Them or Us

all those towns and cities I remember are gone, either abandoned or destroyed. All those places I used to know … London, Birmingham, Manchester, Cardiff … all reduced to piles of toxic ash. I only have hearsay, unsubstantiated rumor, and common sense to go on, but if what I’m hearing is true and all those places really are dead, then out here on the east coast is probably as safe a place as any to be. I’m guessing that it’s only areas like Wales, Scotland, Cornwall, and here—the extremities of this small, odd-shaped island—that are still livable.
    Down off the bridge again and within a couple of minutes I’ve been swallowed up by the darkness of the deserted housing development where I’ve based myself this last month or so. This place feels like a shadow-filled tomb at the best of times, little more than a maze of twisting, interconnecting roads, avenues, and cul-de-sacs. It was probably a perfectly decent, comfortable, relatively affluent, middle-class area before the shit hit the fan and everything went to hell last year, the kind of place Lizzie said she always wanted us to end up in. Now it’s just like everywhere else, and the ruins are welcome camouflage.
    I use landmarks to guide myself through to the very center of the development, things that no one else would give a second glance. I walk across a deserted children’s playground, catching my breath when the wind rattles the chains of an empty swing, turn left at the road where three of the houses have collapsed on each other like dominoes, then turn right and right again to reach the roadblock. I often wonder who built this. Whoever it was, they were obviously determined to defend themselves. There are four cars wedged across the full width of the mouth of a cul-de-sac, nose to tail, almost like they were picked up and dropped into place. When I’m on foot like this I have to climb over the cars to get through, and I always cringe at the noise I make even though there’s never anyone else here. Was this the site of a group of Unchanged survivors’ desperate last stand? A family like the one I used to be a part of, perhaps? Were they cowering here together in terror like the Unchanged I helped drive out of their hideout today, doomed to inevitable failure but unable to do anything else but keep trying to survive? I’ve freaked myself out before now, convincing myself that they might still be here, watching me from an upstairs window just like I watched the military advancing ever closer toward my home all those months ago.
    At the other end of the cul-de-sac I slip through a narrow alleyway between two large, empty houses. I cross another road, go through the side gate of yet another house, straight down a well-worn path I’ve trampled along the full length of its overgrown garden, then duck down through a hole in the back fence and I’m there. Home sweet fucking home.
    I check around, making sure I haven’t been followed or seen. I could have gone for something bigger and more secure, but I deliberately chose the smallest, most inconspicuous house I could find so I wouldn’t draw attention to myself.
    It hasn’t always worked. Something’s not right tonight.
    I can see from here that the side door of the house is open slightly. I draw my favorite knife from its sheath and creep across the road. It’s bound to be scavengers again. Thieving bastards. I really can’t be bothered with this. I feel sick and I just want to sleep. I hope they’ve already gone. I’m not in the mood to fight, but I don’t have any choice.
    It’s hard keeping the house secure without blatantly advertising the fact I’ve got stuff inside worth taking, so I keep most of my things hidden and locked away. I need to take my time and be careful here. If the thieves are still here and they’ve found anything worth having, then I need to try to deal with them before they can get out with any of my stuff. I can afford to lose the house, but not what’s in it.
    Keeping low, I limp across the driveway, then press myself up against the wall beside the partially open side door. The lock’s been forced, but it’s nothing I can’t fix. Someone’s moving around in the kitchen. There are no voices, so there’s probably only one of them, and chances are they’re only looking for food. I peer through the gap and see a single squat figure trying to pry open a cupboard door with a bent bread knife. Whoever it is, they’re so desperate and preoccupied that