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snorted.
    “It’s not you I’m worried about Alex. It’s him. ”
     
    *
     
    “We’ve got food.”
    Michael kept his voice deliberately low, so low he wasn’t even sure the figure in the woods would be able to hear it.
    In the end it had been an executive decision: Rachel was still frowning, apparently unable to decide what to do about the company they suddenly had; Jason was simply staring into space. Michael couldn’t even guess at what dilemma the big man was trying to solve, but he didn’t think it had anything to do with whoever was out there in the trees.
    The three of them were traumatised, in shock most likely, and Michael knew from experience that trauma led to bad decision making. He remembered watching, rooted to the spot in a blurred memory, as a woman whose husband was trapped in a burning house in Cardiff, back when he had been involved in actual police work, had suddenly turned on the men in uniforms, the ones that she perceived as simply standing and watching her beloved spouse burn.
    The woman had launched herself at them, lost in fury, striking and scratching at the police, and for all the understanding they had tried to show, they had been forced to throw her in the back of a van, even as her husband escaped through the back door with injuries no worse than smoke-scarred lungs. Bad decisions.
    Michael knew two things: firstly, there was safety in numbers. The creatures had a serious weight advantage, and any extra body that might even up the score a little was something they had to consider. Secondly, whoever the figure in the woods was, it was definitely not one of them. Because it wasn’t currently trying to tear them all apart. They were attackers, not stealthy watchers.
    At his words, Rachel looked at him sharply. He nodded reassurance to her. It’ll be ok.
    “You must be hungry, we mean you no harm. Join us.”
    After a few moments the bushes rustled, parting enough for Michael to make out cautious eyes peering at him. Michael was reminded of his attempts to befriend a stray cat that had visited his garden years before. It had been wild, terrified; snapping and hissing at his attempts at friendship. But it had also been starving. Eventually survival instincts would always overcome fear.
    Michael smiled broadly at the slowly parting bushes, hoping the combination of dirt, blood, sweat and fear that must have been etched on his face didn’t make him look manic.
    The figure stepped from the trees. A man, bare-chested and shivering. He was tall, athletic, injured: Michael saw a deep wound on his shoulder that seemed to be oozing blood and looked like it needed stitches. What really caught his attention though was the man’s face: it was obvious he’d been through some horrific ordeal – Michael wondered briefly how many people there were left out there who had not – but it wasn’t fear written across the man’s features. It was confusion.
    “Come, sit down,” Michael said. “We’ve got all the elements of a healthy breakfast right here: sausage rolls, biscuits. I think there might even be some liquor.” He grinned, and felt his nerves ease a little when the smile was returned.
    The man sat near the fire, accepting a half-eaten packet of biscuits with a nod of thanks.
    “Who are you people?” He asked, his voice gruff, and the words brought on a short coughing fit. Michael could see the soot on his body now, mixing with the blood to form a sort of paste, and he had a bad burn that ran around the left side of his waist and across his back. Fire. Michael thought about the explosion they had heard in the night.
    “The man with the biscuits is Michael,” Rachel said, and Michael was gratified to hear her tone: she had obviously reached the same conclusions as he had. “The mountain over there is my brother Jason. I’m Rachel.”
    “I’m…” the man started, before trailing off.
    Rachel saw the break in the man’s eyes then, saw a feeling of loss and bewilderment that took her