Dog Blood by David Moody Page B

told him,” Keith starts to say, trying (and failing) to stop her from getting involved.
    “You’ve got to let her go,” she tells me, blowing smoke in my direction.
    “No I don’t-”
    “Yes you do. What’s the point of looking for her? What are you going to do if you find her?”
    “I just want to know that she’s safe. I want her fighting alongside me.”
    “And if you don’t find her?”
    “Then I guess I’ll…”
    “Assuming she’s still alive, what’ll happen if you don’t find her?”
    “She’ll just carry on fighting wherever she is.”
    “Exactly. So what difference does it make?”
    “She needs me. She’s only five.”
    “I reckon you need her more than she needs you.”
    “Bullshit!”
    “Not bullshit,” she says, shaking her head and flicking ash into a sink filled with dirty plates and cups. “I doubt she needs you at all.”
    Stupid woman.
    “Did you not hear me? She’s five years old. I don’t even know if she can fight-”
    “Of course she can fight. We can all fight. It’s instinctive.”
    “Okay, but what about food? What about keeping warm in the winter and dry in the rain? What if she gets hurt?”
    “She’ll survive.”
    “She’ll survive?! For Christ’s sake, Carol, she can’t even tie her own fucking shoelaces!”
    Keith folds up his map and pushes his way between us, clearly fed up with being caught in the crossfire of our conversation. I shake my head in disbelief and follow him.
    “You need to wake up and start living in the real world,” Carol shouts after me. There’s no point arguing, so I don’t.
     
    ***
     
    We’re back in the van and ready to move within minutes of Paul waking up. The rain has eased, but the ground is still covered with puddles of dirty black rainwater that hide the potholes and debris and make it even more difficult to follow the roads than it was in the dark last night. Keith manages to avoid most of the obstructions, but when he oversteers to avoid an overturned trash can, one of the rear wheels clips something else. We go a few more yards, and then there’s a sudden bang and hiss of air as a tire blows out.
    “Shit!” Keith curses, thumping the wheel in frustration.
    “Got a spare?” I ask.
    “No idea.”
    He stops in the biggest patch of dry land we can find, and I get out. Paul follows me out and opens the back. He rummages around and manages to find the jack and other tools. The spare’s underneath. He starts to get it out. While I’m waiting I walk over to the other side of the road to where the contents of someone’s front room have been strewn across the pavement. Their flat-screen TV lies smashed in the gutter, and an expensive-looking rain-soaked sofa hangs precariously out of the broken bay window. Before all this happened we each lived in relative privacy in individual brick-built boxes, what we did and how we did it hidden from view of the rest of the world by our walls, doors, and windows. Strange how the physical worlds of so many people are now as dilapidated and ruined as their emotional state. There’s no privacy anymore, no boundaries. Everything we do is in full view and exposed. There’s no longer any-
    “McCoyne!” Carol shouts at me from the van. “Get out of the fucking way!”
    I spin around quickly, but it’s too late. Christ knows where he came from, but a powerful-looking man is running straight toward me. He’s six foot tall and just as wide, and I can tell from the focus and intent in his wild, staring eyes that he’s a Brute like those I saw back at the cull site. Does he not know we’re on the same side?
    “Wait,” I try to say to him, “we’re-”
    His bulk belies his remarkable speed, and before I can move he’s grabbed hold of my arm. He spins me around, then throws me over and slams me down onto my back. I’m already winded and gasping when he drops down onto my chest, his knees forcing the air from my lungs with a violent cough. I try to shout for help, but there’s no