There’s a lull in the conversation as I peel back various layers of sodden clothing to expose the top of my right arm.

“What about me?”

“What about you?”

“How long do you think I’ve got left?”

I’ve asked the question before I’ve realized what I’m saying, and I immediately wish I could rewind time and retract it. Too late. He looks down at me again and frowns, then returns his attention to preparing the drugs for injection.

“Bear in mind,” he says, hunting for a swab and a reasonably clean dressing, “that I don’t have any medical records for you, not that anyone has any records anymore. So my estimations could be way off. This is based purely on my gut instinct and several other recent cases I’ve seen, nothing else, and you also have to remember that we’re about to reach the coldest part of winter, and I doubt any of us are eating properly, so we’re all going to be more susceptible to—”

“I understand all of that,” I interrupt, “just tell me what you think.”

“I don’t think you have long, Mr. McCoyne, I don’t think you have long at all. From what I can see, the disease looks pretty well advanced.”

He shoves the needle into my skin, but I don’t feel a thing. He drops the syringe into a plastic bin, then picks up another. He grips the same arm tight, then injects me again. This time it hurts.

“What the hell’s that? Jesus, how much of that stuff are you putting into me?”

“Not steroids this time,” he says, his voice beginning to fade. “This one’s a special request from Messrs. Ankin and Llewellyn.”

36

MOVING. DRIVING. ROAD’S UNEVEN. Being thrown from side to side.

I open my eyes and look around. It’s light, and I’m in the front passenger seat of a van—the same one that brought me to Norwich, I think. Llewellyn’s next to me. I pretend to still be asleep while I try to work out what’s going on. Now I’m fully awake I realize I feel less ill than usual. Could it be that the drugs Ankin’s doctor gave me are actually having a positive effect? I feel stronger today, and this sudden, drug-fueled change in my health makes me realize how sick I really have become. A hole in the road causes the van to lurch. I hit my head against the window and sit up. Llewellyn looks across and sees that I’m awake.

“Fuck me, you took your time coming around,” he says. “I was starting to get worried. Thought Ankin’s quack had given you an overdose.”

The doctor. Injections. It starts coming back to me. I sit up and try to rub my eyes, but my wrist hurts and my hand is yanked back when I try to lift it. Fuckers have handcuffed me to the van door.

“What’s this for?”

“Precaution,” Llewellyn says. “I didn’t want you running off on me. Now shut up, wake up, and get ready.”

“Why, where are we?”

“About five miles out of Lowestoft.”

I sit up quickly in panic and look around. He’s right, we’re on the A146 heading back toward Lowestoft, and we’re not alone. There are several of Ankin’s vehicles ahead of us and many more behind, all easily identified by the circular red and white insignia daubed in paint. The crude designs vary in size and shape from machine to machine, but their simple aim is achieved—these markings exist to clearly differentiate them from us.

“So what’s the plan?” I ask. “I assume there is a plan.”

“Ankin’s troops are already in place,” he explains, “split between the north and south entrances to town.”

“Already?”

“They’re on the outskirts, thousands of them by all accounts, drawing the crowds away from Hinchcliffe’s compound. It’s called tactics, you see, McCoyne. These people are smart, and well tooled. They’ll get the locals on their side, and that’ll leave just Hinchcliffe and the rest of the men for Ankin and us to deal with. I’ll get you in, and while you’re talking to Hinchcliffe, I’ll tell the others what’s going on.”

“How am I supposed to let Ankin know what he says?”

“Christ, you’re bloody naive. Ankin doesn’t give a shit what he says. We can all guess what Hinchcliffe’s reaction’s going to be.”

“So why are we even bothering?”

“To keep him busy. To distract him from what’s actually happening.”

“You mean I’m a decoy?”

“That’s about it.”

“Shit. Forget it. I won’t do it.”

“Listen, friend, you’re handcuffed to this van and we’re not stopping until we’re outside Hinchcliffe’s front door. I’m delivering you personally. You don’t have a lot of choice. Do what you’ve got to do, and if you behave yourself and Hinchcliffe doesn’t do you in, I’ll come back and get you out of there.”

“You bastard. I’ll tell him what’s happening. I’ll tell him what you did.”

“Do you think I care? Hinchcliffe will be finished before nightfall. You, too, if you’re not careful.”

“What about Curtis and the rest of them? You think they’re all going to swap sides just like that because you tell them to?”

“Well, that’s up to them, isn’t it? But wouldn’t you? Let’s face it, with Ankin and all this crew on one side, and a shit like Hinchcliffe standing on his own on the other, there’s no contest, is there?”

37

THE A46 SPLITS AND we head south, down toward the bottom edge of Lowestoft, passing close to the housing development where I’ve been living. The van is still wedged between Ankin’s trucks and other vehicles, with a tank leading the way. Just over a mile now.

We’re soon passing through the familiar shanty-town surroundings, but the scene is very different from what I’ve seen here before. More of Ankin’s troops are up ahead, forming a blockade on the A12 just prior to where the first of the underclass hordes are gathered. I understand that this is just one section of this so-called army, but there are far fewer of them than I’d imagined. I’d pictured endless columns of uniformed soldiers, armed to the teeth, backed up with huge amounts of firepower. The reality is unsettling. There are just hundreds where I expected to see thousands. Two or three tanks where I expected to see twenty or thirty. One small airplane …

“Where’s everybody else?”

“I think this is everybody else,” Llewellyn replies under his breath, sounding as surprised as me.

There are several lines of these so-called soldiers blocking the road ahead, each of them carrying a makeshift riot shield. Coming the other way are the first of the underclass, and I can see a bizarre range of reactions taking place wherever the two sides collide. Some remain in their shelters, seemingly too afraid to move, while others grab whatever they can use as weapons, determined to protect themselves at all costs from these perceived invaders. Some immediately capitulate; others fight like they’ve just uncovered an Unchanged nest. The vehicle leading the convoy begins to slow.

“What the fuck…?” Llewellyn mumbles, as shocked by what he’s seeing as I am.

We’re about two-thirds of a mile from the compound, just on the edge of the bulk of the underclass settlements. The convoy stops well behind the line of shielded soldiers, and I sit up in my seat to try to get a better view of what’s happening. Again and again, the range of reactions I’ve already seen is being repeated. Some people are throwing themselves at the feet of Ankin’s troops as if they’re their saviors, about to pluck them up and whisk them away from the unending hell their lives have become. Others attack the soldiers, perhaps driven by some

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