On my way down the jetty road, I remembered the boathouse window. I couldn’t see it, so I didn’t know if it had been smashed. But it was big enough for Scott to crawl through.

‘I’ve got a gun here!’ I yelled. ‘And it’s loaded!’

There was no answer. I’d almost reached the boathouse when I spotted something that made me gasp.

Warren was floating facedown in the water.

I knew it was Warren because of his fatigues. He was bobbing gently behind my beached boat, his head not far from its stern. The incoming tide was pushing him ashore; there was hardly any water underneath him.

I couldn’t see anyone else around.

‘Warren!’ I dropped the first-aid kit, then raced to pull him out. Splashing through the shallows, I seized his shoulders, turned him over and dragged him onto dry land. The water on his face was tinted with blood. Pale pink rivulets were running over his scars.

‘Warren? Oh, shit. Warren?’ I dumped him on the mud and bent down to slap his cheek. Was he breathing? I tried to think. Compressions. Mouth-to-mouth.

Something hit me from behind.

I was in the water before I knew it, a great weight rolling off me as I thrashed and spluttered and struggled to rise. Scott. It was Scott. I caught a flash of his bloodshot glare.

I reared up and he grabbed the rifle, trying to yank me down. But I jerked free and stumbled away, catching the wet gun as it slid off my arm. I swung the muzzle. Braced the butt. Aimed the barrel—not at him, but near him. Flipped the safety. Pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

Scott reached for the gun with both hands. I thrust it at him, hard. Punched him in the face with it. As he fell back into the water, he dragged the rifle with him, wrenching it from my grasp.

I turned and bolted. Flares—I still had flares. When I reached the boathouse, I spun around to slam the door and saw Scott heading straight for me. There was a gap of just a few seconds between us; I used it to snatch a yellow tub from a shelf and pull out two red parachute flares. Then I dropped the tub, jammed one flare into my pocket and pointed the other at the door.

Christ, how did they work? They were capped at each end. A memory flashed through my mind: string. There was a string. I unscrewed the bottom cap and the string fell out.

Scott burst into the boathouse just as the discarded cap hit my boot. He was waving the rifle. I tugged at the string and there was a sharp bang. Scott howled; suddenly he was flat on his back. A burning, hissing ball of light lay on the ground outside.