Them or Us

something horrific. I thought that nothing could hurt like this anymore, but I’m struggling to comprehend what I’m seeing. In one cage is the body of a girl—ten or eleven years old, perhaps—and her chains have been wrapped around her neck several times. Did someone do this to her, or did she do it to herself?
    Is this the great victory we’ve been fighting for? Am I a part of this? Am I responsible for it? I helped bring many of these children here, so is what happened to them my fault? But what was the alternative? If they hadn’t died here, they’d have died somewhere else. A year ago people were flying around the world, sending probes out into space, eradicating diseases, firing atoms around underground tunnels to find out how the universe was created … and look at us now. If Lowestoft truly is the last best hope for this country, and if this kind of atrocity is at its very heart, then what hope do we have? Is this Hinchcliffe’s great plan for the future? Is Chris Ankin’s vision any different?
    I stagger back across the pathway and collide with the barrier around another pen. The vile noise of metal on metal seems to take forever to fade away into silence. I know I should keep moving, but I’m lost again, staring into the cage I’ve just disturbed, unable to look away. Here there are two bodies, and for a moment I’m struggling to work out why they were being doubled up when there was clearly more than enough space here for them to be separated. They were chained by their necks to diagonally opposite corners, and even though they’re heavily discolored by rot, I can see that both of their small bodies are covered in scratches and marks. Had they been fighting each other? Fuck … had these kids been forced to fight each other to the death like caged dogs? Was Hinchcliffe using them for sport?
    There’s another sudden noise, much closer this time, too loud for a rat. I spin around quickly, but I can’t see anything.
    “Who’s there?”
    I freeze, figuring that it’ll either be one of Hinchcliffe’s fighters or Ankin’s soldiers, and trying to work out my story for being here. No one answers. I keep walking, then stop when I hear the noise again, even closer now. I’m almost on top of it—a frantic shuffling and scurrying as something does its best not to be seen. Then there’s the faintest chink of metal on metal, like chains being rattled. I glance down into the nearest few pens, but I can’t see anything. Wait! There, just for a second, in the farthest corner of the cage behind the one I’m standing right in front of, I see something. I clumsily climb over the barriers to get closer, almost falling when one of my boots gets tangled up, and my sudden movements unleash a wave of panic in the shadows. Now I can see it. One of the children is still alive! An Unchanged boy tries to climb out of his pen and into another in desperation, but there’s a chain wrapped around his ankle. He’s weak and terrified and yanks at the chain to free himself but falls back and smashes down onto his face, yelping with pain when he hits the ground. I climb into his pen, and he continues to back away from me, pushing himself along the floor until he can go no farther back. About the same age as my son Edward was, he’s barely clothed and is blue with cold. He’s in worse physical condition than I am.
    “Don’t fight,” I tell him. “I won’t hurt you.”
    He just stares at me, too afraid even to blink, and I don’t know what to do. Every time I move he flinches. I climb back out of his pen and into another to put some space between us, hoping he’ll see that I’m not going to kill him.
    “Are there any more of you?”
    The boy doesn’t answer. His face looks familiar. He’s the lad from the last Unchanged nest I helped clear out, I’m sure he is. I lean forward and he spits at me, and now I know I’m right.
    “Are there any more of you?” I ask again. I give him a few seconds to answer, but he remains silent. I wait a moment longer, but I know I have to go. I can’t afford to waste any more time here. I climb back over the barriers until I reach the walkway, then start walking. This catatonic kid is lost anyway. There’s nothing I can do for him.
    “Wait,” a quiet and unexpectedly fragile voice says from behind me. I turn back around and see that he’s at the front of his cage now, leaning against the barrier. I keep walking, determined now to get away from Lowestoft and