Chapter 17— Red

Barely a metre above the Styx, Red clings to a cliff face, nose pressed against rock, left hand with a firm grip around a loop of tree root and the fingers of his right hand wedged into a crack. In the sky behind him, an orange half-moon exaggerates his every move. He should just dive in, get off this fucking gleaming rock and disappear into the flood. He must have been here for a good sixty seconds now, with no rifle and a gut wound that hurts like hell.