Them or Us

straight into the arms of the waiting Haters. He looked on as fighters starved of enemy kills for too long vented all their anger and frustrations on the helpless refugees now flooding out into the open. One of them—Kerry, he’d heard her called—managed somehow to escape, weaving around two fighters who both threw themselves at her at the same time. She’d barely made it another twenty yards before they caught her. One tackled her halfway up the grassy bank, grabbing hold of her spindly legs and thrashing feet. The other thumped an axe into the small of her back, brutally severing her spine. She was already dead, but they continued to fight, overcome with the euphoria of the kill and not wanting it to end, slicing and hacking at the woman until what remained of her body had been spread across an area several yards wide; a bloody swathe of violent red in the wet yellow grass.

 
    1
    THE BONFIRE OUTSIDE THE ransacked Unchanged shelter is burning out of control. The morons who were supposed to be watching it have been distracted, squabbling over food. There’s a momentary flash of flame and a sudden loud explosion and they scatter, running for cover like frightened kids on Bonfire Night. Probably just an aerosol can or something similar lying too close to the heat, but whatever it was, Llewellyn’s not happy. He grabs hold of one of them and kicks his legs out from under him, then he drags the scrawny little bastard nearer to the fire and pushes his face into it, screaming and shouting at him. Sobbing, the little man reaches into the embers and attempts to salvage some of the meat that’s been roasting to pacify Llewellyn, who yells at him again, then kicks him in the side of the head, knocking him out cold. The way the fighters treat the others makes me feel sick to my stomach. I look at the man lying flat on his back and I think, That used to be me.
    I’d rather keep my distance, but my feet and hands are numb with cold, so I walk toward the bonfire to try to warm up. In a year that’s so far been filled with hundreds of fucking miserable days, this must be the worst yet. The gusting wind cuts through me like a knife, making the already subzero temperature sink further still, and the air is filled with sleet, which blows into my face like a constant hail of tiny needles. I’m less than a yard from the fire now, but I can still hardly feel it.
    Wilson, the kid-wrangler, is still struggling. He’s managed to get one of them back into the van, but the other one’s causing him problems. The kid doesn’t want to go back inside. He’s constantly straining on his leash, desperate to break free and escape out into the wild where he belongs. Three men have got him cornered, but he refuses to give up. He drops to the ground and scuttles away quickly, crawling under the legs of one particularly slow and clumsy bastard. It’d be laughable if it wasn’t so pathetic. The feral boy gets up and bolts for freedom, but he’s still on the lead. His sudden movement catches Wilson by surprise and almost yanks him over, but he manages to stand his ground. By chance the kid starts running in my direction and, between me and the bonfire, finds his way through suddenly blocked. He stares up at me, and that moment of hesitation is time enough for Wilson and two others to grab hold of him and manhandle him to the ground. They wrap the long leash around him several times, binding his arms and legs tight to his body, then carry him over to the van and throw him in the back, screaming with frustration and rage.
    I feel increasingly disconnected from all this bullshit. In some ways it was easier when I was just another face in the crowd. I guess I should feel something—pity for the kid, or the guy Llewellyn knocked out, or the Unchanged even—but I don’t. I feel hollow, like every nerve in my body has been cauterized, and I don’t give a shit about anyone or anything. I watched Llewellyn’s men clear out the Unchanged hideout with ferocious speed and brutality just now and I didn’t give a damn. Some bodies were dragged out and thrown on the fire still screaming, others just left on the ground where they’d been killed.
    It’s been a long time since we found an Unchanged nest like this, and the effect it’s had on these fighters is frightening. It’s been a release for them—a chance to get rid of some of the pent-up anger and aggression they’ve been forced to keep swallowed down since the rest of the Unchanged