He ran back out, and for some reason thought to retrieve Barney’s spear, but it was wedged so deeply into the dead man’s body and was so slicked in blood that he left it. Across the way, what little remained of the bunkhouse was burning furiously, a bonfire that no longer even resembled a building.

Tom turned away from it, blinded for a moment, the darkness beyond looking total and uncompromising, but then he spotted a flashlight beam in the distance, merely a pinhole against the velvet backdrop of the jungle.

He headed for it, vaguely conscious of Chris and Joel running behind him, and of the deeper roar of fire farther back. At last, the beam of light moved and came toward them and they nearly ran into each other.

Chris was still pulling the remains of the rope from his wrists, babbling and distraught, saying, “No way, no way, that was… What were they gonna do to us?”

Joel had been quiet but said, “Shut up, Chris.”

“He cut your shirt off!” He turned to Nick, who looked as shell-shocked as if he’d been in the barn himself. “They were… That wasn’t good. If Tom hadn’t come… Man, thank you so much, always. They were acting so weird.”

More urgently, Joel said, “Chris, just shut up!”

“It’s true, you know it is.”

“Christian,” said Alice, using his full name, but reassuring this time, and he turned to her and she put her arms around him, calming him instantly.

Nick looked at Tom and said, “I’m sorry—the things I said earlier.”

Tom shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

Joel said, “Thank you. What you just did was… heroic.”

Tom nodded, accepting the thanks, but hardly feeling like a hero. He turned back to face the burning camp, trying to take on board that he had just killed at least half a dozen people. The two he’d killed directly hardly seemed real, but he kept thinking of the guard who’d been nearly their own age, and he’d had no choice, he was sure of that, but he still couldn’t fully comprehend that he’d ended that kid’s life.

He caught movement in the shadows between the camp and where they were standing and he tensed, his hand tightening around the handle of the machete, but he relaxed again as he saw the dog come trotting with a light step toward him. Its tail was wagging and as it reached him it nuzzled his leg and he scratched the top of its head. At least he’d saved the dog—he wasn’t sure why, but that really mattered to him right now.

CHAPTER 40