Them or Us

chair that’s bigger than the rest. He gestures for me to sit next to him, and I do as he says, still doing all I can to disguise my nerves. Despite his inner circle of fighters, his is the only seat that really matters. He is the lawmaker, judge, prosecutor, defense lawyer, jury, and executioner, all rolled into one, and I try not to let him see how much he intimidates me. I act casual and do my best to maintain eye contact, but the fucker just grins and I’m the one who looks away first. Is he really such a threat, or am I blowing things out of proportion? He reminds me of the senior managers I used to work for at the council, but far, far more intense, and, unlike them, he has a personality. He’s no stronger than many of the people he surrounds himself with, but he’s clever and witty and smart, and that’s the real danger. When he looks at me like this it’s like he’s trying to work out exactly what I’m thinking, trying to get into my head and take me apart so he can understand what makes me tick. The war has made most people shed absolutely every aspect of their former selves. Hinchcliffe, though, is different. He used to be an investment banker who’d probably have sold his own mother to turn a profit. He still has the same arrogance and swagger, but now he trades in lower-value currencies for much higher stakes. The rumor according to Rufus (and I really don’t want to know whether it’s true or not) is that when the Change took him, Hinchcliffe wiped out virtually an entire floor of more than forty City traders single-handed.
    Take it easy. Don’t let him see you’re nervous.
    “You really don’t look so good,” he says, looking me up and down.
    “You’re the second person who’s said that to me today.”
    “How many people have you seen?”
    “Just two.”
    “Well, we both must be right, then,” he says, continuing to stare at me, his face an unreadable mix of fascination and disgust. Then his expression suddenly changes. He ducks down, reaches under the table, and pulls out a four-pack of beer, which he slides over to me.
    “For helping us get rid of those Unchanged fuckers yesterday. Good job.”
    “Thanks.”
    I take the beers and quickly remove them from the plastic rings holding them together. I shove the individual cans into different pockets of my long coat. I might drink one later, but the rest will be going under the floorboards when I get back to the house.
    “I was really pleased with what you did. Biggest Unchanged haul in ages.”
    “Six weeks.”
    “I thought we’d seen the last of them. Thought we’d finally got rid of them all.”
    “Me, too. Maybe we have now.”
    “And we got a few kids, too. Bonus! Wasn’t expecting that.”
    “Neither were they.”
    There’s another long, awkward (for me, anyway), and uneasy silence.
    “I’ve got another job for you,” he finally announces. “Ever heard of a place called Southwold?”
    Southwold is a village a few miles farther down the east coast. I’ve never been there, and I know very little about it other than its name. I shake my head. The more Hinchcliffe thinks I know, the more he’ll expect from me.
    “It’s about ten miles from here,” he explains. “Used to be a nice little spot. Couple of people I knew in the City had second homes down there back in the day.”
    Ten miles. Doesn’t sound far, but distances aren’t what they used to be. People tend to stay put in Lowestoft now and, unless they’re out scavenging, rarely venture more than a couple of miles in any direction. Fuel’s in short supply, so most traveling’s now done on foot, and that puts Southwold the best part of a day away.
    Hinchcliffe lights up a cigarette and leans back, taking a long draw and slowly blowing out a cloud of blue-gray smoke up toward the ceiling. Now there’s an expression of status if ever I saw one. Smoking these days says to anyone who’s watching that you’ve got the means and the connections to be able to get your hands on a steady supply of cigarettes to fuel your pointless habit. Most people struggle to find food, never mind anything else. Hinchcliffe knows I’m watching him. Cocky bastard.
    “Want one?”
    “No thanks. Don’t smoke. Bad for you.”
    He laughs and lifts the cigarette box up in front of me, shaking it.
    “You sure? These are the real thing,” he says. “Word to the wise, if you do decide to start, come and see me first. There are some dirty fuckers making their own smokes from