I was lying on the floor in a windowless room, most probably a basement. Buckets and mops stood in one corner next to stacks of dusty office supplies. A water bowl sat on the floor, along with a folded blanket on which Lucky must have slept. An unlit furnace stood in another corner, along with a portable battery-powered generator that hummed quietly to itself. A cord emerged from a tangle of wires at the rear of the generator, reaching up to a single caged light bulb suspended from a ceiling hook. Wooden steps led up the side of the far wall to a door, while just beneath the steps stood a portable video camera mounted on a tripod, its lens pointing towards me.

I was far from surprised to see that most of the basement floor was taken up by a circle of field-pillars. The usual laptop sat next to the portable transfer stage, its screensaver morphing into abstract shapes.

But none of this drew my attention as much as the steel cage placed in the precise centre of the stage. The cage was just large enough to contain the crumpled form of a man, curled up in a foetal position and nearly invisible beneath the hordes of bees that otherwise filled the cage. Their angry, muted buzzing seemed to fill the room. It wasn’t until I looked closer and saw the glass lining the inside of the cage that I understood why the bees couldn’t escape. As for the figure within, it looked as if it might be a member of a night patrol – one of the creatures that had killed Nadia.

Casey appeared from somewhere behind me and stepped towards the cage, a rifle held loosely in one hand. He carefully tapped at the bars of the cage with the rifle’s barrel, and the creature within jerked in response. Its head lifted in the exact same manner as a disturbed sleeper.

I just barely caught a glimpse of dead eyes and an open mouth through the maelstrom of swarming insects. Horror gripped me as yet more bees came surging out of the depths of the creature’s throat. I turned away from the sight, feeling sick to my stomach.

Casey stepped back over to stand before me. ‘You,’ he said, ‘are a massive fucking pain in the arse.’

‘Go to hell,’ I managed to rasp.

Casey just chuckled, and raised his free hand. ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’

‘What?’

‘I want to know if you’re concussed or not.’

‘Why don’t you go fuck yourse—’

He stepped forward, kicking me hard enough in the gut to drive the wind out of me. I scrabbled back against the wall as best I could.

‘How. Many. Fingers?’

I lifted my cuffed hands with the middle finger of each raised.

Casey laughed. ‘Very droll. And your name?’