Twenty-Four

The thing is injured, torn full of holes and lying on its back in the road, wings squashed and battered. Despite the fact that the gun is empty I don't stop pointing it at the Creature as me and Lisa climb out of the car, grab our bags from the back and take off down the road. Once the injured thing is out of sight I stick the pistol in my belt and take Lisa's hand.

"It's not far," she says. "We can still make it." She's shaking still. So am I. The weight of the baby must make it hard for her to walk, but she does not complain. Does not make a sound, except for her laboured breathing.

We pass a sign at the side of the road. "Portmain" it reads, and I recognise this as the name of coastal town closest to the island which was marked on the map. Lisa squeezes my hand. "Almost there," she says.

Another mile takes us over the crest of a hill and the sea comes into view ahead of us. In the darkness of the night it resembles a vast, black pit. But I can hear the noise of waves washing against the beach and feel the faint prickle of saltwater air. The road plunges downward into the main street of the town, where rooftops and the paper-white planes of maggot nests glow in the moonlight.

Me and Lisa follow it down, sticking to the edge of the grey road, ready at any moment to hide. But there are no Creatures and we soon find ourselves walking down the street, surrounded by silent houses lousy with nests. We move silently, afraid. The gun is empty, just a useless piece of metal now. If anything happens we are utterly defenceless.

Under her breath Lisa is praying. I hold her hand tightly, listen to the whispered, mumbled words. Is someone up there listening? And if they are, do they care?