Dog Blood

SIX A.M. SANDWICHED BETWEEN two heavily armed military jeeps and chaperoned by columns of soldiers and militia fighters, several hundred displaced refugees were led out along Arley Road. With no regard for personal preferences, friendships, partners, or relatives, specified numbers of individuals were filtered off toward each building. No one resisted or complained. They were too tired and too scared to show any defiance or opposition to what they were being told to do. Their choices were stark: put up with it or fuck off and take your chances on your own. And anyone who dared show any resistance to the military would be on the street with a bullet in the head. Public order had to be maintained.

“But there’s no more room in here,” Mark protested, blocking the door of room 33. “I told them last night-”

Uninterested, the soldier shoved him out of the way and forced his way in.

“What’s the problem?” Kate asked, getting up from the end of the bed and standing in his way, instinctively wrapping her arms around her pregnant belly, cradling and protecting her unborn child.

“There’s no problem,” he answered quickly, his tired, gruff voice muffled by his face mask. “New roommate for you, that’s all.”

“But that’s crazy! We don’t have enough space as it is. How are we supposed to-”

The soldier put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back down onto the bed, then turned and walked back toward the door again, pausing only to sidestep Mark. Mark knew there was no point trying to argue; at best he’d just be ignored, at worst he could be accused of being a Hater and “removed.” Kate chased after the officer, far less concerned about the potential repercussions of her outburst. Behind her, her parents sat up to try to see what was happening. Her father, weakened by age, fear, and malnutrition, simply lay back again when he couldn’t see anything, too tired to care. Her mother, once an intelligent, demure, and gentle woman, balanced on the end of the bed half naked, screaming like a banshee.

“There’s enough of them in here already. We don’t want more. You take them and find somewhere else for them to go. You can’t…”

Kate ran back to silence her, leaving Mark at the door to placate the soldier.

“Gurmit Singh,” the trooper announced as he shoved an elderly Asian man into the room. Singh protested with a high-volume, high-speed torrent of Punjabi, which was neither understood nor acknowledged by anyone. A battered leather carryall was thrown into the room after him, containing the sum total of his worldly possessions. He tripped over the bag, almost losing his light-orange-colored turban in the process, then turned around and continued his vociferous tirade. When the soldier pulled the door shut in his face, he simply turned again without pausing for breath and continued unloading at Mark, who shook his head.

“Don’t understand,” he said, desperate to shut the man up. “Speak English.”

“No English,” he snapped back, then continued his rant in Punjabi.

“He can’t stay here,” Kate’s mother screamed from the bed. “We can’t have his type here…”

Singh pointed at her, or was it at the bed? He rubbed the small of his back, then thumped his hand on the mattress and raised his voice to an ever louder, even more uncomfortable volume. Mark tried reasoning with him, desperate for him to be quiet. Singh ignored him, then picked up his bag and angrily sat down in the armchair in the corner of the room, still yelling furiously and pointing at the bed.

Kate stood by the hotel room door, her hands over her ears, desperately trying to block out the endless, directionless noises coming from both her mother and Gurmit Singh. Mark tried to hold her, but she pulled away from him, almost recoiling from his touch.

“I can’t stand this,” she sobbed. “Either they go or I go.”

“None of us can go anywhere. For Christ’s sake, Katie, that’s the problem, there’s nowhere else to go.”

“I don’t care. Kick them out. Throw them out on the street if you have to.”

“Who are you talking about now?”

“You know exactly who I mean. It’s too dangerous. We’ve got to think about ourselves and the baby and just screw the rest of them-”

“I can’t. You know I can’t-”

“Then I will. I mean it, Mark, if you don’t get rid of them, I’ll leave.”

“Katie, there’s nowhere for them to go. Please, sweetheart, just calm down and-”

“Don’t patronize me. Don’t tell me to calm down. How can I calm down when-”

“Shh,” he begged, putting his hand up to her mouth. “Please don’t shout, Katie, they’ll hear us. Don’t do anything that’ll give them any reason to come back in here. You know what’ll happen if they do.”

“Maybe I should,” she said, pushing him away. “Maybe that’s exactly what I should do. Maybe if they knew what was going on here they’d help. They’d come up here and get rid of-”

“Shut up!” he hissed angrily, covering her mouth again.

Gurmit Singh, who had just started to quiet down, suddenly exploded into life again, startled by the appearance of Lizzie, who emerged from the bathroom.

“Who the hell’s this?”

“Mr. Singh,” Mark answered. “He’s just been delivered.”

“But we don’t have any space-”

“We can’t have his kind here,” Kate’s mother yelled, reaching out and grabbing hold of Lizzie’s arm and pulling her closer. Lizzie shrugged her off.

“Too many here,” Singh yelled back, suddenly switching to English. “Back bad. Need bed.”

“Oh, you can do the language when it suits you, then,” Kate sneered at him.

“What’s going on, Mark?” Lizzie asked.

“Nothing we can do about it,” he began. “We don’t have any say-”

“We can’t go on like this,” Kate interrupted, desperate tears welling up in her eyes.

“We have to-” Mark started to say.

“Tell me what I’m supposed to do, then, Kate,” Lizzie snapped angrily. “I heard what you were saying. I know what you want-”

“Then do something about it!”

“Where else am I supposed to go? What do you want me to do?”

Another outburst from Singh interrupted the argument. He got up from his seat and pushed between them, still gesturing toward the bed. Furious, Lizzie shoved him back down again.

“Back off!” she spat before turning to face Kate again. “Put yourself in my shoes, Katie. What would you do?”

“She can’t stay here. It’s not safe. You’re putting all of us at risk.”

“Look around, we’re already at risk. Everyone who’s left alive is at risk, for Christ’s sake.”

“Calm down, both of you,” Mark whispered, trying unsuccessfully to separate the two women, worried that their noise would bring the soldiers back.

“I’m not going to calm down,” Kate yelled, throwing open the bathroom door and pointing inside. “That thing in there is evil.”

“That thing in there is my daughter.”

“She killed your sons!”

“I know, but she’s still my daughter.”

Lizzie knelt down in the doorway. Curled up on the floor in front of her, chained to the sink pedestal, gagged and bound and heavily sedated, lay Ellis. Lizzie stroked her hair and ran her hand gently down the side of her tranquilized face.

“She could kill you, Lizzie. She could kill all of us.”

“I know, but I can’t let her go. Try to understand…”

“There’s nothing to understand.”

“Yes there is. What if your baby turns out to be like this? Will things be different then? Could you imagine giving your baby up?”

“No, I-”

“She’s my daughter, Katie, and no matter what she is, what she’s done or what she might still do, she’s my responsibility. I’ll protect her and fight for her until the bitter end.”

“If we go on like this,” Kate warned, “that will be sooner than you think.”

26

THE MORNING I THOUGHT would never come is finally here. I lay on the bed for hours, but I couldn’t sleep. It reminded me of being back in the apartment with Ellis, when we shut ourselves off from the others and slept on Edward’s top bunk. I kept thinking about her wide, innocent eyes. Oblivious to all that was happening around her, she curled up alongside me, full of love and complete, unspoken trust.

Barefoot and cold, I’ve spent most of the last few hours looking out of the small window, watching the darkness turn to gray as the sun rose over the roof of this bizarre prison.

I’ve stood here for hours trying to work out who this Sahota might be and what he wants from me. I’ve taken some reassurance from the fact that I’m sure Joseph Mallon’s naive trusting of me is genuine-he put his life on the line several times yesterday, and all that any of the Unchanged have left now is their lives. He’s either supremely confident and brave, stupidly optimistic, or, and this seems most likely, he genuinely believes all the crap he’s been peddling. So will Sahota be the same? I’ve been trying to work out my tactics, deciding how I should play my showdown with Boss Man. But how can I prepare for a meeting in a place I don’t know with a person I’ve never met?

It’s all irrelevant.

The only thing that matters now is getting out and looking for Ellis. The war… us and them… taking sides-all of that has to take second place from now on. I’ll play along with Mallon and his hippie/pacifist/conscientious objector bullshit for as long as it takes until I get out of here. Unless, of course, they don’t intend to let me out. Then I’ll resort to my backup plan-my Plan B, which used to be Plan A: start fighting and don’t stop until every last one of the fuckers is lying dead at my feet.

The door finally opens, and Mallon strides in. About time. There’s no tray of food and no small talk or niceties either this morning. It’s like he’s just got a job to do. Is he abandoning me and moving on to a new pet? Or is he just unable to look me in the eye because he knows what’s coming next? I want to attack him, but I don’t, forcing myself to swallow the Hate back down like poisonous bile.

“What’s going to happen?” I ask, instantly regretting having spoken. Christ, how far I’ve fallen. It’s bad enough that I’m being held captive by the Unchanged; now I’m begging them for information, too. Pathetic.

“I told you last night. You’re going to see Sahota.”

“Yes, but-”

Mallon stands up straight and looks at me, still on guard but allowing himself to relax slightly. He puts a hand on my shoulder, and I resist the temptation to shrug it off.

“Have faith, Danny. Sahota is a good man. The kind of man who could bring an end to this war.”

That doesn’t make me feel any better.

“But who is he? What does he want to see me for?”

My questions obviously sound as desperate as I suddenly feel. Mallon manages half a smile.

“You’ll find out.”

He bends down and takes the shackles off my feet. Now the only chains left are those that bind my hands together. I could kill him now, but that would be a mistake. If I’m going to kill anyone this morning, it should be the main man, not one of his minions.

Mallon leads me out into a wide corridor. There’s no security this time, no bag over my head, and I get my first proper look at the building I’m being held in. It’s an odd-looking place, nothing like the prison I’d imagined. The walls are bare, their light yellow paint faded and peeling, and the air is cold. There are traces of religious paraphernalia lying around like the crucifix in my room-a painting of some serene-looking woman at the top of a staircase, some unfathomable ancient slogan scrawled across another wall, enough crucifixes to ward off a whole army of vampires.

We reach a T-intersection at the end of the long corridor, walking under an unrepaired hole in the roof where rainwater has poured in and soaked the carpet. To my left the corridor continues toward another long staircase. To my right there’s a short, narrow landing, then three steps leading up to an ominous-looking door. Is this my Room 101? Is this the very end of my journey? All the fears and uncertainties I’d managed to dismiss suddenly manifest themselves again. My pulse is racing and my throat’s dry. My body tenses. I stop and turn toward Mallon. The urge to kill him is strong, almost too strong…

“Don’t, Danny,” he pleads pathetically, my intent obviously clear, “please don’t. You’re so close now…”

He moves past me quickly, climbs the steps, and opens the door. He pushes it wide open, and I edge a little closer to try to look past him and see inside. It looks bizarrely like a doctor’s waiting room, more like another short corridor than a room-clean, a door at either end, light flooding in through a skylight, a low table and a row of three chairs against one wall. I take a step closer, my curiosity and nerves getting the better of me. Mallon stands there, blocking my way, and it’s like he’s somehow taunting me. Can’t stand this. This bullshit has gone on for too long. I don’t think there’s anyone else in this damn building. I’ll kill him, then fight my way out of here.

I run at the fucker, but he sidesteps, then pushes me into the other room. I spin around as he slams the door in my face.

“Don’t blow it,” he shouts as it shuts. I hear a bolt slide across, then hear his muffled voice still talking to me. “Keep the faith, Danny, you’re almost there. Remember everything you’ve learned.”

I hammer on the door, but it’s no use-it’s locked, and he’s gone. How could I have been so fucking dumb, to walk into a simple trap like this?

I’ll wait for Sahota to show his face now.

I’m ready to fight. Bastard won’t know what’s hit him.

27

SILENCE. ABSOLUTE, TOTAL FUCKING silence. I stand and watch the other door, waiting for it to open, ready to attack. No one’s coming. Is this another setup? More stupid games? Making me wait and trying to get me to panic and crack? Too late for that now.

Both doors are locked, but the skylight above is open slightly. I climb up onto one of the chairs, my hands still bound together, and try to haul myself up. The rattling chains are heavy around my wrists, and the frame of the skylight doesn’t feel strong enough to support my weight. I’ll pull it down before I-

“Going somewhere?”

I drop, spin around, and throw myself at the figure standing in the other door. I swing my chain-wrapped hands at his head, hard enough to decapitate him. He manages to somehow duck out of the way, then shoves me in the gut. I trip over the chair I was just standing on, falling back and cracking my head hard against the floor. I roll over and try to get up, but this bastard’s fast. He pushes me back down and plants a boot right between my shoulder blades, stopping me from moving. I brace myself for his next strike, but it doesn’t come, and he lifts his foot off. I look back and watch him walk away. Confused, I drag myself up, using another chair for support, suck in a deep breath of air, and turn around to face him.

What? How can he…?

“You must be Danny McCoyne,” he says, but I can’t answer. “I’m Sahota.”

Standing in front of me, wearing a smart, if a little crumpled, pin-striped suit and a remarkably clean white shirt, is one of our people. He’s not Unchanged. I do a double take, but I know I’m right. This man is a friend and an ally, and I immediately know we’re on the same side. He’s short and his build is slight, but he stands tall with confidence and composure. The surprise and confusion he obviously sees on my face are clearly not unexpected.

“Apologies for all the subterfuge and bullshit over the last few days,” he says, gesturing for me to follow him through into the next room. He stops just inside the room as if he’s remembered something important. He checks his trouser pockets, then pulls out a key and undoes the chains around my wrists. He throws them out into the waiting area and closes the door behind us.

All I can do is stand and stare at Sahota. I don’t know what I was expecting, but he isn’t it in any way, shape, or form. He’s a good foot and a half shorter than me, dark-skinned, with close-cropped dark hair, graying at the temples. He has a neatly trimmed mustache and wears a pair of wire-framed glasses. For the first time in months I’m suddenly conscious of my shabby appearance-dead man’s trousers and shirt, no shoes, hair long and shaggy, face covered in stubble and bristle.

“Come in and sit down,” he says, ushering me farther into the room. It’s a wide, spacious, and relatively clean and uncluttered office-cum-living-area. In one corner is a metal-framed bed, similar to the one in my cell but with clean bedding folded back with military precision. Along one wall are several huge, mostly intact windows (only one pane of glass has been boarded up), and in front of me is a large wooden desk with a single chair on either side. Sahota locks the door, then sits down at the desk with his back to the window. He beckons for me to sit opposite.

“Where do you want to start?” he asks in a clipped, well-educated accent as he pours me a drink and slides it across the table.

“Don’t know,” I mumble pathetically between thirsty gulps of water. Truth is, I’ve got so many questions to ask I’m struggling to make sense of any of them.

“Don’t worry.” He grins. “It’s not unusual. You’ve been through a lot.”

“I don’t know what I’ve been through.”

He grins again. “We wouldn’t have done it this way if there’d been any alternative.”

“So what exactly have you done?”

“Which one of them looked after you? Selena, Joseph, or Simon?”

“Looked after me?! That’s not how I’d put it.”

“Which one?”

“Joseph.”

“And what did he tell you?”

“Lots of bullshit about breaking the cycle, not fighting fire with fire, holding the Hate… He said the more I fought, the harder it would get.”

“Did you believe any of it?”

I shrug my shoulders. Truth be told, I’m still not sure what I believe.

“Bits of it made sense.”

“Well, some of what he said must have had an effect on you, because you’re here and he’s still alive. You’d have killed him otherwise.”

“He said I was only locked up here because of the Hate. He said the more we fight, the less we get.”

“And what do you think about that, Danny?”

“I’m not sure what I think.”

“But you must have some kind of opinion. You can’t tell me an intelligent man like you lay there alone in the darkness for hours and didn’t think about what he’d been told.”

“I think he was right when he said we were stuck in a vicious circle and that things are only going to get worse…”

“Go on.”

“But I don’t understand what difference that makes. What else are we supposed to do? We can’t live with the Unchanged, we have to kill them.”

“You’re absolutely right.”

“So how do we win a war without fighting?”

Sahota stands up, picks up his drink, and walks over to the window. He looks out, choosing his next words with care and consideration.

“There is an alternative.”

“Is there? I can’t see one.”

“That’s because you’re looking in the wrong place. You need to change your perspective, Danny, and that’s what this place is all about. That’s why we’re here. Tell me, before we brought you here, did you ever hear anything of Chris Ankin and his plans?”

“I heard his messages when the war started, and I was with a group for a couple of days. They said they were trying to build an army.”

He turns back to face me. “And what did you think of that?”

“Gut reaction?”

“Yes.”

“As soon as we start grouping together in large numbers, the enemy will blow the shit out of us.”

“Exactly right. We’re still outnumbered, and they still have a structured military with a just about operational chain of command. We’d only be able to take the fight to them on limited fronts, and yes, they’d probably blow us out of the water. While we’re concentrating on one of their cities, the others would still be standing strong. They’ve already shown they’re willing to sacrifice thousands of their own to try to wipe us out. You’ve only got to look at how they lost London -”

“What did happen to London?”

“You didn’t hear?”

“Not really, only a few details.”

“It was early on, before these refugee camps were set up. It wasn’t something we planned; rather it was something they couldn’t prevent. The capital was too big for them to defend, too sprawling… London showed us what we could achieve. The fighting on the streets must have been incredible. I almost wish I could have been there. There were hardly any of us in comparison to them, but the panic we caused was beyond anything we could have hoped for. They reached critical mass…”

“Critical mass? I don’t understand.”

“The point of no return… the point where it was impossible for them to regain any order, where the number of individual battles was so high and the fighting so intense that they could no longer separate them from us. They didn’t know who was who anymore. The only option left to them was to destroy everything.”

“They destroyed London?”

“The whole city and everyone in it. Wiped out thousands of our people, but they took hundreds of thousands of their own with them.”

We’re digressing, and I’m confused.

“I still don’t understand. What’s that got to do with you holding me here?”

“In the end it was their confusion and panic that destroyed London, simple as that. But like I said, if we’d attacked with an army, they’d have seen us coming and wiped us out before we’d even got close.”

“You said I was looking in the wrong place…”

“That’s right, and so were they.”

“Still don’t get you. Look, I’m sorry, you’ve spent days fucking with my brain, and I’m tired. Stop talking in riddles and just explain.”

“Have you ever heard of a text called The Art of War?”

“I’ve heard the title. Don’t know anything about it, though. Never read it.”

“It’s a Chinese guide to warfare, written by Sun Tzu more than two thousand years ago.”

“And? What did he know about us and the Unchanged?”

“Nothing at all! But even though this war is unique, some of Sun Tzu’s tactics for fighting remain as valid today as they were in ancient China. He said that all warfare is based on deception. We have to fool our enemy-make them believe we’re weak when we’re strong, make them think we’re miles away when we’re next to them. ‘Hold out baits to entice the enemy. Feign disorder, and crush him.’”

Sahota recites the script perfectly from memory. He waits for a reaction from me, but my head’s still spinning, and I can’t make sense of anything. He senses my confusion and explains.

“They’re expecting us to fight head-on. As far as they can see, our only tactic is to fight and keep fighting until we’re the only ones left standing. When you get deeper into the city you’ll see how that stops them from interacting and-”

“Wait a second,” I interrupt. “What do you mean, when I get deeper into the city?”

Sahota grins and pours me another glass of water.

“They’re expecting us to run straight at them with fists flying, screaming in their faces. What they’re not expecting is for us to be standing beside them and alongside them. We’re going to go deep into their cities to stir up trouble and cause them to panic. Then, when they’re too busy tearing themselves apart to notice, Ankin’s army will come into play. We’re going to make them destroy themselves from the inside out.”

“But how are we supposed to do that? Get within a few yards of any of them and all we’ll be able to do is fight.”

“Is that right? Didn’t you learn anything from your time with Joseph?”

It finally makes sense. That’s what this place is about.

“Holding the Hate…”

“That’s exactly it,” he says, sitting down again and leaning toward me. “Thing is, this is the only way to teach someone how to do it. If you’re not held or restricted in some way, you’ll kill them before you realize what you’re doing.”

“But Joseph…?”

“Joseph and the others are just puppets. They have no idea. They genuinely believe what they tell you, but it’s all just bullshit in the end. Joseph’s the best-or the worst, depending how you look at it. Some days all I want to do is kill him myself.”

“Incredible…”

Sahota’s eyes are wide with excitement. “Think of the advantage this gives us, Danny. We know who they are, but they can’t tell us apart until we start fighting. They won’t even know we’re there until it’s too late.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“We’re having to move fast. For various reasons things are deteriorating rapidly in the city. Normally we’d have given you a few more days here to make sure you understand, but time’s a luxury we no longer have. This is the perfect time for us to do this. Think you’re up to it?”

Talk about being put on the spot. I fumble for an answer for a second, before realizing that there’s only one thing I can say.

“Yes.”

“Good man! That’s the spirit! As soon as they told me about you I knew you’d be a good candidate.”

“What do you mean by that? Who told you…?”

“We send people out looking for battles. They wait on the outskirts of the fighting, watching out for people like you who manage to demonstrate some degree of control and don’t just attack. Let’s face it, we’d be wasting our time trying to teach this stuff to Brutes, wouldn’t we?! No, we need people like you who are able to take a step back and consider the options before committing to an attack. People who use the Hate and control it rather than letting it control them.”

He looks me straight in the eye. “Tell me, do you remember when you first stood next to Joseph and didn’t attack?”

“I remember.”

“And what were you thinking at the time, Danny? Were you thinking what he was saying was right, or were you just toeing the line to get the best out of a bad situation?”

The memory of the last few days is filled with confusion and uncertainty, the distinction between “us” and “them” suddenly unclear. But now that I’m away from my cell and Sahota has put his question so simply, the answer’s clear and unequivocal. Everything has been brought back into sharp focus.

“I was playing with him. Stringing him along. Doing what he wanted me to do just to get food and freedom…”

“Exactly! A perfect answer! From the moment you decided not to kill him, you were in control.”

This is too much to take in. Sahota watches me intently, and I’m uncomfortable under his constant gaze. I try to look anywhere but back at him. The sun breaks through the heavy gray cloud cover momentarily and streams in through the dirty office window. Christ, I’ve been so preoccupied with this bizarre conversation that I’d forgotten my newfound freedom-in the back of my mind I still think I’m chained to the spot. I get up and walk around the side of the desk.

“You local?” Sahota asks.

“Don’t know yet,” I answer. “That depends where local is. Where exactly are we?”

“Not far from the hospital where we picked you up. A couple of miles maybe.”

“A couple of miles in which direction? Farther away from the city center or…?”

My words trail away to nothing as soon as I look out of the window. I know this place. Sahota’s office overlooks a narrow parking lot. Beyond that, the long, overgrown back gardens of a row of once well appointed but now derelict houses stretch away. Beyond the houses is a small, sloping, oddly shaped patch of parkland, the brightly painted swings and slides of a children’s play area looking strangely at odds with the chaos of everything else I can see. A narrow track between two of the houses connects the parking lot to the road, and a huge wrought-iron gate prevents anyone unwanted from either getting in or getting out.

“Is this-” I start to ask.

“Holy Sisters of the Poor, to give it its original title,” he explains, standing beside me and looking down. “Strange place, this was.”

“Strange?”

“Part convent, part nursing home. Ideal for us.”

He’s not wrong. The huge, strong, brick-built complex is like a fortress. Built in the middle of what used to be a fairly affluent area, and hidden from view by houses on all sides, it’s set back off the road and surrounded by enough tall fences, gates, and walls to keep even the most determined intruder out. Most people wouldn’t even have known it was here at all. From what I remember, this used to be a convent, which became a church-run, community-funded rest home. I’m sure Lizzie’s dad, Harry, had a friend living here for a while…

“This is Highwell, isn’t it?”

“We’re on the border between Highwell and Steply, to be precise.”

“But that’s…”

“About two miles from the center of town.”

“Yes, so we’re…”

“Already in the city. Right on the innermost edge of their exclusion zone.”

“Christ… How many people like us are here?”

“Not many, just me and a couple of others at any one time. Apart from me this place is almost exclusively staffed by my team of idiot Unchanged pacifists who think they’re saving the world. As soon as people like you have learned how to control their emotions I send them out into the city. Like I said, the situation’s deteriorating rapidly out there. We don’t have a lot of time to waste.”

For a moment all I can do is stand in silence and stare out of the window. Beyond the parking lot and the houses, everything appears completely lifeless and still. There are the usual telltale signs of battle, and everything appears even more overgrown and wild than I remember, but the world otherwise just seems abandoned and empty. The longer I look, though, the more I see. In the distance a single helicopter flies toward the city center, visible only in the gaps between the tops of trees. There’s a pile of corpses in the park, dumped in a flower bed. Closer, in the shadows of the parking lot directly below, several Unchanged carry bags of supplies between one building and another, constantly looking over their shoulders for fear of attack. Along the road to my far right, a battered car is slowly approaching. It enters the complex through another gate and narrow passageway, then stops in the shadows of the tall perimeter wall. I watch as two Unchanged deliver another fighter like me, his arms and legs already tightly bound. It strikes me that the irony of what’s happening here is beautiful; these fools think they’re working toward some kind of salvation, but all they’re doing is training their own assassins.

“I’ve set up a number of sleeper cells right in the heart of the city,” Sahota says. “I want you to join one of them.”

“Okay,” I answer quickly and without thinking through any implications. It’ll get me out of here, and right now that’s the most important thing.

“I’ll get your stuff brought up, and I’ll give you directions, contact information, and some supplies. Get out there, get used to being neck deep in the enemy, then find your cell.”

“And then?”

“And then you sit and wait for the signal.”

“The signal?”

“When the time’s right, all the cells will be instructed to take up positions deep in the heart of the city. Then, when we’re ready, each cell will start fighting, causing as much panic as possible. Just imagine it, Danny… sudden swells of violence, loads of them in random locations, and all happening at the same time for no apparent reason. The enemy won’t know what’s going on. They won’t even see us there. They’ll look straight through us and turn on each other, and it’ll be beautiful, like dropping a match into the gas tank of a car. Before you know it, the whole city will be tearing itself apart. Think of it… we’ll be less like terrorist cells, more like cancer cells.”

It sounds magnificent. All too easy.

“So all we have to do-”

“All you have to do,” he interrupts, correcting me, “is get in there, wait until we’re ready, then cause as much mayhem and carnage as you can.”

I stare out of the window again, trying to fully appreciate the importance and danger of what I’m being asked to do.

“This is an honor, Danny. You’ve shown incredible strength and self-belief to get this far. What you’re going into the city to do will never be forgotten.”

28

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 my dangerous stupor. I turn around and see that there’s a jeep driving up the middle of the road toward me, flanked by several heavily armed soldiers on either side, their impenetrable face masks hiding their intent. Are they looking for me? The jeep moves forward quickly, the driver making no attempt to dodge or weave through the masses of drifting refugees that litter the street. They jump for cover, staying well back until the troops have passed by. Preoccupied by my irrational fear and not knowing whether I should do nothing or fight, I’m slow to react. A soldier shoves me to one side, and it’s all I can do not to kill him. I stand firm and square up to him, stupidly defiant, my face reflected back at me in his visor.

“Problem?” he yells, his wretched face just inches from mine. I can feel bile rising in my throat, a noxious, nauseous terror building up inside me, and I don’t know if I can keep it down. Can I stand to let him live? When all I want to do is kill, doing nothing is almost impossible. But I force myself to remember being back in the cell with Joseph Mallon, and remembering the fact that I was so easily able to fool him gives me much needed strength. Act dumb, I plead with myself. Let this one go. You’ll kill thousands more when it’s time…

“No problem,” I answer, and I back down and slope away, trying to mimic the reaction of the countless other cowards milling around me. I feel his eyes burning into me, but I don’t allow myself to look back. I keep walking…

Ten seconds and nothing’s happened.

Don’t look back.

Another ten seconds. Have they moved on?

I turn the corner and I know I’m safe.

Millennium Square.

Last time I was here I got caught in the crossfire between groups of armed police officers who had suddenly found themselves on opposing sides. I ran for cover along with hundreds of other people, each person as scared and confused as the next. That was the day, I recall, when everything really changed. That was the day the Hate took over. Strange how what was such a terrifying experience now seems, with hindsight, like nothing out of the ordinary. I’m harder now, stronger. Back then I was just one of the crowd, trying to blend in with the masses and not be noticed. Today I’m here to kill them.

This vast public square is no longer the empty, underused space it always used to be. For as far as I can see the ground is covered with a sea of temporary shelters of endless different colors, shapes, and sizes. I can’t help looking into a few of those that I pass, and inside each of them I see more refugees desperately hoping that their flimsy cardboard, wood, and polyethylene structures will keep them safe inside and everyone else out. The occupants of one shelter are both dead. The green-tinged corpses of a middle-aged couple are lying together motionless, entwined and unnoticed. The stale air inside the small space is thick with flies.

Squatters have taken over the public toilets and moved in. They used to get vandalized every other week and were used more as a pickup point for gay men than anything else. A man and woman sit on chairs in the dark doorway, like a king and queen surveying their particularly grim kingdom. A fierce-looking, half-starved dog tied up with rope keeps everyone else at bay.

There’s a patch of land up ahead that’s unexpectedly empty. As I get closer I see that the road there is covered with streaks and puddles of drying mud, making it look like a dried-up riverbed. Flash-flood water seems to have washed away huge numbers of improvised tents, leaving an expanse of muddy block paving slabs visible. Weeds are sprouting in the gaps between the slabs. The council used to spend a fucking fortune on this place-I remember hearing someone from another department bitching about it-now it’s just as godforsaken as everywhere else. Incredibly, though, a street clock I walk past is still working. It says it’s coming up to 3:00 p.m. and it’s a Thursday, for a fraction of a second I feel an instinctive swell of relief because the weekend’s coming. Christ, how stupid is that? Itmakes me realize that no matter how much everything has changed, the effects of years of conditioning are going to take more than afew months to disappear. Has the clock been maintained purposely for precisely that reason? Does it help the Unchanged masses cope if they know where they are in relation to their old routines?

Something on the far side of the square has caught my eye. Covering virtually the full width of two adjacent buildings from ground level to a height of about six feet are what looks like hundreds of posters. As I get closer, I see that it’s a huge collage of photographs of people that have been pinned, nailed, and stapled to massive sheets of plywood used to board up the buildings. I move nearer, figuring it’s safe to do so because there are other Unchanged milling around here, too. It looks like nothing out of the ordinary. I’ve seen similar displays in films and on TV before, shattered populations coming together to share their grief and build an improvised shrine to remember the friends and family they’ve lost. Maybe Lizzie’s picture is here somewhere? I start to look along the rain-blurred and sun-bleached pictures.

I stop and stare at a random face, one of hundreds, no more or less remarkable than any of those above, below, or around it. It’s a man in his late forties with a mop of curly dark hair, a short beard, and dark, angular-framed glasses. There’s writing in the space below his face. It says, “James Jenkins. Killed his wife Louise and daughter Claire.” There’s a similar scrawled message on the next picture: “Marie Yates. Murdered everyone that mattered to me.” These aren’t the faces of victims, I realize, these are their killers. Christ, is my face up here somewhere? I panic and start quickly scanning the display, suddenly self-conscious, hoping I’ll find my picture before anyone else does. Wish I hadn’t shaved my head like Sahota said. I should have stayed hidden beneath that layer of stubble and shaggy hair. Then, bizarrely, I find myself making a sudden U-turn, hoping that I actually do manage to find my photograph because that, I tell myself, would be proof positive that Lizzie’s been here.

It won’t make any difference.

I force myself to move on, knowing that I can’t afford to waste time. Somewhere in this stinking, unhygienic, overcrowded wreck of a city, the woman I used to share my life with might still be hiding. And if I can track her down, she’ll be able to tell me what happened to my daughter.

29

I MUST BE GETTING close now. I thought I knew the address Sahota gave me, but around here it looks so very different from how I remember. I’m back out on the farthest edge of the refugee camp, heading for the border with the exclusion zone. The number of Unchanged around me has quickly diminished as I’ve moved out from the center of the city again. It’s a relief not to be surrounded by them and not to have to constantly struggle to keep myself under control. The buildings here are more empty than occupied. There are one or two Unchanged almost always in sight, but they make every effort to ignore me and slide back into the shadows when I approach.

I stop outside a fortified house, metal grilles and bars covering its windows and doors. The houses on either side have been destroyed, but this one looks like it’s managed to escape much of the fighting undamaged. Curious, I walk down a dark, narrow passageway between the house and the rubble of its nearest neighbor. The badly decomposed body of an Unchanged man lies facedown in the middle of an overgrown lawn, military fatigues flapping in the wind around his skeletal limbs. He’s been dead for several weeks at least. Was he the owner of this place? The back door’s been pried off its hinges, and I go inside. Most of the furniture has been used to blockade each room, leaving just a chair, a small table, and a bed in an upstairs bedroom. The remains of boxes and boxes of supplies cover the floors, and the walls have been daubed with pointless, empty slogans. death to the haters is one, kill them before they kill you another. There’s nothing of value left here. I leave the house, shaking my head and laughing to myself at the pathetic Unchanged who clearly spent so long trying to defend and protect what was his. Total waste of effort. He’d have been better off taking his chances in the center of town with the rest of them.

The wreck of a truck blocks the road ahead. It’s over on its side like a beached whale, the contents of the overturned Dumpster it was carrying now scattered across the entire width of the road. I clamber through the clutter and continue down a sloping ramp toward what was once a busy local shopping area. My footsteps echo around the small, drab, square plaza. Half of the open space is submerged under a shallow pool of black, germ-filled water. At its deepest point a dead soldier’s booted foot sticks up above the rippling surface like a shark’s fin.

Around me are a succession of abandoned and looted stores-a bookmaker’s with signs in the window advertising odds on an international soccer match that never took place, a fish-and-chip shop, a takeout pizza joint, a hairdresser’s, a general store… I don’t waste time looking in any of them. If there was ever anything useful in there, it would have been taken or destroyed by now.

I cross the plaza diagonally, feeling increasingly uncomfortable and exposed as I walk around the edge of the lapping lake of dirty rainwater, a Hater deep in Unchanged territory. Are they watching me? Eager to get under cover, I quicken my pace and head out between another two deserted buildings. Then I finally see the place Sahota sent me to find. The Risemore Conservative Members Club is as ugly as everything else around here, a squat, square, redbrick social club that looks like it might actually have benefited from having a bomb dropped on it. I used to do all I could to avoid places like this in the days before the war. When I was little, before he walked out on us, my dad used to drag me out to his drinking club some weekends. I’d sit there with him, bored out of my mind, having to make one can of Coke last for hours while he got drunk, smoked, read the paper, argued with his equally drunk cronies or sat and watched piss-poor comics, singers, and variety acts that, by rights should have been banned from performing in public. As I edge closer to the club I automatically build up a mental image of what it’s going to be like inside: loud, stale, musty, a heavy fug of cigarette smoke hanging in the air, grubby, sticky carpets, uncomfortable plastic-covered seating with the stuffing hanging out…

I can’t get in through the front entrance; an impassable mound of fallen masonry blocks the door. I go around to the back to look for another way in, cursing my naïveté. I was never supposed to get in through the front. You don’t want just anyone to be able to stroll up and knock on your front door if you’re trying to coordinate a terrorist cell, do you? Is that what I am now, a terrorist? A suicide bomber without the bomb? Or am I the bomb?

A narrow, brick-walled passageway runs from the front of the building straight through to the back, opening out into an enclosed but largely empty parking lot. Can’t see anyone around here, or even any evidence that anyone’s been here for a while. There’s a fire exit, a strong, metal-clad doorway. I hammer on it with my fist and wait for an answer, starting to doubt whether I’m at the right place. A mangy tabby cat darts out from under a hedge behind me, racing across the parking lot and scurrying for cover under an overflowing Dumpster. Instinctively I whistle for him. I used to like cats.

The fire door opens, catching me off guard. I spin around and find myself face-to-face with a tall, powerful, nasty-looking bastard covered in tattoos. Thank God we’re on the same side.

“I’m looking for Chapman,” I tell him, remembering the name Sahota told me to ask for.

“Who is?”

“I am,” I answer without thinking.

“And who are you, you fucking idiot?” he sighs, taking a step forward and forcing me away from the building, into the middle of the parking lot. He rests his hand on the hilt of a monstrous knife with a vicious serrated blade.

“My name’s Danny McCoyne,” I answer quickly, trying to sound confident and disguise my nerves. “Sahota sent me here.”

At the mention of Sahota’s name the thug visibly relaxes. He looks me up and down again, then stands to one side and ushers me into the building. I do as he says and wait for him to follow as he pulls the door shut again and secures it with a heavy wooden crossbeam. He leads me through the ground floor of the building. My eyes are slow to adjust to the darkness indoors, and I trip down off a slightly elevated wooden stage area. He looks back at me and shakes his head.

Inside, the club is as dilapidated as everywhere else, nothing like the stupid, outdated image I’d had in my head. The floor is littered with the broken remains of off-white polystyrene ceiling tiles. Makes me wonder-if the ceiling’s this bad, how strong is the rest of the building? Disappointingly (but not unexpectedly), the bar has been completely stripped. There’s a row of spaces on the mirrored wall where the liquor dispensers would have been. Christ, I could do with a drink just to calm my nerves. I feel more anxious in here than I did back in the center of town when I was up to my neck in Unchanged.

My chaperone doesn’t want to talk. He leads me along a wide corridor, through another, much smaller second bar, then up a long staircase. There are four doors leading off a square landing. Three of them are open, and I can see at least one or two people in every room. He opens the remaining door, and I follow him into a large function room, which is almost as big as the main bar area we walked through on the floor below. It’s sparsely furnished but largely undamaged. There are several wooden crates of supplies stacked up against one wall. A guy is sitting by himself at a table in the far corner using a laptop, and there’s another asleep on a mattress under a window. As soon as I enter the room a woman gets up from where she’s been lying on a threadbare sofa. She’s hidden by shadows, but something about her is familiar. I’m sure I’ve seen her before. Is she Chapman?

“Who’s this?” she asks. Her voice has a trace of a gentle Irish accent, which is beaten into submission by the abrasiveness of her tone.

“Says he’s looking for you. Says Sahota sent him.”

My unwilling guide disappears, his job done. The woman walks toward me, stepping into the light. I immediately recognize her, but I can’t remember where from. Was it this life? My old life?

“The slaughterhouse,” she says.

“What?”

“The slaughterhouse, few days back. You’re trying to remember where you saw me before. You were there with the guy with the smashed-up hand and foot, and I-”

“You were the one telling me not to bother with him ’cause he’d be dead soon,” I interrupt, suddenly remembering where we met.

“That’s right. And he was. I’m Julia Chapman.”

“You’re a happy soul, aren’t you?” I say sarcastically as I shake her hand, recalling how blunt and matter-of-fact she was when we spoke before. She nearly crushes me with her viselike grip. She’s just trying to let me know who’s in charge.

“I’m a realist,” she answers, “and I’m focused. And so should you be. I tell you, when this war’s finished, I’ll be the first one up dancing at the fucking party and the last one to sit down. Until then, though, all I’m interested in is fighting.”

“Bit of a coincidence, though, finding you here.”

“You reckon?”

“I thought you were busy recruiting for Ankin’s army.”

“I still am.”

“So why are you here?”

“To make sure Sahota gets the right people, too.”

“What? Are you trying to tell me you followed me into the city?”

“I’m not trying to tell you anything, but yep, something like that. There were a few more people involved, and it wasn’t just you we were watching.”

“Don’t believe you.”

“Believe what you like, pal, it really doesn’t bother me. Thing is, we are where we are, and where we are is here. It’s what we do next that matters most.”

“If you say so.”

I wonder if she always talks this much bullshit or if she’s trying to impress me and exert her authority. She looks me straight in the eye, and for a second I think she might be about to throw a punch. She bites her lip and turns away.

“Come here. I want to show you something.”

I follow her out of the room and across the landing. We walk through another part of the building, where two more fighters are resting in the shadows. They glance up at me as I pass them, but they don’t move. We go out onto a narrow veranda, then use an unsteady stepladder to climb up onto a debris-strewn flat rooftop. There are large puddles of water covering much of the ground. A pair of deckchairs have been left under an improvised stretched-out tarpaulin shelter. The views across what remains of the city from one direction and the exclusion zone on the other three are vast and panoramic. Looks like they’ve been using this place as an observation post.

Julia leads me to the edge of the roof on the side of the building that looks out over the refugee camp in the center of the city. The view is incredible, not just because of its scope, but also because of the sense of scale and perspective it gives everything. In every other direction all I can see is abandoned buildings and immense swathes of empty land. Our land. No trace of the Unchanged.

“Takes your breath away, doesn’t it?”

Julia’s soaking up the view, staring with palpable hate deep into the city where hundreds of thousands of refugees are cowering in squalor. Their closeness still makes me feel uneasy.

“Is this what you wanted to show me?”

“It is, but don’t just look at it, think about it. Feel it, even. All across the whole country, our enemies are hiding together in places like this. Thousands of them crammed together in the space of just a few square miles at a time, stacked on top of each other, hardly able to breathe. Now turn around and look at what we’ve got. Out beyond the city boundary you can walk for miles and hardly see anyone.”

“I went back to where I used to live,” I tell her. “Couldn’t believe what little space we had…”

“And you know what makes it worse?” she continues, not listening. “Those idiots still have faith in the people who are supposed to be leading them, not that they ever see them or hear anything from them. Christ, they don’t even know who they are. They’re just clinging desperately to the structures and organizations that used to keep their pathetic little lives ticking along, trusting in a system that was dying long before we ever appeared.”

“Can you believe we used to-” I start to say before she interrupts. Her over-the-top enthusiasm for all of this is frightening.

“You know, some of those fuckers still think they’re going to be protected and that everything’s going to work out all right for them in the end. Thing is, you and me and everyone else knows different, don’t we?”

“They’ll never win,” I answer quickly, standing my ground as an unexpected gust of wind threatens to blow me forward. “They can’t.”

“And that’s why what we’re going to do is going to have such an effect. We’re gonna pull the carpet out from under their feet.”

“How many of us are here?”

“Including you, ten.”

“Is that enough?”

“We’re not the only group. There are others. I know Sahota wants to get more than a hundred of us in place when the time’s right.”

“And you think this is going to work?”

“No question. The Unchanged can’t trust each other. Christ, they can barely bring themselves to look at the person next to them anymore. I mean, there’s never been any real trust between strangers, but now they’ve got it into their heads that anyone could turn on them at any second. So there’s real fear in the air in there, a tension and uncertainty that’s never going to disappear. The more of them that cram themselves inside the city walls and the longer they’re in there, the more that fear increases.”

“So we just walk in there…”

“…and light the fuse. They’re right on the edge. I give ’em a week at most, ten days if they’re lucky, and that’s without us getting involved. No food, no sanitation, no medicine, the floods-”

“Makes you wonder how they’ve lasted this long.”

“Have you been in there yet?”

“Coming here just now.”

“So you know what it’s like?”

“I saw enough…”

“Thing is, they’re all out for themselves, whether they’d admit it or not. Every one of them will do all that they can to survive, screw everyone else. Self-preservation means everything to them. It’s all they’ve got left.”

“So when do we do it? When do we go in?”

“It’s up to Sahota. He’ll know when the time’s right.”

“And how will we know?”

“We’ll know, trust me.”

“So do we just sit here and wait?”

“We do tonight, maybe tomorrow, too. Then we’ll be told to get into position. Could be hours after that, might even be days. We get in, bury ourselves deep, then explode. It’s a small sacrifice to make.”

Sacrifice? The word makes me go cold. I’ll fight alongside these people, but I don’t intend to sacrifice myself. Not while there’s a chance Ellis might still be out there.

“So we do enough to push them over the edge, then get out?”

“We do enough to push them over the edge, then keep pushing,” she answers quickly, sounding annoyed by my obvious lack of enthusiasm. “What we do in the city is all that matters. You don’t think about the future, getting out, leaving the fight… anything like that. If you’re left standing at the end of all of this, well done. If you’re not, then that’s too bad. This is way bigger than any of us.”

With that Julia walks away and leaves me alone on the roof. I watch her go, feeling like I’ve just shut myself away with a group of kamikaze cult members.