Those who were in the best position outside Hinchcliffe’s compound were those who continued to volunteer to scavenge the wastelands. They were paid for their efforts with a meager cut of whatever they found. The terms were grossly unfair, but that was tough. For the most part, with nowhere else to go (and no means of going anyway), the ever-growing underclass population remained in and around the town, building up on street corners like drifting snow. Hinchcliffe tolerated them and used them when it suited him. He controlled the food supplies (carefully coordinating storage across numerous sites so that he was the only one who knew where everything was), and he controlled the fighters. Far more than his predecessor, Hinchcliffe had wormed himself into an apparently unassailable position. His foot soldiers were rewarded for their loyalty with a life that was more comfortable than many would have ever thought possible again when the war had been at its bloody peak. On the right side of the compound wall there was a supply of fairly clean water, enough food for all, and, occasionally, heat and power. On the other side: nothing.
The crowd McCoyne had joined this morning was gathered in front of the larger of the two gates at the northern edge of the compound. Word had spread that a scavenging party was heading out west today into an area that had, until now, remained relatively untouched. Over the last couple of months it had been established that at least six cities (more precisely, six refugee camps) had been destroyed by the nuclear strikes last summer: London to the south, Edinburgh to the north, and several others, including Manchester and Birmingham. Without the means to measure pollution and radiation levels, it had been assumed that the bottom third of the country and a wide strip running the length of the land from the south coast right up into Scotland was most probably uninhabitable. Now, however, almost six months after the bombs, necessity had forced the foragers to start looking farther afield for supplies. A Switchback who’d once been a high school science teacher had done some basic research for Hinchcliffe in what was left of the Lowestoft library. She’d used reference works and other, less scientifically accurate books documenting what had happened in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and had eventually come to the unsupported conclusion that although the bomb sites were nowhere near completely safe, the risks involved in scavenging a little closer to them had probably reduced enough by now to be worthwhile. Hinchcliffe didn’t care. He wasn’t the one going out there.
The metal gate across the road was pushed open. Two trucks drove out of the compound, the nose of the first gently nudging through the crowd, which quickly parted. Once they’d driven out and the gate had been closed behind them, the trucks stopped again. A shaven-headed fighter jumped down from the cab of the second truck. People scurried out of his way, leaving a bubble of empty space around him, their sudden distance a mark of fear, not respect. This nasty bastard was Llewellyn, and he was one of the few fighters known by name to virtually everyone left in and around Lowestoft. With a military background and undoubted strength and aggression, he was Hinchcliffe’s right-hand man. His reputation was second only to that of his boss. He was older and quieter, but no less deadly.
“I’m looking for about fifteen of you,” he said. McCoyne squirmed forward, trying to squeeze through a gap that wasn’t there. The person on his right reacted and pushed him back the other way. He tripped over someone’s boot and landed on all fours at Llewellyn’s feet. Llewellyn grabbed his collar and pulled him up.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“Volunteering,” McCoyne said quickly. Llewellyn screwed up his face and looked him up and down.
“Suppose you’ll do,” Llewellyn said, throwing him toward the back of his truck before reaching out and grabbing someone else, “and you, and you…”
McCoyne climbed into the empty truck and found himself a dark spot at the very back of the vehicle, where he could watch the others and keep all his options open. He pulled his knees up tight to his chest to try to get warm. Get out there, he told himself, get what you can, then get back.
* * *
The drive away from town was long, slow, and disorienting. Conversation in the back of the windowless truck was sparse, and the time dragged painfully. It reminded McCoyne of another journey he’d taken like this, many months ago now, almost a year. Back then his eventual destination had been a gas chamber, from which he’d barely managed to escape with his life. What the hell was he going to see when they opened up the back of the truck today? He felt bad—an uncomfortable mix of travel sickness and nerves. Or was it more than that? He knew that every mile they drove in this direction took them deeper into the deadlands with its poisoned, radiation-filled air.
The journey ended abruptly. There were sudden murmurs from the people all around McCoyne, some of whom he could hear getting up and moving about. He stayed where he was, fingering the hilt of one of the knives he always carried attached to his belt, just in case.
The roller-shutter at the back of the truck was thrown open, flooding the inside of the vehicle with unexpectedly bright light.
“Out,” one of the fighters ordered, and the volunteers did exactly as they were told. McCoyne was the last to move. He jumped down onto gravel, then looked around and grinned, caught off guard by his unexpectedly bizarre surroundings.
“What the hell’s this?”
In front of him was a picnic area and an iced-over, duck-free duck pond, to his right a children’s playground.
“I came here with the family once,” a stooping, painfully thin man next to him whispered, grinning wryly. “Place has gone downhill since then…”
The group of volunteers and their fighter escort were stood in the first of several immense, interconnected, fieldlike parking lots. McCoyne shielded his eyes from the hazy sun and looked around. Behind him was a huge billboard covered with faded pictures of smiling kids’ faces, cartoon characters, roller coasters and rides, and other things he’d hadn’t thought about in what felt like an eternity. A theme park. He’d heard of this one. He’d even talked about bringing the kids here once with Lizzie, but he’d managed to get out of it because, as he’d told her at the time, it was too far from home, and the entrance prices were obscene, and then he’d have had to pay to feed them all, then the kids would have wanted to go to the gift shop and …
“Hey, you!” an angry voice shouted in his direction. McCoyne spun around and realized he was on his own. The others were already shuffling away along an overgrown path that led through a copse of bare trees, deeper into the park. “Stop fucking daydreaming,” the fighter yelled at him. “You’re here to hunt, not fucking sightsee.”
McCoyne ran after the others, legs already aching, struggling to catch up. He tried to focus on the job at hand, but it was all but impossible in these unexpectedly surreal surroundings. He crossed an artificially rickety wooden bridge over a murky stream, then caught his breath with surprise when he looked down and saw a frozen figure standing ankle deep in the water. It was a mannequin—a caricature of an old-time gold prospector with fading paint and exaggerated, cartoonlike features—but the plastic man still looked in better shape than he felt.
Ahead of the group, the silent heart of the theme park began to appear through the trees. Initially all they could see was the tops of the tallest, long-since-silent rides, the occasional scaffolding tower or the curving arc of a stretch of roller-coaster track. Being in a place like this was unexpectedly painful. It wasn’t so much that it made McCoyne think about who and what he’d lost; rather, it made him realize what he’d never get back again. When finding the basic necessities to survive each day was such a struggle, would there ever be a time when places like this fulfilled a useful function again? Playing, laughing, time-wasting … it had been a long time since anyone had done anything even remotely pleasurable, and he thought it would be another age before any of them did again.