Them or Us

remember—elected into power to serve the people, but all they were doing was making sure their own backsides were comfortable and safe, lining their own nests. All the Hate did was accelerate things and help us all cut through some of the bullshit. Look back and you’ll see that everything’s always been built on power and fear. Think back to any story you remember from the news before all of this began, and you’ll be able to trace it back to someone, somewhere who wasn’t prepared to be fucked over by someone else.”
    I don’t do what he says, because I’m sure he’s probably right to an extent. What’s gone is gone. The fact remains, though, I think he’s wrong, and that a small group of Unchanged has survived against the odds is proof positive. We pass a couple more people on the side of the road, fighters and underclass. They all look the same now—pathetically lost and alone, with nothing left to fight for. Hinchcliffe doesn’t even look at them. The bastard truly doesn’t give a damn about anyone but himself.
    “It can’t all be as simple as you try to make it sound. Fighting doesn’t solve everything.”
    “I never said it did,” he says, struggling for a moment to keep control of the jeep in the slushlike snow.
    “That’s what you implied.”
    “You can get people to do what you want without hitting them.”
    “But it’s easier if you do hit them? Or just let them think they’re going to get the shit kicked out of them?”
    “Something like that. Look, it’s survival of the fittest, that’s all I’m saying, and I’m damn sure I’m going to be the one who survives.”
    “What for?”
    “What kind of a question’s that? It’s obvious.”
    “Is it? Spell it out to me, Hinchcliffe, because I don’t get it. If you’re the only one left standing after all of this, how exactly will you be feeling? You’ll be a lonely fucking despot with nothing to do and no one left to order around. There’s a cost to everything, and the more you take, the more you destroy. The last man standing in this world will inherit a fucking empty ruin.”
    “You’ve been spending too much time around Unchanged,” he sneers at me. It’s snowing hard again now, a sudden blizzard, and it blows in through the broken windshield, making it hard to see exactly where we are. I’m aware of the snow-covered shapes of several buildings on either side, and I realize we must have reached Wrentham, just past the midpoint between Lowestoft and Southwold. If I’m going to try to get out of this mess, I need to act fast.
    “Just let me go, Hinchcliffe. Keep the jeep and all the food, just let me go.”
    “Why should I?”
    “Because I’m dying. I’m not like you, I don’t want to fight anymore. I just want to go somewhere quiet. Somewhere I’m not going to be surrounded by people taking from me. I’ve got nothing left to give.”
    “My heart bleeds,” he says, clearly not giving a shit. We’re approaching the junction in the road now. He brakes hard and almost loses control of the jeep again, skidding to a slow stop and nudging up against the curb. “But we both know that’s not true, don’t we. We need to find this guy Joseph, remember? So which way now?”
    “You choose,” I say, determined not to help. We’re barely two miles from Southwold, three at the most.
    “Interesting,” he mumbles, opening his window and looking down at the road. Some of the earlier snow has thawed and then frozen again. “Lots of tire tracks here. I’m guessing this was you earlier?”
    I don’t bother answering. He drives forward again, following the tracks he can see, and I slump back into my seat with relief. He’s taken the wrong route and we’re heading toward the bunker now. If he keeps going this way we’ll end up back at the farm, and I’ll make a break for it once we’re there. There’s a motorbike still lying in the yard, I think, and Peter Sutton’s car is probably hidden somewhere nearby. Or maybe I can just trick Hinchcliffe into going inside the bunker, then shut him in? I like the idea of burying the bastard alive down there.
    “Wait a minute,” he says suddenly, “this isn’t right. This road leads inland. You might have come from this direction, but this wasn’t the way you were planning to go back, was it, Danny?”
    My lack of response seems to answer his question. He pulls hard on the handbrake and spins the jeep around through one hundred and eighty degrees, sliding through the