Dog Blood

THE TORRENTIAL RAINS WERE unexpected, weather forecasts a long-forgotten luxury. The flash floods wreaked unprecedented destruction on the city center refugee camp and its densely packed population. Those living out on the streets bore the brunt of the pain as almost a month’s worth of rain fell in less than two hours, literally washing away scores of people and their few remaining belongings. Blocked and broken drains stopped the water from draining away, transforming many streets and pavements into stagnant lakes. The basements and ground floors of countless buildings flooded. Almost half of the military base in the municipal park was washed away, with a huge number of refugee-occupied tents being lost. Then, to add insult to injury, as quickly as the rains came, they disappeared. Thankfully the sun remained hidden behind a layer of heavy cloud for most of the day, but the summer heat and a few sharp bursts of sunlight were enough to dry out and bake the bedraggled world below. Every outdoor surface was caked in a layer of foul-smelling mud, a grubby tidemark on building walls a grim reminder of how high the floodwaters had climbed. Huge mountains of rain-soaked garbage and waste began to ferment, the insect population feeding on them seeming to multiply by the hour.

Constant helicopter patrols continued to police the border and the exclusion zone. All scheduled missions outside the city were temporarily abandoned as, for once, the already severely depleted military forces turned their attention to the thousands of people supposedly in their care. Their orders were simple: Get as many people off the streets as possible (living or dead), then clear the major routes through town.

Ahead of the motley collection of vehicles that crawled slowly along Arley Road, groups of soldiers on foot moved from building to building through the early evening darkness. One of the snowplow-fitted trucks was used to clear a route through, pushing tons of sodden waste toward the gutter and leaving a noxious, three-foot-high drift of garbage in its wake. Hazmat-suited soldiers followed it along the freshly scraped pavement, pulling corpses from the mire and loading them into the backs of the yellow refuse and recycling trucks that had been recently commandeered from the now-dissolved city council.

A group of three soldiers emerged from a building that had once been a large house but in more recent years had been converted into office space. By flashlight, one of them spray-painted a simple message onto the brick wall beside the door, a message for those who followed.

37 INSIDE

6 DEAD

20 MORE

Ignoring the countless frightened questions and the grabbing hands of the refugees who surrounded them, the soldiers moved on to the next building. Thirty-seven survivors, six bodies to remove, space for twenty more inside.

There was a sudden loud thump on the door of room 33. Mark jumped up from the space on the damp floor where he’d been trying to sleep and ran to the door, tripping over Kate’s father’s leg, which hung out of the bed. He pressed his eye against the spyhole.

“Who is it?” Kate asked, standing close behind him.

“Soldiers.”

“Don’t let them in.”

“I have to.”

The lead soldier thumped the door again and yelled for them to open up.

“Don’t,” Kate pleaded.

“If I don’t open it they’ll batter the damn thing down.”

Before she could protest he pulled the door open. Three soldiers barged through, pushing him to the side. They stood in the middle of the room, each of them shining a flashlight around, exposing every corner of the small, cramped space.

“What’s going on?” Mark asked, positioning himself directly in one of the beams of light.

“Assessing space,” the soldier replied, looking around, his voice devoid of interest or emotion. “How many you got here?”

“Five of us. And five’s more than enough. There’s barely enough room as it is. We can’t fit anyone else in-”

“Who?”

“What?”

“Who’s here?”

“Me, my girlfriend, her parents, and my cousin’s wife. And my girlfriend’s pregnant. Like I said, there’s no room for anyone else.”

One of the other soldiers made a note on a clipboard. The others continued to look around. Kate forced her way between them, stopping one of them from getting around the side of the double bed. She stood in front of him, thrusting out her pregnant belly for maximum effect.

“He told you. There’s no more space here.”

The soldier ignored her, moving her out of the way, then ducking down and glancing under the bed. He shined his flashlight onto the bed’s occupants, the two wizened, starving, elderly refugees shaking in fear under the sheets like characters from a Roald Dahl story.

“Your parents?”

She nodded. He spun around. Lizzie sat on a chair in front of the bathroom door, her legs drawn up beneath her, nervously chewing on her nails. She kept her eyes down, refusing to look up. Mark tried diplomatically to coax the soldiers back out.

“My cousin’s partner,” he explained, keeping his voice low so she couldn’t hear him. “He was, you know… one of them? She lost her kids, and it’s really fucked her up. Honestly, man, it’s not a good idea to put anyone else in here with us. What with the baby coming and-”

“Not my decision, pal,” the soldier said.

“But I’ve been a volunteer,” he protested. “I’ve been outside the city with you. I’ve been-”

“Not my decision,” he said again. With that the soldiers left the room. Mark slammed the door shut and leaned against it, staying there until he was sure he’d heard the door to the next room opening. He started to walk back to the others, but Kate stopped him.

“We can’t go on like this,” she whispered. “We should find somewhere else for her. It’s not safe here.”

“And where exactly is safe these days?” He sighed, leaning back against the door again.

“But she’s-”

“She’s family. They all are. Your family, my family… our family. We stick together, and that’s all there is to it.”

“But Mark-”

“Would I ask you to throw your parents out?”

“That’s different-”

“Is it? I’m not talking about this again, Kate. It’s a pointless conversation. She’s family and she stays. No one’s going anywhere.”

24

BACK IN THE CELL. I cooperated and let them bring me back here. Thought the silence and darkness would help me work things out. My head was covered along the short walk back.

The longer I’ve been left, the more uncertain I’ve become again. Don’t know who or what I believe anymore. I can’t understand why I didn’t kill Mallon when I had the chance, but at the same time I know that while I’m here, he really is my best and only hope. He hasn’t screwed me over so far. But if he does, now he thinks I trust him, I’ll kill him before he even realizes I’ve turned.

I’m still chained to the bed, but now the shackles are only loosely anchored to the metal bed frame, and I’m able to move around. I’ve been able to move the board and look outside for the first time, but the view is disappointingly limited. All I can see from this window are the redbrick walls of other parts of this building and the gray slate roof of another section below. I can see a few other windows, and I’ve been watching them, hoping to catch sight of other people like me. I haven’t seen anyone else yet. It’s dark now. Maybe I’ll see more tomorrow.

My head is spinning. Still can’t think straight and work this out. The lines between what I feel and what I know are blurring to the point where I can’t make sense of anything anymore. I keep swinging between feeling anger and frustration that I didn’t kill Mallon, then wanting him to come back again so we can talk some more. I want him to tell me what he knows about Ellis, but at the same time I know he won’t have found anything out. I don’t even think he has the means to find out, but I can’t rule out the fact that he might. Maybe I’ll just kill him when he next comes into this room and put an end to all this pointless screwing around.

I sit back on the bed (I’ve turned the mattress, but it’s still damp) and look up at the ceiling, tracing the familiar patterns in the yellowed paint again. If I killed Mallon (and I know I could), what would it achieve? I still don’t know where I am. For all I know I could be surrounded by hundreds of Unchanged, all of them armed to the teeth. I could be dead before Mallon’s body is cold. No, as hard as it is to swallow, right now he’s all I’ve got.

But what does he really want from me? Ignoring all the bullshit, why is he doing this? He’s already made it clear I don’t have anything he wants, so is he still playing mind games just for the hell of it, or does he think he can house-train me like a pet? When you consider all the options, other than looking for a “cure” or resorting to extermination, trying to learn how to tame or control us is probably the only viable option the Unchanged think they have left.

So what do I do?

I’m daydreaming now, imagining walking around this place unchained, mixing freely with the Unchanged. I picture myself in a crowded room, surrounded by them but not yet killing, forcing myself to swallow down the fear and hold the Hate. I look into their faces, their stupid, evil, ignorant faces, and none of them knows who or what I am. They need their DNA tests and records and the strength of our reactions to be able to see what we are. But we, on the other hand, simply sense them. We know what they are without a word being spoken…

Fuck. The penny drops.

The enormity of today suddenly hits me like a hammer blow. Does Mallon even realize what he’s done?

Today I resisted the temptation to kill. Regardless of the reasons why, I stayed in control and didn’t fight. And if I truly can hold the Hate, then in time I could do exactly what I’ve just been imagining. I could walk among the Unchanged undetected. Imagine the power and advantage that would give me… I could stand shoulder to shoulder with the enemy unseen. I could go anywhere, do anything, kill anyone…

But can I do it? Can I really chose to hold the Hate at will? Or did Mallon just catch me at my weakest ebb?

I think back to that moment earlier today when I could have killed him but didn’t. I wanted to do it, but I stopped myself. And it wasn’t Mallon’s words that stopped me… I stopped myself. I could do it again, I know I could.

It doesn’t matter what I believe, whether or not I subscribe to Mallon’s bullshit theories of breaking the cycle and not fighting fire with fire; the fact is he’s handed control back to me, and I have to take advantage of it.

25

FOOD,” MALLON ANNOUNCES AS he barges into the room, waking me up. It’s late, and he’s carrying his lamp. The familiar urge to kill fills me as soon as I see his face, but I force myself not to attack. I swallow it down like unspewed vomit, the nauseous unease sitting heavy in my gut. I get up and stand opposite him, and although he tries to hide it, I can see the nervousness in his eyes. The longer we remain facing each other, the more confident he slowly begins to become. But I can still feel his fear. I can almost taste it.

“You, my man,” he says as I take the tray from him and sit back down on the bed and start to eat, “have done incredibly well.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, my mouth full. Truth is, I don’t give a shit what he thinks. I’m just relieved, excited almost, that I managed not to attack. It’s hard, almost too hard, but I force myself to keep control. I try to concentrate on the food to distract myself, but the urge to kill him refuses to fade. I struggle to keep it in check, almost dropping the tray and lunging at him when he moves. I manage to regain my focus at the last second. This is almost impossible. It’s a constant fight, almost like I’m having to remember to breathe.

“I’m really pleased,” Mallon continues, even the sound of his voice making my guts twist with agitation. “You’ve really understood what we’re trying to do here. You know, most people take a few more days to get to this stage, but you, you’ve got brains. You’ve worked it out in no time.”

“Not a lot to work out really, is there?” I say, trying to keep up the illusion. “It’s like you said, the more you fight, the less you get.”

“Exactly.”

He watches me a while longer as I polish off the rest of the tasteless food. I glance up and see he’s looking at me like a proud parent, and it dawns on me that he really does believe all the bullshit he’s been spinning. I feel vastly superior to this idiot. He thinks he’s the one in the driver’s seat, but I’m in control. The mental advantage I have now makes it easier to cope.

“So what next?” I ask, feeling calmer and more assured. I decide to hedge my bets and see how far I can push him.

“What do you mean?”

“What’s your plan? Do you just want to keep me locked up here forever? Is this some kind of rehabilitation program you’ve started? Or are you going to start experimenting on me and cutting me up into little pieces?”

Smug bastard starts laughing.

“You’re good! No, to tell you the truth, Danny, what happens next isn’t up to me.”

“So who decides?”

“Two people.”

“Who?”

“You, for one.”

“And…?”

“And Sahota.”

“Sahota? Who the hell’s Sahota?”

“You’ll find out tomorrow.”

He starts moving toward the door. Suddenly this is a conversation he doesn’t want to have.

“You can’t just walk out now. Who is Sahota?”

I stand up again and move toward him, but all that does is make him move faster. He stops midway out of the door-just beyond the reach of my chains-and turns back to face me.

“Boss man,” he says simply. Now he’s definitely playing games again, feeding me just enough detail to keep my interest, then clamming up and leaving me dangling. It’s all he’s got left. Other than these physical chains, information is the only advantage remaining. If he was any closer I’d rip his fucking throat out. He pulls the door shut, but then stops and opens it again. “Wait. There’s something I forgot to tell you.”

“What?”

“Your daughter…”

“You found her?!”

I can’t hide my sudden interest and emotion. Please tell me something…

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “You’ve got to understand, Danny, information’s hard to come by these days. You learn more from what you’re not told than from what you’re told. The Central System is creaking under the weight of what’s happened and-”

“Tell me!”

He sighs and takes a deep breath, drawing it out as long as he can.

“There’s good and bad news.”

“Give me both.”

“The bad news is there are no records of her anywhere.”

“So how can there be any good news?”

“Can’t you see, that is the good news. It means she might not be dead.”

“She might not be dead… that’s all you can tell me?”

“Be thankful for small mercies, Danny. As far as I know, my daughter’s still lying on the kitchen floor with a bloody hole where her face used to be. I could have been standing here telling you the date your girl died and where they burned her body. As it is, you’ve still got some hope. What you do with it is up to you.”

He slams the door shut and locks it.