Dog Blood

WITHIN WEEKS THE MECHANISM for the ongoing distribution of food and medical aid to the population of the refugee camp had begun to falter and fail. In retrospect it had seemed a large-scale but reasonably straightforward undertaking, but, as what had originally been envisaged as a short-term operation dragged into its fourth month and with no end in sight, the situation continued to rapidly deteriorate.

The initial ground rules and hastily cobbled-together official procedures had been simple. Under military control, all resources were to be coordinated via the City Arena-a vast, cavernous, ten-thousand-seat concert venue. Its huge, soccer-field-sized concrete floor had been cleared, and all rations, supplies, emergency aid, and “collected” foodstuffs were held there under armed guard. Trucks full of provisions were shipped out to ten nominated distribution centers within the huge camp on a daily basis-a movie complex, the town hall, two sports centers, and various other similar-sized public buildings. From these centers food was distributed to the city’s population, who carried ration books with their identification papers.

By the beginning of the second month, supplies had already dwindled to dangerously low levels, the authorities having severely underestimated both the number of refugees requiring rations and the duration of their enforced incarceration. Similarly, they’d overestimated their ability to source and replenish food stocks. Officially acquired (looted) food continued to enter the city on a daily basis as a result of frequent military excursions, but it was nowhere near enough. More importantly, no more food was being produced. No crops were being grown and harvested, no factories were operating, every transportation and distribution system had been rendered unusable…

By midway through the second month, supplies had fallen to such a low level that the daily restocking of the ten distribution centers was reduced to every other day. By the beginning of the third month, deliveries were only being made weekly.

A black market emerged on the streets, and for a short while it thrived and flourished. Also in month two, a militia faction known colloquially as “the Milkmen” because of the herd of stolen cows they kept penned in on the heavily guarded field of a local soccer team, assumed control of two of the distribution centers. The irony of small-time criminals dealing in milk and occasionally beef alongside the usual staples of drugs and weapons was not lost on either the military, who tolerated their activities (it took some of the pressure off them), or the poor bastards forced to trade with them. Business boomed temporarily until the basic economic principle of supply and demand could no longer be applied. Food, water, and medicines became both the commodities and the currency. The demand was inexhaustible, the supply nonexistent. Trade stopped. The militia groups closed their doors, emerging only to attack and raid other distribution centers to continue to feed and water themselves. When even the black marketeers could no longer source enough food and water for their own needs, infighting took hold, and their previously untouchable operations imploded.

As the end of month three approached, the City Arena was all but empty, and eight of the distribution centers (including those previously run by the militia) had ceased to function. Of the three remaining sites, the Arena was now being run by the military, purely for the benefit of the military. One of the distribution centers housed in an old warehouse continued to be maintained by a rapidly dwindling group of do-gooders who were stupid enough to still believe in helping other people and who dutifully handed out almost microscopic portions to the ever-growing crowds continuing to line up outside the building twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Truth was, the only reason they were still in business was because they drip-fed provisions, literally a mouthful at a time. Perversely, the sheer mass of desperate refugees both protected the distribution center from the threat of militia attack and isolated it from the military authorities and supply routes.

This morning, the last remaining functioning distribution center-housed in a long-empty factory building-collapsed. The food supplies had finally run dry, and the news predictably caused a riot. The military commander responsible, overseeing the center from a safe distance, wasted no time in locking the site down and ordering the execution of the three hundred or so rioting civilians trapped inside. The public had to be controlled, whatever the cost. Disorder like that couldn’t be allowed to spread. The implications were unthinkable.

Three-quarters of an hour ago, Mark had left the cramped hotel room for the first time since returning from his final shift as a volunteer. Kate had pleaded with him not to go, but what choice had he had? He had a duty to provide for her and his unborn child, not to mention the other family members they’d found themselves unwillingly imprisoned alongside.

Walking the streets was a bizarre and frankly terrifying experience, and he quickly realized how much he missed the security of traveling with the military. Even being outside the exclusion zone with the army, surrounded by Haters, felt safer than this. He desperately tried to keep himself to himself, looking at the ground whenever he passed anyone else or looking over the heads of the crowds he walked through. He didn’t know where he was going or what he was hoping to achieve, but he had to keep trying. He couldn’t just sit there with the rest of them and wait for something to happen. They were starving, cold, and frightened, and he begrudgingly felt responsible for all of them.

Mark made his way in the general direction of the factory building where he, Kate, and the others had collected their rations in the past. He walked via Leftbank Place, an area of waste ground that had been planned for redevelopment for years. That was never going to happen now. He struggled to see through the never-ending mass of temporary shelters that blanketed the ground, making it look more like a third-world slum than anything else. The remains of entire families sat huddled together under polyethylene sheets, desperately clinging to their last few belongings and each other. For a while it made him almost feel grateful for the relative comfort and security of the hotel room where he and the others had been billeted.

It was obvious as soon as he got near the distribution center that it had closed down. Where he’d expected to find uneasy, virtually silent lines of people he now saw only an empty space. Any space was at a premium now, so the fact that people were completely avoiding the site was a bad sign in itself. He’d already decided to turn around and head back to the hotel before he saw bodies being dragged away. A drifting plume of hazy gray smoke drifted up from behind the large, boxlike building. He knew that was the smoke from a funeral pyre-a typical military cleanup operation. They burned all dead bodies now to stop, or rather slow, the spread of disease.

He changed direction gradually, so self-conscious and afraid of everyone else that he didn’t dare make any sudden alterations to his route, paranoid that people were watching him. He found himself at the base of the McIver Tower -the building where he used to work-and he allowed himself to look up just for a moment and remember. Up there, on the seventh floor, was where he’d spent endless hours before all of this had happened. Up there, alongside around one hundred and fifty co-workers, all sitting in front of identical computers, wearing identical headsets and working toward identical targets, he’d sold insurance and dealt with people’s claims. Those were the days, he thought, almost daring to smile, when a burst pipe or a broken window was considered an emergency… It all seemed so trivial and unimportant now, but it had mattered then. Not just to him, but to everyone. He’d struggled with the monotony of the job at times, but he’d have given anything to return to the boredom and routine of his former life now. He stopped by a telephone booth to look a little longer and tried not to look suspicious, avoiding making eye contact with the man who was sitting on the floor inside it, his back pressed against the door to prevent anyone else from getting in. Mark counted up to floor seven of the office building, then worked his way along to the window nearest to where he used to sit. There were people living up there now. Even from down here he could see them, hundreds of them packed in together, desperate for space. Around the base of the building, in a low-walled, rectangular area that had once been an exclusive parking lot reserved for company executives and senior managers, was an enormous pile of redundant computer equipment-hundreds of unneeded screens, keyboards, and tower units thrown out as the floors above had been emptied to make room.

Mark looked down at the man in the phone booth again. He hadn’t moved. Was he just sleeping? He casually tapped the glass with his knuckles, but the man didn’t react, so he did it again. Then, moving slowly, he shook the door. Still no reaction. Was he dead? Whatever it was that was wrong with him, Mark saw that he had a plastic grocery bag tucked inside his filthy raincoat. It had to be food. Other than weapons and drugs, food was the only thing worth hiding now. He kicked the glass again, this time cringing inwardly as a couple of other people either turned around or glanced up before remembering themselves and looking away again.

The appearance of a small boy walking along the wall around the base of his old work building distracted him. The poor kid looked hopelessly lost and exhausted, all life and energy drained out of him. It said something about this crisis that even the kids were affected to such an extent. He’d seen film of children playing resiliently around the ruins of their homes in World War II bombsites before now, and other footage of kids laughing and running through disease-ridden subcontinent slums, but this… this was different. Even the most innocent and naive members of society knew how dire this situation was becoming. The boy shouldn’t have been on his own. Who was he with? Was he lost? Abandoned? Orphaned? He’d adopted the same safe, emotionless, and almost vacant gaze as everyone else, trying to separate himself from the rest of the world but unable to escape its close confines. Mark had no way of knowing if this kid was okay or if he was sick or… He forced himself to stop. He had to look away and block him out. He couldn’t afford to care.

This morning, before he’d left the hotel, Mark had argued with Kate. Neither of them had meant for it to happen, but once they’d started shouting, weeks of pent-up frustrations meant neither of them could stop. Kate was becoming increasingly claustrophobic in the hotel room, and the lack of privacy was driving her insane.

“What am I supposed to do?” he’d said to her. “Until things change, this is all we’ve got. There are no hospitals or clinics or-”

“So what happens when the baby comes?”

“We deal with it.”

“How?”

“I don’t know… we get some towels and water like they said and-”

“What towels? Where’s the water going to come from? Christ, Mark, I won’t even be able to wash the kid. We don’t have enough water to drink, let alone-”

“Calm down, Katie. You’re just-”

“Calm down! Jesus Christ, why should I? I’m fucking terrified, and you’re expecting me to give birth to our baby on the floor of a hotel room in front of my parents.”

“It’s months away yet. Four months. Think how much might change in another four months-”

“Think how much worse it might get.”

“Now you’re just being stupid.”

“I’m scared.”

“We’re all scared.”

“I’m scared about the baby.”

“Millions of women give birth every year, don’t they? And they used to manage before hospitals and-”

“It’s not that-”

“What, then?”

“I’m scared about what our baby might be. What if it’s not like us? What if it’s one of them and it…?”

“Don’t be stupid. I’m normal and you’re normal. Our baby will be normal, too.”

“But what if it isn’t? You don’t know that for sure, do you? No one knows why we’re like we are and why they’re different…”

She was right, of course, but he kept on trying to persuade her that everything would be okay, doing his best to keep up the bullshit and pretense because it was all he could do.

A sudden noise nearby diverted Mark’s attention back to the present. There was a disturbance deep in a crowd of people on the other side of the road. He couldn’t clearly see what was happening. It looked like a fight-someone had probably cracked under the strain of the impossible situation that they, and everyone else, found themselves in. The sudden, unexpected outpouring of long-suppressed emotions provoked a range of reactions from the other refugees nearby. Some ran. Some did all that they could do pretend it wasn’t happening. Others forgot where they were and all that they’d been through and responded with the most basic, natural of reactions and fought.

Mark didn’t give a damn what was happening or why. Taking full advantage of the situation and the distraction it caused, he shoved the door of the phone booth hard. When the lifeless man on the ground still didn’t react, he pushed the door again until there was a wide enough gap for him to squeeze his arm through. He grabbed the man’s grocery bag, shoved it inside his coat, and walked back toward the hotel.

17

JESUS, MY HEAD HURTS.

Where the hell am I? It’s dark, pitch black almost. I’m lying flat on my back on a narrow bed, naked but for a T-shirt and shorts. I try to move, but my ankles and wrists have been chained to the four corners of the metal bed frame. There’s no slack, and I can’t even lift my hands up off the mattress. The harder I try, the tighter the chains seem to get. I try to move my head, but there’s some kind of strap right across my forehead, keeping me down. When they come back I’ll kill the fucker that’s done this.

My eyes are getting used to the lack of light in here, but there’s not a lot to see. It’s a narrow, rectangular room with this bed against one wall and a chair opposite. There’s nothing on the walls except for a lopsided crucifix just to the side of the solid wooden door. Istretch my neck back as far as I can. There’s a small, boarded-up window behind me, the faintest crack of light showing around the edges.

How long have I been here? Have I just woken up, or have I been out cold for days? I feel myself starting to panic, and I make myself breathe slowly and work my way back through what I remember… the children at the school, traveling with Paul, the fighting at the hospital, the Unchanged in the streets who chased me down and drugged me… We were set up, and the bastards who did it must be the ones who brought me here. I pull on my chains again, but I still can’t move. I don’t understand this. It doesn’t make sense. If they really were Unchanged, why didn’t they just kill me? Why bring me here, wherever here is?

Someone screams. Can’t tell where the noise is coming from. Don’t know if they’re screaming for help or crying with pain. Is this a torture chamber? A place where sick, perverted Unchanged fuckers tie us up and make us suffer? Bastards could come in here any second and start on me and there’d be nothing I could do. Maybe they’re experimenting? Trying to find out what makes us better and stronger than them by cutting us up? How many others before they get to me? Is it my turn next?

Concentrate.

Calm.

Focus.

I think about killing to keep me strong. I think about all the Unchanged I’ve massacred over the months and how I’ve gotten rid of each one of them. I remember all the pointless lives I’ve ended and how easy it was and will be again.

Ellis.

Just for a second, from out of nowhere, I think about Ellis, and everything comes crashing down again. The chains feel tighter and the darkness closes in and I can’t move a fucking muscle. I’ve failed her. She’s out there on her own somewhere while I’m locked up here like a fucking animal. Every minute she’s alone out there increases the chance of her ending up like the kids in the school. I try to move again, pulling as hard as I can and thinking for a second that I can break the chains and get out of here, but nothing happens and the ties just get tighter. I feel like I’m in the line outside the cull site again, standing there and waiting to die. And there’s nothing I can do about it.

My arms hurt. They feel heavy and numb. Shoulders are burning with pain. Got an itch on the side of my right leg, just above the knee, and all I want to do is scratch it. I try to ignore it, but it won’t go. Now it’s all I can think about, and the more I think about it, the worse it gets. Now it’s like someone’s dragging the point of a needle up and down across my skin, and it’s driving me fucking crazy.

Good.

Focus.

Concentrate on the pain and block everything else out.

18

HAVE I BEEN ASLEEP? I can’t see the window when I tilt my head back and look behind me. Is it dark outside? Was it even an outside window? Am I in the same room, or did they move me while I was asleep, if I was asleep? Maybe I’ve been awake all the time. I could have been lying here for hours. Might be longer. Might have been here for days.

Everything’s quiet. Just a slow drip in the corner of the room. Sounds like a leaking pipe. Steady. Constant. I count to eight between drips.

Throat’s dry. Need water. Want to call out, but I can’t. Don’t know who’s listening. Won’t lower myself to speak to Unchanged even if…

“How are you feeling?”

The voice from the darkness scares the shit out of me. I can only move my eyes, and all I see is nothing whichever way I look. Did I imagine it? My heart’s thumping in my chest like I’ve run ten miles. I try to move, but I’m still held tight. Someone’s next to me. I can hear their footsteps and their breathing. Can’t see them, but I know they’re close. I feel them brush against my hand, and my whole body stiffens. The door opens inward a fraction, just enough to let a narrow wedge of dull yellow light trickle into the room.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” the deep male voice continues in an African-sounding accent. “I’ve been watching you for a while. Just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

The man stops speaking and stands over me. I can see his short but broad frame outlined by the light from outside. Is he waiting for a response? He’ll be waiting a long time ’cause I’m not speaking to anyone until I know who and what they are and why I’m here.

What’s he doing now? He crouches down, and I can hear him messing with something on the floor beside the bed.

“You might want to close your eyes. I’ve got a lamp here.”

I try to keep my eyes wide open, but they shut involuntarily when he strikes a match and lights a bright gas lamp. I force myself to open them again, ignoring the pain, desperate to see as much of my surroundings as possible after what feels like hours and hours of darkness. The brilliant bright light burns my eyes, and all I can see is the mantle of the lamp, glowing white-hot. The roar of the burning gas jet fills the room, incredibly loud after so much silence.

The intense glare of the light begins to fade as my eyes get used to the brightness. The man puts the lamp on a chair opposite the bed. He turns back around, and I get my first proper look at his face. The bastard is Unchanged. Can’t help but react. I try to lunge forward, the chains still holding me down. I arch my back and try to break free, but I can hardly move. He shuffles back into the corner of the room, too scared to get too close. Need to kill him. Need to get rid of him, but I can’t. Losing control. All I can do is spit. The spittle hits the wall and starts to drip down. Mouth’s too dry to make any more…

“Finished?” he asks. Bastard. I relax my aching muscles, feeling searing, agonizing pain in my shoulders, wrists, legs, and neck. Can’t stand being this close to one of the Unchanged and not trying to kill him. My guts are in knots. Can’t think straight. Can’t move. Can’t do anything. Need to kill him, but it’s physically impossible. Bastard. Haven’t even got enough strength to spit again.

The dark-skinned Unchanged man picks the lamp up off the chair again, then puts it on the floor and sits down. I manage to turn my head to the side slightly, and I stare at him. Won’t take my eyes off the fucker. I’d kill him in a heartbeat if it wasn’t for these chains. Five-five, five-six at the most, he’s overweight-as round as he is tall. The whites of his eyes are bright and clear. I imagine them bulging as I wrap these chains around his neck and pull them tight…

“Take it easy,” he says. “Calm yourself down.”

He’s unarmed. He’s sitting casually in the chair, and he’s grinning at me with a look in his dark, staring eyes that’s cold and evil. His legs are apart, arms uncrossed, palms open and facing upward. Textbook body language. Does he think I’m stupid? Fucker’s doing all he can to try to seem open and nonconfrontational, but I don’t buy it. Inside he’s terrified, scared shitless because he knows what I’ll do to him when I get free. Can’t stand being this close to him, breathing the same air…

“Bet you’ve got more than a few questions to ask,” he says. He’s right, I have a hundred questions ready. He knows I won’t ask any, but he still waits for me to speak. Wish he was close enough to kill. If I just had one hand free I’d have wrapped these chains around his throat and garrotted him before he’d known what was happening. If I could I’d smash his head into the wall, or burn him with the lamp or break the glass and grind it into his face or…

“My name’s Joseph Mallon,” he says, his heavily accented voice sounding composed, calm, and unhurried. “I’ll be working with you while you’re here.”

Working with me? What the hell’s he talking about?

“You were lucky to get away from the hospital by all accounts,” he continues. “Now that says to me you were either incredibly lucky or very smart. I’m hoping it’s the latter. You look like you’ve lasted well out there. You’re in good shape.”

Does he want to kill me or fuck me?

“I’ll tell you what I know about you, just to get us started.”

He pauses, and in the gap between his words I almost forget myself and speak. But at the last second I remember what he is and I stay silent, feeling my body tensing up again.

“I’ve been through your stuff,” he says. “It’s all safe, by the way. I know your name’s Danny McCoyne. It’s funny how we still carry things like wallets around. I guess it’s just habit, isn’t it? Even someone like you, someone who’s so desperate not to be anything like the person he was before, you still had your wallet kicking around at the bottom of your bag. Couldn’t bring yourself to get rid of it, eh? You’ve got no use for it, but there it was, full of useless banknotes, credit cards you’ll never use again, pictures of your family. Lovely-looking kids, by the way.”

At the mention of my family I automatically try to move and pull against my chains again. He grins. That was exactly what he wanted. I curse myself for being so transparent.

“That touched a nerve, didn’t it?!” he laughs, looking pleased with himself. “Might explain why a big, hard man like you is carrying a doll and a kid’s clothing around in his bag. Were you looking for someone?”

I look away, deliberately breaking eye contact and staring up at the ceiling. Undeterred, Mallon gets up and leans over me. I arch my back again, trying to get closer and freak the fucker out, but this time he stands his ground. The light shining up from the lamp on the floor casts strange shadows over his foul face. He grins and leans closer, staying just out of reach. I can almost feel his breath on me.

“Just relax. You’re going nowhere, Danny McCoyne.”

There’s a noise outside that distracts him, the dull, muffled thump and rumble of a distant explosion. Mallon walks to the window and pulls the board away slightly to look outside. He doesn’t say anything about what he sees, but the fact that he’s able to look outside and I can’t reminds me again that I don’t even know where I am. I don’t know where this place is. Add to that the fact that I don’t know how long I was unconscious for… Jesus, I could be anywhere.

“Questions,” Mallon suddenly announces, carefully replacing the board, then sitting down again. “If you’re not going to talk to me, let me see if I can hazard a guess at some of the questions you’re too proud to ask. We’ll start with the basics, shall we? Who am I? Where are you? What are you doing here? How come you’re still alive? How long will you stay alive? What are we going to do to you? Tell me, Danny, am I on the right lines?”

He’s right, and I need to know all of that and more, but I still won’t answer. I can’t answer. Won’t even look at him. I clench my fists, tense my muscles and grind my teeth, and stare up at the ceiling, doing all I can not to give him the satisfaction of a response. He shakes his head and sucks his teeth. If I stay quiet for long enough, maybe he’ll tell me anyway? Bastard seems to like the sound of his own voice.

“Not going to talk to me at all this evening?”

Don’t react. He wants you to react. He’s trying to antagonize you.

“You know I can keep you here as long as I like, don’t you?”

Ignore him.

“I’m thinking you’re uncomfortable lying there like that. If I leave you all night it’s going to get pretty bloody painful.”

He won’t undo these chains whatever I do. More bullshit.

“And you’re gonna get mighty hungry. How long’s it been since you’ve eaten? A day? Longer? And water, too… your throat must be burning.”

Fucker’s playing mind games. Don’t bite.

He waits. Watching me. Trying to outpsych me.

“Danny McCoyne,” he sighs, voice full of mock disappointment, picking up the lamp and leaning closer, “you need to spend some time thinking about your predicament. You’ve lost all control, sunshine. What happens to you now is totally up to me.”

He stares down at me for a moment longer. I meet his gaze, determined not to be the one who’ll crack. After a few seconds that feel like minutes, he stands up straight and moves back toward the door.

“Well, I’m not wasting any more time on you tonight. I’m hungry. We’ve got good supplies here, better than most. Going to fetch myself something to drink and some food, then get some sleep. It’s been good talking to you.”

With that he leaves, taking the lamp with him. He pulls the door shut with a loud thud, then locks it. I hear his footsteps walking away, then silence. The quiet is deafening and is interrupted only by the fading sound of a far-off helicopter or plane and the steady drip of the water in the corner.

The room is pitch black, no light at all. The kind of dark your eyes won’t ever get used to.

Who the hell is Joseph Mallon? Is he on his own here? Just a lone crackpot trying to make a stand, or is he part of something bigger?

My gut begins to rumble with hunger again, and the itch by my right knee returns. Wish I could scratch it. That’s all it’d take, just a few seconds scratching, then it would go. Feels like someone’s digging a nail into my flesh.

19

I HEAR A SCREAM in the darkness, but I can’t tell whether it’s coming from somewhere inside this building or outside. In the smothering darkness everything has lost its form and definition. I have no concept of time or how long I’ve been here. I tried counting the drips, but my tired brain can’t keep track, and now the noise each drip makes is like a hammer blow to the head. I can’t stay still, but I can’t move either. Every time I pull on my chains they seem to tighten even more.

I don’t know how long it’s been since I last drank anything, but my bladder’s been filling steadily. I won’t shout out and put myself at the mercy of Joseph Mallon or any other Unchanged scum here. That’s what he wants. He’s trying to get me to break under pressure by starving me and keeping me chained up and in the dark. I’m better than him. I won’t let him get to me. But at the same time I can’t stop my body from doing what it’s supposed to. I pissed myself a while back. What else could I do? It was either that or shout for Mallon. Now I’m soaked with strong-smelling urine. It was warm, but my bare legs are freezing now, and I stink. That bastard has reduced me to this, but I won’t let him beat me.

My body aches. My legs and arms are numb. Never thought it could hurt so much to stay still for so long. Just wish I could get up and walk around. And God, I’m so fucking hungry. My empty stomach keeps cramping so bad it feels like it’s turning itself inside out. Don’t know what I’m going to do when I need to shit. Not even going to think about it until it happens. Have to try to keep myself distracted, but it’s impossible when I can’t see or hear anything and when I can’t move and when I don’t know where I am or how long I’m going to be here…

Stop.

Focus.

This is what he wants. He’s trying to push me over the edge. It won’t work. I won’t let it work.

Leg’s itching again. Worse than before.

Helicopter. Long way off…

How long before you go crazy in the dark? A kid at school-long, long time ago-said it was just hours if there’s absolutely no light at all. Pointless thinking about time, because I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here. Part of me is starting to wish Joseph Mallon would come back just to break the monotony. Never thought I’d actually look forward to seeing one of the Unchanged, but staring at that evil piece of shit’s face would be better than lying here staring at nothing, just thinking. Don’t like being able to think like this. Makes me question things I’ve known all along are right. Makes me start to doubt myself. Makes me think stupid, crazy thoughts about Ellis-how close I might have got to her and how far I am from her now. I was within a couple of miles of Lizzie’s sister’s house, and now I could be anywhere.

What’s my little girl doing? Is she fighting? Is she already dead? Is she in another room in this building? Is she in the room next door? What if Mallon doesn’t come back? What if I’ve fucked up and blown my chance with him? What if he leaves me here to starve to death, strapped to a piss-soaked bed?

What a fucking failure. All that noise and fighting and bullshit-four months of it-and I’ve let myself get beaten by an unfit, overweight Unchanged who looks like he couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag. He can’t be the only one running this place. There were at least four out on the street when they got me, and none of them were as fat and out of shape as Mallon.

Thinking about the street makes me think about the hospital and how I criticized Paul for running headfirst into a one-sided fight that I thought was a setup. At least he went out fighting. For all I know he might still be out there while I’m stuck here…

I’m starting to get scared.

The dripping noise is getting louder and faster.

Thought I felt something moving on the bed.

Thought I saw a flash of light.

Am I hallucinating now?

Am I going out of my fucking mind? Going crazy in the dark? Need to keep focused, so I try to remember Ellis’s face. But the harder I concentrate, the less I see. I’m scared I’ll forget what she looks like. The face I see now isn’t her, it’s a combination of the faces of the feral kids we found in the school this morning… or yesterday morning… or whenever the hell that was.

Leg hurts.

Just want to scratch that fucking itch.

20

THE DOOR FLIES OPEN, and Mallon barges into the room. He’s carrying something with both hands and holding the light beneath it. The combination of searing light and dark shadows stops me from seeing anything. He doesn’t look at me, must be focused on whatever it is he’s going to do to me. He turns his back and puts something down on the chair; then he puts the lamp on the floor in the corner of the room.

What’s that smell? Christ, it’s beautiful. Smells like hot food… some kind of soup, I think. But it can’t be, can it? Can you imagine a smell? Is this another trick my tired mind’s playing on me? Mallon turns around and moves closer. He’s left a tray on the chair. There’s a bowl on it with steam snaking up, and next to it is a plastic bottle full of water. My stomach starts to growl and churn.

“You must be damn hungry,” he says, his deep voice filling the room. I stop myself answering with the words on the very tip of my tongue, remembering at the last second what he is and what his kind have done to people like me. “You look hungry. You must be starving.”

He leans over me, and I instinctively strain against my chains to get to him. Maybe this time I’ll reach him…

My arms and legs hurt too much, and I quickly drop back down. Bastard doesn’t even flinch. He knows I’m not going anywhere.

“You smell of piss,” he says, laughing at me and shaking his head. “You’re in a bad way, big man! Lost, all alone, chained up, and soaked with piss!”

I can’t help trying to lunge forward again, but the pain’s intense, and this time I hardly move. He looks me in the eye and raises his hand. I screw my eyes shut and tense up, ready for him to hit me-but the pain doesn’t come. I feel him tugging on the wide strap across my forehead. He loosens it slightly, then steps back. I still can’t lift my head up, but at least I’ve got some side-to-side movement now. The freedom is bliss.

Mallon picks up the tray and sits down on the chair opposite. He sniffs the soup or stew or whatever it is, then takes a spoonful and holds it up to his lips. He stops just before he eats it.

“You want some of this?”

Fucker knows how much I want it. He’s playing games with me again, and I have to resist. I won’t give him the satisfaction of a response. Won’t lower myself to speak to him. I watch his every move as he blows steam away, then takes a mouthful. He closes his eyes and shakes his head with pleasure, deliberately overdoing it for effect.

“Oh, that’s good… You know, Danny, it’s getting harder and harder to find food like this these days. I’m betting it’s been a long time since you’ve tasted anything as good as this soup.”

He eats more. I want him to stop. Please don’t eat it all…

“It’s chicken, you know. It’s out of a can, of course, but man, you can still taste the meat. I don’t even know if it really is meat, but oh, this is damn fine soup.”

He puts down the spoon and opens the bottle of water. My mouth and throat are dry. My tongue feels ten times its normal size, like it’s too big for my mouth. He takes a huge swig of water, then gasps with overstated pleasure when he’s done. My eyes are fixed on him, and he knows it. My stomach churns again.

He gets up and carries the tray over. I stare at the steam coming from the soup and watch it disappear into the air, trying to imagine what it tastes like. Can’t remember the last time I ate hot food…

“You can have this,” he tells me, putting the tray down on my chest. I watch it going up and down with my fast, nervous breathing. I feel the heat from the soup on my body. “You can have all this and more; you just have to do one thing. You know what that is?”

I don’t react. Don’t know and I don’t want to know. I don’t have anything this sick fucker could want. But if there is something, something I haven’t thought about that matters, then I know he’ll keep pushing. And the longer I act dumb, the harder he’ll have to push. If I stay silent long enough, he’ll have to tell me something to keep this bullshit interrogation moving along. He clears his throat to speak again. Predictable bastard.

“All you have to do, Danny,” he says, leaning closer, “is talk to me. We don’t even have to have a proper conversation. You can just tell me to fuck off if you like. All I want is to hear your voice. I just want you to respond to me…”

I won’t do it. I’d rather starve. He waits, looking at me hopefully. Keep waiting, fucker.

And he does.

“Seems strange to me,” he eventually whispers after he’s been watching for a couple of minutes, “that someone like you who’s obviously so hungry and thirsty can’t bring themselves to just do one small thing to get what they need so badly. No one else is going to know about it, Danny. No one’s watching…”

Stay focused. I look up at the ceiling and count the cracks.

“You really are strange, strange people. If I had the time and inclination to wait and watch, I think you really would rather lie there until you die than drop your guard. Crazy behavior…”

He leans over me until his face is all I can see. I start to tense my body again, but he gently pushes me back down with one hand, and I know there’s nothing I can do. I make eye contact and refuse to break it. I’ll kill him when I get out of here. I’ll rip his damn body apart, smash his face into the wall…

Mallon sighs. He shakes his head with feigned disappointment, then picks up the tray and puts it back on the chair. I stare at the bottle of water, still three-quarters full, and watch the few last wisps of steam rising up from the soup. He stands in the open doorway with the lamp.

“All you have to do is talk to me. Just say something… anything…”

Another pause; then he shakes his head again and leaves. He slams and locks the door, and the room is plunged back into total darkness.