end of town, and at any other potential access points. I stand and watch as the people of Lowestoft collide head-on and begin to tear themselves apart.
Is this what happened in Hull, and in all those other places where I’m sure that similar communities must have sprung up around the country? And was Lowestoft really the last of them? If Ankin’s right and this place is the only place left, then the chain reaction that’s spreading through this town now truly is the beginning of the end of everything.
42
THE STREETS THAT I can see from this window are constantly filled with movement now, frantic and uncontrollable, and I wonder: Where in all that chaos out there is Hinchcliffe?
The overwhelming uncertainty consuming this place and my frustrating inability to be able to do anything are affecting my concept of time now. I don’t know whether I’ve been here for one hour or four. It’s ice cold in this building, and the rain outside has turned to sleet. Everything looks relentlessly gray out there. My head is pounding. Are the effects of the drugs already fading?
I’m leaning up against the glass, staring at a street fight in the distance, numb to the bloody violence, when there’s a series of sudden bright flashes around Hinchcliffe’s courthouse building. Were they explosions? Now there are flames in the windows, and from what I can see the police station barracks used by most of his fighters is also under attack. A flood of people—fighters and Switchbacks alike—run from the scene. They’ve barely made any progress when they collide with an equally large surge of people coming from the opposite direction. What the hell’s going on? I keep watching long enough to see several of Ankin’s tanks rolling slowly toward the burning courthouse, converging on it from different directions.
The center of Lowestoft is a damned war zone. There are an incalculable number of people in there now, far more than there were originally. It’s the cumulative effect of Ankin’s invading army and the hordes of underclass all descending on the place at the same time. There are other buildings on fire, too. Before long the whole town will be in flames.
I need to move. The fighting is still a distraction at the moment, drawing people into the dying center of town, but it’s only a matter of time before they come looking around here. I should act now, and take advantage of the effects of Ankin’s drugs before they completely wear off.
I have one last quick search around the doctor’s room, then head back down to the guard station. I’m about to leave, but I stop myself. This building is huge and relatively inaccessible. For the most part people were too scared to come here. Knowing that the population would probably stay away and there’d be plenty of secure space here, wouldn’t this have made a perfect store for Hinchcliffe? For the sake of a few more minutes, I decide to scout around a little more of the place. I need to try to eat now and cram my body full of as much nutrition as possible while I still can. It scares me to think about how I’m going to feel again when the drugs wear off. Feeling better has made me realize how ill I’ve really become.
Opposite the main door is the entrance to a long, dark corridor I remember seeing when I was here before. Grabbing the flashlight I found earlier (the light it gives off is poor, but at least it’s heavy enough to make a decent club), I start moving along it. I stop when I reach a second door at the far end of the corridor, and peer through a round porthole window. I’m looking out over a vast, mostly empty, hangarlike space. There are large clear panels in the high, corrugated metal ceiling that diffuse the light, and it’s hard to make out much detail. The door’s stiff and it sticks at first, but I shove it open and go through, then immediately stop and cover my mouth and try not to gag. The smell in here is appalling and instantly recognizable. The unmistakable stench of death.
There’s a raised metal gantry running around the edge of this cavernous room about a yard off the ground. I walk along it slowly, my footsteps echoing around the building. There’s a huge amount of industrial pipework hanging down that obscures much of my view, and for a second I wonder whether this was another of those gas chamber killing sites from the beginning of the war. I stop walking, and just for a second I think I can hear something in here with me. It’s a quiet, scrambling sound that comes from the far side of this large space and echoes off the walls—the vermin I heard when I first arrived here, perhaps? Thinking about it, the combination of the dead flesh I can smell and the fact that so few people ever came to this place would make this a prime site for a nest of rats or other scavenging creatures. It’s weird, in spite of everything that’s happened to me recently and all that’s going on less than a mile away in the center of Lowestoft, the idea of stumbling blind into a horde of starving rodents is more frightening than anything else. There’s more light the farther I go into the room, and I jog along the gantry to get out of the shadows.
Bizarre. At the far end of this open space the floor has been divided up with metal barriers into a number of pens, maybe as many as twenty altogether. It looks like a cattle market, but didn’t Hinchcliffe tell me this place was originally used to process seafood? Then I remember what he was using this factory for, and even though I don’t want to look, I climb down to check the nearest of the pens.
The metal divides have created spaces that are each approximately six feet square. The floor of the pen closest to me is covered with what looks like hay and scraps of clothing, but otherwise it’s empty. In the one next to it, however, there’s something else. It’s oddly shaped, and it’s hard to make out what it is. I lean down over the railings to reach it or at least get a better look, and I immediately wish I hadn’t. Lying slumped in the corner of the cage with its back to me, one arm stretched up and shackled by the wrist to the highest of the metal rungs, is the emaciated body of an Unchanged child. It’s so badly decayed and the light’s so dull that I can barely make out enough detail to estimate either its sex or its age. There are more of them, too. I start walking again, and I see that there are bodies in most of the pens. Most are little more than withered, bony husks now, while a few clearly died more recently and are less decayed.
There’s a yard-wide pathway that runs right through the middle of the pens, and I follow it, looking from side to side and struggling to come to terms with what I see around me. I’ve seen more horrific sights in the last year than I ever thought possible—images I still see when I close my eyes each night—but I’ve never come across anything like this before. Regardless of the fact that these children were, as far as I can tell, all Unchanged, the wanton cruelty and neglect that they’ve been subjected to in this place is unimaginable. For a second I think about Hinchcliffe again, and I hope the fucker is burning in his courthouse palace right now. To have tried to turn a couple of children and have failed is one thing. To just have killed them would have been understandable in the circumstances, but this? To have continued to repeatedly abuse child after child is another matter altogether. Hinchcliffe and Rona Scott must have derived some sick, sadistic pleasure from this appalling torture. Evil fuckers.
I crouch down and look between the metal rungs into another pen, where there’s a small boy about the age my youngest son was before he was killed. I shine the miserable light from my flashlight into his face and bang it against the railings to try to get a reaction from him. Nothing happens. I stare at the corpse a while longer and realize the boy was probably older than he looked. His limbs are long, but his body appears collapsed and shrunken by decay. He died lying flat on his back, his arms and legs unchained. Couldn’t he have at least tried to get away? Maybe he knew it would have been futile, or maybe he no longer had the strength or desire to escape. I shine the light around the pen and see that there are chains in here after all. Then I look at his withered right wrist and I realize his shrunken hand just slipped out from his shackles.
In every subsequent pen I pass, I see something horrific. I thought that nothing could hurt like this anymore, but I’m struggling to comprehend what I’m seeing. In one cage is the body of a girl—ten or eleven years old, perhaps—and her chains have been wrapped around her neck several times. Did someone do this to her, or did she do it to herself?
Is this the great victory we’ve been fighting for? Am I a part of this? Am I responsible for it? I helped bring many of these children here, so is what happened to them my fault? But what was the alternative? If they hadn’t died here, they’d have died somewhere else. A year ago people were flying around the world, sending probes out into space, eradicating diseases, firing atoms around underground tunnels to find out how the universe was created … and look at us now. If Lowestoft truly is the last best hope for this country, and if this kind of atrocity is at its very heart, then what hope do we have? Is this Hinchcliffe’s great plan for the future? Is Chris Ankin’s vision any different?
I stagger back across the pathway and collide with the barrier around another pen. The vile noise of metal on
