I fumble around my neck, searching through the bag of things we snatched from the wreckage. Finally, I find the craft’s compass, trailing wires.

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.