by David Moody
The torrent of people trying to escape the city has quickly become a deluge, an unstoppable flood. It’s a struggle to make out the road ahead now because there are so many of them out here, all dragging themselves toward an unavoidable head-on collision with the massed enemy ranks now moving through No Man’s Land toward them. Matt knows the same fate awaits this truck. His only option will be to try and punch his way through: this was only ever going to be a one-way trip and it doesn’t matter what state they’re in when they get there, just as long as they get there. Right now it feels like an impossible task. He thinks they might have stood half a chance with Jayce behind the wheel, but the odds of them getting through have been slashed now she’s gone.
Another bottleneck of people and possessions blocks the way through. Matt’s trying to work out how to get past yet another plug of refugees when the decision’s taken out of his hands. A missile strikes, leveling the area up ahead and killing more civilians than Haters. Was it a mistake or planned? Did a Hater pull the trigger? He knows there’s every chance the truck he’s driving will be the next target because his is one of the only vehicles moving in this direction. Matt’s plan was always to blend in with his surroundings and go unnoticed, but it’s out of his hands now. Might as well have painted a target on the roof of the truck.
Stay focused. Keep driving.
He retraces the route he’s traveled out of town as a passenger numerous times before. His knowledge of the area coupled with the size of the truck allows him to overtake the bulk of the refugees on the roads and finally pick up a decent head of speed. But the faster he drives away from the camp, the quicker he’ll reach the predatory Haters who’ve been waiting impatiently for this night. There’s no way around them, because they’ve got the entire camp surrounded with scores of vicious, kill-hungry bastards whose only purpose now is to destroy the remaining Unchanged.
An advancing line of Haters are coming down the rubble-strewn road Matt’s now hurtling along. The headlamps of the truck pick them out intermittently, their confident aggression making them easily distinguishable from the people fleeing the camp. The Haters are wild, feral creatures now, barely recognizable as human. Individually they’re no match for the power of the truck, but they fight on regardless. Although only fleeting, he makes eye contact with numerous enemy fighters who immediately recognize that he’s not like them. They hurl things at the truck. Some hurl themselves at it and bounce off, landing in crumpled heaps of broken bones at the roadside, still trying to get up and fight despite horrific injuries, never giving up. Tonight, even after all he’s already seen of the enemy, their tenacious savagery is completely fucking terrifying.
Matt’s increasingly unsure about the route he’s taking, because if this is the same road he traveled down with Jayce just a short while earlier, it looks very different now. He keeps the dying city behind him, his only point of reference in the darkness. The truck’s lights illuminate more and more Haters up ahead and all around. Their numbers are rapidly increasing and as the gaps between them disappear, he realizes he’s almost reached the blockade.
Can’t stop.
Can’t slow down.
Can’t fight.
Can’t turn back.
The engine’s already straining, but Matt ignores its tired protests and accelerates harder, wringing the last few revs from it and virtually standing upright on the accelerator to keep up the speed. Because he has no choice, because he knows he has absolutely no other option to get his precious cargo away from here and to safety, he simply locks his arms and braces for impact.
The truck plows into the crowd.
Haters hit the front of the vehicle like flies. Another chunk of rubble smashes into the windscreen and cracks the glass directly across Matt’s line of vision, limiting his view still further. But he doesn’t brake, doesn’t change direction, doesn’t slow down even a fraction, because he knows there is absolutely no other way. It’s like driving through a brick wall. Bodies fly in all directions. Other vehicles and obstructions are crushed and battered and dragged along. One of the truck’s rear tires bursts, and the loss of control is an unexpected benefit as the back of the vehicle slides out in a lazy arc, wiping up many more fighters. Just about managing to keep control, Matt refuses to stop, slow, or stall, because he knows that the second he does, it’s over.
Why aren’t they following?
There are some Haters in pursuit, but nowhere near as many as he expected. He can see them heading in different directions; scores of them continuing to advance on the city, others rebuilding the blockade, many more swarming toward another unseen distraction way over to his left.
The damaged truck is struggling with the increasing gradient of the road. It’s a steep hill Matt doesn’t remember from before. And the reason he doesn’t remember, he realizes, is because he’s on the wrong fucking road. He panics and looks for a place to turn or tries to picture the junction he missed, but he knows that none of it matters. Getting away from this war zone is all that’s important. He glances down at the fuel gauge. Half a tank left. That’s enough to put some considerable distance between him and what’s left of the city, assuming the engine keeps going and the rest of the tires hold. For a moment the prospect of driving all night gives him some hope, but it’s fleeting. He knows that no matter how far he goes in whatever direction, when they eventually stop there will be Haters waiting.
The truck’s speed slows perilously as it crawls toward the crest of the hill. Matt works his way down through the gears and coaxes it gently along, knowing they’ll likely hit a downward slope soon enough. When they do, Matt barely notices. Something else has caught his attention now. It’s the airport, properly visible for the first time. He can see it way over to his right. That means that even though he’s not following his intended course, he’s still heading in roughly the right direction.
The airport is a hive of floodlit activity tonight. It’s like a beacon, bright against the suffocating gloom of everything else like a remote offshoot of the collapsing city-camp. Before now Matt’s only ever been aware of the activity in the skies around it, but his unexpectedly elevated position now gives him an unparalleled view. As he picks up speed along a relatively clear downward stretch of road, he looks across and sees troops being loaded into helicopters and planes which take off as quickly as they’re able, protected by a handful of other aircraft which circle overhead, firing on the thousands of swarming Haters who have the place surrounded. Matt knows what he’s witnessing here. There’s no question—it’s a parallel of what’s happening in the main camp. This is the balance of power finally being tipped. These are the climactic stages of a frantic CDF evacuation.
The air cover is disappearing, and with it the gun power. Sensing victory, the surrounding enemy fighters bring down a section of the fence and pour in through the gap. A Chinook manages to take off, able to climb vertically at speed before the sprinting fighters can get anywhere near, but a heavy transport plane doesn’t even make it to the end of the runway before it’s overcome. The sheer number of Haters now running down the tarmac strip toward it forces its pilot to take evasive action and abort their takeoff. The enemy are immediately all over the stranded plane like venomous ants over sickly sweet food.
All that firepower and all those troops, and they can’t deal with a mass of relatively uncoordinated fighters like this? Matt can’t believe what he’s seeing. Surely the CDF, no matter how ill-disciplined or untrained a fighting force it’s become, can do better? Are they just giving up and rolling over, or is this a planned evacuation? Are they getting what’s left of the military machine out of harm’s way?
The truck starts making a hell of a noise, refocusing Matt’s thoughts. The ride’s become increasingly unsteady. Now that they’re in clear space, he risks slowing down slightly and trying to fully get his bearings to work out which way next. Trouble is the roads are indistinguishable from everything else tonight.
Another attack comes from either side at once, two
cars driven by Haters coming at him from out of nowhere at breakneck speed, moving far faster than the slothful truck. Matt steers hard to the right, forcing one of them off the road, but he’s blindsided by the other vehicle, which clips the front of his cab and is caught under the bumper and dragged along. The car that’s been snagged throws up a shower of sparks for a few seconds longer before hitting another previously unseen wreck on the road and being smashed away. Matt glances back and sees there’s a convoy of Haters racing after him now, coming down the hill behind him at a furious speed.
They must be close to the industrial estate and the printing house. Matt scans the landscape, searching desperately for something he recognizes in the little he can see, but everything looks the same out here now: ruined, bleak, endless. Over another sudden climb, though, and more of what’s left of the world is finally revealed. Way over to his right he sees a vast column of advancing Haters, their movements lit up by the lights of their vehicles and the weapons they’re firing toward the city. They must be marching along the motorway, and that gives him some hope because it’s proof positive he’s not a million miles away from where he needs to be. And yet, at the same time, with so many Haters following and gaining fast, he knows he can’t risk reaching the printing house, either. The truck is unquestionably conspicuous tonight: a lone vehicle heading in the opposite direction to everything else. Matt knows he’s leading the Hater hordes back to base with him.
Another helicopter just about manages to take off from the airport to the east but, like Matt’s truck, it’s going nowhere fast. There are Haters hanging off its skids. The desperate pilot is doing everything he can to keep flying, but his vehicle is hopelessly overloaded and unable to climb. It brushes the control tower, scraping away some of the fighters clinging on, then banks hard right like a drunk, listing over to one side. It’s on an inevitable fast descent and Matt knows its current trajectory will bring it dangerously close to the road along which he’s driving. He accelerates again, dividing his attention between the chopper and the road and the pack of Haters all over the back end of the truck, and manages to pick up just enough speed to squeeze through before the helicopter comes down. There’s only a couple of meters of air between the roof of the truck and the helicopter’s landing skids. The skill of the pilot is undoubted because he manages to land on the road and not crash, but it would have been better for all on board if they’d hit the deck hard. The soldiers are stranded and quickly surrounded. The truck is all but forgotten as the downed aircraft becomes the focus of enemy ire. The troops unload, all guns blazing, but there are always more Haters than bullets.
One more Hater vehicle is still in pursuit. It overtakes, and continues a couple of hundred meters farther down the road before the driver executes a textbook handbrake turn, then revs the engine and launches back toward the truck. The two vehicles race toward each other. It’s a question of nerves. Who’ll crack first? Even from here Matt can see the hate in the other driver’s eyes.
Whatever they’re expecting you to do, do the opposite.
At the last possible moment Matt slams on the brakes and wrenches the wheel hard right, filling the width of the road with the truck. The Hater driver takes evasive action a fraction of a second too late, and is unable to stop the front of his car hitting the back of the truck and glancing off. Dropping into reverse, Matt forces the car off the side of the road.
A break in the clouds.
A moment of relative stillness.
Nothing else on the road.
Matt thinks they might be through the worst of it.
They’re almost home.
46
The fighting here is over. The industrial estate is eerily quiet; a stark contrast with everywhere else. The distant sounds of battle can be heard coming from all directions as the city-camp is torn apart from the inside out and the airport is overrun. The chaos elsewhere is like a magnet for thousands upon thousands of Haters for miles around, and a single truck limping through the darkness is easily overlooked.
Matt’s barely able to keep the tired vehicle moving now. It feels like the engine’s constantly on the verge of giving up for good, but he manages to keep it going as he weaves through the estate. The sun is threatening to rise, giving away their location to anyone left watching, and even though they’ve made it this far, the pressure Matt feels is undiminished. He knows a wrong turn might still prove to be their undoing.
There are bodies here, but no signs of life. A macabre maze. More death and destruction than he remembers. Could it be that the refugees he and Jayce delivered here earlier have already been found out?
It’s getting harder and harder to the turn the wheel. The truck won’t go much farther, but it doesn’t have much farther to go because Matt can see the printing house dead ahead, protected by what’s left of the immense distribution center next door. The neighboring building has been partially destroyed. Much of the roof is just a mass of tangled steel and ruptured metal, an open wound.
He lets the truck pick up a little speed as it rolls down a gently sloped road, then loses control completely when he tries to turn into the printing house loading bay, the steering wheel now useless in his hands. The front of the truck thuds into the side of the still-open door, and their journey comes to an abrupt, unceremonious halt.
Doesn’t matter. Made it.
With the engine now dead, the world becomes silent. Muffled noises soon come from the crowd of refugees in the back who have no idea where they are. They don’t yet know if they’ve made it. For all they know they could be deep in Hater territory and surrounded by killers when they’re finally unloaded.
Matt should be cautious—he usually instinctively is—but all thoughts of his own safety are forgotten and he races around to the back of the truck and throws the roller shutter up, desperate to see Jen again and to hold her and to tell her that everything’s going to be okay. They’ve done it. He can’t believe they’ve done it.
He’s sure there are more people coming out than went in. The stream of frightened, shell-shocked refugees doesn’t seem to ever end. He helps some of them down, others just jump and push past him, and all the time he’s looking for her. Darren and others from the advance party emerge from the basement and start to usher the rest of the group down toward the shelter, keen to get back under cover fast, and most are equally keen to follow.
Finally, there’s a face he recognizes. It’s Jason. He’s almost the last one out. He jumps down and stands facing Matt, shifting from foot to foot, eyes wide and terrified.
“She’s not here.”
It’s a simple enough statement, but Matt has to ask him to repeat. “What?”
“She’s not here, Matt. I tried to tell you back at the church but you wouldn’t let me speak and—”
“What?” he asks again, understanding now, but not wanting to believe what he’s hearing.
“I couldn’t get her to leave the house. She wouldn’t take a step out the front door without you. I swear I tried. I begged her. I practically dragged her but she wouldn’t move. I said I’d go and find you and bring you back to get her and—”
Matt takes a swing at Jason, who manages to duck out of the way. Darren grabs Matt’s arm and pulls him deeper into the printing house. “Not now. We need to get these people under cover.”
Matt rips his arm away and goes for Jason again. “You bastard. You fucking bastard…”
He has Jason by the throat now, up against the side of a dust-covered printing machine. Jason’s in tears, completely broken, barely able to speak. “I swear, Matt … I tried … she said she wouldn’t go anywhere without you.”
Darren pulls Matt away again, separating the two men. “I’m getting this lot downstairs and closing the door. I don’t know what the hell’s going on, but if you don’t—”
“Close your fucking door,” Matt screams at him, filling the cavernous room with his voice. He pushes Darren away, then starts to run back toward the truck.
“Where are you
going?” Darren shouts after him. “Matt, come back.” But Matt’s not listening, and Darren knows there’s no point trying to stop him. “You go back out there and you’re as good as dead,” he warns.
“Without Jen I might as well be.”
47
The truck’s a write-off. Only one option left. He goes back out to find the van they used to bring the first group here earlier. There’s no consideration of the enormity of what he’s about to do, no thought for his own safety, no recognition of the impossibility of making it back into the city in one piece then out again.
But he has to try.
He pictures Jen in their house in the middle of the collapsing chaos, terrified and alone, and the pain he feels is unbearable.
The industrial estate is deserted and the van’s where he left it earlier, in exactly the same state with its doors hanging open and the keys in the ignition. It starts first time and he shunts it around then drives as hard as he’s able. It feels like a performance motor in comparison to the truck. Matt’s dead inside, but the wind rushing in through the broken windscreen reminds him he’s still alive. Just.
The area around the estate is ominously quiet. Virtually dead. But that’s of little comfort because where he’s heading is where every Hater for miles around will almost certainly be. They will have continued to converge on the city in their tens of thousands, pushing for the total elimination of the Unchanged. And by the time he’s reached the open road with an uninterrupted view all the way back toward the camp, it’s clear that’s exactly what’s happening.
From out here he can almost see into the heart of the city. He’s lost all track of time, but it must be close to dawn because the first few tendrils of gray morning light are now snaking across the ruined landscape, enabling him to see the true scale of the myriad battles which have unfolded over the last few hours; the incalculable magnitude of the ongoing bloodbath he’s about to drive headlong into.