Them or Us

between us will make the situation easier for me to control and give me more of a chance of getting away if I need to. I’m distracted by a sudden noise and movement way over to my left. I grab one of my knives, ready to defend myself against an attack, then freeze. Jesus, it’s a Brute. My heart starts thumping at the prospect of having to fight. Months ago I’d have relished any conflict, but not today, and definitely not with one of our own. Most of these poor bastards lost all sense and perspective during the war, driven out of their minds by the intensity of their Hate, and killing’s all they know now. It’s all they have left. Now that there are no Unchanged, apart from the occasional emaciated cow, it seems we’ve suddenly become an obvious target.
    This Brute is old and female. She swaggers slowly toward me like a drunk, unable to move in a straight line, still several hundred yards away. Far removed from the strong and vicious fighter she probably once was, this woman is now a grotesque physical wreck. She’s completely naked and blue with cold; her bare flesh is a mottled gray-brown and is covered with dirt and countless cuts and abrasions. There are traces of blood around her mouth. Her heavy, pendulous breasts swing from side to side with every clumsy, lumbering movement. Loose flesh hangs down from her arms and her gut like she’s wearing a dirty, oversized skin-colored coat. Poor bitch. She’s probably starving.
    “Sorry,” Sutton says, scrambling back down the rise. “Should have warned you about that one. She’s usually wandering around here somewhere. Damn strong, she is, but slow. You’ll easily outrun her if she gives you any trouble. Don’t know how she keeps going after all this time. Sheer contrariness, I guess.”
    He stands and looks at the barely human woman in the distance with an expression on his face that seems to almost approximate pity. I’m surprised by his reaction. Most people, me included, wouldn’t give a dying Brute a second thought. Christ, I’ve seen people carve up their carcasses and spit-roast them before now. It’s all meat, they say as they shove them on the fire.
    Concentrate , I tell myself. You’re getting distracted. This could still be a trap .
    The Brute’s speed is negligible, but she’s still a very real threat. Sutton nudges me to start moving again, then scampers back up the steep bank, following the meandering track. Still holding my knife (and telling myself repeatedly that I will use it if he crosses me), I follow him. The gradient’s steeper than it looks, and the ground beneath my feet is increasingly uneven. I climb the hill like an old man, bent over double and pushing down on my knees to keep myself moving forward. Sutton has to wait for me at the top. I stop to catch my breath and look down over the other side. There’s a crumbling, low-roofed redbrick building at the edge of the track a little farther ahead. Looks like a bungalow. What is this? His fucking holiday cottage?
    “Almost there now,” Sutton says, and before he can move away again, I grab his arm.
    “You’d better not be fucking with me,” I warn him. He shakes his head, then pulls himself free and walks on. “I’ll kill you if you try anything,” I shout after him.
    “No you won’t,” he shouts back as he disappears into the ruin of the building up ahead. Is this safe? I’m not convinced. The exterior walls might still be standing at the moment, but they look like they’d fall down if anyone leaned hard enough against them. The mortar between the damp, moss-covered bricks is powdery and fine. The farthest corner of the cramped, rectangular-shaped house has been overwhelmed by ivy, brambles, and other crawling weeds.
    Sutton leans back out of the building. “This is it, McCoyne. In here.”

 
    22
    “ ARE YOU SURE THIS is safe?” I ask as I tentatively follow him inside. It’s surprisingly light in here. There’s still some semblance of a roof overhead, but it’s patchy. In places the remains of rotten rafters stretch up into the air, leaving nothing but empty sky above us. Sutton kicks his way through the debris toward a rotten wooden door frame (no door, just a frame) midway along the single remaining interior dividing wall. It’s pitch black on the other side, and I stop, refusing to go any farther.
    “Whatever you’ve got in there, just bring it out into the open. This place is about to collapse.”
    “It’s a lot stronger than it looks. I