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listening and looking for any signs that might indicate the presence of the ferals.
    He stopped, late in the afternoon, tired and dispirited. He was thirsty again, and his stomach burnt with the sharp pains of indigestion, brought on by unripe apples or bad water or probably a combination of both. He did not know what to do, or where to go.
    He realised that he had a stark choice: stay here in the woods and possibly starve to death or return to Kirby to whatever fate Doctor Macreedie and his kind might have in store for him.
    He did not know which was the better option.

6 The Wild Ones
    It proved to be another uncomfortable night.
    He found a tree with roots that spread wide at the base of its trunk, forming a hollow. At first it was comfortable to sit on a layer of the previous year’s fallen leaves with his back against the trunk. Soon the hardness of the ground and the tree made themselves felt, as they had the night before, and Ben had to keep shifting, trying to find a position that was just a little less uncomfortable than the others.
    As darkness crept furtively through the woods, Ben started to drift off to sleep, waking occasionally with an abrupt judder of his body and a racing of his heart.
    At first, when he heard the voices, he was convinced it was still a dream.
    His exhaustion had finally triumphed and he’d been dozing. And dreaming. In his dream he had been laid out on a hard stone bench in an operating theatre. Harsh lights shone down on him and his arms and legs were strapped tightly to the bench.
    He could hear people talking, but could see no-one.
    And then a face loomed, close to his own: Doctor Macreedie, his mouth and nose hidden behind a surgical mask, his operating gown stained red like a butcher’s apron.
    “It’s okay,” he said, in the dream. “I’m a doctor. We just need to take a sample for a few tests.”
    At that point in the dream, Ben was able to shift his head and look down at his own naked body. Coils of plastic tubing, red with his own blood, were attached all over his body with strips of surgical tape, and even then Doctor Macreedie drove another needle into Ben’s belly, attaching another tube: transparent at first and then coloured a sharp crimson from within.
    “It’s okay,” Doctor Macreedie kept saying. “It’s okay.”
    And all around, others mumbled and chanted, their words impossible to make out. Words bouncing around inside Ben’s head.
    He opened his eyes. He could see the dark branches above him, silhouetted against the starlit sky.
    He could still hear the voices, the words.
    No! It wasn’t the dream: it was people talking, somewhere nearby in the woods.
    Suddenly, Ben was scared. What if the voices belonged to vampires, looking for victims? Maybe they were searching for him – alerted by Doctor Macreedie and Sergeant Adams that there was a feral on the loose.
    But the voices could belong to ferals. This was a chance he couldn’t allow himself to miss.
    He climbed quietly to his feet.
    Silence, then a gentle laugh, more low voices.
    There were two of them, Ben guessed. They might be following one of the many tracks that criss-crossed the woods, but they could easily be following another, secret, route.
    Ben stared in the direction of the voices.
    Should he confront them, or should he try to follow them?
    He would have to get closer, whatever he decided to do. Perhaps if he was closer he would be able to make out what they were saying. Then it might be easier to decide.
    He crept through the woods, treading as carefully as he could in the darkness. It was hard to move fast and stay quiet at the same time.
    They were moving more quickly than Ben. Getting ahead of him.
    He kept going, not daring to move any faster in case they heard him.
    And then he realised that they hadn’t spoken for some time.
    He stopped.
    He couldn’t hear any sounds of them walking through the woods. No voices. Not even in the distance. Had they moved so quickly that they had left him