but the bottom line remains; those who can hit the hardest are the ones who benefit most, and these days no one has bigger fists than Hinchcliffe.
There’s definitely a problem with this van. No doubt it’ll be dumped as soon as we get back to town. The rest of the convoy has long since left us behind, and the driver constantly curses and overrevs the engine to keep it from dying. We swerve again, weaving between the wreck of a car and a pile of crumbling masonry from a battle-damaged building like we’re on a racetrack chicane. The Unchanged kids are safe in their cage, but I’m thrown around the back with every sudden change of direction. Eventually I wedge myself into position between the side of the van and the cage and stare out of the window, trying to stay focused on the barely visible glow of the moon behind the dense cloud layer. My guts feel like someone’s mixing them in a blender. If I don’t get out of here soon we’ll all be seeing more of the dog I ate earlier.
* * *
We reach the gate across the bridge spanning the A12 at the bottom end of town, little more than a pair of tall metal doors removed from a building, their hinges welded to the back of two trucks parked facing away from each other. These gates don’t need to be particularly strong—there are enough guards around to prevent anyone getting inside Hinchcliffe’s compound. Pity the poor fuckers who are stationed out here in the cold. Having visible guards positioned at these key points helps the population to remember who’s in charge here, and the underclass maintain a cautious distance. Even if any of them did get inside, they wouldn’t last long.
We have a delivery of Unchanged kids to make. We’re through the gate now, and I can see the drop-off point looming up ahead. Silhouetted against the purple-black sky is the distinctive angular outline of a group of industrial buildings that Hinchcliffe simply refers to as “the factory.” It’s an ugly, sprawling mess of a place—a redundant relic of the past. Protected from the ocean on one side by a strong seawall, this used to be a seafood processing plant and was probably a major local employer churning out tons of food every day to be shipped around the world. Even now after it’s lain dormant and useless for the best part of a year, the stench of rotting fish still hangs over it like a poisonous cloud.
I’ve heard rumors about what happens here. This is where Unchanged kids like the ones in the back of this van end up. I don’t know what they do to them, and I don’t want to know, either. A long time back I heard that they could be “turned” to be like us, but I don’t know if that’s true. More to the point, does it even matter, now the Unchanged are all but extinct? I look at the children in the cage—still cowering, still crying—and I wonder whether I should do them a favor and kill them now. Put them out of our misery. I must be getting soft. I don’t think I’d be able to do it.
We come to an abrupt halt in the middle of the road that runs parallel with the seawall, well short of the factory. The wind is fierce tonight, and immense waves batter against the sides of the wall, sending huge plumes of spray shooting up into the air, then crashing back down again. The noise and the water and the constant rocking of the van in the swirling breeze make me feel like I’m trapped in the eye of a hurricane, the full might of which is, for some reason, focused on me alone.
“Out,” the driver shouts, and it takes a couple of seconds before I realize he’s talking to me. I get up and move toward the back of the van. The kids panic again because they think I’m coming for them, but I’m the least of their problems tonight.
I jump out of the van and land hard on my weak right leg. My feet have barely touched the ground before the driver accelerates away again, the back door still swinging open. He swerves around to the right onto a narrow access road, then
There’s definitely a problem with this van. No doubt it’ll be dumped as soon as we get back to town. The rest of the convoy has long since left us behind, and the driver constantly curses and overrevs the engine to keep it from dying. We swerve again, weaving between the wreck of a car and a pile of crumbling masonry from a battle-damaged building like we’re on a racetrack chicane. The Unchanged kids are safe in their cage, but I’m thrown around the back with every sudden change of direction. Eventually I wedge myself into position between the side of the van and the cage and stare out of the window, trying to stay focused on the barely visible glow of the moon behind the dense cloud layer. My guts feel like someone’s mixing them in a blender. If I don’t get out of here soon we’ll all be seeing more of the dog I ate earlier.
* * *
We reach the gate across the bridge spanning the A12 at the bottom end of town, little more than a pair of tall metal doors removed from a building, their hinges welded to the back of two trucks parked facing away from each other. These gates don’t need to be particularly strong—there are enough guards around to prevent anyone getting inside Hinchcliffe’s compound. Pity the poor fuckers who are stationed out here in the cold. Having visible guards positioned at these key points helps the population to remember who’s in charge here, and the underclass maintain a cautious distance. Even if any of them did get inside, they wouldn’t last long.
We have a delivery of Unchanged kids to make. We’re through the gate now, and I can see the drop-off point looming up ahead. Silhouetted against the purple-black sky is the distinctive angular outline of a group of industrial buildings that Hinchcliffe simply refers to as “the factory.” It’s an ugly, sprawling mess of a place—a redundant relic of the past. Protected from the ocean on one side by a strong seawall, this used to be a seafood processing plant and was probably a major local employer churning out tons of food every day to be shipped around the world. Even now after it’s lain dormant and useless for the best part of a year, the stench of rotting fish still hangs over it like a poisonous cloud.
I’ve heard rumors about what happens here. This is where Unchanged kids like the ones in the back of this van end up. I don’t know what they do to them, and I don’t want to know, either. A long time back I heard that they could be “turned” to be like us, but I don’t know if that’s true. More to the point, does it even matter, now the Unchanged are all but extinct? I look at the children in the cage—still cowering, still crying—and I wonder whether I should do them a favor and kill them now. Put them out of our misery. I must be getting soft. I don’t think I’d be able to do it.
We come to an abrupt halt in the middle of the road that runs parallel with the seawall, well short of the factory. The wind is fierce tonight, and immense waves batter against the sides of the wall, sending huge plumes of spray shooting up into the air, then crashing back down again. The noise and the water and the constant rocking of the van in the swirling breeze make me feel like I’m trapped in the eye of a hurricane, the full might of which is, for some reason, focused on me alone.
“Out,” the driver shouts, and it takes a couple of seconds before I realize he’s talking to me. I get up and move toward the back of the van. The kids panic again because they think I’m coming for them, but I’m the least of their problems tonight.
I jump out of the van and land hard on my weak right leg. My feet have barely touched the ground before the driver accelerates away again, the back door still swinging open. He swerves around to the right onto a narrow access road, then
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