KILGORE
Kilgore sat alone at a metal table in the furthest, darkest corner of the bunker mess hall, trying not to be noticed. The wide, low-ceilinged room was largely empty. Only the occasional noise from the kitchen and the constant electrical hum of the strip lights and air-con disturbed the silence.
Spence ambled into the hall and fetched himself a tray of food. With only a couple of other people eating, none of whom he knew well, he walked over towards Kilgore. ‘Mind if I sit here?’
Kilgore jumped with surprise. He looked up at Spence with tired eyes and shook his head. ‘Go for it,’ he said, then he quickly looked down again. He played with his fork, stirring the lukewarm, piss-weak stew, pushing lumps of meat-substitute around and making tracks in the watery gravy, but not actually
