Free Them or Us by David Moody

enemy. There are far too many of them out there … old, crippled, unskilled, those who are naturally just shysters and cowards … people who would previously have been protected and propped up by the welfare state. They’ll take the place of the Unchanged if they’re not careful. I think I’ve seen this particular one hanging around here before, and she’ll probably come back again if I don’t do something to deter her. I push the blade of my knife into her wrinkled cheek, deep enough to prick her skin and draw blood. She starts sobbing with fear. Her neck is scrawny and turkeylike, and she must be in her late sixties if she’s a day. Just a little old lady. She reminds me of an old bird who used to live down the road from me and Lizzie. She yelps, and for a fraction of a second I almost pity her. She’s not Unchanged, just desperate.
    “What the fuck do you think you’re doing here?”
    “Need some food. Starving…”
    “Nothing here for you. Fuck off back to town.”
    “But I—”
    She starts struggling again. Bitch should count herself lucky she chose my house to break into; anyone else would have killed her by now. I should hurt her, but I can’t bring myself to do it. She doesn’t need to know that. I lift the tip of my knife up until it’s just a fraction of an inch from her right eye, and she freezes with fear.
    “If I see you back here again I’ll kill you, understand?”
    She nods and mumbles something indistinct. I throw her out of the door and she collapses in a heap on the drive. I take a single step forward and she backs away from me, then gets up and runs, slowing down after just a few steps because her body’s too weak to keep moving with any speed. I keep watching her until I’m sure she’s gone.
    I bolt and bar the damaged door, using a padlock and chain to replace the broken lock for now. Once the house is secure I take my bunch of keys from my pocket and unlock the cupboard the woman was trying to break into. She’d have been disappointed if she’d managed to get the door open. All I keep in here is my gas burner, no food. It’s tedious having to be so careful with everything, but it’s important. The value of pretty much everything has changed immeasurably in the last year. I could leave a fucking Rolex watch in the middle of the street and it would probably still be there days later. Drop a scrap of food, though, and there’ll be a crowd fighting for it before the fastest of the few remaining seagulls have had a chance to swoop.
    I double-check that the vagrant woman really has gone before unlocking another cupboard and getting out my kettle, a mug, and a spoon. Then I peel back the linoleum in the corner of the kitchen and lift up one of the loose floorboards underneath. Using a torch, I look around for a jar of coffee powder. I know I’ve got at least two down here somewhere … Christ, there’s enough food stored under my kitchen floorboards to feed half of Lowestoft. I’ve been stashing small amounts away for as long as I’ve been working for Hinchcliffe. I hold on to every scrap I’m given and I’m not eating much, so my stocks are building up. I could open a store and make a fortune selling everything I’ve got hoarded away in here, except there’s no one left who could afford my prices, and food’s probably the only viable currency left now, so there’d be no point. Even if I don’t eat it or sell it, I figure I’ll be able to bargain with some of it if I need to. There’s a cruel irony about many aspects of life these days. All that woman wanted was a little bit of food. I’ve got all this and I don’t want any of it. There’s nothing I can do about the situation, though, and, ultimately, it’s not my problem. If I’d fed her, then she’d only be back again tomorrow, begging for more and bringing others like her to my door. Things don’t work like they used to anymore. You have to be ruthless if you want to survive. There’s no room for