metal seems to take forever to fade away into silence. I know I should keep moving, but I’m lost again, staring into the cage I’ve just disturbed, unable to look away. Here there are two bodies, and for a moment I’m struggling to work out why they were being doubled up when there was clearly more than enough space here for them to be separated. They were chained by their necks to diagonally opposite corners, and even though they’re heavily discolored by rot, I can see that both of their small bodies are covered in scratches and marks. Had they been fighting each other? Fuck … had these kids been forced to fight each other to the death like caged dogs? Was Hinchcliffe using them for sport?
There’s another sudden noise, much closer this time, too loud for a rat. I spin around quickly, but I can’t see anything.
“Who’s there?”
I freeze, figuring that it’ll either be one of Hinchcliffe’s fighters or Ankin’s soldiers, and trying to work out my story for being here. No one answers. I keep walking, then stop when I hear the noise again, even closer now. I’m almost on top of it—a frantic shuffling and scurrying as something does its best not to be seen. Then there’s the faintest chink of metal on metal, like chains being rattled. I glance down into the nearest few pens, but I can’t see anything. Wait! There, just for a second, in the farthest corner of the cage behind the one I’m standing right in front of, I see something. I clumsily climb over the barriers to get closer, almost falling when one of my boots gets tangled up, and my sudden movements unleash a wave of panic in the shadows. Now I can see it. One of the children is still alive! An Unchanged boy tries to climb out of his pen and into another in desperation, but there’s a chain wrapped around his ankle. He’s weak and terrified and yanks at the chain to free himself but falls back and smashes down onto his face, yelping with pain when he hits the ground. I climb into his pen, and he continues to back away from me, pushing himself along the floor until he can go no farther back. About the same age as my son Edward was, he’s barely clothed and is blue with cold. He’s in worse physical condition than I am.
“Don’t fight,” I tell him. “I won’t hurt you.”
He just stares at me, too afraid even to blink, and I don’t know what to do. Every time I move he flinches. I climb back out of his pen and into another to put some space between us, hoping he’ll see that I’m not going to kill him.
“Are there any more of you?”
The boy doesn’t answer. His face looks familiar. He’s the lad from the last Unchanged nest I helped clear out, I’m sure he is. I lean forward and he spits at me, and now I know I’m right.
“Are there any more of you?” I ask again. I give him a few seconds to answer, but he remains silent. I wait a moment longer, but I know I have to go. I can’t afford to waste any more time here. I climb back over the barriers until I reach the walkway, then start walking. This catatonic kid is lost anyway. There’s nothing I can do for him.
“Wait,” a quiet and unexpectedly fragile voice says from behind me. I turn back around and see that he’s at the front of his cage now, leaning against the barrier. I keep walking, determined now to get away from Lowestoft and everyone and everything in it. “Please,” he says, “let us out.”
I keep moving but then stop and turn back again when he rattles his chains against the barrier in protest.
“Shh,” I say to him, “they’ll hear you if you—”
I shut up when I realize he’s not the one making the noise. It’s coming from another pen on the same side of the walkway, a little farther back. I can see another Unchanged face looking back at me now; small, round, and ghostly pale. It’s a little girl. Dressed only in a grubby ripped T-shirt several sizes too big, she’s standing on tiptoes to look at me over the top of the metal divide. When I take a step toward her she takes several panicked steps back, almost tripping over her own chained feet.
“You’re the one who told them where we were,” the boy says accusingly, his voice now stronger.
“What?”
“We were hiding and you told them where we were. It’s all your fault.”
“I had to do it,” I say without thinking. Then I curse myself—what the hell am I apologizing for? Why am I explaining myself to him? Why am I explaining myself to one of the Unchanged?
“No you didn’t. They wouldn’t have found us if you hadn’t told them. It’s your fault.”
Arrogant little bastard. The way he’s shouting now reminds me of the way I used to argue with Ed. I start walking again, and the girl starts to cry.
“Let us out,” the boy demands. I ignore him and keep going, then stop again because my head is suddenly full of stupid, dangerous thoughts. He’s right, isn’t he? It is my fault they’re here. But what else could I have done? It was them or me, and these days you have to look after yourself ’cause no other fucker’s going to help. Anyway, they’d have had to come out of their shelter eventually. All I did was make things happen faster than they would otherwise have. I’m saving them pain in the long run, or at least I would have if they hadn’t ended up in here.
“Please!” he shouts as I try to walk on, but this time I stop because I know I’m wrong. No matter how I try to dress it up and justify what I did, these kids are only in the position they are today because of me. It doesn’t matter what they are or what I am or what we’re supposed to do to each other, I can’t just leave them to die here. Lowestoft is burning around us, for Christ’s sake. Well, maybe I can leave them, but the point is, I realize, I don’t want to. The very least they deserve is a chance, no matter how slight. I can’t deny them that.
I walk back toward the little girl and check her chains, which are held in position with a padlock.
“Don’t hurt her,” the boy shouts as the girl squirms to get away. “I’ll get you if you hurt her.”
“I’m not going to hurt anyone,” I answer, testing the strength of the lock and the clasp around her bony ankle. “I’ll be back. I’ll see what I can do.”
The noise of battle outside is increasing in volume. Even through the walls of this huge place, I can hear occasional bangs and screams, the helicopter flying overhead, guns and shells being fired, and the constant noise of engines. I try to block it all from my mind as I look for something to free the children with. All I need to do, I tell myself, is let them go.
In the farthest corner of this dank, foul-smelling place, I find a bloodstained workbench that’s covered in lengths of chains, discarded locks, bits of bone, small teeth, and other, less easily identifiable things. There’s a huge bunch of keys hung on a metal hoop on the wall, but there are too many to go through and I can’t waste time checking each one of them. Instead I opt for a set of heavy, long-handled metal cutters I find leaning against the side of the bench. I head back to the pens, and the girl screams as I advance toward her with the cutters held high. Her helpless sobbing is heartbreaking.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I tell her, desperate for her to understand. “Look.”
I climb over to the boy. He continues to recoil from me. I pull him closer, dragging him back across the floor, then use the cutters to snap the loop of the padlock that holds his chains in place. He removes his shackles, then clambers out of the pen after me, his movements stilted and clumsy after being restricted for so long. This time when I approach the girl she’s a little quieter—still sobbing, but not screaming. I carefully ease the blade of the cutters over the loop of her padlock, then press down hard. It takes more effort this time (and I can feel my energy levels really starting to fade), but the lock eventually gives. I unravel her chains, and then, when she can’t get over the barrier, I reach down and lift her up. There’s nothing to her, absolutely no weight at all. She holds on to me, her tiny arms tight around my shoulders, her legs wrapped around my waist. I try to put her down, but I can’t. She won’t let go. This reminds me how it used to be when I held Ellis and the boys, feeling them close against you, hearing their breathing, reacting to their every movement …
Put the fucking kid down and get out of here.
I try to lower her, but she still won’t let go. When another loud explosion rocks the building, she grips me even tighter, her fingers digging into my back.
Put the fucking kid down!
This time I peel her off me, prying off her fingers and unraveling her legs, then putting her down and backing up to put some distance between us. She just stands there looking up at me, not saying anything but asking a thousand questions with those huge, innocent eyes.
“Where’s Charlie?”
“Who?”
“Charlie,” she says. “You know, Charlotte. She came here with us.”
She’s talking about the dead girl upstairs. I try to tell her the truth, but I can’t.
“She’s already gone,” I lie. “Now you need to do the same. Get out of here. There’s trouble coming.”
