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balaclava," he said, softly, "And tell me - clearly - how we're going to sort out this mess."
        
        Minutes felt like hours. The darkness engulfed her, allowing little or no vision within the small cubby hole. Eventually, she gave up on the waiting game, considering the fact that they were going to leave her here for a while. Which sucked, of course, because Geri really needed a piss.
        She groped around in the dark, looking for anything of interest. She didn't know what she was looking for or why. It was probably just a way to relieve the boredom (and take her mind off her bladder). It wasn't that she thought the cubby hole, under the stairs, held any treasures. Good God, she wasn't that deluded. She'd read CS Lewis as a child, but she knew it was fiction. Fairytales were made-up, right? And monsters weren't real, either.
        (right?)
        Her hands worked their way through all the familiars - the hoover, bicycle wheels, shoes, old tools and things that felt so… odd… that she really didn't want to know what they were. Eventually she found a tin. It jingled, as if full of coins. Instinctively, Geri reached inside, finding something smooth, metallic and what to her untrained mind felt bullet-shaped. She'd watched the movies. She knew what a bullet looked like, and she reckoned she'd know what it felt like, too. This definitely fitted the bill. Quickly, she shoved the bullet into the front pocket of her skinny jeans. It stuck out, uncouthly, from the denim. She pulled her t-shirt down to cover it.
        The noise of a key turning startled her. She threw the tin to the other side of the cubby hole, fumbled for the brush shaft and readied herself.
        
        "Hang on a minute," Balaclava said, stepping back and aiming the gun toward the cubby hole. "Just in case she's turned…"
        Tattoo sighed, unlocking the door.
        "Are you ready?" he asked the other man.
        "Yep," came the reply.
        Tattoo pulled the door wide open, as if trying to surprise the girl. It ended up doing exactly the opposite, Tattoo himself surprised to find his jollies at the business end of a brush shaft. He stumbled back, the all-too- distinctive pain of being kicked in the groin descending upon his legs and abdomen, buckling him over.
        Balaclava hesitated instead of firing, perhaps worried about hitting his friend. The second's hesitation was all that the girl needed, bringing the brush shaft crashing against his jaw with an almost feral force. The heavier man fell back against the hall wall, slamming against its magnolia naffness, dazed and confused.
        The girl dropped the brush shaft to descend upon him, her long frame bent double over his short, stubby body as she struggled for the gun. Balaclava wrestled, bitterly, his eyes wide with panic as the threat of INFECTION clearly terrorised him. He began to scream like a girl. She was screaming too, their voices harmonising with each other, insanely, like some crazy death metal song.
        But her glory was short-lived. The brush shaft that had caused him such red-faced, bulging-eyed and screw-faced pain became Tattoo's friend, swinging with vengeance to connect with the girl's jaw, cracking a tooth and knocking her off Balaclava. She tumbled, roughly, towards the kitchen door across the hall. Her lanky form sprawled half-in, half-out of the kitchen, face flat on the ground. She was soundlessly out cold.

Chapter Three
        
        Some miles south of Geri's whereabouts, another young woman also felt trapped. The circumstances were different. The women, themselves, were completely different. This young woman had no captors as such. She also retained all of her teeth. Yet she still felt trapped.
        Karen Wilson looked from the window of her flat, situated close to the top floor of one of Finaghy's tower blocks. The view was breathtaking - fresh blue sky stretching as far as the eye could see. A patchwork of flame-red