Chokehold Page 2

“I don’t doubt you were.”

  “Same principle, different approach.”

  “I get that. We follow you because none of us want to be the poor bastards you’re hunting down. Speaking as a friend, I don’t want to do anything that’s going to piss you off.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “But the fact remains, we’ve lost more than twenty people in the last ten days.”

  “There’s another explanation, isn’t there?”

  Pinchy pauses before speaking. “Yeah. Unlikely, though.”

  “It’s Unchanged. I can feel it in my gut. We thought we’d got rid of all of them who’d gone back toward the city. Looks like some of them might have given us the slip.”

  “So how do you want to play this?”

  Johannson’s brow furrows. Her face hardens. “First thing, I don’t want word of this getting out, not yet. I want this contained until I know what exactly we’re dealing with. Cut off any potential information flows. Plant a few false flags.”

  “Such as?”

  “Do I have to do all your thinking for you, Pinchy? Get creative. Start talking to people and spread a few rumors. Paul Scobey.”

  “What about him?”

  “We lost him a couple of days back, didn’t we?”

  “Yep.”

  “He was the little Manc kid, wasn’t he? The one with the whiny voice.”

  “That’s him.”

  “Most of the people we have here are faceless and nameless. If I’ve remembered Scobey, you can bet other people have, too. Make a big deal about the fact he’s gone. Tell them he was bad-mouthing me, so you had him killed. Don’t give them space to start looking for other explanations. Understand?”

  “I get it.”

  “We need to put a positive spin on this. When I was in sales, I used to go on about turning negatives into positives. Sounds like a cliché, but it happens to be true. You follow?”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “I’m going to talk to the masses, stop any rumors before they start. Get everyone gathered in the big room after dark. If these people think they’re not being told the full story, they’ll start inventing the bits they don’t know. I’m going to tell them what they need to believe.”

  * * *

  Even in this poisoned ruin of a world, this gothic, Georgian hall remains an awe-inspiring location. But history means nothing to Johannson; all that matters is today. She doesn’t care who any of the faces looking down from the few remaining paintings on the wall belong to. For hundreds of years, scholars and dignitaries and royals have dined here, but she doesn’t give a shit. She calls it the big room because it’s the biggest room they’ve got, and this evening, it’s packed with fighters. Her fighters. There’s standing room only. People bunch forward to hear what their leader has to say. Gatherings like this are rare, so there’s no questioning the importance of what Johannson might be about to announce. The acoustics in this high-ceilinged, cavernous space are church-like, and whether it’s intentional or not, while they’re waiting for her to appear, Johannson’s flock talk in hushed, subdued tones. Ceremonial candles have been burned down to stubs, and illumination now comes from a couple of braziers full of embers and the occasional lamp.

  She’s in an anteroom, pacing up and down, readying her pitch. She ordered Pinchy and Marc Myndham, another of her generals, to get everyone assembled for just after eight, and now she’s deliberately keeping them waiting. It’s a power thing. It reminds them who’s in charge.

  Johannson was never a fan of the establishment. Places like this used to make her feel uneasy, but now it’s home turf. She hated the superiority of the upper classes and how they made her feel inadequate and judged. The fear of being looked down upon because she didn’t have the right qualifications or connections. Now Johannson is the fear, and it feels good. She’s fought her way up from nothing.

  Johannson’s a tough bitch who’s always been able to hide her emotions in even the most pressured of situations, but even she can’t help feeling some nervousness when she walks out and looks down over a sea of faces. There are cheers when she appears, followed by a reverent hush the moment she signals for quiet. All talk stops. The only noises now are the crackle of bonfires and the drumming of the incessant black rain on the windows. There’s got to be at least three hundred people crammed in here, maybe more.

  “How many of you have been with me from the start?” she asks, and the room fills with noise. “Remember what it was like back then? We were a pack, remember? Like a pack of bloody animals. We found whatever shelter we could, but in the first days after the bomb, half the battle was just staying alive.”

  She pauses for a moment, just long enough to let them remember how hard those times were.

  “Now look at us. Hundreds strong. Organized. Safe. Times back, we’d have turned our noses up at being in a situation like this, but after the war and the bombs and the radiation, this is better than we could have hoped.

  “It’s all about perspective. Remember the people who tried to take from us? The Unchanged first of all, then people like us who wanted what we had. We beat them all, and we showed them who’s in charge, didn’t we?”

  More noise. Sections of the crowd are going wild, unnaturally loud. It’s a self-defense mechanism; if Johannson or one of her generals doesn’t think you’re as keen and grateful to be here as you should be, there’s every chance you’ll be thrown out on your ass. Or worse.

  Johannson is having to shout to make herself heard now, her bellowing voice echoing off the walls. “Everything changed when we found this place. It’s more than just a base of operations for us now; it’s a home. A fortress. It’s strong, defendable, impenetrable. We’ve built something truly remarkable here out of the ashes of the shitty old world we’ve left behind, and now it’s time for us to take the next step. That’s why I’ve gathered you all here tonight.

  “Starting tomorrow, we’re going to be spreading our wings. We’ve not seen hide nor hair of any Unchanged for weeks, but we’re going to keep hunting until we know for sure that there’s none of them left alive.”

  At the mention of the Unchanged, the crowd has become increasingly vociferous. People shout abuse. Others spit and curse, offended by the thought of the foul enemy they fought so long and so hard to destroy. Good. That’s exactly the kind of response Johannson hoped to provoke.

  “Even when the Unchanged have all been dealt with, our job won’t be done. We need to defend what’s ours and keep growing our numbers. We’re not going to allow anyone to take what we’ve worked so hard to build here. I’m not going to allow it to happen, and neither are you. We’re going on the offensive to prevent it.”

  This vast crowd’s clearly in a fighting mood, though there’s barely any other kind of mood left these days. In a world that’s been stripped of warmth and emotion and purpose, killing is perhaps the only positive action that remains. And that’s the message Johannson’s now doing her best to get across.

  “It doesn’t matter who you were or what you did or what you had; the Hate has stripped all that back to nothing. All that matters now is fighting hard and staying alive.

  “First light tomorrow, I’m sending you out into the wilds. We’re going to take the initiative and search mile by mile from this central point. Find who you can. Recruit those who’ll listen, get rid of those who won’t. Understand?”

  She pauses for the particularly raucous response. There’s nothing like inciting violence to fire this crowd up.

  “Get yourselves organized into groups tonight and go see Pinchy, Ullah, or Myndham. They’ll give you an area to cover. We take no prisoners, got it? It’s our way, or no way.”

  The room is filled with more noise than ever.

  Johannson’s words are designed to provoke maximum response, and in the bulk of the crowd, they do just that. Elsewhere on the fringes, though, the reactions are more muted. Most people make sure they’re deep in the scrum so their enthusiasm for chaos can be noted, but others do the
opposite. Some of the Haters—the weaker, the less aggressive—cling to the shadows and do what they can to disappear. They’ll do what they have to do to prove they’re up for the fight if challenged, but all many of them want is to be left alone. Some are sick and unable to survive without the protection of the pack. Others just can’t match the kind of fury and aggression that gets you noticed by Johannson’s best.

  Some of the non-fighters edge farther back into the darkness until they’re no longer there. Some are elderly; others are sick. Shivering with cold, a stick man leans against an oak-paneled wall and pulls his legs up. The burns on his back from the bomb still sting, and his chest rattles like it’s filled with grit. He sounds empty inside. That thought almost elicits a smirk, because that’s exactly what he has become. He’s a hollow man. All he has left is the breath in his lungs. Everything else—his family, his home, his health, his daughter—is long gone.

  He does what he can not to be noticed, but some of the nastier bastards are already looking for volunteers to join their hunting groups, and Karl Bryce is heading his way. Bryce sweeps the floor with a bright flashlight, looking for stragglers. He grabs the hollow man’s wrist and hauls him to his feet like he’s picking up an empty bag.

  “You’ll do,” Bryce says. “You’re coming with me.”

  “I won’t be any use. My leg’s busted. I’ll just slow you down.”

  “Not interested.”

  “But I’m sick.”

  “We’re all sick. Did you not hear boss lady?”

  “Yeah, but I’ll just slow you down.”

  Bryce tightens his grip, making the other man wince. “I’m not asking, I’m telling. Everyone has their uses. I’ll tie you to a frigging post and use you as bait if I have to. What’s your name, you useless piece of shit?”

  “McCoyne. Danny McCoyne.”

  3

  Underground

  The skies have been filled with dense, oily clouds ever since the bombs. A double strike on what was left of London opened the floodgates. After that, whoever had their finger on the button got trigger-happy: Manchester, Leeds, Birmingham, Edinburgh, and Glasgow … all reduced to smoldering mounds of toxic ash. None of the people who survived the blasts will ever know who fired the missiles, but that’s not important now. The end result has affected everyone the same, Hater and Unchanged alike. Each individual strike generated massive amounts of damage and pollution, enough to choke the life out of vast swaths of the country. The cumulative effect of all the nukes has been devastating.

  This place was on the outermost fringe of the blast wave. North of here, most buildings, trees, lampposts, and electricity pylons were flattened. A housing estate on a hillside is now nothing but rubble. A once-forested incline is carpeted with fallen trees, the base of the valley piled high with detritus. Nothing is as it was. The colors of autumn should have been well established now, but not this year. The lush greens of spring and summer were burned away, and where there should now be traces of russet reds and golden browns, there’s nothing but dirty black and muted grays. Color has been drained from everything, leaving behind a monochrome hell. It’s hard to tell where the land ends and the cloud cover begins. What’s left of the natural world feels like it’s giving up.

  Out here, it doesn’t even sound right anymore.

  There are no animals, no birds, barely any people, and yet the constant wind and rain mean it’s never silent. Shells of buildings groan, shudder, and sigh with the effort of staying upright. Anything that hasn’t already fallen is at risk of crashing down.

  The monsoon-like rain weakens the roots of trees and the foundations of buildings. On the exposed high ground, the endless downpours have eroded the topsoil, which now slips away like sloughing skin. Countless trickles of polluted water combine to become torrents that, in turn, become a single powerful deluge of muck. An avalanche of waste-filled slurry races downhill, obliterating everything in its path. It keeps spilling ever forward, a noxious and unstoppable tsunami that seems almost to be racing with itself, trying to see how far it can get and how much it can destroy. A group of seven fighters camped out inside a ruined school are overcome with barely any warning. Though they try to get away, there’s no point running because the flood is on them in seconds. There’s barely the blink of an eye between the first distant rumbling noises and the total, all-consuming carnage that follows. The quickest of the group, a girl in her midtwenties, glances back over her shoulder as she sprints across the playground for cover, but no matter how fast she runs, she’ll never beat the horror that’s coming after her. She sees several of the others swept off their feet and submerged, and she knows she’s next. She’ll run out of energy long before the wave does, that much is certain, but the thought of drowning—lungs filling with the filthy, soup-like mire—is a terrifying enough prospect to keep her moving. She’s halfway along a rubble-strewn road when the wave crashes over her. It sweeps her up and hurls her against the wall of a partially collapsed building with impossible force: dead before she can drown.

  For a moment, it looks like the remains of the building might act as a dam and stem the flow, but the corrupted tide shows no sign of abating. The building is an empty shell, three sides intact. The walls hold firm for a second or two longer, but as the water pressure builds, it begins to give. And once the first few cracks appear, it’s barely any time at all before the whole thing comes crashing down, allowing an unprecedented amount of sludge and debris to spill out across the land beyond. It rages through what’s left of an industrial estate, bringing numerous other already weakened buildings tumbling down as if they were made of cardboard and paper, not concrete and steel.

  For a time, the world is filled with noise. It sounds like the end of everything, like the last death throes of a planet in terminal decline. But eventually it passes.

  The racing wave disappears, petering out to nothing many miles after it began, leaving behind it an immense gray lake that seems to stretch out forever in every conceivable direction. The contrast is stark. Thirty seconds ago, mayhem. Now, a bizarre sense of calm.

  * * *

  Some of the group feel it before they hear it. Conversation and activity are sparse down here at the best of times, and many people initially dismiss the low rumbles and distant groans as figments of their already overstretched imaginations. Aftershocks? More bombs? Another attack? They’ve been down here too long. You can see and hear all kinds of things that aren’t there in this never-ending darkness. You can hear people talking when there’s no one around, convince yourself you’ve seen faces you know are long gone.

  Cheryl Bashford’s lying on her back on the camp bed where she’s spent most of her time since they’ve been sealed in this tomb-like place. She sleeps in the far corner of this overfull room, as far from the entrance to the bunker as she can get. Suddenly uneasy, she holds her breath to try to cancel out her own noise, convinced she can hear something. She has no idea what it could be. It’s different from the bombs (she still hears that noise in her sleep—feels it, even), but she knows in her gut that whatever she’s now hearing is also bad. Very bad.

  She sits up quickly and swings her feet around, disturbing the kid camped out next to her. She switches on her flashlight and shines it around, illuminating his face. His eyes are as wide as hers. “You hear that?” she asks him.

  “Yeah. What is it?”

  More lights and more movement. Other people are starting to get scared. Fear’s never far off the radar down here, but this is different, and panic spreads like a bushfire through dry scrub. “Get Darren,” Cheryl says, but Darren’s already on his way. He’s made it as far as the foot of Cheryl’s bed when the volume of the noise overhead becomes so loud it’s all he can hear. It’s like a train racing through a tunnel. He reaches out for the wall to steady himself and feels it shaking. It’s at times like this he wishes he was just one of the masses, not the leader of the group. Suddenly, there are nervous questions being fired at him from all directions, the volume inside the
bunker competing with the noise elsewhere. “Shut up!” Darren yells, and they all immediately do as they’re told.

  The shelter’s shaking now, the noise and vibrations like the approaching footsteps and roar of some immense monster. Equipment and belongings clatter down from shelves, and dust spills from cracks in the ceiling. The chaos reaches a tumult, then it stops.

  As quickly as it began, it’s over.

  But Jesus Christ, this sudden silence is even more terrifying. Darren looks for Jason, keen to find someone else whose opinion he trusts.

  “More bombs?” Jason asks, voice low.

  “That was no bomb. It went on too long. There’s nothing left up there to destroy.”

  “What, then?”

  He pulls Jason close and whispers, “Sounded like a landslide.”

  “Fuck. We could be trapped.”

  “We are trapped, remember? We can’t go out there anyway.”

  “That it, d’you think?” Cheryl asks.

  Another man calls Darren over, and he threads his way through more bodies to get to where Wayne Heath is standing. Wayne shines his flashlight and shows Darren dirty water running down the back wall.

  “Shit,” Darren says. “Where’s it getting in?”

  Wayne points out an area to the top left that is dark with damp. There’s water dripping through the mortar between concrete blocks as if the wall itself is perspiring, sweating under the pressure. He illuminates another wet patch. And another. Then another. The fifth leak is a trickle. The sixth is oozing mud being forced through a crack, like toothpaste from a tube. “We can block it up, right?” Wayne says, half telling, half asking.

  “Yeah, ’course we can,” Darren quickly replies, and he starts looking around for inspiration. He gestures for people to shift their beds and belongings and for others to help. It’s barely organized chaos. This part of the shelter is already a mass of people and possessions, and it’s hard making progress. Those trying to get nearer are held up by others trying to get out of the way.