He slept, and with sleep came dreams.

Year 7. Everything was easy back then. Not too much work, no exams looming on the horizon, no teenage angst. Time to see people, do things, generally enjoy the transitional time between childhood and teens, and the strange new world of high school. Dave started playing guitar that year, he remembered, and the room was the room of his childhood, messy, strewn with comics, guitar tabs, socks, crumpled clothes. And he'd invited someone over, by the looks of it. A girl? What?

Dave wasn't like Stephan, reputed to have lost his virginity aged eleven at Scout camp. He didn't start getting interested in that stuff until at least midway through Year 8, and had only had one semi-serious girlfriend. He looked at the mess around him. It was a bit embarrassing that a girl would see the state of the place, but she didn't pay it any attention. She just sat on the bed, so slight and small of frame that her feet were swinging off the ground, and stared in front of her, glassy-eyed and quiet.

"Bethany?"

He didn't realise who it was until his dream-self said her name. Of course. In four years you could change a lot – Bethany had grown a good six inches, and had filled out a little – aged twelve, she was straight up and down, and there was nothing feminine about her, except for the unusual fluffy whitish hair which she had in pigtails, incongruous with the pale serious face. He hadn't known her in Year 7, as she only transferred into their school part-way through Year 9, so he was creating her appearance in his mind.

"No more clips," she said. "Why aren't there any more?"

He was more impetuous back then. Who said you couldn't hit girls? That only kicked in once you were bigger and stronger and it wasn't a fair fight. Dave seized her by the wrists and hauled her to her feet – she was as light as a puppet and just as unresisting.

"Why?" he yelled in her face. "Why are you doing it? You want to win? You know what happens to the winners. You don't want to end up some smackhead in a bedsit in the Annexes, do you? Tell me why!"

"Because they told me to," said Bethany.

"No, not good enough!" He gripped her by the shoulders and shook her. "If they told you to jump off a cliff, would you do it? There are some things – some things you just shouldn't do, no matter who tells you to. Can't you understand that?"

Bethany was not listening, her face as expressionless as a talking doll's, and she hung limply as he held her up. "Because they told me to. Because they told me to. Because..."

Dave dropped her and ran from the room in disgust. She carried on repeating the words like a broken cassette player, and her toneless voice followed him down the stairs.

Mum and Dad were in the kitchen, watching the news together as they ate their dinner. The TV blared with war footage, then that cold day near Christmas of his seventh year, when the Prime Minister, now the Dictator, dissolved parliament and placed the country under a permanent state of emergency. Why had he thought he was in Year 7? This was years ago, and at the time, he had been barely aware of the events, which seemed to have little importance at the time. He was only just starting junior school.

"Mum?" he asked – did his voice really used to sound like that? "What's happening?"

"Davey," she said, rubbing his hair, yet somewhat vacantly, as she was still staring at the screen. "I've invited some of your friends round for tea. Why don't you go and say hello to them?"

"Who?" said Dave, feeling a strange dread for a reason he could not comprehend.

"Look, here they are," said his dad. He pushed Dave towards the hallway. "Go and say hello to your friends."

Nina Haczynski stood facing away from Dave, one hand to her neck. Blood coursed down her arm and dripped onto the carpet, but Dave's mum and dad didn't seem to mind. When she spoke, her voice was a choked whisper that was peculiarly horrible to hear.

"Dave..." she hissed, "What're you doing here?"

Dave shrank back against the wall, feeling the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. Nina was dead – he remembered! Her name was read out! Dead. Yet here she was.

"I... I live here?"

"I mean, this place." Nina gestured around her with a bloodied hand. "I don't think you're supposed to be here."

"That's right," said Mahmoud Ibrahim, who stood behind Nina. Daylight shone through two ragged holes in his chest. "You shouldn't be here yet. It's too soon."

"What do you mean?" cried Dave. He felt the swoop of fear of a nightmare as the others joined their ranks – James Lewis, Lauren Norris, Alex Green, Katie Robinson... all dead and horrible to behold, but acting just as they had in life. Lauren and Katie still stood together, arm-in-arm, and it still looked ridiculous because of the height difference. James Lewis, still sparrow-like and puny, flicking through his miniature Bible. And... someone else. Floppy caramel-coloured hair, languorous limbs, twirling a drumstick in a blood-spattered hand...

"Paul?"

Paul Yates didn't look very different from how he had been in life, except for the bloody pattern of gunshot wounds mottling his jacket in a darker colour, and the one that had gone through his thigh, incapacitating him – and giving Bethany the opportunity to finish him off as his friends ran away. He limped over to Dave and laid a cold hand on his shoulder.

"Twelve more hours yet, mate," said Paul. "Not your time."

"I don't understand," said Dave. His voice was deeper again – he was sixteen years old, now, wasn't that strange? Sixteen, in Year Eleven... that meant something.

"Paul... I'm sorry – I tried..."

Nina smiled despite the blood running from the corners of her mouth. "Sure you did. See you soon, Dave," she said. "Think your mum's calling you." And the two of them burst into fits of giggles.

Dave turned away from the haggard shapes of his dead friends, back to the kitchen.

"Davey, come on!" his mother insisted. She was wearing her factory uniform and carrying a teapot, and the sun was going down outside. It was the end of the work-day – family time, usually spent round the TV.

"Come and join us. It's time for the Program."

"The Program?"

"Yes! Hurry up or you'll miss the start." She took him by the hand to guide him to his seat. "It's going to be a really good one, this year."

"No!" cried Dave, jerking away and knocking over a chair. "Mum, I don't want to... please don't make me!"

But Dave's parents seized him by the shoulders and forced him roughly in front of the TV, made him watch, and then there was the salt wind, the smell of mould and trees and cordite, and Richie Stuart's voice...

And he was back.

"Good evening, boys and girls! It's 1800 hours, and time for the third report!"

This time, the music was Concierto de Aranjuez. It rang out from the speakers as the sun sank into the west and, for a few minutes, bathed the island in golden sunlight. Dave squinted and brought up a hand to shield his eyes.

What?

Richie Stuart continued. "The weather has treated you well so far, with this nice easterly, keeping it cool but the sun's shining. Watch out for the rain coming in tomorrow, though. You might want to visit the village to invest in a raincoat. Don't all rush the houses at once, though, or you might have an unpleasant experience with 'shopper's rage'."

He was cold to his bones and barely had any strength, and his legs had seized up from the running. But he couldn't give up. Hauling himself into a sitting position, Dave's frozen fingers fumbled for his map and pen.

He thought of his dream and the gruesome shades of the seven victims so far. Third report... danger zones and... names. Oh God, how many more?

"No-one has been eliminated in the last six hours," said Richie Stuart.

Dave's heart leapt. Natalie, he thought. She's safe.

"I can't say I'm proud of this afternoon's output, but I've been up as long as you have and I appreciate how you might be getting tired. Let's keep this break nice and short, have a nap, maybe a snack, and work hard through the night, shall we? Danger zones this evening will be E2 at 1900, K6 at 2100 and D7 at 2300. Don't get caught napping in any of them."

-

7 eliminated, 17 to go...

-

My beta-reader said this didn't read like a dream, in that it made too much sense. I tried to adjust it to make it more dream-like but my own dreams are pretty logical, so it was difficult. In the end I decided just to leave it as it was.