He tried to control his breathing; to calm his banging head. He was shaking. The freezing air tore at his lungs, and he could taste blood on his teeth. His body hurt, the stab of damaged ribs, the arcing wound on his left shoulder leaking sticky wetness down his arm, the screaming pain from his shin. It felt like he’d been running for hours, ducking left and right through dense scrub, wanting to scream for help; knowing it would do more harm than good.

Get a fucking grip.

He wiped his eyes and stared into the gloom, sharp for any movement among the splinters of moonlight filtering down from above. Around him the sinister woods creaked, his attention flicking from one tiny sound to the next; an animal up in the canopy, the slurred rustle of wind in the trees. But still nothing to see except craggy shapes clawing at the night.

How far had he come? It felt like miles, but he might have been going in circles for all he knew.

His head shot round as the cracking noise came from his right; the sound of someone stepping on dry leaves. Someone else moving out there in the darkness.

Not far away.

His breath caught in his throat.

Keep still … stay down.

Another crack. Nearer this time.

Panic took over.

Then he was running again, into the blackness.

Where are you going?

He didn’t know.

He pushed harder, skidding across the greasy forest floor, looking for a way out.

And there they were.

Headlights, rounding a bend through the trees ahead, a way off, but worth the risk.

‘Help!’ he shouted. ‘Over here.’

But his voice was weak. The car didn’t stop.

‘Hey!’ Louder. ‘Stop. Please!’

The headlights moved away.

Then he heard someone else running, somewhere behind him in the dark. Another person’s feet pounding the ground in time with his own, someone else’s breath coming in bursts.

Close.

Pete drove himself harder.

Don’t look round; just get to the road.

Then his ankle folded.

He crashed sideways, crying out. There was a white flash, then a ringing sound. He blinked hard. Get up! He tried to right himself, but his muscles had turned to mush, and he slumped back down.

For a second nothing happened as he stared into the darkness, blinking, confused. Had it all been a dream? Was he in bed, sleeping off a night on the sauce?

He tried to twist, felt agony erupt in his shin.

It’s real.

And suddenly there were hands on his throat, strong thumbs clamping his windpipe, choking him.

No!

Pete grabbed the wrists. Clasp and rotate, break the hold. But the grip on his neck tightened, and his vision filled with swirling patterns of red and black.

He forced his eyes open; saw his hands pawing at the arms stretching away. Felt the buzzing panic as his head began to go light.