Disintegration

dumping a scoop full of once-human slurry over the other side of the wall of cars and rubble, onto the heads of the unsuspecting crowd. Job done, he switched off the engine and climbed out of the cab. Without the constant mechanical drone of the two machines the world was suddenly eerily silent, so quiet that the loudest sound remaining was the trickle of liquefied flesh dripping from the metal scoop behind him into a muddy puddle.
    Webb was the first to speak. Still buzzing with excitement from the kill, he babbled breathlessly as they began to walk back up the hill.
    “How many do you reckon, then?” he asked.
    “What?” Hollis asked.
    “How many did we get rid of? Couple of hundred?”
    “Something like that,” Harte replied quietly, shaking something unpleasant from his right glove.
    “Christ, I’m tired.” Jas sighed wearily.
    “I could do more,” Webb continued.
    “Be my guest,” Hollis said. “You carry on.”
    “I could spend all day getting rid of those bloody things. There’s nothing better than wiping out a load of them when you’re pissed off and wound up.”
    “Most of us seem to be pissed off and wound up all the time,” Harte said. “I’ve been like that since this all started.”
    “Well, at least we’re doing something positive now. Taking a stand. Letting them know who’s in charge…”
    Webb shut up when he realized that Hollis had stopped walking. He turned around to look back at him.
    “Problem?” Harte asked, concerned. Hollis was gazing back down the hill toward the crowd. Thick smoke was rising from the smoldering heap of charred flesh by the diggers and drifting out over the heads of the dead.
    “Look what we did today,” Webb said excitedly. “Look how many of them we got rid of.”
    “That’s exactly what I was looking at,” Hollis said.
    “And?” Webb pushed, sensing that the other man still had more to say.
    Hollis pointed back toward the area where they’d worked. “That,” he said, “took six of us a few hours to clear.”
    “So what’s your point?”
    “It took us the best part of a day and a shitload of fuel and effort just to take out a hundred or so bodies. Bloody hell, there are hundreds of thousands of them down there—how long’s that going to take? We haven’t cleared one percent yet. We haven’t even scratched the surface.”
    “You’re a miserable fucker,” Webb snarled, annoyed. “Tell me it doesn’t make you feel good when you stand down there and rip those fucking things apart.”
    “I’m not denying that.”
    “So what’s your problem?”
    “There’s too many of them, that’s all. You’re never going to get rid of all of them, are you?”
    “No one said we were trying to do that,” Harte said.
    “Wiping the floor with a few dozen stiffs might make you feel like you’ve done something worthwhile,” Hollis continued, “but do me a favor and let’s not pretend it’s going to change the world. I don’t want to spend all day, every day, down there fighting. There’s got to be more to life than that.”
    “Has there? Seems to me this is just about all we’ve got left.”
    Hollis shook his head and carried on up the hill, leaving the others standing in silence. They stared down through the smoke at the insignificant gray scar they’d left on the landscape below.

 
     
    14
     
    Hollis and Lorna sat at the bottom of a dark staircase, their faces illuminated by the flickering light from half a dozen candles. Gordon stood in a doorway opposite, arms folded. It was late and although they were tired, no one wanted to sleep. Stokes, Harte, and Webb were standing out on the balcony at the front of one of the flats on the floor below, making plans to continue their cull at first light. Their muffled voices could be heard echoing around the large and predominantly empty building.
    “I like your hair,” Hollis said unexpectedly. Lorna looked up and smiled momentarily before looking down again. She didn’t like it when he commented on her hair. She didn’t do it for anyone but herself. When Hollis paid her a compliment it made her feel like she was being chatted up by her uncle. She didn’t tell him. She didn’t want to upset him.
    “Thanks,” she mumbled, hoping that would be the end of the conversation.
    “You always make an effort,” he said. “You always look good.”
    “Why shouldn’t I?”
    “No reason,” he quickly backpedaled, worried he’d offended her. “I’m down to one shave a