The wounded slowed us down, but – out of some misguided human compassion – we didn’t leave anyone behind. We left a bloody trail for our attackers, and we knew that we could be attacked again at any moment.

We had lost our leader, our direction, and our tools. We were completely alone in a hostile world, and we understood that at best we had days to live.

But this was what we wanted, wasn’t it? This was why we came here. This is why you will come here as well. To be lost. To be alone. To vanish.

When we stopped to rest, we could hear the distant, tormented screams of the kidnapped travelers, but we just went on eating quietly. We shared the last of the apples and chocolate that the cult members had on them.

Nora sat in my lap. She was shivering.

‘We can’t fall asleep now,’ I said tiredly.

‘The human brain is a huge, complex entity,’ she answered in a hoarse whisper. ‘There is no single moment when all of its parts are switched on. In a certain sense, you are always asleep. In a certain sense, you are dreaming through your entire waking life.’

We then fell asleep.

By the time we woke up, the members of the cult had committed mass suicide. They had slit their own throats. I felt the same pang of disappointment I had last felt on the airplane when I missed the duty-free. Why did they eat their portion of the food if they planned to kill themselves anyway?

Sometimes I truly don’t understand people.

They were all dead except for the man whose hand had been mutilated by the spear earlier. He held the knife in his left hand. He was right-handed, so he couldn’t make the strong, clean cut his companions had carried out earlier. He kept wounding himself over and over again, but each wound only caused more pain, not death.

The German pensioners were standing by this final cult member.

‘Come and see, my dear!’ said the old man with a mirthful smile, a naughty twinkle in his eye as he watched the agony of the last survivor.

The old lady chuckled as she surveyed the bodies. The man knelt down to the cultist and spoke in flawless English. His words radiated glee.

‘Your faith is worth nothing,’ he said to the wounded man. ‘It was invented by a pulp writer to earn the money his fiction never brought him. He didn’t have the eyes to see the Nameless Lords himself, but he gave you eyes to see your own suffering. We often drank rum together when I was younger. I was the one who suggested he establish a church. How many miser­able bastards he has sent here to die – you can’t even count! And you know the best part?’