What began as an indistinct dot on the horizon turned out to be a roadhouse, a last bastion for fuel and supplies. A hand-drawn chalkboard sign out front declared: Last fuel, five hundred Ks. There were two cobwebbed petrol bowsers beneath a metal roof that extended out from a large tin shed. The signage was from yesteryear – extinct brands, promises of ‘full driveway service’, ‘friendly, courteous staff’ and ‘home-style cooked meals’ in florid cursive lettering. In its heyday, this would’ve been more than just a place to refuel; with so many services on offer, it was a destination in itself. The proliferation of multinational burger chains had put paid to that, just as they had to quaint little Greek cafés in outback country towns.

Manolis parked, entered through a door armed with a large jangly bell. It roused a snowy-haired proprietor from his morning nap with a start, hand clutched to his chest, mouth gasping. When his breathing had calmed, he focused his rheumy, cataract eyes on his customer, blinking through the milky-white clouds. ‘Help ya, son?’

Manolis asked the man if he’d had any other customers that morning, or seen a dirty white station wagon drive past with three occupants. The man looked out the window, then at the space above Manolis’s head. He mumbled that he had, although admitted he wasn’t entirely sure if it hadn’t been a dream.

‘Are you real,’ he droned, ‘or is this a dream as well?’

Manolis gauged the proprietor was likely under the influence of some substance, illicit or otherwise. He didn’t have time to find out. He thanked the old man for his time, bought bottled water and continued up the road.

He drove on, further into the great unknown, the badlands. The earth grew hotter and drier as if he were approaching its very core. The land was coarser now, the conditions harsher, the grasses shorter, tougher, trees stunted, clinging to life. Animals appeared more primal and desperate: larger, more muscular roos, broadshouldered, barrel-chested wombats like landmines, hardened by the conditions, emboldened to take on anything.

It took some fifteen empty minutes before Manolis began to question his instincts, along with the dependability of the heavily medicated proprietor. He hadn’t seen a single vehicle since leaving the roadhouse and had been flooring the sedan to its limit. He imagined he would’ve caught up with anything short of rocket-powered by now. Was he supposed to drive for hours, days? He might need to call for reinforcements here. Perhaps he should have earlier – not that his phone had any reception.

Another dead animal loomed ahead, this one stretched precariously across the centre of the road. Manolis narrowed his eyes, assessed the oncoming hazard and subconsciously eased his foot off the pedal. He would normally have swerved past the beast and continued on, but there was something about this carcass, its orientation, its shape. As he came closer, he realised what it was.