There's something that sounds like an explosion behind me, and when I turn to look there are two wardens there, armed with rifles, faces hidden behind masks. A thin stream of smoke is curling from one of the rifle barrels and it takes me an age to put two and two together, but when I turn back to Syra, hoping, desperate, pleading for it not to be true, I see her staggering back from the fence with her hands on her belly. And then a second shot catches her and she topples onto the ground, red spraying out over the earth.
"Lie down," yell the wardens, and I lie down on the ground. Why fight? I'm as much a prisoner now as ever I was. I'm shaking, not just from the exhaustion of the escape but from the knowledge, the sheer and awesome knowledge that they will kill me. They will kill me like they killed Syra . . .
Syra. Syra lying dead not a metre away from me. And all my fault. She stayed to try and help me. If only she'd just turned and run . . . the sorrow of it is painful.
I see their boots approaching, feel the jab of a rifle barrel in the back of my neck. I squeeze my eyes tight shut. This is it, I tell myself, this is the moment.
Two gunshots. Deafeningly loud.
A huge weight slumps down on top of me, pins me to the ground. For a moment I am confused; is this what it feels like to be shot? Is this dying? But then I open my eyes and I realise that it's one of the wardens. He's slumped on top of me, a flowering red wound in the middle of his forehead. The other lies nearby, just as dead.
With a great effort I heave the man off me. He leaves a thick smear of red on my grey overalls. What's happening? Running across the car park towards me is the boy me and Syra freed from the cells. There's a pair of twin girls following behind him, both looking about fifteen and with piercing blue eyes, the stubble of blond hair covering their shaven scalps. All three of them are armed; as I watch the boy drops his pistol and snatches up one of the warden's rifles. He strides forward, grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet.
"Thank you," I manage. He smiles, nods, then jerks his head towards the fence. The girls are covering the car park behind us with their guns, watching for pursuit. The boy doesn't speak, but he mouths the word "go."
