"We'll go down the back," he says, already breathless even though they're not even halfway up the hill. It's not just because of the running, it's partly fear, the hammering of his heart behind his ribs, the memory of Eric with the knife, the glinting blade arching toward him. All the mounds, all those bodies. The passports Jeff collected.

"They can't be that fast," he continues as they near the top. The windlass creaks and shifts, the rope dangling down into the mineshaft, but Mathias forces himself to look away. There's the lean-to where they tried to keep Pablo dry, the blood splattered sleeping bag tossed aside. His throat constricts and his body heaves as if he's going to throw up, but he manages not to, then strides across the clear and to the path on the other side of the hill.

They're already there.