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Skull lay his head back, staring at the ceiling. "I'll take my chances with you people," he grunted.

The following day the desert gave way to high bare hills, and then a range of mountains. I sat with Danny in the cab as we drove along what might have been a highway, years ago; now it was little better than an eroded track. According to the map, we were travelling through a range of mountains called the Cevennes. We passed remnants of what had been forests, stunted trunks that covered hillsides like so many barren pegs, dead now like everything else.

This was as far south as we'd ever been, and it seemed brighter out there than I'd ever experienced. This high up, we had a perfect view of the plains to the south, a drift of golden sand that stretched all the way to what had been the Mediterranean sea.

The sun was going down when I said, "What Skull said about feral bands?"

Danny snorted. "His sort - the kind of bastard who runs out on a colony and takes their supplies ... his sort are cowards. Anyway, he's a liar."

I looked at him. "He is?"

"There's no colony in Algiers. I heard they died out way back, twenty years ago or more."

"But he must have run from somewhere?"

"Yeah, but not Algiers. He didn't want to tell us where he came from."

"Why? What's he hiding?"

"We'll find out in time, Pierre, believe me."

For the next hour he concentrated on driving, as we wound down the crumbling highway and left the hills behind us. As darkness fell, Danny braked and the truck came to a halt. After the drone of the engine, the silence was resounding.

We left the cab and moved into the lounge.

Last night Danny had allocated Skull a tiny berth at the rear of the truck, and served him his meals there. This cheered me - I wasn't alone in not wanting mealtimes spoilt by Skull's presence.

"Meat's on the menu tonight," Edvard said. He carried a steaming pot and set it down before us.

He ladled broth into our bowls and the smell sent my head reeling. For a second, I almost welcomed the arrival of the mysterious stranger.

"You okay, Kat?" I asked.

She smiled at me. I was encouraged by the way she was spooning the broth; she seemed to be enjoying the meal. I glanced at Edvard. He was chewing with his eyes closed, as if savouring not only the meat but the memories of past times it conjured.

After the meal, for the first time in months, my belly felt full.

Later I excused myself, wanting to be alone with my thoughts. I left the truck, dug myself a little hollow of cool sand, and settled down.

The night was silent, the sky unusually still. No storms ripped the heavens, for once. The air was heavy and hot, oppressive. I controlled my breathing, enjoying the cooling sand, and considered the journey south.

A sound made me jump. I thought it was Edvard, come to join me. But the skeletal figure that came hobbling out on crutches, fashioned from lengths of metal cannibalized from the wreck of the glider, was the pilot.

He eased himself down onto the sand beside me and nodded. "It's cooler out here." The little light spilling from the truck made his face seem even more skull-like. I took shallow breaths, not wanting to inhale his acid stink.

"That's why I'm here," I said.

A pause. Then, "Maybe you'll listen to sense, Pierre. I've tried the others. They're too old, set in their ways."

"They're my friends," I said, and then as if to make it clearer, "my family. We're in this together."

I looked at him. His sly eyes appeared calculating. "Listen to me, Pierre. You're no fool. If we head south, to the Med-"

"Yes?"

A pause. He licked his lips. "There's dangers down there, things you haven't encountered in Europe."

"You said. Feral bands—"

"Worse!"

"Worse than feral bands?"

"Much worse. Feral means animal. You can deal with animals, outwit 'em. These people ... these people are no fools. They're evil, and calculating." I wondered, for a second, if he were describing himself. "You ever seen what human beings can do when they're desperate?"

I thought back to the ruins of Paris, before the desert engulfed the city. I considered