‘Hello?’ Her voice carried across the stillness and she watched the five boys, standing in a circle in murmured conversation, suddenly spin on their heels. She heard the click and clatter of their guns, swung off shoulders and pointed in her direction.

‘Please . . .’ she said quickly, ‘don’t shoot. I just need to speak with you.’

There were two taller, older boys and three smaller ones.

Second Generation. That’s what Adam called the younger ones; boys more recently recruited and trained by the boys that he, Walfield and the other two had originally trained. The older two would be in charge. Leona took several slow steps forward, her hands instinctively raised. She addressed herself to the taller of them; a straggly-thin black boy wearing a bandanna on his head.

‘I want to join the girlfriends,’ she said. She felt a twist of nausea in her gut as she spoke.

Bandanna’s posture subtly shifted, his head tilted over on one side, his shoulders squared as he puffed himself up. She recognised the body language; all the boys did it when they wanted to make a show of bravado in front of their comrades.

‘You wan’ join our girls?’

Leona nodded.

A torch snapped on. Instinctively she covered her face from the blinding light.

‘Drop your hands, lemmesee yo’ face,’ said the boy with the bandanna.

She did so and heard from somewhere behind the glare of the torch one of the younger boys chuckle. ‘Ahh, man, she’s all beat up.’

‘You ugly,’ said one of the boys. ‘Piss off back inside.’

The torch wavered off her face for a moment, down and up. ‘Face ain’t all that, love,’ said Bandanna, ‘but the rest looks tight. Show us your tits an’ we’ll see.’

‘What?’

‘You heard me. Show me your tits,’ repeated Bandanna.

The other boys liked that, a ripple of giggles amongst them. ‘Go on, make her show all the pooty,’ one of the smaller boys egged him on.

Leona felt nausea inside turn quickly into a barely suppressed gag response. For a fleeting moment she thought she was going to chuck up this evening’s gruel right there.

‘I said show us the fucking tits!’ snapped Bandanna.

She saw Dizz-ee’s snarling face on his; an almost identical sneer.

‘We do like the old tell-ee-show X Fat-ryy on you, bitch,’ said Bandanna. ‘You give us all an audition, right? You show the pooty an’ dance for us. An’ I’ll decide.’

A peal of excited laughter spread amongst them. The torch was off her face again and down on her chest, on her torso. She could see that Bandanna had slung his rifle on one shoulder. Although the other four were no longer pointing their guns at her, they still had them in their hands.

‘Come on! You heard. Take your fuckin’ clothes off!’

Bandanna took a step forward, one hand already down and fiddling with his flies. He stopped and turned to the others. ‘Forget the dance. Let’s just do her. Me first, then it’s Biggz’ turn. Then you three can ’ave a go. ‘Kay?’

The other boys nodded. She noted the other older boy - presumably Biggz - set his gun down on one of three plastic garden chairs by the gate, getting ready for his turn.

Bandanna turned back to her and closed the distance between them. ‘S’up? Why ain’t you undressin’, bitch?’

She smiled tightly. ‘I’m a bit . . .’ she nodded at the others. ‘Not in front of everyone, please? We could go over th—’

‘You wanna be a girlfriend, then you gonna do it anywhere we wan’ it. Now show me some titties an’ bush right now or I’ll have to slap you up.’

Her hand slowly reached down for the hem of a tatty and faded purple sweatshirt that had been donated to her in the infirmary.

It was then she heard a scrape of feet on the ground and a stuttered breath drawn in surprise.

Bandanna flashed the torch over his shoulder back at the boys, just as Biggz’s long legs began to slowly buckle, his eyes wide and rolling, his hands scrabbling at something sticking out of the side of his neck.

‘What the f—?’

Movement. Bandanna swung the beam of his torch to the left, catching a last-moment blur - Adam Brooks and Bushey both racing towards him. They careered heavily into Bandanna, knocking him to the ground and sending the torch spinning into the air. She heard the three of them struggling and scraping on the floor. The boy let out a startled high-pitched scream that was quickly muffled as a hand clamped heavily over his mouth. She could still hear his gagged voice, screaming, and the oooff of exertion as either Adam or Bushey punched their knives into him.

She could hear the other three boys, clinking and rattling in the dark.

Someone scooped the torch off the ground and shone it in their direction.

‘Drop your fucking guns!’ snapped Walfield. The three younger boys, to Leona’s eye, surely no more than thirteen, stared at the light, wide-eyed and startled like rabbits caught on a back road.

Huey, Dewey and Louie, she found herself thinking.

One of them shook himself out of the momentary stupor and resumed fumbling a clip out of his pouch, arrogantly certain by the determined look on his face that he could load, cock, aim and fire his assault rifle before some stupid old peasant.

Walfield didn’t bother repeating his warning. The single shot cracked loudly, filling the torchlit space between them all with a billowing cloud of blue smoke. The boy slammed back against the barricade wall, rattling the wire at the top and loosing sheets of corrugate. He slid to the ground, already lifeless and bleeding out from what was left of the back of his head.

The scuffle on the floor with Bandanna was over now. Adam appeared within the loom of light from the torch, blood spattered in ribbons across his shirt.

‘You boys drop your guns and webbing and go!’ he snapped.

Dewey and Louie nodded vigorously, placing their guns quickly on the ground and sliding effortlessly out of the loose webbing designed for grown men. They stepped back uncertainly, their eyes glued to the gun in Walfield’s hands.

‘Now piss off!’

They turned and sprinted off into the dark, down a walkway between sections of the plantation towards the dome’s main entrance, their feet slapping noisily in the darkness.

‘We gotta go now, sir!’ said Bushey. ‘They’ll all be coming this way!’

‘The guns!’ said Leona. ‘And all the bullets. We need to gather them up.’

Adam nodded, scooping up the discarded orange jackets and several pouches of army webbing. ‘Pick up everything they dropped, everything. We can sort through what’s crap later.’

Harry appeared in the cone of light, carrying an armful of plastic bottles. ‘You okay?’

She nodded. ‘I’m . . . yeah, I’m okay.’

She bent down to scoop up the weapon that Bandanna had dropped. She saw the pale glow of his trainers sticking out of the darkness, and from the dancing light from the torch one of his hands palm up, fingers looped with chunky gold rings, slowly, reflexively curling open and closed as if beckoning her over.

She wondered why she felt nothing at all. Not for him, not for the other boys. She wondered if that made her as sick and empty inside as them. Impulsively, she stepped forward into the gloom and swung a leg at where she guessed his head was. She made contact, dull, cushioned and heavy.

‘You bastard,’ she spat through gritted teeth.

She swung another kick at him. And another.

She felt the bile in her throat, a stinging acid burn that threatened to bubble up and leave her retching.

‘Come on, Leona,’ said Harry softly, reaching for her and pulling her away from the body. ‘He’s dead now.’

‘Right then,’ Adam announced. ‘That’s everything. We should go.’

As if on cue a floodlight near the main entrance flickered on and she thought she saw a flurry of movement in the entrance foyer through the glass wall.

Adam swung the torch on her. She winced at the bright light.

‘You good to go, Leona?’

‘Yes,’ she nodded, swinging the assault rifle onto her shoulder. ‘I’m ready.’