Them or Us

reduced to a slow trickle. The air is filled with drifting smoke, and the figures on the road move to either side as I drive toward them. It’s less than half a mile to the gate. A couple of minutes and we’ll be out of here. I swerve around a fight that spills out of a building, and when I look back in my mirror I see that Jake has his face pressed against the glass.
    “Get your fucking head down!” I scream at him. He does as I say, but it’s too late, he’s been seen. Perhaps because no one’s able to process the bizarre reality of the appearance of an Unchanged child in the middle of the crumbling chaos of Lowestoft, there’s the slightest delay before I’m aware of any real reaction. But then, when I brake hard to avoid a collision with some kind of armored truck coming the other way, a horde of people begin throwing themselves at the sides of the van. The engine almost dies, and they hammer against the glass and try to grab at the doors. The children sink down and cover their heads in terror, and I accelerate again, barely managing to keep the van on the road.
    I follow the bend in the road around to the left, and I can see the bridge ahead of me now. The gates are open, but there’s still a heavy military presence here. Ankin’s troops are blocking the way in and out of town, doing all they can to keep the trouble contained. I can already see several of them moving toward me, weapons raised.
    “Stay down!” I yell again at the kids. I jam my foot down on the accelerator pedal, sink back into my seat, and grip the steering wheel tight as we race toward the blockade. Over the top of the dashboard I see sudden, frantic movement as we hurtle toward the troops and they dive away in either direction as I smash through them. Shots ring out and bullets thud into the side of the van. The back windows shatter, showering Jake and Chloe with glass.
    “Who’s shooting?” Jake asks. He crawls along the length of the van, then gets up and hangs over the seat next to me, blocking my view behind.
    “Get out of the way,” I yell at him, trying to push him away and still keep control. He fights to stay where he is, but I manage to shove him hard out of the way, and in the suddenly clear rearview mirror I see headlights behind us. The fuckers are following.
    “Someone’s coming,” Chloe wails, looking out through a bullet hole. “I can see motorbikes.”
    I look up again. There are two bikes and a jeep in pursuit now. We’re on the A12, and although littered with debris, the road is virtually clear of other traffic. Sticking to the main road is the safest option. If I try to find an alternative route I could end up driving down a road that’s blocked or doubling back and going the wrong way. I need to keep going until we reach Wrentham. Once we’re there I’ll know we’re not far from the bunker. Just got to keep moving …
    The miles flash past quickly, the road straight and uninterrupted. Our pursuers are gaining fast, but that’s inevitable given the dilapidated state of this van. Being caught is an obvious concern, but I know I have an even bigger problem to deal with. Assuming we make it to the bunker, how do we get in without leading Ankin’s soldiers straight to it?
    “Are we nearly there?” Chloe shouts at me from the back of the van, her innocent comment striking an immediately familiar chord. I instinctively react like I always used to.
    “We’ll get there when we get there.”
    “They’re coming,” Jake says. “Drive faster.”
    “I can’t.”
    One of the bikes accelerates, and within a few seconds it’s up alongside us. I try to ram it off the road, but the driver anticipates my clumsy maneuver and drops back out of the way, and it’s me that almost loses control. I clip the curb, then steer hard and overcompensate, caught out by the camber of the road and almost hitting the curb on the other side. The second bike passes us now, squeezing through the gap, and I’m starting to wish I’d stayed hidden in Rona Scott’s office and never bothered trying to get out.
    Wrentham. We enter the village at speed, sandwiched between the bikes, with the jeep gaining steadily. Now the dumb bastard on the bike ahead of me is regretting being in front. He looks back over his shoulder, trying to work out which way I’m going to go as we race toward the crossroads, then chooses the wrong option and continues toward Southwold. I steer right to take the road that leads to the bunker, and I