Lisa dropped to the floor. Later, she couldn't remember if she had screamed herself or not. She made herself small, crouched in the cockpit, hands over her ears, her eyes squeezed shut. There was shouting and more gunfire, then a heavy thump as the boat collided with the bank. She curled herself into a ball. No! This couldn't be happening! Not now! No! No! No!
Seconds later, she was being roughly dragged to her feet, strong arms tugging her hands behind her back and fastening her wrists with something stiff that cut into her flesh. Her attacker stank of sweat and stale tobacco. He pushed her to the side of the boat, where another man dragged her onto the towpath pushing her onto her knees. She couldn't see Anita or James. A heavy foot on her back pushed her lower, face down in the dirt.
More shouting and sounds of a struggle. Someone fell heavily beside her, panting. Her nose and mouth were pressing into the earth, she was breathing in soil and leaves. She was choking. She was suffocating. She twisted her head to the side gasping for air.
James was lying beside her, also on his front. His head was turned away from her. He was still struggling and shouting, but several men were holding him down.
Lisa tried to steady her breathing, tried to think. She let her body go limp. The pressure on her back eased a little. James continued to fight.
"James," she croaked. "Don't fight them. Calm down."
"They shot her! Bastards!" His voice was thick. A boot kicked him in the side. Another caught the side of his head. He groaned and stopped struggling.
"That's it, James. Don't struggle. You're making it worse for yourself."
He was motionless, but she could still hear him panting. Either he had taken her advice, or he was unconscious, but either way he was calmer.
She could hear more movement coming from the direction of the boat, crashing and banging and more angry male voices. The sounds moved onto the towpath ahead of them. She strained to lift her head to see but it was impossible. She concentrated on trying to keep her breathing steady. Her inhaler was in her pocket. She could feel it pressing against her hip.
Suddenly, she was yanked her to her feet by her hair. She spat the dirt from her mouth and blinked it out of her eyes. Ahead of her, Anita was standing on the towpath. Her head was bowed. One man was tying her hands behind her back with a thick plastic cable-tie. Another was in front of her holding her by the shoulders. Her hands were red with blood. It was dripping from her fingertips. She was injured but at least she was still standing.
The men started walking Anita along the path under the bridge. She seemed unsteady, stumbling and swaying. They took her by the elbows, one on either side. They disappeared under the bridge.
Beside her, they pulled James to his feet. A bruise was forming on his cheek, and his upper lip was puffed and swollen. He looked across at her. His eyes burned with a mixture of anger and distress.
"They shot Anita!"
He had difficulty forming his words through his damaged mouth.
"I know, but she's ok. She's walking."
The man behind Lisa pushed her forward. They were marched along the path in the same direction that Anita had gone, Lisa and James in front, with the men behind them. Lisa kept her head down, partly to watch her step, but also to avoid any eye contact that might provoke more violence. As she passed the spot where Anita had been standing, she had to step over the pool of blood that had congealed there. A trail of droplets marked the path her friend had taken.
As they emerged from the other side of the bridge, the pounding music got louder. She recognised the song. It was Neon Knights from the Black Sabbath album, 'Heaven and Hell'. It was the first music she had heard since the outbreak and, even in her current predicament, she almost laughed at its appropriateness as a soundtrack for the past couple of weeks.
They approached the buildings around the wharf. It was clear that any resistance would be futile. There were at least 20 or 30 men, and a few women, sitting or standing around in the garden outside the club house. They all turned to stare as they passed.
Most were armed, with their weapons casually slung over their shoulders. More weapons were scattered around. Shotguns rested casually against chairs, and large jagged knives were nonchalantly displayed on tables. Half-drunk bottles littered the ground, and a haze of cigarette and barbeque smoke gave the whole scene a nightmarish quality. She recognised the unmistakable scent of marijuana.
Lisa slowed as she tried to take in as much as she could. Numbers. Locations. Potential escape routes. Anything that might be useful if they were going to get out of there. Her escort jabbed her in the back with his rifle, but not before she caught a glimpse of a cage-like structure on a grassy area by the water. There were two or three figures inside. She couldn't be sure, but it looked like they were infected.
People jeered at their small procession.
"Keep moving, Darling. Nothing to see here," a heavily tattooed woman in a vest top, with an assortment of piercings, growled at her.
"Not until later, that is! There'll be plenty to see, then," one of the men shouted, and they all erupted into laughter.
They moved beyond the buildings and back up the towpath beside a row of old boats. Each one had an armed man sitting in its bow. The men smirked and followed them with their eyes as they passed. Their expressions seemed to be a mixture of cynical amusement and curiosity. On one of the boats,
