Them or Us

on a chain. He studies them carefully, holding them closer to the light, then picks one and unlocks a metal cabinet. He mooches through the contents of various shelves filled with clinking glass bottles and vials before selecting one and peering at its label through his glasses, which are now perched perilously close to the end of his nose.
    “You’re obviously very important to Mr. Ankin,” he says, rejecting one bottle and choosing another.
    “You think?”
    “Absolutely. Believe me, they don’t just dish this stuff out to every Tom, Dick, or Harry who needs it. Do you have any idea how many people are walking around out there in the same kind of condition as you are?”
    “I don’t know how many people are walking around out there period,” I answer quickly.
    “Fewer than you’d expect,” he says. “Now, I’m no expert, but I’ve seen an abnormal level of cancers and deaths from—”
    “Wait a second. Go back a step. What do you mean, you’re no expert?”
    He finally settles on a third bottle half-filled with clear liquid and draws a syringe-full from it.
    “I’m no expert, but I’m no idiot, either. Truth is, there aren’t any experts left. This time last year I was researching genetics at Birmingham University, cutting up fruit flies, writing papers, and delivering lectures to students who couldn’t have been any less interested if they’d tried. I’d originally planned to go into medicine, and I did my basic training before I specialized, so I’m not a complete novice if that’s what you’re worried about. You know how these things have a habit of turning out. Since the war started I’ve spent most of my time patching up soldiers so they can keep fighting, learning on the job. It makes a change to be asked to do something different.”
    “But you do know what you’re doing?”
    “I know enough. Listen, I may not be formally qualified, but you’re not going to find anyone better to help you today. Anyway, no one’s forcing you to have this treatment. Just go if you want to and we’ll say no more about it. I would offer to get you a second opinion, but mine’s the only opinion left!”
    He chuckles to himself. I don’t see the funny side.
    “It’s okay. Just do it.”
    “You’re a lucky boy,” he says, patronizing me.
    “I don’t feel lucky. What is that stuff, anyway?”
    “Steroids. Keep you going for a while longer. It won’t do anything to fight the disease, but it’ll mask the symptoms for a time.”
    “How long?”
    “A day, maybe two.”
    There’s a lull in the conversation as I peel back various layers of sodden clothing to expose the top of my right arm.
    “What about me?”
    “What about you?”
    “How long do you think I’ve got left?”
    I’ve asked the question before I’ve realized what I’m saying, and I immediately wish I could rewind time and retract it. Too late. He looks down at me again and frowns, then returns his attention to preparing the drugs for injection.
    “Bear in mind,” he says, hunting for a swab and a reasonably clean dressing, “that I don’t have any medical records for you, not that anyone has any records anymore. So my estimations could be way off. This is based purely on my gut instinct and several other recent cases I’ve seen, nothing else, and you also have to remember that we’re about to reach the coldest part of winter, and I doubt any of us are eating properly, so we’re all going to be more susceptible to—”
    “I understand all of that,” I interrupt, “just tell me what you think.”
    “I don’t think you have long, Mr. McCoyne, I don’t think you have long at all. From what I can see, the disease looks pretty well advanced.”
    He shoves the needle into my skin, but I don’t feel a thing. He drops the syringe into a plastic bin, then picks up another. He grips the same arm tight, then injects me again. This time it hurts.
    “What the hell’s that? Jesus, how much of that stuff are you putting into me?”
    “Not steroids this time,” he says, his voice beginning to fade. “This one’s a special request from Messrs. Ankin and Llewellyn.”

 
    36
    MOVING. DRIVING. ROAD’S UNEVEN. Being thrown from side to side.
    I open my eyes and look around. It’s light, and I’m in the front passenger seat of a van—the same one that brought me to Norwich, I think. Llewellyn’s next to me. I pretend to still be asleep while I try to work out what’s going on. Now I’m fully awake I realize I