Dog Blood

by David Moody

  “Look, I—” I start to say.

  “So what have you been up to, Danny?” he asks, his hat trick of interruptions complete.

  “What?”

  “Since the war started. What have you been doing with yourself?”

  Is this a trick question? What does he think I’ve been doing? I’ve fought whenever I’ve been able, done all I can to get rid of the maximum number of Unchanged. Does this guy think I’m just some lazy shyster, hiding out here in the middle of nowhere, waiting for the war to end?

  “Fighting.”

  “Good. On your own?”

  “Generally traveling on my own, fighting with others whenever I’ve had the chance. Look, what’s all this about?”

  “You killed many?”

  Now he’s beginning to annoy me. Idiot. I’ve a good mind just to leave. His questions make me feel uneasy, inadequate almost. I don’t think I could have fought any harder, but how does that stack up against everyone else? For the first time it occurs to me that I don’t know how “good” a fighter I actually am. Is my tally of victims higher or lower than average? Does it matter? As long as we’re all killing, does anyone care how quickly, enthusiastically, or effectively we do it? I suddenly feel like I’m in one of those pointless personal progress review meetings I used to have at work. Have I hit my agreed Unchanged corpse target for this month?

  “Plenty,” I answer, “but I haven’t been keeping count.”

  “Too many to keep track of, eh?” He grins. Patronizing bastard.

  “Something like that.”

  “Have you noticed their numbers are dropping off? That there’s fewer of them around to kill?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you know why that is?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “Could be any one of a number of reasons,” I reply, suddenly feeling like a little kid put on the spot in class. I’m being deliberately vague, not wanting to give this joker an opportunity to make me look stupid, playing cat-and-mouse games with the truth like I used to with my supervisor and managers back at the council. “I know it’s not because we’ve killed them all.”

  “If only that was the case. The real reason is that they’re continuing to concentrate themselves together, completely pulling out of areas like this. Tell me, have you heard of Chris Ankin?”

  I stop and think. The name sounds familiar. Then I remember, Chris Ankin was the politician who recorded the message I heard when the war first began. After I got away from the slaughterhouse that night, his was the voice that finally explained what was happening to me and why. I kept a copy of that message on a phone I found and replayed it again and again until the battery died and I threw it away.

  “I know him. I thought he was dead.”

  “He wasn’t last time I saw him.”

  “And when was that?”

  “About ten days ago. Have you been following his messages?”

  “Haven’t heard anything for weeks.”

  Preston turns around and searches behind him. He pulls out a laptop from under one of the front seats and turns it on. I watch as it boots up, staring at the start-up screen graphics and messages as if I were watching a Hollywood blockbuster. It makes me feel unexpectedly nostalgic and empty, remembering things I haven’t seen or thought about since my old life ended. After several minutes the machine is ready. With the speed of a computerphobic two-fingered typist, he logs on and opens a video file. At the bottom of the screen a number of small icons and speech bubbles appear, then disappear, as programs try pointlessly to search for updates via networks that no longer exist. A haggard and tired-looking, pixelated face (Chris Ankin, I presume) appears in a small window, which, after much cursing, Preston manages to enlarge to fill the screen. By the time he passes the laptop over to me, the politician’s already in full flow. His voice is distorted by the tinny speakers but is still recognizable and strangely reassuring.

  “When your enemy’s tactics change, you have to reassess your own tactics, too,” he explains. “From the earliest days of this war, fate and circumstance have combined to make us underdogs. We are, however, underdogs in numbers only.”

  I glance across at Preston, but he doesn’t look back. His eyes are glued to the screen. Even though he’s probably heard this a hundred times already, he’s still hanging on Ankin’s every word.

  “Since day one, our enemies have been retreating. The way we’ve fought this war put them on the back foot from the beginning, and it’s a position from which they’ve struggled to recover. The fact that our two opposing sides were so closely intertwined before we realized we were two opposing sides has made it all but impossible for them to isolate themselves and defend against us. We’re practically invisible to them, and that has strengthened our hand dramatically. But now, now that we’re months into this campaign, the position is beginning to change.

  “With every day that passes, our people have become more and more diffuse. We each move from fight to fight, from battle to battle, going wherever we’re needed. As a result our numbers are increasingly spread out, and the enemy has taken advantage of this.”

  “What’s he talking about?”

  Preston glares at me. “Just shut up and listen.”

  “They’ve pulled back into the hearts of their remaining cities, pulling their people closer together and drawing them in from the outside. There’s strength in numbers, and we need to do something similar. We need to stop fighting as individuals and form a coordinated attack force, an army if you will.”

  “But they’ll hunt us out. If we start grouping together in large numbers, they’ll find us and—”

  Preston sighs and pauses the video. He rubs his eyes and shakes his head.

  “This is so much bigger than you and me, Danny,” he says. “We’re just cogs in a machine, and we’re expendable. Ankin’s not talking about setting up a military force with sergeants and captains and the like. He’s just trying to get us to work together and coordinate our efforts.”

  “I understand that, but—”

  “We have to start making better use of the people and resources we’ve got, and start hitting the enemy where it hurts. If we can do enough damage to start them off, they’ll destroy themselves. You heard about London, didn’t you?”

  “No. I haven’t heard anything for weeks.”

  “It happened incredibly quickly. We lost thousands that night but they lost many, many more.”

  “How? What happened?”

  He seems surprised that I don’t know.

  “The mother of all battles,” he explains. “We came at them from all angles, caused so much panic and confusion that they lost control. In the end the only option left for them was to destroy it completely.”

  “Jesus…”

  “And we can make the same thing happen again and again if we learn to fight smarter. We don’t have any choice. Our only alternative is to wait out here in the wastelands until they decide to come out into the open again and hunt us down, but by then it’ll be too late. We have to act now.”

  “So what do you want from me?”

  He looks straight at me and puts down the laptop, giving up on the video. This feels ominous. He’s going to ask me to sign up and join his happy brigade of killers, I know he is. Thing is, apart from Adam, I’ve spent weeks fighting alone. Do I really want to go back to being one face in hundreds again? I’ve never been any good at taking orders.

  “We want you to fight with us,” he says, unsurprisingly. I bite my tongue. “The more of us there are, the better our chances will be. Tell me about yourself, Danny. What your skills are, where you’re heading…”

  “Don’t know where to start.”

  For a moment I truly am flummoxed. No aspect of my former life has any bearing on me today, and as far as skills are concerned, what does he expect me to tell him? That I’ve got a Certificate in Dismemberment? A PhD in Asphyxiation Techniques? The sudden protracted silence is uncomfortable.

  “Well, what did you do before al
l of this?”

  “I worked in an office.”

  “Okay, what line of business?”

  “Processing parking fines.”

  Preston pauses to try to get his head around the banality of my prewar existence.

  “Not much call for that these days,” he sighs without a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “Any special skills? Military or police experience?”

  I feel suddenly inadequate. What we do is instinctive, not taught. My answer is automatic and stupid.

  “I was in the Scouts for a while.”

  “Don’t screw around,” he warns. “I’m serious.”

  “No, nothing.”

  “So now you’re just drifting without a purpose? Spending your time hiding behind the corpses of our people?”

  “I wasn’t hiding,” I snap quickly, annoyed by his tone. “We were just passing through.”

  “That’s what they all say.”

  Truth is, I have been as directionless as he’s implying—but now I’ve got a reason to keep moving.

  “Actually,” I announce, “I’m heading home.”

  “Home? Why the hell would you want to do that? What possible reason could you have for wanting any connection with your past life?”

  “I want to find my daughter.”

  He looks up, his interest suddenly piqued.

  “Why?”

  What do I tell him now? Have I made a mistake admitting I want to look for Ellis? Does he think I’m less of a man because of it? A weaker fighter? That I’m in league with the enemy even? Do I even know why I want to find Ellis? What am I hoping to achieve? Life with her could never be like it used to be again, so why am I bothering? As much as the thought of who and what I used to be now disgusts me, I wonder if that’s the real reason I want to be with her again. Maybe I’m just trying to bridge the gap between today and all that happened in the years before now. This uncomfortable silence seems to last forever. I open and close my mouth to speak, but no words come out. Then Preston speaks for me.

  “She’s like us, isn’t she?”

  7

  PRESTON STARES AT ME intently. What the hell is he thinking? So he knows that Ellis is one of us, so what? Why should that make any difference to him? Whatever the reason, his tone has definitely changed. He’s suddenly more serious and direct. He left the van momentarily to speak to someone, then came back and pulled the door shut. It’s suffocatingly hot in here now.

  “Tell me about her, Danny.”

  I don’t like this. I’ll drip-feed him information and find out why he wants to know. Years of living in the old world have taken their toll, and my guard is up. Part of me can’t help wondering whether I’ve managed to stumble on the last remaining pedophile ring in existence. When I don’t answer he asks another question.

  “How old?”

  “Just turned five.”

  “And you think you know where she might be?”

  “Possibly,” I answer quickly. I can afford to give him some vague details. Even if I knew exactly where Ellis was, I could tell him anything. He doesn’t know anything about her. He doesn’t know what she looks like. Christ, I haven’t even told him her name.

  “She somewhere near here?”

  “Might be.”

  Preston leans over to the front seat and picks up a map, which he unfolds.

  “Show me.”

  “I’m not telling you anything until you tell me why you’re so interested in my daughter. What are you, some kind of pervert? A kiddie-fiddler?”

  His face remains impassive and serious. There’s not a flicker of emotion.

  “It’s not just your daughter we’re interested in,” he finally starts to explain. “Our belief is that children are key to our future. They’re important now, and they’ll be even more crucial when this war’s won.”

  “Go on.”

  “Have you ever seen a child fight? They’re fast, strong, agile … completely uninhibited. They’re not burdened with years and years of memories of the old way of things; all they know is now. They accept what they see and experience today, and they accept it without question. This is their normality.”

  What he says makes some kind of sense, but I don’t trust this guy. His slimy, slick way of speaking immediately gets my back up. He comes across like a politician, a subpar spin doctor. I know we’re both fighting on the same side, but how different are our aims and objectives?

  “You talk a lot, but you’re not actually saying anything. Why should I tell you anything about my little girl?”

  “Kids are true fighters, Danny, perfect fighters even. Brutes are strong and aggressive, but children are something else entirely. I think—”

  He stops speaking suddenly, almost as if he’s not sure I can be trusted. I press him, keen to hear what he has to say. He runs his fingers through his greasy, slicked-back black hair.

  “I think the line between us and the Unchanged starts to blur when you’re looking at very young children. Like I said, they don’t carry the baggage and the memories we do. Given the right stimulation and provocation, I think even an Unchanged kid could be taught to fight like us.”

  There’s another silence as we both think about what he’s just said. My initial reaction is that it’s probably bullshit, but he might just have a point. A young kid growing up surrounded by all this madness wouldn’t know any different. They’d have to learn to fight to survive, whatever their initial allegiance.

  “I got separated from my family when the Change happened to me,” I tell him, deciding I’ve got nothing to lose from opening up a little more as long as I’m sparing with the details. I take the map from him and tap my finger on the area where I used to live. “I last saw them here, but my partner managed to get away with the kids.”

  “Kids? More than one?”

  “Two sons and a daughter. It’s only Ellis I’m interested in.”

  “That’s your little girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t be so quick to write off the other two.”

  I slide my finger across the map, then stop.

  “I think Lizzie would have gone to her sister’s house. What are these marks?”

  Two circles have been drawn on the map, both centered on the main part of town. Both my apartment and Lizzie’s sister’s house are just outside the outermost circle. Preston explains.

  “Like Ankin said, the Unchanged have withdrawn into city centers. Our information’s a couple of weeks old, but we think the first circle is the extent of their occupation.”

  “What about the second line?”

  “The outermost edge of their exclusion zone. It’s a strip of empty land smack between them and everything else, pretty well defended. Makes it that much harder for us to get through unnoticed. It’s not impossible, just a little more difficult.”

  “So how does Ankin plan to march an army through no-man’sland without being noticed?”

  “He’ll find a way,” Preston answers. He’s not filling me with confidence. I try to steer the conversation back toward Ellis.

  “So that’s my plan,” I tell him. “Check the apartment first, then look for Ellis at Lizzie’s sister’s house.”

  “And if she’s not there?”

  “I haven’t thought that far ahead. I don’t want to.”

  Preston folds up the map and thinks for a moment.

  “What if I said we could help you?”

  “Help me? How?”

  “We’ve got a group of people heading out that way later today, looking for more recruits. You could go with them. You’ll have more chance if you go with our support.”

  “And what’s in it for you?”

  “There are just two conditions,” he announces ominously. “First, if you don’t find your girl, you forget about her and come back here and fight with us. Second, if you do find her, you both come back to us and fight.”

  8

  I COULD’VE HAD ALL three of them,” Adam says, his voice weak and frail but somehow still filled
with adrenaline-fueled enthusiasm and excitement. “I didn’t need your help. I’d have been perfectly fine if you hadn’t come back—”

  “Sure you would,” I interrupt. “You’re full of shit, do you know that?”

  “You’re the one who’s full of shit.” He laughs. “You were the one hiding up a ladder!”

  “I wasn’t hiding—”

  He coughs and laughs again, showering his bare chest with speckles of blood. There’s no two ways about it, he’s on his way out. His breathing is increasingly shallow and uneven. He was already severely weakened by the injuries inflicted by his dad and the subsequent untreated infections, and the brutal beating he took this morning did more than enough damage to push his broken body into total submission. He’s covered in bruises and swellings. He’s hardly moved in hours, and his condition is continuing to steadily worsen.

  It’s another swelteringly hot day. The air is dry, and the relentless heat makes the smell of thousands of badly decayed corpses even harder to stomach. The insect population is flourishing. It’s hard to take a breath without sucking in a lungful of buzzing little fuckers. We’re not heading into town until after dark, so there’s nothing to do for the next few hours except try to relax and ready myself for the next fight.

  “Need a drink,” Adam gasps. I grab a half-empty plastic bottle of water and hold it up to his chapped lips. He tries to swallow, but most of it runs down his chin. He coughs again and winces with sudden pain, but he doesn’t complain. Unbelievably, he’s still fired up by the rush of battle. Poor bastard’s completely oblivious to the fact he’ll probably be dead before the morning.

  “Next time,” he says, every word an effort, “I’m gonna aim straight for the head, know what I’m saying?”

  I nod. I don’t have the heart to tell him there’s not going to be a next time.

  “I know,” I lie.

  “See,” he continues, trying to prop himself up on his elbows but immediately dropping back down again, “they’ll look at me and think that because my arm and leg are fucked, I’ll be a pushover. But they’ll be wrong…”

  His eyelids flutter closed, and just for a second I think he’s gone. I reach out to check his pulse, but he bats me away when I touch his skin and mumbles something unintelligible. He’s like an animal, blissfully unaware of his own mortality, convinced he’s going to go on and on and on. In a way I can’t help but envy his ignorance. He fades into unconsciousness.