medical vehicle, laid out like a makeshift mobile clinic. On closer inspection, it looks like one of those blood donation units that used to come to the offices back home every so often. I used to give blood just for the free cup of tea and an hour off work.

I’m drenched and shivering. The windows are welded shut, and there’s no other obvious way out. There’s a skylight above me, and that looks like my only viable means of escape. Groaning with effort, I manage to drag a metal box across the floor and try to get up, but it’s not high enough and the tips of my fingers barely reach the ceiling. I’m looking around for something else to stand on when the door flies open again. The noise startles me, and I look around to see a balding, willow-framed man climbing the steps up into the back of the unit, using the handrail to both support himself and haul himself up. He looks at me with a mix of bewilderment and disinterest, then calmly closes the door again and hangs his light from a hook on the ceiling.

“Danny McCoyne?” he asks as he removes a scarf and two outdoor jackets, then puts on a heavily stained white overcoat.

“Yes.”

“Sit down, please, Mr. McCoyne, and stop trying to escape. There’s really no need; I’m actually trying to help you. It’s bad enough that I have to come here at this hour, so let’s not make things any harder than they need be.”

With little other option, I do as he says, taken aback for a moment by being called Mr. McCoyne for the first time in as long as I can remember. He takes off his half-moon glasses, which have steamed up, and cleans them on his grubby lapel. He’s tall and thin, and something about his manner and the way he carries himself suggests he’s well educated. In comparison to Rona Scott he’s a bloody angel. That foul woman is a butcher: brutal and rough. I visualize this man standing amid the carnage on the battlefield, carefully dissecting Unchanged rather than just hacking them apart like everyone else.

“Mr. Ankin has asked me to have a look and see if there’s anything we can do for you. How long have you been sick?”

“I don’t know when it started. It’s only over the last few weeks that things have gotten really bad.”

He nods thoughtfully, then starts to carry out a very brief physical examination. He checks the same things Rona Scott checked, but he makes me feel like a patient, not a slab of meat. He checks my pulse, listens to my heart, looks into my eyes, asks me about allergies and medication and all the other questions doctors used to ask back in the day. I’m feeling nervous suddenly, and without thinking I start asking questions back—pointless small talk to calm myself down.

“Have you been with Ankin long?”

“Several months.”

“Where have you been based?”

“In this unit, mostly,” he answers as he prods and pokes at my gut with freezing, spindly fingers.

“Have you seen much of the rest of the country?”

“Too much,” he says, obviously in no mood to chat.

“Ankin was telling me about Hull. Were you there?”

“For a while, until the fighting.”

“What fighting? Ankin said—”

“Look, I know you’re anxious, Mr. McCoyne, but I’m trying to work. Please shut up and stop asking questions.”

The doctor shoves his hand down the neck of his sweater and pulls out a bunch of keys on a chain. He studies them carefully, holding them closer to the light, then picks one and unlocks a metal cabinet. He mooches through the contents of various shelves filled with clinking glass bottles and vials before selecting one and peering at its label through his glasses, which are now perched perilously close to the end of his nose.

“You’re obviously very important to Mr. Ankin,” he says, rejecting one bottle and choosing another.

“You think?”

“Absolutely. Believe me, they don’t just dish this stuff out to every Tom, Dick, or Harry who needs it. Do you have any idea how many people are walking around out there in the same kind of condition as you are?”

“I don’t know how many people are walking around out there period,” I answer quickly.

“Fewer than you’d expect,” he says. “Now, I’m no expert, but I’ve seen an abnormal level of cancers and deaths from—”

“Wait a second. Go back a step. What do you mean, you’re no expert?”

He finally settles on a third bottle half-filled with clear liquid and draws a syringe-full from it.

“I’m no expert, but I’m no idiot, either. Truth is, there aren’t any experts left. This time last year I was researching genetics at Birmingham University, cutting up fruit flies, writing papers, and delivering lectures to students who couldn’t have been any less interested if they’d tried. I’d originally planned to go into medicine, and I did my basic training before I specialized, so I’m not a complete novice if that’s what you’re worried about. You know how these things have a habit of turning out. Since the war started I’ve spent most of my time patching up soldiers so they can keep fighting, learning on the job. It makes a change to be asked to do something different.”

“But you do know what you’re doing?”

“I know enough. Listen, I may not be formally qualified, but you’re not going to find anyone better to help you today. Anyway, no one’s forcing you to have this treatment. Just go if you want to and we’ll say no more about it. I would offer to get you a second opinion, but mine’s the only opinion left!”

He chuckles to himself. I don’t see the funny side.

“It’s okay. Just do it.”

“You’re a lucky boy,” he says, patronizing me.

“I don’t feel lucky. What is that stuff, anyway?”

“Steroids. Keep you going for a while longer. It won’t do anything to fight the disease, but it’ll mask the symptoms for a time.”

“How long?”

“A day, maybe two.”

There’s a lull in the conversation as I peel back various layers of sodden clothing to expose the top of my right arm.

“What about me?”

“What about you?”

“How long do you think I’ve got left?”

I’ve asked the question before I’ve realized what I’m saying, and I immediately wish I could rewind time and retract it. Too late. He looks down at me again and frowns, then returns his attention to preparing the drugs for injection.

“Bear in mind,” he says, hunting for a swab and a reasonably clean dressing, “that I don’t have any medical records for you, not that anyone has any records anymore. So my estimations could be way off. This is based purely on my gut instinct and several other recent cases I’ve seen, nothing else, and you also have to remember that we’re about to reach the coldest part of winter, and I doubt any of us are eating properly, so we’re all going to be more susceptible to—”

“I understand all of that,” I interrupt, “just tell me what you think.”

“I don’t think you have long, Mr. McCoyne, I don’t think you have long at all. From what I can see, the disease looks pretty well advanced.”

He shoves the needle into my skin, but I don’t feel a thing. He drops the syringe into a plastic bin, then picks up another. He grips the same arm tight, then injects me again. This time it hurts.

“What the hell’s that? Jesus, how much of that stuff are you putting into me?”

“Not steroids this time,” he says, his voice beginning to fade. “This one’s a special request from Messrs. Ankin and Llewellyn.”

36

MOVING. DRIVING. ROAD’S UNEVEN.
Being thrown from side to side.

I open my eyes and look around. It’s light, and I’m in the front passenger seat of a van—the same one that brought me to Norwich, I think. Llewellyn’s next to me. I pretend to still be asleep while I try to work out what’s going on. Now I’m fully awake I realize I feel less ill than usual. Could it be that the drugs Ankin’s doctor gave me are actually having a positive effect? I feel stronger today, and this sudden, drug-fueled change in my health makes me realize how sick I really have become. A hole in the road causes the van to lurch. I hit my head against the window and sit up. Llewellyn looks across and sees that I’m awake.

“Fuck me, you took your time coming around,” he says. “I was starting to get worried. Thought Ankin’s quack had given you an overdose.”

The doctor. Injections. It starts coming back to me. I sit up and try to rub my eyes, but my wrist hurts and my hand is yanked back when I try to lift it. Fuckers have handcuffed me to the van door.

“What’s this for?”

“Precaution,” Llewellyn says. “I didn’t want you running off on me. Now shut up, wake up, and get ready.”

“Why, where are we?”

“About five miles out of Lowestoft.”

I sit up quickly in panic and look around. He’s right, we’re on the A146 heading back toward Lowestoft, and we’re not alone. There are several of Ankin’s vehicles ahead of us and many more behind, all easily identified by the circular red and white insignia daubed in paint. The crude designs vary in size and shape from machine to machine, but their simple aim is achieved—these markings exist to clearly differentiate them from us.

“So what’s the plan?” I ask. “I assume there is a plan.”

“Ankin’s troops are already in place,” he explains, “split between the north and south entrances to town.”

“Already?”

“They’re on the outskirts, thousands of them by all accounts, drawing the crowds away from Hinchcliffe’s compound. It’s called tactics, you see, McCoyne. These people are smart, and well tooled. They’ll get the locals on their side, and that’ll leave just Hinchcliffe and the rest of the men for Ankin and us to deal with. I’ll get you in, and while you’re talking to Hinchcliffe, I’ll tell the others what’s going on.”

“How am I supposed to let Ankin know what he says?”

“Christ, you’re bloody naive. Ankin doesn’t give a shit what he says. We can all guess what Hinchcliffe’s reaction’s going to be.”

“So why are we even bothering?”

“To keep him busy. To distract him from what’s actually happening.”

“You mean I’m a decoy?”

“That’s about it.”

“Shit. Forget it. I won’t do it.”

“Listen, friend, you’re handcuffed to this van and we’re not stopping until we’re outside Hinchcliffe’s front door. I’m delivering you personally. You don’t have a lot of choice. Do what you’ve got to do, and if you behave yourself and Hinchcliffe doesn’t do you in, I’ll come back and get you out of there.”

“You bastard. I’ll tell him what’s happening. I’ll tell him what you did.”

“Do you think I care? Hinchcliffe will be finished before nightfall. You, too, if you’re not careful.”

“What about Curtis and the rest of them? You think they’re all going to swap sides just like that because you tell them to?”

“Well, that’s up to them, isn’t it? But wouldn’t you? Let’s face it, with Ankin and all this crew on one side, and a shit like Hinchcliffe standing on his own on the other, there’s no contest, is there?”

37

THE A46 SPLITS AND
we head south, down toward the bottom edge of Lowestoft, passing close to the housing development where I’ve been living. The van is still wedged between Ankin’s trucks and other vehicles, with a tank leading the way. Just over a mile now.

We’re soon passing through the familiar shanty-town surroundings, but the scene is very different from what I’ve seen here before. More of Ankin’s troops are up ahead, forming a blockade on the A12 just prior to where the first of the underclass hordes are gathered. I understand that this is just one section of this so-called army, but there are far fewer of them than I’d imagined. I’d pictured endless columns of uniformed soldiers, armed to the teeth, backed up with huge amounts of firepower. The reality is unsettling. There are just hundreds where I expected to see thousands. Two or three tanks where I expected to see twenty or thirty. One small airplane …

“Where’s everybody else?”

“I think this
is
everybody else,” Llewellyn replies under his breath, sounding as surprised as me.

There are several lines of these so-called soldiers blocking the road ahead, each of them carrying a makeshift riot shield. Coming the other way are the first of the underclass, and I can see a bizarre range of reactions taking place wherever the two sides collide. Some remain in their shelters, seemingly too afraid to move, while others grab whatever they can use as weapons, determined to protect themselves at all costs from these perceived invaders. Some immediately capitulate; others fight like they’ve just uncovered an Unchanged nest. The vehicle leading the convoy begins to slow.

“What the fuck…?” Llewellyn mumbles, as shocked by what he’s seeing as I am.

We’re about two-thirds of a mile from the compound, just on the edge of the bulk of the underclass settlements. The convoy stops well behind the line of shielded soldiers, and I sit up in my seat to try to get a better view of what’s happening. Again and again, the range of reactions I’ve already seen is being repeated. Some people are throwing themselves at the feet of Ankin’s troops as if they’re their saviors, about to pluck them up and whisk them away from the unending hell their lives have become. Others attack the soldiers, perhaps driven by some deranged desire to defend the little they have here because it’s all they have left. Deeper in, pockets of underclass are beginning to turn against each other now as rifts appear between groups of people and individuals. Some want to fight, some want to surrender. There’s no consensus.

Llewellyn stops just short of the soldiers. Ankin’s transport behind us has stopped, too. I look around and see one of Ankin’s lackeys running toward the van. Llewellyn opens the door and leans out to speak to him.

“What the fuck’s going on?” he demands, but he doesn’t get an answer.

“Ankin says you’re to keep moving. The rest of us will hold position here until this has died down and we’ve had word that McCoyne’s inside. We’ll start our advance in about an hour. Same goes for the columns waiting by the north gates.”

Columns? Christ, that’s an overly ambitious military term to be using. What I’m seeing around me now is hardly a column of soldiers. From where I’m sitting, apart from the color of their shirts there doesn’t seem a huge amount of difference between Ankin’s people moving one way and the ever-increasing crowds of underclass coming the other. In fact, the similarities are frightening.

The lackey disappears quickly, and Llewellyn slams the door. Conversation over.

“Well?”

He doesn’t answer me. Instead he just swerves around the back of the vehicle in front and drives on down the road. He blasts the horn as we approach the human blockade, and a ragged split appears. We accelerate and drive through, narrowly avoiding a bunch of desperate underclass running the other way. A lump of concrete smashes against the window I’m staring out through, the glass protected by a layer of heavy-duty wire mesh, and I jump back with surprise.

The last half mile to the compound is easier. Here word of the approaching army hasn’t yet reached the population, and most of them go about their business (or lack of business) as normal. They barely bat an eyelid as we drive past. It’s early, and many are still in their shelters, delaying the start of yet another day for as long as they can. Ahead of us a group of scavengers pick their way through a mountain of frost-covered refuse—an unplanned landfill site where a children’s play area used to be—looking for scraps of food in the fermenting rubbish. Others crowd around fires. Almost all of them ignore us.

We eventually reach the south gate across the bridge. Llewellyn glances across at me, then blasts the horn. A pair of eyes appear at a wire-mesh observation slot. They disappear again quickly, and the gate is opened.

“Don’t fuck this up,” he tells me. “All you have to do is keep him busy. I’ll give you an hour maximum. Just get this straight, freak, if you try anything stupid I’ll kill you. Ankin says you want out of here, so just do what you’ve been told and your freedom’s yours.”

I don’t respond. I barely even hear him. It’s partially because I’m too scared to care, but also because something’s not right here. The very center of Lowestoft feels different this morning. There are more fighters on the streets than usual, and some of the Switchbacks are unexpectedly armed. The place appears otherwise empty. Llewellyn tosses a set of keys over to me as we near the center of the compound. I drop them in the footwell and have to duck down and stretch to reach them, my wrist still attached to the door. I eventually manage to unlock the handcuffs. Do I make a run for it now? For a moment I consider it until I catch a glimpse in the side mirror of a mob of people in the street behind us. I look up again and see even more of them on either side of the road up ahead.

“I’m going to leave you just short of the courthouse, okay?” Llewellyn asks, focused and oblivious. “Just do what you’ve been told and you’ll be okay. Understand?”

“I understand.”

He throws the van around a sharp right-hand turn.

“We both want the same thing, McCoyne, we both want to get rid of Hinchcliffe. But I swear, if you—”

He stops talking abruptly, and I look up to see what’s wrong. The road ahead is blocked. Familiar-looking fighters advance toward us and surround the van. Curtis, Llewellyn’s deputy, hammers on the glass, and Llewellyn winds his window down.

“Hinchcliffe wants to see both of you,” he says. Llewellyn looks across at me, a hint of nervousness in his eyes.

“Doesn’t change anything. Just makes things a little more complicated. I’ll square things with this bunch. You go in there and feed him as much bullshit as you can.”

Before I can argue he’s out of the van. Patterson opens my door and pulls me out. Llewellyn tries to speak to Curtis.

“We need to talk.”

“Not interested. Get moving.”

“But Curtis—”

“If you’ve got a problem, tell Hinchcliffe.”

Llewellyn tries to struggle but stops when the stunted barrel of a shotgun is shoved into his ribs. With that we’re led toward the courthouse, surrounded by a phalanx of fighters.

“Good morning,” someone shouts. I glance around, but I can’t see who’s speaking; then I look up and see Hinchcliffe standing on the roof of the courthouse. “Bring them straight up here, boys,” he orders. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”