THE WATCHERS 1 He was running--running for his life.

Behind stretched the long white road rising like a great bloated, warning finger out of the misty trees.
Heavy cushions of grey cloud blotched the sky; through the mist ridges of ploughed field rose like bars.
The dog, Bunker, was running beside him, his tongue out, body solid grey against the lighter, floating grey around.

His feet pattered beside his master, but his body appeared to edge away and yet to be held by some compelling force.
Olva was running, running.

But not from Carfax.

There in the wood it lay, the leg doubled under the body, the head hanging limply back.