The Culled

by Simon Spurrier

  POP BITCH

  There was a dead guy sitting next to him.

  Nate followed my glance and his grin faltered a touch. “Ah,” he said again.

  The corpse was one of the Clergy-soldiers, though I didn’t recognise him from inside the plane. He didn’t have a hole through his face, for a start.

  His grey robes were blackened and singed, spattered with blood and dirty water, and the patches of his skin I could see were just as soiled: peeled back in moist red welts or incised totally by razor-like fragments of shrapnel. One of his arms was hanging off at the shoulder by a few threads of gristle and a notched bony core, and his head was so tattered the scarlet tattoo around his eye was barely visible at all. He sat slumped, semi-upright, against the tangled remains of the same armoured school bus that prowled my recent memories. It reminded me, surreally, of a novelty firework: its front-end all but untouched; the remnants of its length blown-to-shit so totally that their remains barely made any physical sense at all.

  The dead Clergyman had been the guy inside. The grenade chucker.

  Nate coughed, embarrassed.

  A thin rubber tube meandered from a grimy cannula thrust into the corpse’s wrist, out onto the floor where it coiled once or twice towards me, then vanished beneath the edge of my exhausted peripheral vision. I didn’t want to turn my head to confirm it, but I had a pretty good idea where it led.

  It was full of blood.

  “Not like he needed it...” Nate said, a little surly. “And I disconnected plenty of time before he died.”

  Well that’s okay then.

  Nate fussed beside me – lifting up the other end of the transfusion tube and waggling it like a glove puppet – and then started tidying away the various equipment he’d scattered on a mostly clean blanket beside me. Stitching needles, bloody rags, sealed packs of military-issue sterilisers and antiseptic pads, and a roll of off-white bandaging that’d come partly unrolled and scampered off along the oil-spattered tarmac.

  The horizon still hadn’t come into focus. I was starting to worry.

  “Why can’t I see properly?” I asked, finding that I could control my body – just – but was so exhausted it hurt even to think about moving.

  Nate scowled for a minute, confused, and peered around us. If I’d had to guess, his expression was one of someone who’d just spent hours saving a stranger from bleeding to death, only to discover they were already vegetative in the brain department.

  “Can’t see?” he said.

  “It’s... it’s like a... a blur. Like... near-to things are okay, but the further away stuff gets...”

  He looked at me like I was a retard.

  “Well that,” he said, “is what’s sometimes called fog.”

  Even despite the panicky relief, I still had some headroom for feeling like a fuckwit.

  “B-but... but it was perfectly clear when the plane... when it...”

  “Well, that’s New York for ya.” He waved a dismissive hand, gazing out into the wall of soupy white. “It’s called the quicksmog, eff-why-eye.”

  “Eff... what?”

  “Eff-why-eye. For Your Info. Sorry... Guy gets sorta used to talking in letters, hanging around with the grunts, you know.” He hooked a thumb towards the slumped body and shook his head. “Soldiers and monks, Jeez-us! Nary the twain should meet.”

  I struggled to hang on to a single thread. Nate was the sort of guy who could hold three schizophrenic conversations at once, leaping from tangent to tangent like a monkey on speed. There was a shielded intelligence simmering away in those eyes, too, hiding behind the accent and the daft clothes, but watching everything. Paying attention.

  “Quicksmog,” I repeated, bringing him back.

  “Yeah, yeah. Guy I knew one time told me it started right after the camel-jocks zapped out dee-see. ’Cause, you know, I wasn’t stateside back then. Never saw the lightshow. But yeah, quicksmog... Comes in quick, goes out quick. Just like that. No rhyme or reason. Doesn’t seem to do much harm, though if you ask me right now it’s a good thing.”

  “How come?”

  “You kidding? Fucking great plane wreck, burning to shit... sending up a pillar of smoke higher’n a pothead’s prick.” He grinned. “And with your robe-wearin’ pals here gone away, nothing to stop the scavs from coming to take a look.”

  Scavs. Robe-wearin’ pals. Camel-jocks zapping DC.

  One fucking detail at a time.

  Know everything.

  Cover the angles.

  “There was a sniper... a-and a driver. Guy in the bus. He dead too?” The effort of talking was becoming appalling now; even as the sensations started to return to my numbed arm, the rest of me was screaming for rest.

  Nate sniffed, wiping a dewdrop off his nose.

  “Well now,” he said. “Your sniper up there, that’s a mean pieceashit Cardinal name of Cy. Near as I can tell he wasn’t milit’ry before the Cull, so I guess something pretty damn nasty musta happened... Man’s fucked in the head but good. Gen-you-ine psycho. Heh.” Nate spat on the ground. “High-up too. Maybe take over from the Abbot some day. See, Cy’s in charge of bringing the freight from the airstrip back to the city. When the bird comes down all wrecked-up like that, and all the kids missin’, he knows straight away his neck’s on the line. That’s how come the Choirboys went in so hard. Cy wanted to have a... a body, whatever. Like: ‘yeah, the airport’s fucked and we didn’t get the Brit tithe, but I caught the guy who did it...’”

  “Me?”

  “Right. Only he didn’t. And then you come out killin’ every motherfucker left and right, and Cy starts to figure maybe he should stop worryin’ what his boss gonna say, and start saving his ass. So he sends out the bus, all packed-up with grenades and shit, to keep you busy. Maybe even kill you, if he’s lucky.” He nodded towards the shattered school bus. “Soon as old Bertha went kablooie you can bet your ass Cy was hightailing back for the city in the Outrider.”

  “Just a diversion?”

  “Right. Couple of... sacrificial lambs, you might say. Told to go die so Mister-Hat-Wearin’ fuck gets to breathe another day. I figure he’ll spend the whole journey wondering what to tell the boss. Ask for reinforcements – my guess. Be back here... maybe a day and half? Suggest you get yourself gone by then, huh?”

  “And the driver?”

  Nate grinned again, and leaned further over. Deep in the shadows of his left eye, all but indiscernible against the blackness of his skin, I could make out the long curve of a scarlet tattoo.

  A half circle.

  I stiffened.

  He waved a set of keys playfully above me, then tossed them over his shoulder.

  “Not much left to drive now.”

  “You’re... you’re Clergy too?”

  He chuckled to himself, lifting up a bundle of something ragged and stinking which I first assumed was a dead dog, and then realised were my clothes.

  “Not really,” he said. “Not any more.”

  AN HOUR LATER, Nate and I sat in the alcove beneath the front wall of the shanty-compound, hiding from the wind, listening to the great Welcome sign flapping above us. The quicksmog had surrendered to a sudden squall that darted up with no obvious warning, phasing away into the dark.

  Out across the waters encircling the airport, the distant smudge that was the northern reaches of the city faded by degrees into darkness. I’d expected – stupidly – the same neon jungle I’d seen in every film, the same speckled star field of glowing tower blocks printed in every guidebook. The same scene of candle-like serenity glossily reproduced on the cover of the city map I’d plundered from a bookshop in Covent Garden, and sat studying for days and days back in Heathrow, as Bella and I planned the journey. It was still in my pack, that much-thumbed map; not that I needed to look at it any more. I knew all its lines, all its labels, all the red blotches marked on its surface...

  But no. From a distance the post-Cull city, just like London, was a haunted place; an inky nothingness flecked here and
there by the fragile, sputtering lights of nestled survivors, and the brazen fumes of miniature industry.

  Nate had moved me into the shadow of the blue compound’s corrugated walls, across the grass and away from the wreck, as soon as I’d been strong enough to make the journey, bracing me with one arm and lugging my pack with the other. He said it would be best to get away from the plane before true darkness fell. The local scavengers would be slinking in to take a look at what had caused all the commotion, and it was all too easy to get caught up in the scraps and squabbles as they fought over the spoils.

  I got the impression he wasn’t talking about coyotes and wild dogs.

  Now, on the cusp of night, the air was getting cold and the view growing grim.

  The plane still flickered. Things moved in the smoke.

  Nate said he was a ‘trustee.’ He said this meant the Clergy sort of employed him, but didn’t expect him to do any of the shit stuff. No evangelising, no indoctrinating, and definitely no acting self-important about the Church’s self-assumed manifest destiny in ushering in the New Dawn of Civilisation.

  Actually, what Nate said was, “Those dress-wearing assholes couldn’t get me down with that bullshit even when they were poking guns in my back,” but he meant pretty much the same thing. “Eventually,” he said, “they figured I was worth more alive, tried asking nice instead of just demanding. We’ve all been getting by just fine ever since.”

  Until I showed up and slaughtered your mates.

  Until your boss ran off like a robe-wearing pussy, and left you behind.

  Until you decided to keep me alive rather than kill me whilst you had the chance.

  Hmm.

  The whole issue of why he’d helped hadn’t been entirely covered yet. I’d taken a bottle of supermarket vodka out of my pack to share with the guy – I figured it was the least I could do – and he was sinking it like a fish. I ought to have felt more grateful, I suppose.

  Instead...

  Those old instincts. Those old voices.

  Know everything.

  Don’t you let yourself owe anyone anything.

  Sir, yes sir, etc, etc.

  Nate said he’d been a little... uncooperative when Cardinal Cy told him to drive out onto the killing-strip just to keep me busy. He said he’d kicked up a fuss at the idea that he should go throw himself into the jaws of the wolf, whilst said Clergyman ran like a custard-coated cockerel. Nate said he’d protested vehemently at the treatment, that he hadn’t signed up as a trustee just to forfeit himself to let some vicious little prick live, and that he’d entered into a considerable argument with his fellow sacrificial lamb when ordered to play kamikaze.

  He said eventually the guy chucking grenades out the back had to hold a gun to his head just to get the engine started.

  That explained why he wasn’t in any hurry to rejoin the Clergy. Traitor to the cause. Coward. Deserter. Blah-blah-blah.

  Fine.

  It didn’t explain why he’d gone to so much trouble to keep me alive afterwards.

  I asked him.

  “More rat?” he said, ignoring me with a bright grin, hacking away at something small and furry with a skinning knife.

  I nodded and lifted an empty skewer off the makeshift fire, and jabbed at the slimy morsel he held out. Second only to pigeon.

  Over by the plane dark shapes crossed in front of the dancing fires, like inky puddles of moving shadow.

  “Still a lot of guns aboard.” I said, tense.

  And Bella’s body.

  Nate said the scavs wouldn’t be doing any shooting. “Relax,” he said, and passed me the vodka with only the tiniest reluctance. He said that whatever the scavs found, they’d present immediately – with all due ceremony and cringing deference – to their bosses in the Klans. He said that if any of the poor fuckers dared waste a single bullet, and word got back to their bosses, they’d be in the hunt pens or skewered on territory poles before they knew it.

  I asked him what the Klans were.

  He smiled and bit into his rat.

  The wind got colder.

  Nate said he’d been a doctor, once.

  “Kind of,” he said.

  He said he’d been born in the Bronx and miseducated in Harlem, and but for a lucky seduction in a downstate disco would’ve wound up still there, scrabbling for cash and crack. He said that twenty years ago – or so – he got lucky with a rich white chick who fell for his unmistakable charms and took him along to England when her company reassigned her. He said she paid through the nose to set him up. He said she enrolled him in night school to finish his basic, then community college, then – pushing harder – medical training. He said every step of the way he worked his balls off, because it turned out he could handle failure and addiction and crime and poverty, but the one thing he couldn’t handle was seeing her disappointed.

  It was all a bit ‘soap opera,’ but I didn’t like to break the flow.

  Nate said he flunked the final exams so bad he would’ve done better to leave the question papers blank.

  “Morphine addiction,” he explained, staring off into space.

  And that, he said, was that.

  “Couldn’t you resit?” I asked, picking out rat bones from between my teeth. “Get cleaned up, try again? Seems a bit late in the day to go throwing it all away.”

  “Yeah,” he said, and his voice was quiet. “Yeah, you’re right there. Except Sandra – that’s the lady, the... the one who took me over there – she sorta caught me with my pants down.”

  “Ah.”

  “Yeah. With her secretary.”

  I looked away, unsure whether to cringe or snigger. “Ah.”

  When I looked back, Nate’s expression was... well, sad – obviously – but something else too. Like the face an exec gets when the deal falters at the last meeting. Like the face I used to see on missions, when the grunts and agents round me realised it’d all gone to tits, and people were probably going to die, and it just wasn’t fair. Like... frustration, maybe. A sense of annoyance at circumstances beyond one’s control.

  Which is sort of weird, given that it was all his fault.

  Something dark flitted through the shadows outside the circle of light cast by the fire. Nate stared at it for a moment, utterly untroubled, and spat into the flaming logs.

  He said – the story rumbling on as if uninterrupted – that the money dried up pretty quick after that. He said he only realised how much he’d appreciated her (and/or her cash, depending on how you wanted to interpret it) when it was too late. Sandra cleared off, heartbroken. He let things slide. His visa hiccupped and lit up alarms on a Home Office computer, and before he knew it he was Nathaniel C. Waterstone of no fixed abode, with a deportation warrant next to his name and a brand new shiny heroin addiction to support.

  I coughed as politely as I could, aware that this man had just sewed me up. “So when you said you’d been a doctor...”

  “Yeah.” He shrugged. “Kind of.”

  He looked away and sighed, as if he could see all the way across the Atlantic from where he sat. “London, man. Docklands, Tower Hamlets, the East End. Plenty of places they pay good money for a guy knows what he’s doing with needles. Someone... unofficial. You know?”

  Nate said he’d been a backstreet sawbones. Mob cutter. Bullets removed, knife wounds cleaned, bodies disposed: no questions asked. I guess I believed him, mostly.

  He had an honest face.

  Out across the roughage bordering the airstrip, somebody yelped. There were voices out there too – masked by the crackling of our little fire, muttering and arguing. More shapes darting in the dark.

  “Scavs.” Nate shrugged.

  I kept a hand on the M16 and asked what would happen to the bodies of the men aboard the plane. I didn’t mention Bella. I wasn’t sure why, at the time, but I know now. Even then, sitting with Nate in the cold, the scratching at the back of my head was gearing up...

  Something about him.

  “Depends,
” he said.

  “On what?”

  “On what Klans they’re with. Mostly they’ll just... steal clothes, leave the bodies. Coupla tinpot tribes up west got a thing for fresh meat, way I heard, but no way we’ll get that shit down here. Guy I knew once – you’ll like this – said you go through ess-eye these days – that’s Staten Island, you know? – you’re a... heh... a goddamn moveable feast. They got crossbows and arrows, man, he says. They got fuckin’ spit roasts, and I don’t mean like in no porno.

  “Up here, nah. Nah. Civilised, man. Welcome to Queens.”

  His grin lit up his face. With Nate, you never knew how serious he was being.

  I asked him again to tell me about the Klans. He chuckled and lit a cigarette.

  When the Cull started, he said, and folks started dying in the streets of London, he was holed-up with a gang of Albanians. He said up ‘til then he’d been passing from group to group – Triads, Afghans, Jamaicans, even the old-school suit-wearing Pie and Chips brigade. He said these Kalashnikov-waving psychos took him on as a kind of examiner: checking the girls they ferried-in from the continent, making sure they’d last in the massage parlours and interactive peep-booths. Nate said he’d never stared at so much pussy in his life, and there came a point where it sort of stopped having any attraction.

  He said at around the same time, he decided to go cold turkey.

  He looked away again.

  I got the impression there was more to it than that. But sitting out there in the cold with a fresh bandage on my arm and a half-digested rat inside me, listening to human filth arguing in the dark over guns and knives and all the other shit I’d left behind on the plane, I didn’t have the heart to probe.

  The thing was, someone almost certainly made Nate give up the skag. Maybe someone helped him, nursed him through it, whatever. I don’t know. But the thing about Nate was, the thing I could tell within seconds of meeting the guy; he wasn’t the kind who made decisions. Not on his own. He wasn’t the kind to lead the way.

  “Was eight days into the detox when the... the virus, you know? When it got as bad as it got. I had me a... a TV, little one, in the room. News shows, back to back. Bodies on the streets, hospitals over flowing. Pretty much all the Albanians dropped right there. Spat blood, hit the deck. I’m telling you, man, the stink...Rest of them upped and gone. Tried to get home, maybe. Everyone’s got a family, huh?”