Them or Us

Nestled right in the middle of it all are two heavily armored troop carriers. Where the hell did this bunch come from? The traffic fans out, leaving a space for the first troop carrier to drive closer to the museum. It stops a short distance from the entrance, brakes hissing.
    “Bang on time.”
    “Llewellyn, what is this?”
    “You ever heard that expression, keep your friends close and your enemies closer?”
    “Yes, but—”
    “Well, get ready to meet your friends. Word to the wise, McCoyne: Doesn’t matter who you are or what you can do, these days all that matters is staying on the team with the fuckers who’ve got the most muscle and the biggest guns, and that’s this crowd. This is just the advance party.”
    The door of the troop carrier slides open, and somewhere between ten and fifteen figures quickly emerge, all of them wearing similarly colored clothing—a very basic, improvised uniform of sorts. The troops form a loose protective guard of two roughly parallel lines that stretch from the vehicle right up to the door of the museum. A number of other people follow them out of the transport and walk through the gap that’s opened up between them. I see two men, then a woman, then a small, white-haired man who walks with a stick …
    “Who are they?” I ask.
    “See the old guy?” Llewellyn says, with something approximating pride and genuine emotion in his voice. “That’s Chris Ankin.”
    I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
    “Chris Ankin? The Chris Ankin?”
    “Mind your p’s and q’s,” he says as he tugs my arm and leads me back down the stairs. “Prime Minister, President, Commander in Chief, Sir, Your Highness—call him what you like, he’s the Boss Man now.”

 
    31
    LLEWELLYN AND CHANDRA ARE whisked away, and Healey returns to the van. I’m left alone with Swales. He seems almost as bemused by events as I am, and I get the distinct impression he’s here just to make up the numbers. We watch from a ground-floor window as the new arrivals quickly set up camp. Some build fires and erect temporary shelters. Others are dispatched into what’s left of Norwich, presumably to look for fuel and supplies and anything else of value. They’re working together, no hint of aggression or any pecking order.
    Swales notices a line forming outside a mess tent. He heads straight for it, and I follow him. We’re given a little food without question—some kind of bland, rice-based paste and a few thin crackers—and a mug of coffee each and left to our own devices again. It’s not great tasting, but it’s not half-cooked dog, either, and I manage to swallow a few mouthfuls. We sit on a bench in a sheltered alcove just outside the museum building, out of the way of everyone else but still close enough to watch. It’s funny, less than an hour ago Swales was definitely one of “them,” but now we’re thick as thieves, relatively comfortable in each other’s company because there’s someone new in town, neither of us having any immediate desire to mix with these strangers.
    There’s controlled activity all around us still as these people, whoever they are, continue to establish their makeshift base. Each person is carrying out their allotted task without question or complaint, people who were obviously fighters working alongside people who obviously weren’t … it’s a pale imitation, but it’s almost like things used to be. This is like what I saw in Southwold, albeit on a much grander scale. So what’s the connection? Are they all stealing from Hinchcliffe?
    “You gonna eat that?” Swales asks, nudging me with his elbow and nodding at my practically untouched food.
    “You want it?”
    He snatches the plate and starts scooping up the rice paste with clumsy fingers, smearing nearly as much of it over his face as he manages to get into his mouth.
    “Good?”
    “Good,” he answers, wolfing down a cracker. “I’ll eat anything, me,” he continues, showering me with crumbs.
    “So I can see.”
    Swales obviously isn’t the sharpest tool in the box, but his strength and size (and no doubt his track record and ongoing appetite for violence) have helped him become one of Hinchcliffe’s “elite.” He’s strong, impressionable, and, I expect, easily manipulated—perfect fighter fodder.
    “So what do you think about all this, then?” he asks.
    That’s a surprisingly difficult question to answer. These days it seems that something happens every few minutes that skews