Them or Us (28 page)

I walk back toward the little girl and check her chains, which are held in position with a padlock.

“Don’t hurt her,” the boy shouts as the girl squirms to get away. “I’ll get you if you hurt her.”

“I’m not going to hurt anyone,” I answer, testing the strength of the lock and the clasp around her bony ankle. “I’ll be back. I’ll see what I can do.”

The noise of battle outside is increasing in volume. Even through the walls of this huge place, I can hear occasional bangs and screams, the helicopter flying overhead, guns and shells being fired, and the constant noise of engines. I try to block it all from my mind as I look for something to free the children with.
All I need to do,
I tell myself,
is let them go.

In the farthest corner of this dank, foul-smelling place, I find a bloodstained workbench that’s covered in lengths of chains, discarded locks, bits of bone, small teeth, and other, less easily identifiable things. There’s a huge bunch of keys hung on a metal hoop on the wall, but there are too many to go through and I can’t waste time checking each one of them. Instead I opt for a set of heavy, long-handled metal cutters I find leaning against the side of the bench. I head back to the pens, and the girl screams as I advance toward her with the cutters held high. Her helpless sobbing is heartbreaking.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I tell her, desperate for her to understand. “Look.”

I climb over to the boy. He continues to recoil from me. I pull him closer, dragging him back across the floor, then use the cutters to snap the loop of the padlock that holds his chains in place. He removes his shackles, then clambers out of the pen after me, his movements stilted and clumsy after being restricted for so long. This time when I approach the girl she’s a little quieter—still sobbing, but not screaming. I carefully ease the blade of the cutters over the loop of her padlock, then press down hard. It takes more effort this time (and I can feel my energy levels really starting to fade), but the lock eventually gives. I unravel her chains, and then, when she can’t get over the barrier, I reach down and lift her up. There’s nothing to her, absolutely no weight at all. She holds on to me, her tiny arms tight around my shoulders, her legs wrapped around my waist. I try to put her down, but I can’t. She won’t let go. This reminds me how it used to be when I held Ellis and the boys, feeling them close against you, hearing their breathing, reacting to their every movement …

Put the fucking kid down and get out of here.

I try to lower her, but she still won’t let go. When another loud explosion rocks the building, she grips me even tighter, her fingers digging into my back.

Put the fucking kid down!

This time I peel her off me, prying off her fingers and unraveling her legs, then putting her down and backing up to put some distance between us. She just stands there looking up at me, not saying anything but asking a thousand questions with those huge, innocent eyes.

“Where’s Charlie?”

“Who?”

“Charlie,” she says. “You know, Charlotte. She came here with us.”

She’s talking about the dead girl upstairs. I try to tell her the truth, but I can’t.

“She’s already gone,” I lie. “Now you need to do the same. Get out of here. There’s trouble coming.”

“Where?” the boy asks, shivering. He’s dressing himself in rags he’s stripped from another child’s corpse.

“What?”

“Where do we go?”

“How am I supposed to know? Just stay away from the town. Get onto the beach and follow it south as far as you can.”

“Which way’s south?”

“That way,” I tell him, pointing and backing away from them both again.

“But the people out there,” he continues, his voice unsure, “the Haters … they’ll find us, won’t they? They’ll kill us…”

The girl starts to cry again, and I struggle to shut the noise out. What do these children think I am? I spent a couple of days in their shelter with them, but surely they must know I’m not like them. Then again, they also know I’m not acting like any of the other people they’ve seen since they’ve been here.

“Can’t you take us back?” the girl asks, her voice barely audible. Her bottom lip quivers and tears roll down her cheeks.

“Back where?”

“Back to where we were before. With Sally and Mr. Greene. Where all those cones and traffic signs were.”

She’s talking about the storage depot where I found them. “You can’t go back there,” I answer quickly, not thinking about the effect my words will have on her. “That place is gone now, and all the people who were there are gone, too.”

She just nods, her tiny body shuddering as she sobs, her tear-streaked face filled with resignation.

“You got any food?” the boy asks. “Really hungry.”

I check my bag and my pockets. All I find is the half-finished packet of sweets, which I hand over.

“My daddy says—” the girl begins.

“That you shouldn’t take sweets from strangers,” I say, finishing her sentence for her, immediately slipping back into parent mode even after all this time. “Your daddy was right, but things are a bit different now, aren’t they?”

She doesn’t answer, too busy cramming several of the sweets into her mouth. Strings of sticky dribble are running down her chin. This is probably the first thing these kids have eaten in days. The roar of another engine outside snaps me out of my dangerous malaise. I jog toward the nearest door.

“You can’t leave us,” the boy shouts after me.

“Yes I can.”

“But they’ll kill us…”

“It’s probably for the best.”

I know I should just keep moving and not look back again, but I can’t. Standing behind me, their mouths full of sugar, faces streaked with dirt, are two kids. Two normal, rational kids behaving like normal, rational human beings, not like the hundreds of blood-crazed, mad bastards fighting to the death outside this place. Kids like the children in the family I used to be a part of before the Hate tore everything apart and left my world in ruins, not like the barely controlled, feral creatures Hinchcliffe held captive elsewhere on this site. This innocent, completely helpless boy and girl deserve better than this, but what else can I do? They’re dead already. The second they’re outside this place they’ll be torn to pieces … My head fills with images of them being attacked by a pack of people like me, being ripped apart just because they’re not like us. It’s inevitable—just the way the world is now—but the idea of them being hunted down and killed suddenly feels abhorrent.

There is an answer. It’s obvious, but I don’t want to accept it.

“Please,” the boy says, his eyes scanning my face, desperately searching for even the faintest flicker of hope, “just help us to get away.”

“Okay,” I say, cursing my stupidity as soon as I’ve spoken. “I’ll take you somewhere there are other people like you.”

43

THIS IS THE VAN
they used to bring me and these kids back here after the nest had been cleared out. I find it parked in another part of the factory, left abandoned in an area of open space next to a roller-shutter door, the keys still in the ignition. I open up the back and try to get the kids inside, but neither of them will move. They stare at the metal cage bolted to the wall, no doubt remembering the last time.

“Get in,” I tell them, gently pushing the girl forward. She doesn’t move. The boy holds her hand. “What’s your name, son?”

“Jake.”

“And what about you?”

“Chloe.”

“Listen, we don’t have a lot of time. There’s a lot of fighting going on outside, so we need to move fast. I know you’re scared, but if you don’t get into the van, you’re not going to make it. You don’t have to get into the cage, just get into the damn van.”

Chloe looks at Jake. He scowls, thinks for a second longer, then nods. I help them up, shut the door, then head over toward the roller-shutter. It won’t move. Another fucking padlock. I fetch the metal cutters and try to get it open. It eventually gives, but not without an unexpected amount of effort. I’m soaked with sweat now, and I can feel the sickness returning.

The engine starts on the third try. I watch the fuel gauge climb. I will it to keep moving, but it barely manages to reach a quarter full. That should be enough to get us out of Lowestoft and clear of the fighting; then it’s just a question of finding Peter Sutton and the Unchanged bunker, dumping these kids, and disappearing. I try to visualize the route to the bunker, remembering how long and featureless the roads around here are. One wrong turn and I could end up back in the center of Lowestoft before I’ve even realized I’ve gone the wrong way.

“Hold on,” I shout to the kids as I turn the van around and pull away. I watch them in the rearview mirror, huddled together in the corner, freezing cold and terrified but relieved to be free. “Keep your heads down. Don’t let anyone see you, okay?”

“Where are we going?” Jake asks as I steer through the open door and onto the road, out into the gray light of day.

“There’s a place I know. Someone showed it to me a few days ago. There are people like you there.”

“Like the old place?” Chloe asks.

“Better than that,” I tell her.

The engine splutters and almost dies, and I remember how unreliable this heap of a van is. I drive away from the factory, accelerating hard, then stop.

“What’s the matter?” Jake asks, his voice suddenly sounding nervous again.

“Nothing. Just trying to decide which way’s best.”

Fuck. I didn’t think this through. Truth is, there is no best way out of here. Heading north around the top of the compound would probably be easiest, but that’s going in completely the wrong direction, and I’d have to drive a huge loop around to get anywhere near the bunker. The best—the only—option is to try to head south and get out over the bridge. For a fraction of a second I consider either dumping the kids altogether or trying to run with them along the beach, but I know both those choices are useless, too. All I can do is start driving and hope for the best.

I accelerate again, and for the first few yards it’s easy. The roads are still swarming with people, but they’re more interested in surviving now than in anything I’m doing.
All I need to do is get over the bridge,
I keep telling myself.
Once I’m on the other side of the water everything will be easier.

The people here are herding along the streets like sheep, some moving toward the fires still burning around the courthouse, others heading out of town. The massive column of people and vehicles I saw coming through the gate across the bridge earlier seems now to have reduced to a slow trickle. The air is filled with drifting smoke, and the figures on the road move to either side as I drive toward them. It’s less than half a mile to the gate. A couple of minutes and we’ll be out of here. I swerve around a fight that spills out of a building, and when I look back in my mirror I see that Jake has his face pressed against the glass.

“Get your fucking head down!” I scream at him. He does as I say, but it’s too late, he’s been seen. Perhaps because no one’s able to process the bizarre reality of the appearance of an Unchanged child in the middle of the crumbling chaos of Lowestoft, there’s the slightest delay before I’m aware of any real reaction. But then, when I brake hard to avoid a collision with some kind of armored truck coming the other way, a horde of people begin throwing themselves at the sides of the van. The engine almost dies, and they hammer against the glass and try to grab at the doors. The children sink down and cover their heads in terror, and I accelerate again, barely managing to keep the van on the road.

I follow the bend in the road around to the left, and I can see the bridge ahead of me now. The gates are open, but there’s still a heavy military presence here. Ankin’s troops are blocking the way in and out of town, doing all they can to keep the trouble contained. I can already see several of them moving toward me, weapons raised.

“Stay down!” I yell again at the kids. I jam my foot down on the accelerator pedal, sink back into my seat, and grip the steering wheel tight as we race toward the blockade. Over the top of the dashboard I see sudden, frantic movement as we hurtle toward the troops and they dive away in either direction as I smash through them. Shots ring out and bullets thud into the side of the van. The back windows shatter, showering Jake and Chloe with glass.

“Who’s shooting?” Jake asks. He crawls along the length of the van, then gets up and hangs over the seat next to me, blocking my view behind.

“Get out of the way,” I yell at him, trying to push him away and still keep control. He fights to stay where he is, but I manage to shove him hard out of the way, and in the suddenly clear rearview mirror I see headlights behind us. The fuckers are following.

“Someone’s coming,” Chloe wails, looking out through a bullet hole. “I can see motorbikes.”

I look up again. There are two bikes and a jeep in pursuit now. We’re on the A12, and although littered with debris, the road is virtually clear of other traffic. Sticking to the main road is the safest option. If I try to find an alternative route I could end up driving down a road that’s blocked or doubling back and going the wrong way. I need to keep going until we reach Wrentham. Once we’re there I’ll know we’re not far from the bunker. Just got to keep moving …

The miles flash past quickly, the road straight and uninterrupted. Our pursuers are gaining fast, but that’s inevitable given the dilapidated state of this van. Being caught is an obvious concern, but I know I have an even bigger problem to deal with. Assuming we make it to the bunker, how do we get in without leading Ankin’s soldiers straight to it?

“Are we nearly there?” Chloe shouts at me from the back of the van, her innocent comment striking an immediately familiar chord. I instinctively react like I always used to.

“We’ll get there when we get there.”

“They’re coming,” Jake says. “Drive faster.”

“I can’t.”

One of the bikes accelerates, and within a few seconds it’s up alongside us. I try to ram it off the road, but the driver anticipates my clumsy maneuver and drops back out of the way, and it’s me that almost loses control. I clip the curb, then steer hard and overcompensate, caught out by the camber of the road and almost hitting the curb on the other side. The second bike passes us now, squeezing through the gap, and I’m starting to wish I’d stayed hidden in Rona Scott’s office and never bothered trying to get out.

Wrentham. We enter the village at speed, sandwiched between the bikes, with the jeep gaining steadily. Now the dumb bastard on the bike ahead of me is regretting being in front. He looks back over his shoulder, trying to work out which way I’m going to go as we race toward the crossroads, then chooses the wrong option and continues toward Southwold. I steer right to take the road that leads to the bunker, and I shove my foot down hard on the accelerator pedal again to get to maximum speed and take advantage of this moment of clear road ahead. The van’s struggling to keep going, and it’s just a matter of seconds before both of the bikes are swarming around the back again. Fortunately the road here narrows slightly, and I weave from side to side. There’s no way either of them is getting past.

I catch a glimpse of something through the bare-branched trees. It’s gone again in a heartbeat, and I think I must have been mistaken, but then there’s another gap in the hedgerow and I look across and see the remains of the battlefield I remember seeing when Sutton brought me out here.

We’re close now. Very close.

Wait. This must be it. I’m sure I can see the outline of the farm buildings in the near distance up ahead. I swerve hard to block one of the bikes from trying to pass again, and Chloe screams with pain as she’s thrown across the back of the van and hits the side of her head against the metal cage. Her piercing scream cuts right through me, but it helps me focus, too. It’s like when Ellis and Josh used to fight in the backseat of my car.

“Hold on,” I tell them both, as much for my benefit as theirs, quickly checking over my shoulder that they’re both braced for impact. I let one of the bikes slip past, then slam on the brakes. The first rider races ahead, at first not even noticing I’ve stopped. The second driver pulls up hard to avoid a collision and loses balance, the bike kicking out from under him. I accelerate again, but the engine doesn’t react. It threatens to stall, and I will it to keep ticking over. Our speed finally begins to increase, and I steer hard right through the open gateway into the dilapidated farm, a few precious seconds of space behind us.

The well-worn wheels of the van struggle to get a grip on the mud- and ice-covered track. The back end swings out violently as I turn, and I feel it smack against one of the gateposts, but I manage to keep control and keep my speed up, trying to remember the exact layout of the farm as I career toward the collection of dark, empty buildings, desperate to get out of sight before any of our pursuers catch up. Directly ahead now is the derelict cowshed where Peter Sutton left his car when he brought me here. I look back and see the jeep just turning into the farm. I drive into the shed, then slam on the brakes and kill the engine.

“Keep your damn heads down,” I yell at the kids again, hoping I’ve done enough to keep us hidden. I can hear the jeep approaching. “Don’t move a muscle! If they see either of you, we’ve all had it.”

I sink down into my seat and watch in the mirrors, completely still, moving only my eyes. Within a few seconds the jeep appears in the muddy yard behind us and skids to an abrupt halt. Moments later the two bikes arrive. With the bike riders, at least one other soldier in the jeep, probably more … the odds aren’t looking good. I could try to take them by surprise, start the engine again, drive away and hope to get enough of a head start on them, then hide out and come back here later, but what’s that going to achieve? I’m low on fuel, and the bunker is the only place I can take these kids.

“Head hurts,” Chloe whimpers.

“Shut up,” I hiss at her. “They’ll hear you.”

Jake reaches across and covers her mouth with his hand. In the middle of the yard behind us, two more of Ankin’s soldiers get out of the back of the jeep, then split up, the driver ordering them away in different directions. Along with the two motorcyclists they fan out across the farm, and I watch in the rearview mirror as one of them starts walking directly toward the cowshed, no doubt following the fresh tracks we’ve left in the mud and ice. Moving as little as possible, I reach across to the passenger seat and grab the metal cutters I brought with me from the factory.

I can hear the soldier approaching, boots crunching louder with every advancing step. It’s a woman, her face smeared with the grime of battle, and she’s carrying a pistol. She peers into the shed, then edges into the darkness cautiously, not about to take any chances. She moves slowly, inching ever closer to the back of this still-warm bullet-riddled wreck of a van. For a fraction of a second our eyes seem to meet in the rearview mirror, but I don’t think she’s yet sure what she saw. She takes another step forward, then stops and spins around on the spot. The silence is interrupted by a single gunshot. The back of her skull explodes out over the back of the van and I hear her dead body slam against the vehicle before she drops to the ground. I can’t see anything, but I guess there’s someone standing on the other side of the farm with a rifle. There’s a second shot—I can’t see if it hits anyone—then there’s a third, and I’m pretty sure that one’s from another direction entirely. I’m trying to work out what’s going on from my pitifully small viewpoint while still keeping low in the driver’s seat; I don’t want any of Sutton’s people taking me out before they realize who I am and what—
who
—I’ve brought them.

I can see two soldiers crouched down on my side of the jeep, using the car for cover. They begin to return fire, single shots, and almost instantly a hail of gunfire ricochets around the farm. It reminds me of a Western gunfight, one of those old Saturday afternoon films I used to watch when I was a kid. Then the windshield of the jeep is shattered by a bullet and I only realize the driver was still inside when his now-dead body half-falls out of the door. One of the others runs for cover, but he’s shot as he sprints towards this dilapidated shed. The last soldier scrambles up and runs back to the nearest bike. He drags it upright and jumps on, showering his fallen comrades with mud as he hauls it around in a tight circle and aims at the farmyard gate.

I get out of the van, run round to the back, and help the children climb out. Holding Chloe’s hand tight in one hand, Jake by the other, I wait just inside the shed door where I can still see out. In the distance, at the highest point of the dirt track before it drops down toward the bunker, a lone figure is frantically waving at me.

“Okay, now we’ve got to run,” I tell the children, and as we pound across the churned-up farmyard, Jake pulls free and sprints ahead. Now I can see the man waving us on is Dean. Last time I saw him, that rifle was aimed at me.