Page 87 of The Island

Seconds counting down.

Five-minute drive from the farm to the prison.

Three hundred seconds.

As soon as Matt and Kate arrived, it was the end of days.

Owen would die in the wee hours.

The others wouldn’t last much longer.

Ticktock.

Ticktock.

Shotgun.

Iron sight.

Three moths.

Four flies.

Sweat.

Lunge at him. Just go for it. Jump.

No. He’ll shoot you.

He won’t; he was a policeman.

That was a lifetime ago.

Yellow light.

Moths.

Flies.

Sweat on Rory’s upper lip.

Ticktock.

Ticktock.

Was that a car engine?

It was.

Shit.

She was dead. Kids were dead. Go, Heather. Go. Now.

“I’m going to get up now. I’m going to get my bagful of water bottles and I’m going to walk out the front door and I’m going to go, OK?”

“Don’t you bloody move!”

Keeping her hands above her head, she slowly got to her feet. She swayed there for a moment.

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