“I’ve set up a number of sleeper cells right in the heart of the city,” Sahota says. “I want you to join one of them.”
“Okay,” I answer quickly and without thinking through any implications. It’ll get me out of here, and right now that’s the most important thing.
“I’ll get your stuff brought up, and I’ll give you directions, contact information, and some supplies. Get out there, get used to being neck deep in the enemy, then find your cell.”
“And then?”
“And then you sit and wait for the signal.”
“The signal?”
“When the time’s right, all the cells will be instructed to take up positions deep in the heart of the city. Then, when we’re ready, each cell will start fighting, causing as much panic as possible. Just imagine it, Danny… sudden swells of violence, loads of them in random locations, and all happening at the same time for no apparent reason. The enemy won’t know what’s going on. They won’t even see us there. They’ll look straight through us and turn on each other, and it’ll be beautiful, like dropping a match into the gas tank of a car. Before you know it, the whole city will be tearing itself apart. Think of it… we’ll be less like terrorist cells, more like cancer cells.”
It sounds magnificent. All too easy.
“So all we have to do-”
“All you have to do,” he interrupts, correcting me, “is get in there, wait until we’re ready, then cause as much mayhem and carnage as you can.”
I stare out of the window again, trying to fully appreciate the importance and danger of what I’m being asked to do.
“This is an honor, Danny. You’ve shown incredible strength and self-belief to get this far. What you’re going into the city to do will never be forgotten.”
28
A COUPLE OF HOURS ago I thought I was a dead man. And now here I am, a backpack full of weapons, supplies, and Ellis’s things on my back, walking through the dead ruins of the city I used to call home, ready to help bring the enemy down. This new world order is fickle and unpredictable; one minute you’re down, the next you’re on top again.
The roads around Sahota’s building were reassuringly quiet and empty, and I felt confident and strong. But the moment I saw the first of the Unchanged I began to doubt myself again. There were three of them, huddled together in the doorway of a partially collapsed building, barely visible from the street, just eyes staring out from the darkness. Even after all I’ve been through, my instinct was still to kill. No one would have been any the wiser, and with my knives and axe hanging from my belt again, I was sure I could have got rid of all three of them without even breaking sweat. But I was scared-scared that if I started killing out here I wouldn’t be able to stop again. I forced myself to relax, to overcome the temptation and keep moving. The foul fuckers watched me like hawks as I passed them, but two thoughts kept me moving forward. First, I knew that if I made it into the city there’d be a chance, albeit a slight one, that I might be able to find out more information about what happened to Ellis. Second, I knew that the longer I lasted without killing and the deeper I managed to get into town, the more casualties there’d be when the fighting finally started again. It was easier letting those three live (if you could call that living) knowing that it might bring me closer to killing thousands of their kind.
Unexpectedly, the more Unchanged I’ve subsequently seen, the easier being around them has become. I still have to fight to control myself each time I see one of them, but their vast numbers act as a constant reminder that to start killing now would be suicidal. Or maybe it’s just that seeing them like this, crammed together and on their knees in such desperate, miserable, appalling conditions, reinforces my comparative strength and superiority. These people are nothing.
Christ, I’m cold. I run my hand over my freshly shaved head and chin as I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a grubby shop window. I look like a new man, like I’ve been reborn on my escape from the mindfuck of the last few days. It was something Sahota said I should do, something I’d never even considered. He told me to try to blend in with the Unchanged masses. While I’ve been content to wear the same fighting clothes day after day until they’re too worn out to be any good, some of the Unchanged, incredibly, still seem to think about their appearance. Sure, standards have slipped, and there are no downtown stores selling the latest fashions anymore, but, to a surprising number of them, how they look still seems to matter. It’s all about being accepted, he told me, blending in and being part of the crowd. I saw a woman a minute ago who was still wearing makeup. Why? What’s the point? Stupid bitch. It doesn’t matter what you look like when you die.
Concentrate on breathing, that’s my technique. I force myself to keep my breathing low and level, to move slowly and keep to a steady, deliberate pace. If I start thinking about killing and fighting, I try distracting myself with trivialities, counting lampposts, avoiding cracks in the pavement, trying to remember the names and the faces of people I used to know… It’s the weirdest sensation-I imagine this is how a recovering alcoholic must feel. As long as I’m not killing, I’m fine. But if I were to attack just one of them, like the alcoholic falling off the wagon and having his first drink, I know I wouldn’t be able to stop. I remember Mallon’s catchphrase: The more you fight, the less you get. He was right. If I cause any trouble out here on my own I’ll be completely screwed. Stay calm and I still have a chance.
My surroundings are bizarre, not at all what I expected. The streets and buildings on the inside of the enemy cordon look different from all the others I’ve so far seen. Out beyond the city limits, outside their exclusion zone, everything has been pounded into ruin by weeks and weeks of fighting. Over the weeks and months the Unchanged military attacked us with relentless ferocity and unchallenged explosive force, reducing much of the outside world to a ruined wasteland. Some villages and small towns I’ve seen were hit so badly that they’ve simply ceased to exist-just mounds of overgrown rubble are all that’s left where they used to be. Here, though, the basic structures of streets and buildings are still largely intact, but they look like they’re slowly decaying. Everything is covered in a thick layer of detritus and grime. Ahead of me is a slag heap of uncollected waste, some of it in ripped black sacks, most of it lying loose in the gutter. Rats and other vermin scavenge through the mountain of garbage in broad daylight, suddenly cocksure and confident, no longer afraid of man. Birds peck at bodies, and there’s a steady trickle of stagnant, foul-smelling water running away from the huge decaying mound. It pools in the gutter and spreads out into the road, the street drains blocked. It’s become a black lake, the gentle breeze making its surface ripple, floating bits of rubbish bumping around like odd-shaped boats.
The address Sahota gave me is a place not far west of here, on the inner border of the exclusion zone. He warned me to stick to main routes and to stay out in the open, no matter how strong the temptation was to try to disappear. I can already see the logic in his advice. The population here seems to be in a bizarre, almost trancelike state of “false calm.” For the most part people line the sides of the streets, cramming themselves into the shadows, each of them trying to squeeze themselves into as small a space as possible, almost as if they want to disappear. Some hide in the dark gaps between buildings; others sit behind the wheels of useless, abandoned cars that are never going anywhere again. I glance up at the windows of the places I pass. There are pale faces pressed against the glass, not a single scrap of space left unclaimed. Around me is an apparently never-ending succession of lost, haunted individuals. Alone or in twos and threes, most of them look down at the ground, too afraid to even make eye contact with anyone other than their few remaining trusted friends or relatives. The instinctive urge to kill them is undiminished, but these people aren’t even worth the effort. They are empty, vapid shells. As good as dead already.