Ben forced his legs back into action. The soil drifts were loose like desert sand, crumbling with the lightest touch as the man and child stood motionless, watching their approach. There was no sign of the others. Even their farming tools had been taken by the rapture. Maybe the heavens had land in need of harvesting.

The man was tall and wiry as though a sculptor had picked his creation apart, leaving only the skeletal frame. Such was the stoop to his shoulders that from a distance he appeared to have no neck, just this baggage that built up beside his ears. His clothes were all brown or black, their fabric indistinguishable from the dirt. He wore breeches the colour of oak, with high boots. His shirt was loose, open around the chest; a patchwork of muddy hues, repaired so many times that there was no isolating its original elements.

As novel as the man’s old-timey appearance seemed to them. What must he have been thinking? Chloe’s red sunglasses were probably enough to justify burning her at the nearest stake.

‘Don’t scare away the kid again,’ Ben whispered to her. ‘No interviews. No happy doctor. No financial reward.’

‘Oh, don’t you worry, Mr French. I’m not saying a word.’

Ben caught the first tang of sweat; a warm, nauseating scent that surrounded the man like strong cologne. His skin was as leather. Burnished from the elements and cracked with heavy lines that travelled like a road map from his forehead down to his knobbly chin. The man’s jaw was skewed slightly to one side. His nose was swollen and drooped down to his upper lip like a bulb of garlic. A handsome man he was not.

Ten feet now stood between them. Close enough. The child looked at Ben with the same vacant expression. Her irises were eclipsed by an unwholesome darkness, as if they belonged to one much older.

‘Hello again,’ he said, crouching down to her level. ‘Sorry if we startled you.’

Chloe had stopped a step or two behind him, reinstating his role as chief diplomat.

The girl’s cheeks slowly contorted into that impish smile of earlier, but neither she nor the man said anything. There was never any question about the indigenous speaking the same tongue. Sparling wouldn’t have omitted information as pertinent as that, would he?

‘My name is Benjamin,’ he began, ‘and this—’

‘What do you want here?’ the man interjected, his consonants hard as a punch.

Gruff as he was, at least he spoke English.

‘I’m an historian, and Chloe here is an archaeologist. We’ve been sent here to conduct a survey. I was hoping that I might be able to do a few interviews and Chloe is—’

‘Who sent you?’ he said, cutting Ben short again.

‘A university sent us,’ he lied, hoping that it would make their presence seem more official.