Them or Us

by David Moody

  “You coming in?” she grunts, her voice flat and unemotional. I take another hesitant step forward. “Shut the frigging door, then.”

  “Sorry,” I mumble as I turn and push it closed. I lean my head against the door and try to relax or at least hide my nerves. When I finally turn back around I see that the woman has stood up. What does she look like? It’s just an unexpected, instinctive thought. Does it matter? The light’s behind her and I can’t actually see her face from here, can’t make out any details at all, and maybe that’s for the best. I sense her looking me up and down. What’s she thinking? Is she deciding whether or not I’m good enough stock? I start hoping she’s going to reject me, suddenly acutely aware of how I must look to her. Like most people, I rarely wash anymore. I hack at my hair and my beard with scissors and blunt razor blades when I have to. Can’t remember the last time I brushed my teeth … No matter, this isn’t a mating ritual. Like Hinchcliffe said, this is purely functional, and how I look and feel is unimportant—but I still don’t know if I can go through with it …

  This horrible, silent standoff continues for what feels like forever, and I’m on the brink of backing out and running when she finally speaks.

  “You healthy?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  What should I tell her? That I cough my guts up first thing every morning? That the skin on my back and neck is burned from the bombs? That sometimes there’s blood when I piss? I want to go into graphic detail and do all I can to put her off me, but I don’t.

  “I’m okay.”

  “You had kids before?”

  “Three. You?”

  “This isn’t a date. Your kids, what were they?”

  “Two boys and a girl.”

  “No, what were they?”

  “My girl was like us,” I answer, realizing what she was actually asking and forcing myself to block out the faces of my dead children. “The boys were Unchanged.”

  She nods and thinks carefully about what I’ve just told her, as if it’s going to make a difference. Then, with a weary sigh of resignation, she undoes the zipper of her baggy trousers and lets them drop down to her ankles in an incredibly unfeminine and asexual movement. She kicks them away, then lies back down on the bed, psyching herself up. The fine detail of her face is still hidden by the shadows, but I can see her a little more clearly now. She seems strangely expressionless, and it’s hard to place her age. Her limbs are bony and long, her muscles taut. Her skin is covered in scratches, cuts, and bruises, and I think for a second about how long Liz used to spend pampering herself each day to look good—using countless creams and lotions, waxing her legs, hunting down every rogue hair with tweezers, razors, or wax … My eyes are involuntarily drawn to the top of this woman’s legs and her unkempt bush of wiry pubic hair. Since everything changed, everybody—male and female, young and old—has become strangely sexless. How we look is unimportant; keeping warm and staying alive is all that matters. Everything’s different now. Back then, before all of this happened, men and women had frustratingly different sexual drives and desires that rarely coincided. Now no one’s bothered. I sense this is as much an ordeal for this woman as it is for me.

  “Get on with it,” she says, looking up at the ceiling, not at me. I nervously start to undress, kicking off my boots, taking off my coat, and pulling down my trousers. Without thinking, I start to remove some of the layers of clothing I’m wearing on top, but she stops me. “No need for that. Just get it done.”

  Feeling increasingly awkward and embarrassed and now half naked, I climb onto the bed and kneel next to her on the mattress, heart racing, barely able to think straight, too nervous even to reach across and touch her. My pathetic, flaccid cock hangs down between my legs, shriveled up to virtually nothing by the bitter cold. Can’t get hard. Starting to panic. Maybe erectile dysfunction will save me tonight? I try to remember all the things I used to think about to get myself aroused, but they’re hard to remember and they all have the opposite effect. Each image I dredge up from the past, each buried memory that slowly returns, they all hurt too much. It’s obviously not the first time this woman has been faced with someone like me. She reaches up and cups my balls with her hand. She doesn’t speak, she barely even moves, but just the touch of her skin against mine is enough, and my cock finally starts to stiffen. She gently runs her fingertips down the length of my shaft, touching me more tenderly than anyone’s touched me in almost a year.

  My head’s clear now, empty of all thoughts but one. I look straight at the woman but I don’t even see her face. There’s a sudden burning, insatiable need low in my gut and I sit astride her and force myself into her. Hard and dry, then warm. It hurts for a second as my foreskin snags, but then it gets easier as I start to move. I don’t think about what I’m doing, I just do it. Again and again, harder and harder, faster now, not giving a damn about what she thinks or feels … harder still, balls banging against the inside of her thighs, hands gripping the headboard.

  Then it happens.

  A split-second pause filled with something that used to matter, then I feel myself empty into her.

  I groan with effort and drop down, our bodies finally close, head next to hers, panting hard. She shoves her hands up under my chest and pushes me away. I roll over onto my back as she slides out from under me. We lie there in silence, side by side for several seconds until, without warning, the most brutal and unforgiving wave of postejaculation regret I’ve ever experienced comes crashing over me. I turn my head to one side and finally look into the woman’s face, and I’m filled with shame and remorse. She just stares up at the ceiling, waiting for me to leave.

  “Go,” she says, and I do it without a word. I can’t wait to get away from her. I virtually fall off the bed and scoop up my clothes and my boots from the floor in haste. I have to get out of this room. My cock is still dribbling thick, sticky strings of warm fluid down the inside of my leg as I struggle to hold on to everything and get the door open. I crash out onto the landing and slump back against the wall, freezing cold and still only half dressed but not giving a damn, content to let the darkness of the musty hotel swallow me up, happy to disappear. I look around, half expecting Hinchcliffe to be there, nodding his approval and giving me points out of ten.

  I sit down on the ice-cold, threadbare carpet and dress myself. I feel humiliated; empty and defiled. If I could stay in these shadows forever, I think I would.

  The shame and regret mutate into anger, then the anger turns to guilt. I can’t understand how I’m feeling but every new thought just adds to the confusion. I think about Lizzie and the pain increases massively. Do I feel so bad because I’ve been unfaithful to her? Am I really feeling remorse because I’ve just fucked someone other than my dead, Unchanged ex-partner? Fucked. Wrong word. That wasn’t even fucking. It wasn’t anything like that. As Hinchcliffe made clear, it was a business transaction: a way to keep him happy and for that woman in there—Christ, I don’t even know her name—to earn herself some extra rations. Have things really come to this? Is this the pinnacle of Hinchcliffe’s vision for the future? Is this what we’ve been reduced to?

  I start trying to justify and rationalize what I’ve just done, making excuses and looking for reasons why it doesn’t matter. My irradiated sperm’s probably useless, I decide. Even if it isn’t, maybe that woman’s body has been damaged by the war. I remember hearing about kids born after the nuclear bombings in Japan—increased numbers of stillborns, cancers, and deformities …

  Who the hell am I trying to fool? I pick myself up and slowly stagger back down the stairs, my mind now filled with memories of sex before the war that I’d tried to keep buried deep down. I remember the last time Lizzie and I made love. We were both terrified that night, but being together was spontaneous and instinctive, powerful and reassuring. We did it to make ourselves and each other feel wanted and protected. In spite of everything that was happening right outside our door, the fee
lings we shared that night were as intense as they had ever been.

  Now, as I push my way out into the dark, freezing-cold night, I’m left thinking about the kids, about Ellis, Josh, and Ed, remembering when each of them was born and the good times we had together before the bad …

  What have I become?

  Sex used to be something that dragged us out of the daily grind and took us somewhere else. Something that transcended all the bullshit and connected Lizzie and me on every level imaginable. How could I have just allowed something as precious as that to become as brutal and insensitive as everything else?

  I feel like I’ve just lost something I’ll never get back, like Hinchcliffe’s just taken what was left of my soul.

  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.

  20

  MY HEAD IS FUCKING killing me. Feels like someone’s split my skull in two with an axe.

  Rufus is pounding on the door again. Why can’t he just leave me alone? I’m sure no one else has to put up with this much bullshit. I moved out from the center of town to put some distance between me and the rest of the population of Lowestoft, but certain people seem to spend most of their time out here hassling me. Fuckers. Jesus, it’s not even light yet. Couldn’t he have at least waited until morning? He can fuck off and leave me be. Whatever he wants, I’m not interested. I’ll wait until he goes, then pack up and get out of here. I’d have gone already if I hadn’t let the booze get the better of me.

  He’s not going anywhere.

  The knocking has moved now. Persistent little shit. Now he’s banging on the living room window. I screw my eyes shut and stifle a cough, doing all I can to swallow it down so the noise doesn’t give me away. Jesus, I feel bad. My guts are more sensitive than ever, and my head’s about to explode. There’s a welcome moment of silence; then the noise changes again. That’s the side door this time. He’s shaking the handle, rattling the chains I used to secure it after the vagrant woman broke in. Maybe it’s another one of those useless underclass fuckers, trying to get in and steal from me. Bastards.

  Got to move.

  I reluctantly get up from my chair and immediately lurch over to the right, reeling from the aftereffects of the booze. Feeling faint, I stoop down and grab a heavy wrench I keep by the front door for dealing with unwelcome visitors like this. I’ve just about managed to stand upright again when another coughing fit hits me hard. Whoever’s outside must know I’m here now, and they’re still not going anywhere. When the coughing subsides for a second I angrily yank the front door open and run along the side of the house, wrench held high, ready to attack or defend myself. A combination of sudden surprise and the ice-cold temperature outside immediately sobers me up and stops me in my tracks. Standing in front of me is Peter Sutton, the bastard who stalked me around Southwold.

  “How in hell’s name did you find me?”

  He walks toward me, and, hands raised, I lift the wrench again and block his way. Fucker’s not going anywhere.

  “I guessed you had some connection with those fighters who turned up in Southwold yesterday morning.”

  “They were nothing to do with me.”

  “I didn’t say they were. But you turned up, then they did. It seemed a pretty safe bet that it was more than just coincidence.”

  “So what’s this? Revenge?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “That still doesn’t explain how
you found me.”

  “I just went into town and asked for Rufus.”

  “But I’m not—”

  “I know who you are now, Danny McCoyne. Here’s a tip for you: If you’re going to use a false name, never use the name of someone who actually exists. I asked for Rufus at the barricades and ended up being introduced to your friend. He seems like a decent enough guy, but you might want to have a word with him about his loose tongue. I described you to him, and he says, ‘Ah … you’re looking for Danny McCoyne.’ So here I am, Danny, and here you are, too.”

  “Rufus told you where I was just like that?”

  “Pretty much,” he answers. “He didn’t need to say a lot. He told me about this place and he said you were the only one here. I just started knocking on windows and doors until I found you. Wasn’t that hard, really.”

  “How come? There are hundreds of houses—”

  “I know, and I’ve been here for fucking ages. However, yours is the only house with a fresh puddle of vomit on the drive. I thought there was a good chance you might have something to do with it.”

  Sutton’s breath billows in clouds around his face. We’re both shaking with cold. There’s been a heavy frost overnight, and everything glistens with ice, white-blue in the first light of dawn.

  “Okay,” I say, still shivering but still not letting him in, “you found me. Now what do you want?”

  “Can we talk inside?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m fucking cold and this is fucking important.”

  He’s insistent if nothing else, but the fact he won’t talk outside the house just increases my unease. Either what he’s got to say is genuinely important or he’s trying to trick me.

  “It’s out here or nothing.”

  He thinks for a minute, shaking with cold. My hand starts to feel like it’s freezing to the wrench.

  “Remember that truck? The one you said you didn’t see?”