The Ritual

the vines into more nettles. A familiar pattern they had followed for days. There were rents in his trousers now. Snags and ladders had become holes into
which the thorns and gnats could find him.
    Behind him, he sensed Dom’s shape. Stepping carefully, in his footsteps. Maybe watching out for him should he suddenly lose his balance and collapse into the stinging morass of vine and
spike. Every step he took was followed by one of Dom’s. There was even something comforting in the way they moved in synchronicity. And Dom was so close to him now, the presence of his bulk
was tangible at Luke’s back. But god he stank. Even though his nose and mouth were full of dry blood, Luke could smell Dom’s heavy breath and sweat-saturated clothes.
    But the thicket worsened and without a machete, they would have to retrace their steps and circumnavigate the ridge of thorns. It’s only getting thicker because we are not far from the
end, Luke told himself. But we must go back.
    He stopped and slowly turned his body about.
    Then opened his good eye wide. Among the twenty metres of bracken and nettles he had waded into, there was no sign of Dom.
    He frowned. Then a cold feeling of breath-stopping fright brought his heart beat into his ears and eyes and blurred his vision.
    Dom must have gone back already. Because I heard him following me. Every step of the way in here.
    Luke clenched his mind against the sudden nausea of panic that tried to engulf him.
    At the far end of the thicket they had entered, he could see into the dark stony glade where they had just rested. But there was no sign of Dom in there either.
    Holding his head tenderly, he swallowed and swallowed until a trace of saliva moistened his throat. He called out for Dom.
    What was left of his grunty voice seemed to get lost in the woody space that vaulted above and burrowed into darkness on every side. Again he called out. And again. Then with both throbbing eyes
wide open he peered, he scrutinized, he begged every inch of forest in the distance for a sign of Dom’s orange waterproof.
    Nothing.
    Dom was no longer with him.
    When had he seen him last?
    He took his memory backwards; slowly through the recent minutes. By that rock on which he had so recently slumped, he had last seen Dom. No. He had heard him there, but had not actually laid
eyes upon him. Dom had been behind him at the rock. He had made a sound. That’s right. A grunt, or cry. A sound of surprise? Then he had shuffled his feet about. Kicked at something on the
ground.
    Maybe he then walked off in another direction, blind and oblivious with exhaustion and pain from his knee. Stumbled away from Luke and got himself lost.
    Could not have done because as Luke so recently walked through the nettles, he had heard Dom close at his heels, almost on top of him. Had not seen him, no. But had heard him and sensed him and
you cannot be mistaken about that. They had been close together. Almost touching.
    The stench.
    Luke raised his knife.

FORTY-FOUR
    Loneliness came with a suddenness that made Luke shiver. Then came his struggle with himself to not go hysterical with panic. He could do little more than hold himself together
when one of the others was near, but now they were all gone . . .
    His mind spoke to itself. Immediately tried to create companions in that painful mess under the bandage. But the pathetic voices stopped as soon as they began, like nervous children falling into
an embarrassed silence at the sudden appearance of a stern adult.
    He remained motionless in the damp clearing where the last two of them had been together. The trees glared at him, patient but unsympathetic, awaiting his next move. The rain dropped with its
usual indifference. He was dying of thirst in his ignorance of where it collected on the ground.
    No one answered his croaks. He wondered how long he should wait. Was there anyone to wait for?
    He shuddered. Gripped the knife. He wanted it to come for him. Right then. To rush low and quick from the underbrush. To lope from the shadows. He was ready to look right into the bright eyes of
a devil’s head. He could take the sight and reek of it up close. Would thrust the last of himself at its taut flanks. Rip that sneaky killer a new mouth with a Swiss Army knife.
    He thought of a black beard wet with hot gore, a snout red in the thin light from where it had been snatching at the coils and plump offal of his friends. Tearing and scattering. Before carrying
off the