Dog Blood Part 2

Hang on, something's caught the attention of the grave-robbing b.a.s.t.a.r.ds below me. One of them stops scavenging and calls to his pals. Carrying several weapons each, they head toward the door in the corner we exited through last night. I run back along the gantry, but before I get to the hatch I know it's Adam. I hear the stupid kid before I see him through the window. Should have known he'd struggle to keep himself under control. The Unchanged are outside now, heading straight for him as he limps aggressively toward them, the sharp tip of his ski-pole walking stick held out like a bayonet. Fortunately the rest of this gang are either unaware or too interested in their haul to get involved. I climb back out through the door and down the ladder. Adam and the Unchanged are out of sight now, but I can still hear them fighting. With half a dozen rungs left I jump down and run around the corner to help, knife in hand. Adam's on the ground, taking a heavy beating from two of them. To his credit he's already taken the other one out. The scrawny little f.u.c.ker is slumped up against the side of the building, impaled with Adam's metal stick.

I grab the shoulders of one of his attackers and slam him down onto the dusty ground. His body rattles with the impact, and the look on his face is one of surprise more than anything else. Before he realizes what's happening I stab my knife into his chest, aiming for his heart. The blade's stuck in his breastbone. No time to pull it out. I run straight at the other one, punching the side of his head with enough force to knock him over. He scrambles back up, shakes his head clear, and rushes at me, holding a rifle by the barrel and swinging it around like a club. I duck his first clumsy strike, then, while he's still off balance, thump my axe into the base of his spine. I shove his face down into the dirt to m.u.f.fle his screams until I'm sure he's dead.

Need to get under cover. We're out of sight and there's no sign of them yet, but the others will come looking for their people before long. Adam's out cold, and my already slim chances of winning this one-sided fight have just been slashed even further. All I can do now is get out of the way and wait for the rest of these f.u.c.kers to move on. Trouble is, I realize as I shove my arms under Adam's shoulders and start dragging him back toward the chemical storeroom, when they find the bodies of three of their own they're not going to go anywhere. Then, as I reverse through the door and look back, I realize the tracks Adam's feet have left in the gravel and dust will lead them straight to us.

I dump his useless, groaning bulk in the s.p.a.ce on the floor where I slept last night. There's a dribble of blood running from the corner of his mouth, but I can't tell if it's just his mouth that's cut or whether his injuries are more serious. The way they were laying into him, I wouldn't be surprised if his insides were well and truly f.u.c.ked.

I stand up to lower the roller door back down, but it's too late. There's already another one of them standing over the bodies, and this one looks like he actually knows how to use the powerful rifle he's carrying. He's calling for reinforcements, but he hasn't seen me. I duck down behind more of the acidic-smelling chemical sacks and watch him through a narrow gap between two waist-high piles. All I can see is his boots. As I'm watching, another two pairs of feet approach. I don't think they've seen the tracks in the dirt yet, but it's only a matter of time. It's not like there's anywhere else around here I'd be hiding. I try to stay calm and prepare myself mentally for the fight, working out which one I should attack first and which way I should run. Maybe running is the only option? Sorry, Adam, I think this is where we say our good-byes. Can't see any way of getting him out of here now. Poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d's three-quarters dead anyway.

Another two of them join the first three. Five to one-those are bad odds in anyone's book. I'd have been better off taking my chances and lying flat on a pile of corpses. Wish I'd thought of that sooner. Perhaps I can still get over to that open grave... ?

Here they come. One of them starts to walk toward this building. Christ, I don't even have my knife with me. It's still buried to the hilt in the gut of one of them. Maybe I can reach my backpack from here ...

Wait. They've stopped.

Something's distracted them. Figuring I've got nothing to lose, I slide across the floor to try to get a better view of what's happening. They're starting to move back toward the front of the building now. Can't see why, but their weapons are raised. This is my chance to make a break for it. I get up, grab my backpack, and run back outside, then stop when one of the enemy scavengers goes flying past the front of the chemical storeroom. He skids along the ground, thrown like a rag doll, eventually landing in a heap in the dust a few yards from my feet. Another one of them reappears, this one running backward, trying to fire his rifle and at the same time retreat and defend himself from whatever it is that's attacking. I'm right out in the open again now, my curiosity and bewilderment forcing common sense to take a backseat, and I can finally see what's happening. The cavalry have arrived. Halle-f.u.c.king-lujah. At precisely the right moment a van full of our people has turned up at the site, and they've got two powerful and incredibly aggressive f.u.c.kers in tow who are making short work of any of the Unchanged stupid enough to stand in their way. The way these two are fighting is savage and brutal in the extreme, and it's awe-inspiring to watch. They move with an agility and speed that belie their otherwise ordinary appearance. Totally focused on the kill, they are oblivious to everyone and everything else around them.

The old man I saw stripping corpses is hobbling toward me, a look of absolute fear plastered across his weathered face. He runs straight at me, yelling for help, too terrified to realize I'm going to kill him.

"Get out of here," he tries to warn me, barely able to breathe. "They'll-"

I end his sentence before he has a chance to. I grab his shock of white hair, yank his head back, and punch him hard in the throat. He collapses at my feet, choking. I s.n.a.t.c.h a knife from my backpack and finish him off. Suddenly feeling fired up and alive, I sprint down toward the battle that's raging at the front of the building, desperate to kill again.

By the time I get there it's over, the suddenly one-sided fight ended with incredible speed, force, and brutality by seven other people like Adam and me. None of them questions me. There's an immediate, unspoken trust between us, and within minutes I'm helping them dump the bodies of the Unchanged with the thousands of others already here.

5.

THESE PEOPLE ARE SURPRISINGLY well coordinated. There are seventeen of us here now including me and Adam, another group having just arrived on foot through the trees to the east of the cull site. I've stumbled into the middle of a preplanned rendezvous, and I'm going to take advantage of it while it lasts. They won't be here long. Sticking together in large numbers is dangerous. It leaves us exposed. well coordinated. There are seventeen of us here now including me and Adam, another group having just arrived on foot through the trees to the east of the cull site. I've stumbled into the middle of a preplanned rendezvous, and I'm going to take advantage of it while it lasts. They won't be here long. Sticking together in large numbers is dangerous. It leaves us exposed.

They work quickly, hiding their vehicles in the shadows of the building and stripping the site of weapons and anything else of value. Guards patrol the perimeter constantly; others watch from the roof. The two most aggressive fighters are positioned one at either end of the building. As I walk toward the chemical storeroom with a short, stocky man, I notice that the fighter out back is shackled. She has a heavy-duty chain padlocked around her waist that's anch.o.r.ed to a metal stake driven deep into the ground.

"What's all that about?" I ask quietly, not wanting her to hear. He takes off his gla.s.ses and cleans the one remaining lens on the bottom corner of his s.h.i.+rt.

"You've not come across Brutes before?"

"Brutes?"

"That's what we call them."

"Them? You make it sound like they're different from us."

"Not really," he sighs, like it's an effort having to explain. "They're the same as us, but extreme."

"Extreme?"

"Are you the guy who was hiding here?"

"I wasn't hiding, I just-"

"Why didn't you attack?"

"What?"

"When those thieving b.a.s.t.a.r.ds first turned up this morning, why didn't you attack them?"

"Because I didn't know how many of them there were. I didn't know what weapons they had and-"

"Exactly," he interrupts, replacing his gla.s.ses. "You knew there was a good chance you'd have been killed if you'd tried anything."

"It wasn't worth the risk."

"Don't blame you," he says, leaning up against the side of the chemical storeroom and s.h.i.+elding his eyes from the climbing sun. "I'd probably have done the same."

"So what's your point?"

"The point is a Brute wouldn't have held back. They can't. They catch a scent of Unchanged and they'll hunt them down and attack, no matter what the odds are."

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l..."

"Useful, though. They make good guard dogs! Always on the lookout. Just look at her."

He nods over in the direction of the woman tied up at the back of the killing chamber. She's almost constantly straining against her shackles, trying to break free and go after the enemy she knows is still out there somewhere. I'm transfixed by her face, flushed red and full of rage, and yet, in a different light, she doesn't look like a killer at all. When she relaxes, her features are surprisingly soft, gentle, and feminine.

"She could just be someone's mother."

"She was. Her name's Pat. She had someone with her when we first found her, someone who knew her before the change. She was a teacher in an elementary school. Hard to believe, isn't it? A well-respected pillar of society, cornerstone of the community, great with kids, wouldn't hurt anyone ... you get the picture."

"Incredible..."

"My brother was a Brute," he continues. "From sheet metal worker to a killer like that overnight."

"What happened to him?"

"We lost him."

"Sorry, I..."

"Oh, he's not dead, I don't think. When I say we lost him, I mean we lost lost him. Clever b.a.s.t.a.r.d slipped his chains and got away. Christ knows where he is now. Don't suppose it matters as long as he's still killing. Your friend in here, is he?" him. Clever b.a.s.t.a.r.d slipped his chains and got away. Christ knows where he is now. Don't suppose it matters as long as he's still killing. Your friend in here, is he?"

He slaps the wall of the chemical storeroom.

"What?" I mumble, still thinking about this guy's missing brother and forgetting what we came out here for. "Yeah, sorry. He's in the back."

By the time we clear the doorway and are ready to move him out, Adam's just about regained consciousness. He's still in a bad way-pale, clammy, and barely able to move. We fas.h.i.+on a stretcher from wood stripped from the walls of the main building, and between us we carry him back to the others.

6.

MY NAME'S PRESTON," A disarmingly confident, oily man says, grabbing my hand and shaking it vigorously. I already know I don't like him. He's too loud and in-your-face. He reminds me of the senior managers I used to despise at work; the higher up the corporate ladder they managed to climb, the more arrogant, obnoxious, and smarmy they became. He's wearing a bizarre combination of military garb and civvies. His clothes make him look like someone's dad going to a costume party as a World War II general. disarmingly confident, oily man says, grabbing my hand and shaking it vigorously. I already know I don't like him. He's too loud and in-your-face. He reminds me of the senior managers I used to despise at work; the higher up the corporate ladder they managed to climb, the more arrogant, obnoxious, and smarmy they became. He's wearing a bizarre combination of military garb and civvies. His clothes make him look like someone's dad going to a costume party as a World War II general.

"Danny McCoyne."

"Good to meet you, Danny. You had some food?"

"Yes, I-"

"Excellent. Have you been introduced to anyone?"

"I've met a few people. I don't know if-"

"Great," he says, interrupting me again. Irritating little s.h.i.+t. Apparently he's the self-appointed leader of this cell and I've been granted a personal audience (as, I've learned, are all new "recruits"). We're sitting in the back of a beaten-up van, just him and me. The heat is suffocating. He's propped the doors open.

"Look, I-" I start to say.

"So what have you been up to, Danny?" he asks, his hat trick of interruptions complete.

"What?"

"Since the war started. What have you been doing with yourself?"

Is this a trick question? What does he think I've been doing? I've fought whenever I've been able, done all I can to get rid of the maximum number of Unchanged. Does this guy think I'm just some lazy shyster, hiding out here in the middle of nowhere, waiting for the war to end?

"Fighting."

"Good. On your own?"

"Generally traveling on my own, fighting with others whenever I've had the chance. Look, what's all this about?"

"You killed many?"

Now he's beginning to annoy me. Idiot. I've a good mind just to leave. His questions make me feel uneasy, inadequate almost. I don't think I could have fought any harder, but how does that stack up against everyone else? For the first time it occurs to me that I don't know how "good" a fighter I actually am. Is my tally of victims higher or lower than average? Does it matter? As long as we're all killing, does anyone care how quickly, enthusiastically, or effectively we do it? I suddenly feel like I'm in one of those pointless personal progress review meetings I used to have at work. Have I hit my agreed Unchanged corpse target for this month?

"Plenty," I answer, "but I haven't been keeping count."

"Too many to keep track of, eh?" He grins. Patronizing b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

"Something like that."

"Have you noticed their numbers are dropping off? That there's fewer of them around to kill?"

"Yes."

"And do you know why that is?"

I shrug my shoulders. "Could be any one of a number of reasons," I reply, suddenly feeling like a little kid put on the spot in cla.s.s. I'm being deliberately vague, not wanting to give this joker an opportunity to make me look stupid, playing cat-and-mouse games with the truth like I used to with my supervisor and managers back at the council. "I know it's not because we've killed them all."

"If only that was the case. The real reason is that they're continuing to concentrate themselves together, completely pulling out of areas like this. Tell me, have you heard of Chris Ankin?"

I stop and think. The name sounds familiar. Then I remember, Chris Ankin was the politician who recorded the message I heard when the war first began. After I got away from the slaughterhouse that night, his was the voice that finally explained what was happening to me and why. I kept a copy of that message on a phone I found and replayed it again and again until the battery died and I threw it away.

"I know him. I thought he was dead."

"He wasn't last time I saw him."

"And when was that?"

"About ten days ago. Have you been following his messages?"

"Haven't heard anything for weeks."

Preston turns around and searches behind him. He pulls out a laptop from under one of the front seats and turns it on. I watch as it boots up, staring at the start-up screen graphics and messages as if I were watching a Hollywood blockbuster. It makes me feel unexpectedly nostalgic and empty, remembering things I haven't seen or thought about since my old life ended. After several minutes the machine is ready. With the speed of a computerphobic two-fingered typist, he logs on and opens a video file. At the bottom of the screen a number of small icons and speech bubbles appear, then disappear, as programs try pointlessly to search for updates via networks that no longer exist. A haggard and tired-looking, pixelated face (Chris Ankin, I presume) appears in a small window, which, after much cursing, Preston manages to enlarge to fill the screen. By the time he pa.s.ses the laptop over to me, the politician's already in full flow. His voice is distorted by the tinny speakers but is still recognizable and strangely rea.s.suring.

"When your enemy's tactics change, you have to rea.s.sess your own tactics, too," he explains. "From the earliest days of this war, fate and circ.u.mstance have combined to make us underdogs. We are, however, underdogs in numbers only."

I glance across at Preston, but he doesn't look back. His eyes are glued to the screen. Even though he's probably heard this a hundred times already, he's still hanging on Ankin's every word.

"Since day one, our enemies have been retreating. The way we've fought this war put them on the back foot from the beginning, and it's a position from which they've struggled to recover. The fact that our two opposing sides were so closely intertwined before we realized we were were two opposing sides has made it all but impossible for them to isolate themselves and defend against us. We're practically invisible to them, and that has strengthened our hand dramatically. But now, now that we're months into this campaign, the position is beginning to change. two opposing sides has made it all but impossible for them to isolate themselves and defend against us. We're practically invisible to them, and that has strengthened our hand dramatically. But now, now that we're months into this campaign, the position is beginning to change.

"With every day that pa.s.ses, our people have become more and more diffuse. We each move from fight to fight, from battle to battle, going wherever we're needed. As a result our numbers are increasingly spread out, and the enemy has taken advantage of this."

"What's he talking about?"

Preston glares at me. "Just shut up and listen."

"They've pulled back into the hearts of their remaining cities, pulling their people closer together and drawing them in from the outside. There's strength in numbers, and we need to do something similar. We need to stop fighting as individuals and form a coordinated attack force, an army if you will."

"But they'll hunt us out. If we start grouping together in large numbers, they'll find us and-"

Preston sighs and pauses the video. He rubs his eyes and shakes his head.

"This is so much bigger than you and me, Danny," he says. "We're just cogs in a machine, and we're expendable. Ankin's not talking about setting up a military force with sergeants and captains and the like. He's just trying to get us to work together and coordinate our efforts."

"I understand that, but-"

"We have to start making better use of the people and resources we've got, and start hitting the enemy where it hurts. If we can do enough damage to start them off, they'll destroy themselves. You heard about London, didn't you?"

"No. I haven't heard anything for weeks."