Them or Us

19

I’M FINALLY BACK AT the house, but all I want to do is head back into Lowestoft and kill Hinchcliffe. Fucking bastard. I kick my pile of books across the living room and they hit the wall with a momentarily satisfying noise, but then all I’m left with is silence.

What the fuck have I become?

Since Hinchcliffe found out what I can do, I’ve been allowed to stand on the outskirts of this vile, fucked-up ruin of a world and observe. I’ve just about managed to cope with what I’ve seen because of the distance I’ve been able to put between me and everything else, but what I did today with that woman—what Hinchcliffe made me do—has dragged me down to the lowest possible level, and it hurts. He’s stripped away everything and now there’s nothing left.

Fuck this. I can’t take any more. I’m getting out. First thing in the morning I’ll leave and I’ll take my chances on my own. I’ll pack my stuff tonight, then help myself to one of the cars by the railroad station at first light. I’ll load it up with the supplies I’ve hoarded away here, then get as far away from Lowestoft as I can and leave everything and everyone that’s here way behind me. I don’t need anyone else. More to the point, I don’t want anyone else. I’ll go somewhere I can be alone and I’ll never come back. Maybe I’ll head straight for the deadlands around the bombed cities. Even a slow death from the pollution and radiation will probably be better than this.

I tried to make myself eat something in readiness for leaving, but tonight, more than ever, the thought of food is making my stomach churn. I managed a few mouthfuls, but that was all. Fortunately, the beer Hinchcliffe gave me was easier to swallow. The gas made me retch, but the alcohol has taken the slightest edge off my anger. I forced myself to finish the first can, then immediately started another. Halfway through the second can I ran out of the side door and threw up on the driveway.

I slump back into my chair and struggle with cold, unresponsive fingers to open the ring pull on my third can. I put it down on the table, the beer frothing and fizzing over the rim, then strap on my miner’s lamp reading light and pick up the first book I can find. My eyes are tired and hard to focus, but I stare at the cover. It’s a picture of a man and a woman, locked together in a passionate embrace that’s a million miles from what I had to endure earlier today. Even though the figures on the cover are airbrushed, overly perfect caricatures of how people used to be, I can’t stop staring at them and remembering. The man is rugged, strong and powerful, clean-shaven with short, black, slicked-back hair … Then I look at the woman he’s holding: her full figure, tight clothing, painted lips … when the light starts to flicker and fade (didn’t get those damn batteries from Hinchcliffe), I throw the book across the room in frustration, and I’m left staring at my own reflection in the cracked screen of the useless flat-screen TV that sits in the corner of this room. I look like a fucking prisoner of war—spine curved, eyes bulging, arms and legs spindly and thin, skin scarred …

The beer makes me belch, but I keep drinking. It must be having an effect, because now I can’t stop thinking about my kids. Usually I try to stop myself from remembering, but tonight I’m desperate not to forget.

It’s been a long, long time since I’ve drunk like this. I feel like I’m floating above my chair now, looking back down and watching myself below, and I don’t like what I see. In the darkness and quiet there are too few distractions. I keep looking around, half expecting to see Ellis standing there like she used to appear at the side of Lizzie’s and my bed when she couldn’t sleep, all wide-eyed and vulnerable. I keep waiting to hear Ed arguing with Josh, or playing his crappy music too loud, or switching the TV in his room on again after I’d told him to turn it off. My kids were annoying little fuckers at times, but that didn’t matter. I miss them.

Hinchcliffe’s vision of the future is terrifying me. I don’t want to be responsible for bringing another life into this world. I imagine a child like the kids I fathered before, trying to survive in this foul and hostile place. What if they were born Unchanged? I picture Hinchcliffe backing them into a corner, leering over them and either screaming at them to fight if they won’t, or locking them away in isolation and trying to break them if they’re too feral and wild to control. What if it’s twins? One Unchanged and one like us? Would they fight in the womb … that’s more ridiculous than it sounds. Now I know I’m drunk.

I force down more beer, but I’m starting to feel really sick. My mouth’s watering like I’m going to throw up again. I’ll stay still in this chair for a while until the nausea has passed, then start packing my stuff. Whatever happens, I’m leaving this godforsaken place tomorrow.