Them or Us

useless, I decide. Even if it isn’t, maybe that woman’s body has been damaged by the war. I remember hearing about kids born after the nuclear bombings in Japan—increased numbers of stillborns, cancers, and deformities …
    Who the hell am I trying to fool? I pick myself up and slowly stagger back down the stairs, my mind now filled with memories of sex before the war that I’d tried to keep buried deep down. I remember the last time Lizzie and I made love. We were both terrified that night, but being together was spontaneous and instinctive, powerful and reassuring. We did it to make ourselves and each other feel wanted and protected. In spite of everything that was happening right outside our door, the feelings we shared that night were as intense as they had ever been.
    Now, as I push my way out into the dark, freezing-cold night, I’m left thinking about the kids, about Ellis, Josh, and Ed, remembering when each of them was born and the good times we had together before the bad …
    What have I become?
    Sex used to be something that dragged us out of the daily grind and took us somewhere else. Something that transcended all the bullshit and connected Lizzie and me on every level imaginable. How could I have just allowed something as precious as that to become as brutal and insensitive as everything else?
    I feel like I’ve just lost something I’ll never get back, like Hinchcliffe’s just taken what was left of my soul.

 
    19
    I’M FINALLY BACK AT the house, but all I want to do is head back into Lowestoft and kill Hinchcliffe. Fucking bastard. I kick my pile of books across the living room and they hit the wall with a momentarily satisfying noise, but then all I’m left with is silence.
    What the fuck have I become?
    Since Hinchcliffe found out what I can do, I’ve been allowed to stand on the outskirts of this vile, fucked-up ruin of a world and observe. I’ve just about managed to cope with what I’ve seen because of the distance I’ve been able to put between me and everything else, but what I did today with that woman—what Hinchcliffe made me do—has dragged me down to the lowest possible level, and it hurts. He’s stripped away everything and now there’s nothing left.
    Fuck this. I can’t take any more. I’m getting out. First thing in the morning I’ll leave and I’ll take my chances on my own. I’ll pack my stuff tonight, then help myself to one of the cars by the railroad station at first light. I’ll load it up with the supplies I’ve hoarded away here, then get as far away from Lowestoft as I can and leave everything and everyone that’s here way behind me. I don’t need anyone else. More to the point, I don’t want anyone else. I’ll go somewhere I can be alone and I’ll never come back. Maybe I’ll head straight for the deadlands around the bombed cities. Even a slow death from the pollution and radiation will probably be better than this.
    I tried to make myself eat something in readiness for leaving, but tonight, more than ever, the thought of food is making my stomach churn. I managed a few mouthfuls, but that was all. Fortunately, the beer Hinchcliffe gave me was easier to swallow. The gas made me retch, but the alcohol has taken the slightest edge off my anger. I forced myself to finish the first can, then immediately started another. Halfway through the second can I ran out of the side door and threw up on the driveway.
    I slump back into my chair and struggle with cold, unresponsive fingers to open the ring pull on my third can. I put it down on the table, the beer frothing and fizzing over the rim, then strap on my miner’s lamp reading light and pick up the first book I can find. My eyes are tired and hard to focus, but I stare at the cover. It’s a picture of a man and a woman, locked together in a passionate embrace that’s a million miles from what I had to endure earlier today. Even though the figures on the cover are airbrushed, overly perfect caricatures of how people used to be, I can’t stop staring at them and remembering. The man is rugged, strong and powerful, clean-shaven with short, black, slicked-back hair … Then I look at the woman he’s holding: her full figure, tight clothing, painted lips … when the light starts to flicker and fade (didn’t get those damn batteries from Hinchcliffe), I throw the book across the room in frustration, and I’m left staring at my own reflection in the cracked screen of the useless flat-screen