They dodged several more abandoned cars, and at one point two men stepped out into the middle of the road and tried to flag them down. Having chosen to keep the car on manual, Amanda hit the accelerator and drove straight towards them, until they were finally forced to jump out of the way. Shouted invectives trailed in their wake as they sped on along the highway connecting the chain of islands.

By the time they reached Key Largo, it was clear that plenty of other people had fled north, yet there were still some signs of life continuing the same as ever. Dozens of businesses were tightly shuttered, while others were cheerfully open for business.

Somehow, thought Fowler, this was the strangest thing of all. But, then, there were few people privileged to know just how little time was left to them all.

They drove along the south road, following the natural curve of the key, until they reached the first of several artificial islands floating on platforms just above the waves and supported by spar buoys, each such island linked to the land by a pontoon bridge that extended out into the ocean. The platforms themselves were built from some kind of extremely flexible but tough polymer composite that could survive the worst of the local hurricanes.

The car bumped and juddered as it rolled on to the pontoon bridge leading to Alex Trouillot’s flight and fishing business, which extended across an entire platform of its own. Most of the available space was in fact taken up by a landing pad, on which sat two sub-orbital VTOLs that Fowler knew from prior experience could get them to Hong Kong in less than four hours. Next to the platform were moored two antique twin prop float-planes, which Trouillot used for ferrying retired business executives out to sea for deep-water fishing.

They parked alongside a shop front with a grinning plastic swordfish suspended overhead. Fowler hesitated for a moment before getting out. He’d called ahead a few days earlier, explaining what he wanted to do, but, after everything he’d seen in the last few days, there was no reason to assume Alex hadn’t fled along with the rest of them. Just then he sighted Trouillot through a window, his feet propped up on a desk as he sat watching a TriView hanging from a nail. Fowler closed his eyes in silent relief and gratitude.

He noted a box of cartridges sitting on Trouillot’s desk as they entered, also a shotgun leaning against the wall and within easy reach. The TriView flickered between images of alien growths and volcaoes vomiting ash and smoke high into the stratosphere.

‘Mr Fowler,’ said Trouillot, rolling easily to his feet, with a glance at Amanda. ‘And this must be—’

‘Amanda,’ Fowler replied, as he shook hands with Trouillot. ‘She’ll be joining us.’