A COUPLE OF HOURS ago I thought I was a dead man. And now here I am, a backpack full of weapons, supplies, and Ellis’s things on my back, walking through the dead ruins of the city I used to call home, ready to help bring the enemy down. This new world order is fickle and unpredictable; one minute you’re down, the next you’re on top again.
The roads around Sahota’s building were reassuringly quiet and empty, and I felt confident and strong. But the moment I saw the first of the Unchanged I began to doubt myself again. There were three of them, huddled together in the doorway of a partially collapsed building, barely visible from the street, just eyes staring out from the darkness. Even after all I’ve been through, my instinct was still to kill. No one would have been any the wiser, and with my knives and axe hanging from my belt again, I was sure I could have got rid of all three of them without even breaking sweat. But I was scared-scared that if I started killing out here I wouldn’t be able to stop again. I forced myself to relax, to overcome the temptation and keep moving. The foul fuckers watched me like hawks as I passed them, but two thoughts kept me moving forward. First, I knew that if I made it into the city there’d be a chance, albeit a slight one, that I might be able to find out more information about what happened to Ellis. Second, I knew that the longer I lasted without killing and the deeper I managed to get into town, the more casualties there’d be when the fighting finally started again. It was easier letting those three live (if you could call that living) knowing that it might bring me closer to killing thousands of their kind.
Unexpectedly, the more Unchanged I’ve subsequently seen, the easier being around them has become. I still have to fight to control myself each time I see one of them, but their vast numbers act as a constant reminder that to start killing now would be suicidal. Or maybe it’s just that seeing them like this, crammed together and on their knees in such desperate, miserable, appalling conditions, reinforces my comparative strength and superiority. These people are nothing.
Christ, I’m cold. I run my hand over my freshly shaved head and chin as I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a grubby shop window. I look like a new man, like I’ve been reborn on my escape from the mindfuck of the last few days. It was something Sahota said I should do, something I’d never even considered. He told me to try to blend in with the Unchanged masses. While I’ve been content to wear the same fighting clothes day after day until they’re too worn out to be any good, some of the Unchanged, incredibly, still seem to think about their appearance. Sure, standards have slipped, and there are no downtown stores selling the latest fashions anymore, but, to a surprising number of them, how they look still seems to matter. It’s all about being accepted, he told me, blending in and being part of the crowd. I saw a woman a minute ago who was still wearing makeup. Why? What’s the point? Stupid bitch. It doesn’t matter what you look like when you die.
Concentrate on breathing, that’s my technique. I force myself to keep my breathing low and level, to move slowly and keep to a steady, deliberate pace. If I start thinking about killing and fighting, I try distracting myself with trivialities, counting lampposts, avoiding cracks in the pavement, trying to remember the names and the faces of people I used to know… It’s the weirdest sensation-I imagine this is how a recovering alcoholic must feel. As long as I’m not killing, I’m fine. But if I were to attack just one of them, like the alcoholic falling off the wagon and having his first drink, I know I wouldn’t be able to stop. I remember Mallon’s catchphrase: The more you fight, the less you get. He was right. If I cause any trouble out here on my own I’ll be completely screwed. Stay calm and I still have a chance.
My surroundings are bizarre, not at all what I expected. The streets and buildings on the inside of the enemy cordon look different from all the others I’ve so far seen. Out beyond the city limits, outside their exclusion zone, everything has been pounded into ruin by weeks and weeks of fighting. Over the weeks and months the Unchanged military attacked us with relentless ferocity and unchallenged explosive force, reducing much of the outside world to a ruined wasteland. Some villages and small towns I’ve seen were hit so badly that they’ve simply ceased to exist- just mounds of overgrown rubble are all that’s left where they used to be. Here, though, the basic structures of streets and buildings are still largely intact, but they look like they’re slowly decaying. Everything is covered in a thick layer of detritus and grime. Ahead of me is a slag heap of uncollected waste, some of it in ripped black sacks, most of it lying loose in the gutter. Rats and other vermin scavenge through the mountain of garbage in broad daylight, suddenly cocksure and confident, no longer afraid of man. Birds peck at bodies, and there’s a steady trickle of stagnant, foul-smelling water running away from the huge decaying mound. It pools in the gutter and spreads out into the road, the street drains blocked. It’s become a black lake, the gentle breeze making its surface ripple, floating bits of rubbish bumping around like odd-shaped boats.
The address Sahota gave me is a place not far west of here, on the inner border of the exclusion zone. He warned me to stick to main routes and to stay out in the open, no matter how strong the temptation was to try to disappear. I can already see the logic in his advice. The population here seems to be in a bizarre, almost trancelike state of “false calm.” For the most part people line the sides of the streets, cramming themselves into the shadows, each of them trying to squeeze themselves into as small a space as possible, almost as if they want to disappear. Some hide in the dark gaps between buildings; others sit behind the wheels of useless, abandoned cars that are never going anywhere again. I glance up at the windows of the places I pass. There are pale faces pressed against the glass, not a single scrap of space left unclaimed. Around me is an apparently never-ending succession of lost, haunted individuals. Alone or in twos and threes, most of them look down at the ground, too afraid to even make eye contact with anyone other than their few remaining trusted friends or relatives. The instinctive urge to kill them is undiminished, but these people aren’t even worth the effort. They are empty, vapid shells. As good as dead already.
There are other people moving along the road, many of them going in the same direction as me, some walking aimlessly the other way. None of them seem to have any purpose. They’re just drifting, and I do my best to match their slow, purposeless gait. It’s hard, like being forced to hold your hand in a bowl of boiling water. I want to run to get through this part of town, but I don’t dare do anything that’s going to draw attention to me or mark me out as different. There’s an unspoken tension and fear here, bubbling just under the surface. Everyone, me included, is being forced to keep their emotions suppressed, terrified by the prospect of what might happen if they let their true feelings show. As much as the thought of comparing myself to the enemy is abhorrent, I realize that everyone here, me included, is doing exactly the same thing. We’re all pretending to be something we’re not.
Apart from the odd military vehicle, the constant buzz of helicopters scurrying through the air above me, and the occasional rumble of distant, directionless fighting, everywhere else remains unnaturally quiet. I walk along a road that runs parallel with the side of the City Arena, a huge, soulless concert venue I could never afford to go to. There are blockades around the perimeter of the vast building for as far as I can see, and a heavy military presence around the doors and exits. There are scores of empty trucks parked in its various lots. Was this some kind of feeding center? Whatever it was, it looks like it’s been decommissioned now, but there are still huge numbers of civilians camped around its outskirts, waiting silently for supplies that will probably never come. In another fenced- off area nearby is a still-smoking mound of corpses. Must be hundreds of bodies there…
I’m distracted by the grim sights all around me, so much so that I collide head-on with someone coming the other way who’s obviously paying as little attention to the human traffic on the road as me. The unexpected impact catches me off guard. In a sudden, uncontrollable blind panic, I spring forward and grab the disheveled-looking man by his lapels. I spin him around and slam him down onto the pavement and reach for my knife before… before I remember where I am and who I am. I let him go immediately and walk on, terrified that I’ve been seen and that my sudden violent overreaction will give me away. I look back and see him scramble away, getting up quickly and sprinting a few yards until there’s a decent distance between us. He puts his head down and keeps walking, trying not to panic, frequently looking back over his shoulder. I glance from side to side. There are plenty of people watching me, but thankfully they’re all too scared to get involved.
Fucking idiot. Can’t afford to make mistakes like that.
I know exactly where I am now. Around the next corner is the PFP-the Parking Fines Processing center, where I used to work. When I see the building I’m immediately filled with a mass of conflicting emotions-disgust that I wasted so much of my miserable former life here, relief that those days are long gone, and, catching me off guard, a painful nostalgia when I remember all that I’ve lost and left behind. It all seems forever ago, like the memories belong to someone else. Being here again and remembering this place and all that happened here is like watching a TV movie of someone else’s life. Christ, there are people living in the building now. I can see them in the windows I used to spend hours staring out from. Could there be a worse existence than that?
Without realizing it, I’ve stopped right outside the PFP. I’m standing in the middle of the street like a dumb sightseer, suddenly oblivious to everything else around me. The noise of a fast-approaching engine snaps me out of
