Oliver staggered blindly toward the canvas barrier of the tent, his mind a ringing blank. His foot struck something in the darkness and he stumbled heavily forward, falling into the side of the tent. The material wrapped around him like a huge, suffocating serpent.
Oliver struggled wildly, which only served to entangle himself worse. The coarse canvas felt like rough hands, shoving him from all sides. It felt like the Adjudicator’s hands – but no, he was lying dead a few inches away, filling the air with the stench of blood.
‘And I... And I... Oh Goddess, help me!’
Panic squeezed Oliver’s throat, and he made one last desperate struggle against the cold, groping hands of the tent folds. His head broke through, back into the night, followed by the rest of him as he tumbled heavily to the ground. Oliver remained where he was, half curled into a ball, shaking uncontrollably.