Them or Us

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.”