Chokehold Read online

  “You might be wrong.”

  “I’m not. And don’t forget, the rules are you only get to make one mistake these days.”

  “Aaron was talking about us heading for remote areas eventually.”

  “And you don’t think the other side won’t have had the same idea? It’s not going to happen, Kara. You need to set your expectations low and keep them there. Thing I’ve learned from all of this is that people today are still as naïve and unrealistic as they’ve always been. Don’t let yourself get carried away.”

  “So what’s the alternative? Just wave a white flag in the air and wait for them to find us?”

  “No, the alternative is we keep our heads down for as long as we can, and we hope and pray the Haters are all gone before we have to put our heads above the parapet again. All the guns and the tanks and whatever else this lot claim to have … believe me, in the end, it’ll all count for nothing.”

  She leans back in her seat. Frustrated. Upset.

  “I wish you wouldn’t be so bloody negative, Matt. Why do you have to be so negative?”

  He thinks for a second before making an admission. “Because I care about you. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  20

  Approaching Bury St. Edmunds

  Pinchy drives through the all-consuming evening gloom, navigating from memory. He knows how much he has at stake here, how he’s walking the finest of fine lines. If Johannson finds out what he’s up to, she’ll kill him, but for now, she’s distracted thinking about what he told her earlier, and her eyes are off the ball. He also knows that he doesn’t have any choice; he has to do this. Getting on the wrong side of Johannson is a frightening prospect, but the alternatives are potentially far worse.

  The roads feel endless out here, but they’re strewn with wreckage and no longer maintained. There are more obstructions and collisions to avoid with every passing mile. Potholes like craters appear without warning. At times, he has to drive completely off-road. Other times, the road’s the only clear route through the floodplains. Occasionally, he loses sight of the tarmac strip in the water altogether and has to crawl forward at half speed.

  He always used to think of this country as being small. He could get just about anywhere from where he used to live on the south coast near Brighton. Take the train into London, then take another train anywhere else. Catch a flight. Get on the highway and drive wherever … As the miles disappear tonight, his mind drifts back to his former life: the tattoo and piercing shop he’d owned and run, his clients and friends, the laughs they’d had. He remembers a time when skin was a canvas to work on, not something to slash and slice. Turned out to be useful, though, all of that. All the health and safety bullshit he’d had to abide by and the qualifications he’d had to get to be able to split tongues and insert subdermal implants … he’d probably have died early on from a nasty wound he’d picked up in a knife fight, but his knowledge of antiseptics and his ability to self-sew his own torn flesh back together saw him through. He glances at himself in the mirror. You’re a mean-looking motherfucker, he thinks. The new scars have added to the look. His ink and piercings and the gold caps on his teeth were often derided in the old world, but now they’re like medals, badges of honor. Everyone else looks the same: gray and shabby, with matted hair and dirt-streaked skin. He’s a class apart.

  He slams his foot on the brake and brings the car to a juddering halt just centimeters short of the edge of a hole that looks big enough to swallow the Citroën whole.

  Need to concentrate. Need to focus. Can’t fuck this up.

  He drives around the edge of the chasm, then accelerates again.

  Am I still going the right way?

  That’s the problem with this neck of the woods: everywhere is so far from everywhere else that a single wrong turn can have massive ramifications. It’s a relief when the distinctive shape of the sugar beet factory silos at Bury St. Edmunds appear up ahead—long-silenced chimney stacks positioned on the outskirts of what used to be a historic market town. He drives through the open security barriers like they’d told him and pulls up behind the main building.

  He kills the engine.

  And waits.

  And he waits.

  Couldn’t they have arranged this meeting in a pub? He’d passed a nice-looking place a few miles back. Fuck, what he’d give for a few hours in a pub again. Just one night, that’d be enough. The drink, the noise, the company … he always forgets how much he misses the old world until he catches a glimpse of it again. He sinks back in his seat and tries to remember the tastes, the sounds, and the smells. He closes his eyes and wonders if things will ever be like that again.

  He sits up with a start when the car door is yanked open. He’s dragged out onto the tarmac, but he’s quicker than they’re expecting, and he immediately has the knife he keeps down the inside of his boot drawn, ready to defend himself. He feels the tip of someone else’s blade sticking into his neck, a pinprick threatening to become a scythe.

  “You’re the best they’ve got?” a voice says in his ear. “Fuck me.”

  Pinchy’s mad at himself for taking his eye off the ball. He let his guard down. He slumps his shoulders and feigns submission, then elbows his attacker in the gut and reverses positions, shoving him back against the car.

  He’s quick, but not quick enough.

  When he looks back over his shoulder, he sees there are more than ten other fighters surrounding him, all tooled up and ready to smash the shit out of his curiously decorated skull if he makes a wrong move.

  “Where’s Thacker?” he asks, not letting go of the man he now has in a neck hold.

  “Thacker doesn’t come to you, pal; you go to Thacker.”

  “Then take me to him.”

  “And why would he want to waste his time on an amateur like you?”

  “Because I can get him to Johannson.”

  “You think he needs your help?”

  “No, from what I’ve heard about Thacker, I think he’ll take whatever the fuck he wants, but it’s people that leaders need. Best to avoid a civil war if we can, don’t you think? You can spend a fucking age trying to find Johannson and get close, or I can bypass all that and take you straight to her.”

  * * *

  They tell him nothing and keep him waiting, but Pinchy knows better than to complain. He needs to stay cool and stay strong, to hold his nerve. It’s all bravado and posturing, he reckons, and he grips the sides of his seat as the van he’s being driven in swerves around another corner. It’s been more than an hour now. They must be getting close. It’s all mind games, throwing him in the back of this van. They’re trying to break him, trying to work out if he’s as smart as he says he is.

  There are no obvious territorial markers these days; borders are where the hell you want them to be, and they shift with circumstance. Pinchy first heard about Thacker while he was out scouting for Johannson and he came across a dying man. He’d found the poor fucker strung up and left to die, and it had been abundantly clear that this was no random kill. The guy had been left crucified and bleeding out as a warning to others to stay away. He told Pinchy as much with what proved to be his dying breath. Most people would have taken heed, but Pinchy doesn’t think like most people. Pinchy’s different. He pressed on and tracked down the perpetrators. He worked out where they were based and what they were planning. He joined their ranks and anonymously observed (no mean feat when your face is covered in metal and ink), and it didn’t take him long to realize that Thacker’s empire is considerably larger than Johannson’s. Pinchy immediately knew what he had to do to stay alive and secure his position near the top of the food chain.

  It all feels a bit precarious now, though, and when the van stops without warning and he’s thrown forward, he starts to feel dangerously exposed. He cricks his neck from side to side and shakes himself down like a heavyweight boxer waiting in the corner of the ring, ready to come out fighting.

  Stay calm.

  Stay focus
ed.

  Show them they can’t push you around.

  The back of the van opens, and he climbs out into a well-lit, warehouse-like space. He tries to keep his cool and show them he’s as hard as fucking nails, but his legs feel like jelly because he’s just stepped out into the middle of a crowd of what feels like hundreds. All he sees is faces, and they’re all looking back at him like he’s shit on the bottom of their shoes.

  A gap opens up between two lines of fighters. Pinchy steels himself and marches up to a single figure standing directly in front of him. He’s a mean-looking bastard, hard as nails. Jesus, Thacker is everything Pinchy was led to believe and more besides. Today, Pinchy knows that more than ever, first impressions count. They’re eye to eye now. Uncomfortably close. Neither man giving ground.

  “I’ve got information that could be useful to you,” Pinchy says. “Looks like you’re well organized, but I can get you access to many more people.”

  “And who says I want more people?”

  The reply comes from the opposite end of the warehouse, back by the van. Pinchy spins around, confused, and watches as an average-looking guy steps away from the rest of the crowd. He holds his chin in his hands and looks Pinchy up and down.

  “You Thacker?”

  “Yes. You must be Mr. Pinch, I presume.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Thought as much. I must say, so far I’m not particularly impressed with what I’m seeing. You come in here and start making all kinds of assumptions about what I need and what I don’t need, about what a good leader looks like.”

  “But I—”

  “Do yourself a favor, sunshine, and shut your mouth. Don’t go digging yourself a hole any deeper than the one you’re already standing in. Understand?”

  Pinchy’s furious. His instinct says, Fight, but his brain’s saying, If you show even the slightest sign of hostility, this lot will take you down. It’s hard, almost too hard, but he does what he’s told. He bites his lip, then runs the fork of his split tongue over his gold-capped teeth.

  Thacker walks up to him and studies him intently. “What’s with all this?” he asks, gesturing at his face. “All the metalwork and tattoos? It’s all a bit Mad Max, don’t you think? A bit clichéd.”

  Pinchy puffs his chest out, defiant. “It’s from before. I was a body artist. A piercer.”

  “You put earrings in?” Thacker taunts.

  “Mock me all you like, it doesn’t bother me. This is who I am. Always has been. I haven’t changed.”

  “Now that’s not true, is it? We’ve all changed. No one’s the same as they were before all this began.”

  “This joker’s not worth the risk,” the fighter Pinchy originally squared up to says.

  “There’s no risk, Llewellyn,” Thacker replies.

  “Do we really need him?”

  “Probably not, but having him around will make things easier. You can give us the full spec on Mrs. Johannson’s place, can’t you, Mr. Pinch?”

  “I’ll tell you whatever you need to know.”

  “Good to hear. How many people does she currently have?”

  “Around five hundred.”

  “You can’t be more precise?”

  “No. They come and go.”

  Thacker shakes his head and looks past Pinchy to talk to his prizefighter again. “You see, this is why this is going to be so easy. It’s like we’d thought: she’s completely disorganized. Bit of a brute, by all accounts.”

  “All the more reason to just walk in there and take the place, don’t you think? Show her who’s boss.”

  Another man interjects. He appears from deeper in the crowd. Long-haired, ice-cool, no nerves. “That’d be a mistake.”

  Llewellyn’s not impressed. “Give me a break.”

  “Let Hinchcliffe speak,” Thacker orders.

  Hinchcliffe strides forward and puts his arm around Pinchy’s shoulder. Pinchy shrugs him off, but Hinchcliffe’s unperturbed. “You’re right, of course, Llewellyn; there’s nothing stopping us marching in there with Mr. Pinch’s help and taking over, but if we go there first and introduce ourselves, tell Johannson how the land lies, and then turn her over, we’ll save ourselves a lot of unnecessary killing. Half the effort, twice the result.”

  Llewellyn’s not impressed. “The world’s changed, mate, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “Yeah, it has. But I think you’ve got your focus all wrong, as usual. We’re not all savages. Not yet.”

  Llewellyn and Hinchcliffe look like they’re about to come to blows. Thacker positions himself between the two of them, smaller physically but matching them both in stature. He keeps them separated, then turns back to face Pinchy. “What do you think?”

  “I think he’s right,” he answers, pointing at Hinchliffe.

  “Why? You wouldn’t just be telling us what you think we want to hear, would you? Talk us through your logic.”

  Pinchy swallows hard. “It makes sense. Go charging into Johannson’s base with an army and she’ll slam the door in your face. Talk to her, though, and you’ll be through that door before she realizes what’s going on. I’ll get you close. She listens to me.”

  “Yeah, but you’re about to screw her over. She obviously can’t trust you, so why should I?” Thacker asks.

  “Good question. Look, Thacker, I’ll be honest with you … I’ve done my homework, and I’ve heard about the kind of resources you’ve got at your disposal. I know you’re going to deal with Johannson, and I want to be on the right side when it happens. She’s just a nasty bitch, nowhere near your league. From what I’ve heard, once you’ve taken over her patch, you’ll control most of what’s left of the east of the country, and as we reckon everywhere else is dead, that puts you in charge. You’ll have a massive foothold and plenty of resources to keep on taking. I swear, I’ve not seen anyone else in your league. Plus, it’ll unsettle the rest of her people, won’t it? Make them realize she’s not all-powerful.”

  Thacker paces the room, thinking carefully. “Okay.” He looks over at Llewellyn. “You go with him. Make contact with Johannson. See what’s what.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “I should go,” Hinchcliffe says. “No offense, Llewellyn, but you’re not much of a diplomat.”

  “Fuck you,” Llewellyn says, and he clears his throat and spits at his rival’s feet.

  “He has a point,” Thacker says.

  “Come on, boss,” Llewellyn protests.

  “No, let’s let Mr. Hinchcliffe have this one and see how he gets on. I know how loyal you are, Llewellyn, but Hinchcliffe hasn’t had a chance to prove himself yet. You’ve talked the talk, H; now it’s time to show us how good you really are.”

  “I won’t let you down,” Hinchcliffe says, grinning broadly, pushing Pinchy back toward the van.

  Pinchy digs his heels in. “Wait. There’s something else.”

  Thacker gestures for Hinchcliffe to stop. “Go on.”

  “Johannson’s got a problem.”

  “Other than me? What’s that?”

  “There’s someone else out there, hiding in the dead lands. She’s lost a couple of dozen people to them in the last week alone.”

  “And you didn’t think to tell me about this sooner?”

  “I’m telling you now.”

  “And is that all you’ve got to say? How are they attacking?”

  “They’re not. Whoever it is, I don’t reckon they’re strong enough to take Johannson on. I think they’re dug in somewhere, playing the long game.”

  “Interesting.”

  “You can make the most of this, Thacker. Johannson’s distracted. You can deal with her, then deal with whoever is out there. Kill two birds with one stone.”

  21

  RAF Thornhill

  The morning arrives too soon. When he sees Estelle marching purposefully toward him, Matt pretends to still be asleep. She shakes his shoulder with enough force to wake the dead. “Get up, Sleeping Beauty,” she says.

 
“Give me a break, Estelle.”

  “I don’t have time. We’re going to start running low on resources here as a result of you lot turning up unexpectedly yesterday. Aaron’s going to lead a group to the Cambridge outpost later today. I’d like you to go with him.”

  “No, thanks.”

  She’s taken aback by his abruptness, frustrated by his response. For once, she’s lost for words. Matt feels obliged to fill the silence.

  “No offense, but I’m staying here.”

  Estelle massages her brow, exasperated. Her tone changes. “Look, I don’t have time for this, and we don’t have the capacity to support hangers-on. You need to pull your weight around here; we all do.”

  “And I’m happy to do that. I’m not leaving, that’s all. If you and your merry crew want to march off into the sunset together, then that’s fine, but I’m not going anywhere, and I’m not asking for anything from you. Leave me in the shell of this place once you’ve gone if you want; I’ll sort myself out.”

  “Can’t you see what we’re trying to do here?”

  “Oh, I can see what you’re trying to do, but I don’t think it’ll work. If you think you’re going to be able to survive out there without life being a constant battle, you’re wrong. And if you’re happy to have that constant battle, if you think you stand any chance against the kind of enemy we’re facing, then you’re even more off the mark than I’d thought. You don’t have a hope in hell.”

  “But we have to try.”

  “No, you don’t. Seriously, just accept it. Forget your lofty aspirations and find yourselves a quiet corner of the world where no one else can see you and then make the most of the little you have left. Any thoughts you have, Estelle, of making some kind of heroic last stand … well, they’re just fucking pipe dreams.”

  Estelle’s expression changes. “I’m not going to waste my time here.”