East, I pray and hold it out in front of me.
The needle points dead north. Swearing, I stumble a few steps in the opposite direction, but still, the needle doesn’t swing, just wobbles up and down. With a cry of rage, I throw it into the pale dust.
A hand breaks through the sand and catches it. A hand with splintered nails, corpse-grey flesh.
I choke and try to run, forgetting I’m tied to the General. The cable snags and I fall, face first. As I scrabble for purchase I feel something cold and yielding beneath the sand. A human face.
Terror takes me, and I don’t know anything until the General seizes my shoulder.
‘What is it?’ she demands.
Frantically, I search the sand around me, but it is just that, just sand, hot to the touch and cold underneath from the night.
Tears burn my eyes. ‘We’ll never find a way out. This is hell.’
Face twisting, the General shoves me away. ‘You don’t want us to find a way out. You know what’s waiting for you, back there. A prison cell for the rest of your days. You’ll wait until I’m dead and then—’ She wheezes, and coughs. Eventually, she gives up on her accusations and sits down beside me.
‘What are we going to do?’ she mutters.
I look at the sky, yellow as marrow.
‘Walk.’
* * *
‘Something’s coming.’
The words are urgent, jolting me out of a stupor. My head throbs with every beat of the sun, my mouth dry and foul-tasting.
‘What?’ I ask, and turn just in time to see the General collapse. I stumble towards her. In the thick light her face is ghoulish, and when I open Moloney’s jacket, I see the reason why. Her pink shirt is soaked with blood, as is the makeshift bandage wadded there.
‘Idiot,’ I say, fumbling for the medkit stowed in my shirt. Why didn’t she tell me? I flip the lid open.
The medkit is empty, save for a bottle of liquor and some rags.
‘Moloney, you bastard,’ I hiss.
As quickly as I can, I peel the bandage from the General’s torso. There is a wound in her side, no telling how deep through the blood. I grab the bottle and twist off the top. The smell of cheap, raw mezcal almost makes me sick.
‘Sorry,’ I mutter, and tip some over the wound.
The General comes to, swearing violently, before immediately passing out again. I wad the rags against the wound, before binding them down with the only thing I can – the cable that ties us together.
I sit back, gasping for breath. The heat is unbearable, hammering down like noon in the Barrens, and for a moment I think the shape in my vision is a sun-spot. But there is no sun. When I look again, I see a figure in silhouette, standing there, watching me.
Fear shimmers across my skin.
‘Who’s there?’ I croak. The figure doesn’t move.
Shaking, I grope behind me, searching for something, anything to use as a weapon. But instead of the glass bottle, my fingers touch wet flesh, splintered bone. I recoil in horror.
Moloney lies beside the General, his head bleeding. His eyes, blue and piercing, swivel to fix upon me.
‘No—’ My voice is rough with fear. ‘You’re dead.’
The bandit grins. ‘Takes one to know one.’
‘We’re not dead,’ I whisper.
I close my eyes, digging my nails into my palm, willing my mind to return to reality. But when I finally look again, it’s the same viscous light, the same fibreglass grin.
‘I’m losing my mind,’ I say.
The corpse laughs. ‘Losing?’
‘What is this? What is happening?’
The dead bandit rolls his eyes to the blind sky. ‘This is the Suplicio.’
‘How do we get out?’
‘You can’t.’ Moloney flops on his side towards me.
I seize the General by one arm, dragging her across the sand. It must hurt, because she wakes with a shriek, loud enough to make me stop.
‘What—’ She struggles, before looking at her side. ‘Ow.’
I can barely breathe, staring at Moloney. ‘We have to get away.’
‘Away?’ The General struggles upright. ‘From what?’ She looks around, her eyes passing right over Moloney’s corpse.
‘You can’t see him?’
She looks confused, before laughing weakly, reaching for the mezcal bottle where it lies in the sand.
‘This will drive you mad faster than the heat.’ She sways as she stares at it. ‘But perhaps you’re right.’
Before I can stop her, she unscrews the bottle and swallows a mouthful of the burning liquor.
‘Thank you, Moloney,’ she wheezes.
Beyond her shoulder, Moloney frowns. A bit of his brain falls out.
‘That’s my coat,’ he says.
I take the bottle.
* * *
‘You know what I hate? Shoes. And the army boots, they ruined our feet y’know. Put us in them so young, they changed the shape and now I can’t wear anything else. Feet like tree roots, Giang used to say.’ She takes a swig.
‘Who’s Giang?’
‘Wing Commander – my best friend.’
I’ve long given up on trying to fathom a direction; there’s no point, not when there’s no sun and nothing moves.
‘Where are you going?’ Moloney whines, a few paces behind us. ‘We won’t get there like this.’
‘Get where?’
‘To hell.’
‘Leave me alone. You’re dead.’ I reach for the mezcal.
‘I’m what?’ the General slurs.
‘Moloney.’
‘Still see him?’
‘What do you see?’
She is silent, but something makes her eyes flood, makes her raise the mezcal bottle and drink deep again. ‘Nothing,’ she mutters.
I nod as I take the bottle. I told her about Moloney, but not about the corpses beneath our feet.
‘I’m sorry.’ I stagger to avoid a leg protruding from the sand. ‘I’m sorry about this. If it had not been for me, you would be—’
‘Dead,’ the General finishes, making a grab for the mezcal. ‘Augur was right, I have been dead since you found me, just delaying the inevitable.’
She takes a few weaving steps around something I can’t see. ‘Should have let the Commander do it,’ she says. ‘Would’ve got a funeral at least, a cremation. Never thought I’d go like this.’ She tips up the bottle, spilling most of it over her chin. ‘Eight
