For a long time at the height of the fighting, driving wasn’t such a great idea. In the weeks leading up to the nuclear bombings, when the Unchanged still outnumbered us and before they squandered their last remaining military advantage in desperation, it was generally too dangerous to risk traveling anywhere by road. Now, though, it’s the lack of people and fuel that makes the roads—what’s left of them anyway—quieter than ever. For me, getting in a car today is a relief, a way of shutting out everything and everyone else for as long as the journey lasts—and when you have music, the effect is so much more complete …
I leave the railway station with music blasting out, ignoring the bemused stares I get from fighter guards who look at me like I’ve gone insane. I never used to listen to this kind of music, but I don’t care anymore. The name of the piece, the composer, the conductor, the orchestra—none of that matters now. All that’s important is the effect. The sound takes me back to a time when people sang and laughed and played instruments and made CDs and listened to the radio and went to gigs. A time when people didn’t kill each other (that often), and when having a bad day meant you’d missed something on TV or you’d had a run-in with someone at work.
Checkpoint.
There are two guards on duty here at the gate that spans the bridge. The stretch of water below is called Lake Lothing, although it’s less of a lake at this point, more a narrow channel that runs into the sea. One of the guards mans the gate in the cordon; the other stands at the side of the road and flags me down. This guy’s always around here. He lost the bottom part of his left leg in the war, but he still keeps fighting. His stump is wrapped up with layers of old, crusted brown dressings, and he rests it on a pile of sandbags level with his other knee so he can stay standing upright. That pile of ballast is probably the closest he’s ever going to get to a false leg. I stop a short distance away (far enough so he can’t hit me without hopping over first) and wind down the window. I refuse to turn off the music.
“This one of Hinchcliffe’s cars?” he asks, shouting to make himself heard.
“I’m doing a job for him,” I shout back. “Check with him if you want.”
“What?”
“I said check with him.”
He still can’t hear me. “Turn that shit down, you fucking idiot.”
“What?” I yell, feigning deafness. He starts to repeat his request, but I’m just playing with him. I hold up the radio—one of Hinchcliffe’s standard-issue handsets—and he immediately nods his head, signals to the other man, and waves me through. Having a radio is almost as good as having an ID card. There’s no access to these things without Hinchcliffe’s express permission, and he controls them himself. It’s not the danger of having communications interrupted that makes him so anal about this radio equipment, it’s the fact that he’s rapidly running out of batteries and spares.
The other fighter opens the gate, and as soon as the gap’s wide enough, I accelerate through it, past the underclass crowds, and on toward Southwold, trying not to think too much about what I might find there.
7
THE EMPTY ROADS ARE desolate, and I keep driving along the A12 until I reach the village of Wrentham, a strangely skeletal place. Everything of value has long since been removed and taken back to Lowestoft. In the silent center of the village there’s a junction. The road sign directly opposite is bent over double like a drunk throwing up against a wall and it’s hard to make out what it says. I think it’s around a mile and a half to Southwold. Fortunately the road names here are pretty self-explanatory: Lowestoft Road, London Road (note to self—don’t go down that one), and Southwold Road. I follow the Southwold Road, looking out for somewhere safe to leave the car so I can finish the last mile or so of the journey on foot. I’ll draw less attention to myself and have more chance of avoiding any trouble that way. Damn Hinchcliffe, I really don’t want to do this. If there was more fuel in this car I could make a break for it and try to find another place like Lowestoft. Then again, what’s the point? Every surviving town will probably have its own KC.
Another mile or so and I reach a business park, which seems as quiet as everywhere else. I drive as deep into the property as I dare, then park the car inside a large warehouse, out of sight. I quickly check the building out, but it doesn’t look like anyone’s been here for months. There’s an undisturbed layer of dust everywhere, and that’s reassuring. I need to be careful with the car. Not only will Hinchcliffe hit the roof if I don’t get it back to him in one piece, but it’s also my ticket out of here. I take my CD with me, just in case, shoving it into my backpack along with some clothes, weapons, two books, scraps of food to trade, and Hinchcliffe’s radio.
* * *
I skirt around the edge of another village first, Reydon, then follow a dog-eared tourist’s street map that Hinchcliffe gave me to get deeper into Southwold. I check the map repeatedly as I follow the main road, which runs right through the center of the town. I don’t feel like a tourist today. I’m nervous as hell.
There’s not much to this place, and I’m assuming that here, as in Lowestoft, any settlers will have gravitated toward the center, where the shops, pubs, offices, and everything else used to be. If there are only thirty or so people here, they probably haven’t spread out that far. I don’t know anything about this guy John Warner, but it’s safe to assume he’s probably a nasty bastard. He must be pretty sure of himself to have turned down an “invitation” to relocate to Lowestoft. Either he’s dumb, or he’s got balls of steel.
This place is like a ghost town. Perhaps because of its relatively remote location and small size, Southwold seems to have escaped much of the recent fighting. There’s plenty of surface damage, but most of the buildings still appear structurally sound. The once carefully tended shoulders and lawns are overgrown and wild now, although the grass is yellow and limp. Weeds are beginning to sprout through the cracks in the pavements. I stare through a dust-covered window into the deceptively normal living room of an abandoned house, then catch my breath when I hear voices nearby, carried on the winter wind. Focus! I tell myself. I can’t afford to take chances. There’s a reason these people are defying Hinchcliffe, and if they’re prepared to piss him off, they’ll have no qualms about getting rid of me.
There’s a lighthouse up ahead. I didn’t pay it much attention when I first saw it marked on the map, but now that it’s actually looming up right in front of me I can’t help but notice it. Unlike most lighthouses I’ve come across before, this one is nestled deep in the center of the town rather than out on the rocks or at the edge of the water. I edge closer to try to get a better view, peering around the corner of a row of modest-looking houses. Circling the very top of the lighthouse is a metal gantry, and there’s someone pacing around it on watch. I can’t see much from this distance, but it looks like he’s armed. There’s no sense taking any unnecessary chances. I decide to work my way around the center of the town in a wide circle rather than risk getting too close too soon and being shot at.
Through a narrow gap between two oddly spaced rows of houses I see a small group of people working in a field near a church. I can’t see what it is they’re doing from here, but I change direction again to avoid any confrontation. Still staying tucked in close to the fronts of the buildings I pass to minimize the chance of being seen by the lighthouse lookout, I find myself walking down toward the ocean. The steadily increasing noise of the waves crashing against the shingle shore is reassuring and welcome. The morning sun that was briefly visible in Lowestoft has disappeared now, and the sky is again clogged with heavy, dirty gray cloud. The wind coming up off the water is bracing, almost too cold to stand. It’s raining—either sea-spray or sleet—and I ask myself again, What the hell am I doing here?