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Chico poured grenadine into an ornate art nouveau glass filled with ginger ale. He hesitated, eying the tin of chicory powder. After a moment of deliberation, he sprinkled a dash into the mix, then added the maraschino cherry.

“I’m not sure Ivar the Boneless, chief of the Draugaskald, will appreciate that twist on his Shirley Temple,” said Godrick. “He may be called Boneless, but he’s got an iron grip and a terrible temper when he’s parched.”

Chico almost dropped the glass. Muttering a quick prayer to the virgin cocktail goddess, he steadied his hand. Amy wouldn’t have appreciated him breaking her freshly conjured aunt Agatha Twothface’s crystal glasses service.

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Chico a tad too quickly. “Do I know you?”

“I’m usually the one making the drinks,” said Godrick. “I served you your first americano when you popped into existence. Chico, right?”

“Oh! Yes. Right. You’re the bartender,” Chico said. He fidgeted. Small talks had always made him feel like a badly tuned Quena flute.

“I am,” said Godrick with a wink. “And if you want a tip? Boneless may forgive you the chicory if you make his cocktail dirty.”

Chico pause, considered, then reached down, grabbed a pinch of dust from the gazebo floor, and sprinkled it on the Temple, like cocoa on a cappuccino foam. He’d worked at Stardust for years before appearing here, after all. When he looked up, Godrick was chuckling.

“Ok!” Godrick said. “Now, add some vodka. I think I’ll take it to Ivar myself.”

“Oh! Right.” Chico nodded, grabbed the vodka bottle and poured in a modest shot and placed it back on the table.

Godrick titled his head. “Looks like your poney wants a sip too.”

For a moment, Chico blinked in confusion at the black stuffed poney standing nearby. Then freshly baked memories flooded in.

Right, the poney’s name was Tyrone.

It had been a broken toy that someone had tossed in the street. Amy had insisted Chico take it home. “It needs saving,” she said. “And you need the company.”

At first, Chico didn’t know what to do with it. He ended up replacing some of the missing stuffing with dried chicory leaves.

The next morning, Tyrone was born and trotting around the apartment. All he ever wanted was strong alcohol.

Chico had a strange thought, scrolling across the teleprompter in his mind.

Is that how character building works?

Disgruntled and bored with the fruitless wait for the other characters to reveal more of themselves, Amy started staying in her room all day reading books, glad that she’d had an urge to grab a bag full of used paperbacks from a chance encounter with a street vendor in Bogota.

A strange book about peculiar children lingered in her mind, and mingled  somehow with the vestiges of the mental images of the writhing Uriah in the book Amy had read prior to this one.

Aunt Amy?  a childs voice came unbidden to Amys ear.  Well, why not? Amy thought, Some peculiar children is what the story needs. Nephews and neices though, no actual children, god forbid. 

“Aunt Amy!”  A gentle knocking sounded on the bedroom door.  “Are you in there, Aunt Amy?”

“Is that at neice or nephew at my actual door? Already?” Amy cried in amazement.

“Can I come in, please?” the little voice sounded close to tears.  Amy bounded off the bed to unloock leaving that right there the door to let the little instant ramen rellie in.

The little human creature appeared to be ten years old or so, as near as Amy could tell, with a rather androgenous look: a grown out short haircut in a nondescript dark colour, thin gangling limbs robed in neutral shapelessness, and a pale pinched face.

“I’ve never done this before, can you help me?” the child said.

“Never been a story character before, eh?” Amy said kindly. “Do you know your name? Not to worry if you don’t!” she added quickly, seeing the child’s look of alarm. “No?  Well then you can choose what ever you like!”

The child promptly burst into tears, and Amy wanted to kick herself for being such a tactless blundering fool.  God knows it wasn’t that easy to choose, even when you knew the choice was yours.

Amy wanted to ask the child if it was a boy or a girl, but hesitated, and decided against it. I’ll have to give it a name though, I can’t keep calling it the child.

“Would you mind very much if I called you Kit, for now?” asked Amy.

“Thanks, Aunt Amy,” Kit said with a tear streaked smile. “Kit’s fine.”

Amy supposed everyone was blaming her, for what she couldn’t say, but they had clearly been avoiding her. There was plenty of coffee here anyway, even if the rest of the world was suffering. Don’t even think it, she told herself sternly. We don’t want people flocking here in droves once they realise.

So, do I want people or not? she asked herself. One minute I’m wondering where everyone is, and then next minute I’m wanting everyone to stay away.

“You on the spectrum too, are you?” asked Carob, reading her mind.  “It’s ok,” she added, seeing the look of alarm cross Amy’s face, “Your secret’s safe with me. I mean about being on the spectrum. But be careful, they’re rounding people like us up and sending them to a correctional facility.  We’re quite lucky to be here, out of the way.”

“Have you been avoiding me?” Amy asked, which was more immediately concerning than the concentration camps.  “Because I’ve been here all alone for ages, nothing to do but read my book,  draw in my sketch pad, and work on my needlepoint cushion covers. And where are the others? And don’t read my mind, it’s so rude.”

“Needlepoint cushion covers? Are you serious?” Carob was avoiding the questions, but was genuinely curious about the cushion covers.

Amy blushed.  “No, I made that up. In fact, I don’t know what made me say that. I haven’t started any sketching either, but I have thought about starting sketching. And I’ve been reading. It’s an old Liz Tattler; the old ones were the best. Real old school Lizzie Tattie, if you know what I mean. Risque romps with potting sheds and stuff.  None of that ghastly sci fi she started writing recently.”

“Which one?” Carob asked, and laughed when Amy held it up.  “I read that years ago, T’Eggy Gets a Good Rogering, can I borrow it after you? God knows we could all do with a laugh.”

“How do you know the others need a good laugh?” Amy asked, peering at Carob with an attentive squint in order to catch any clues. “You’ve seen then, then?”

Carob smiled sadly and replied, “Only by remote viewing them.”

Amy asked where they had been and what they were doing when they were viewed remotely. Has she been remote viewing me? What if they ask her if she’s been remote viewing me, and she tells them?  “Oh never mind,” Amy said quickly, “No need to answer that.”

Carob snorted, and what a strangely welcome sound it was. “I didn’t really remote view them, I made  that up.  It never works if I try to spy on people. Fat lot of good it is really, it never works when I really really need to see  something. Or maybe it works, but I never believe it properly until later when I find out it was right.”

“Yeah,” Amy said, “It’s fun though, I haven’t done it in ages.”

“You should, it would give you something to do when everyone’s avoiding you.”

To say that Amy was shocked when she looked up the word thiram would be an understatement. Who would name a baby after a toxic fungicide?

“Oh, guess what!” Thiram announced, entirely coincidentally. “My brothers are coming to join us, Malathion and Glyphosate.  We’re triplets,” he added.

“Look, don’t get upset, ok?” Amy felt she had to nip this in the bud.  “There’s something glaringly wrong with the map.  I mean, yes, it does make a nice picture. A very nice picture,” she added, and then stopped.  Does it really matter? she asked herself. Am I always causing trouble?

Amy sighed. Would life be easier for everyone if she stopped pointing things out and just went along with things?  Was there any stopping it anyway? It’s like a runaway train.

“You were saying?” Ricardo asked.

“Pray, continue,” added Carob with a mischeivous gleam in her eye.  She knew where this was leading.

“Who is he?” Amy whispered to Carob. “Well never mind that now, you can tell me later.”

Amy cleared her throat and faced Ricardo (noting that he was dark complexioned and and of medium height and wiry build, dressed  in a crumpled off white linen suit and a battered Panama hat, and likely to be of Latino heritage)  noticing out of the corner of her eye a smirk on Thiram’s face who was leaning against a tree with his arms folded, looking as if he might start whistling Yankee Doodle any moment.

“According to your map, my good man, nice map that it is, in fact it’s so nice one could make a flag out of it, the colours are great and….”   Amy realised she was waffling.  She cleared her throat and braced her shoulders, glaring at Carob over her shoulder who had started to titter.

Speak your mind even if your voice shakes, and keep the waffling to a minimum.

“My dear Ricardo,” Amy began again, pushing her long light brown hair out of her sweaty hazel eyes, and pushing the sleeves of her old grey sweatshirt up over her elbows and glancing down at her short thin but shapely denim clad legs. “My dear man, as you can see I’m a slightly underweight middle aged woman eminently capable of trudging up and down coffee growing mountains, with a particular flair for maps, and this map of yours begs a few questions.”

“Coffee beans don’t grow in Florida,” Carob interjected, in an attempt to move the discourse along.

“Nor in Morocco,” added Amy quickly, shooting a grateful glance at Carob.

“Sorry I’m late,” said Carob as she crouched down to fuss over Fanella. “I have excuses, but they’re not interesting. I’m feeling a little underdeveloped as a character, so I’m not sure what to say yet.”

“That’s okay,” said Amy. “Just remember … if you don’t tell us who you are early on…” She squinted and glanced around suspiciously. “Others will create you.”

“I’d rather just slowly percolate.” Carob screwed up her face. “Get it? Percolate?”

She stood up and slapped a hand to her head as Amy rolled her eyes. “Sorry … ” She patted her head curiously. “Oh wait—do I have curls?”

“I’d say more like frizzes than curls,” answered Amy.

Thiram nodded. “Totally frizzled.”

“Cool … must be the damp weather,” said Carob. She brushed a twig from her coat. The coat was blue-green and only reached her thighs. Many things were too small when you were six foot two.

“Oh—and I’ve been lucid dreaming in reverse,” she added. “Last night I watched myself un-make and un-drink a cup of coffee.” She gave a quick snort-laugh. “Weirdo”.

“Was it raining in the dream?” asked Thiram.

Carob frowned. “Probably… You know how in scary movies they always leave the curtains open, like they want the bad guys to see in? It felt like that.” She shuddered and then smiled brightly. “Anyway, just a dream. Also, I bumped into your father, Amy. He said to tell you: Remember what happened last time.”

She regarded Amy intently. “What did happen last time?”

“He worries too much,” said Amy, waving a hand dismissively. “Also, I didn’t even write that in, so how should I know?” She looked out toward the trees. “Where’s Chico?”

It was still raining the morning after the impromptu postcard party at the Golden Trowel in the Hungarian village, and for most of the morning nobody was awake to notice.  Molly had spent a sleepless night and was the only one awake listening to the pounding rain. Untroubled by the idea of lack of sleep, her confidence bolstered by the new company and not being solely responsible for the child,  Molly luxuriated in the leisure to indulge a mental re run of the previous evening.

Finjas bombshell revelation after the postcard game suddenly changed everything.  It was not what Molly had expected to hear. In their advanced state of inebriation by that time it was impossible for anyone to consider the ramifications in any sensible manner.   A wild and raucous exuberance ensued of the kind that was all but forgotten to all of them, and unknown to Tundra.   It was a joy that brought tears to Mollys eyes to see the wonderful time the child was having.

Molly didn’t want to think about it yet. She wasn’t so sure she wanted to have anything to do with it, the ship coming back.  Communication with it, yes. The ship coming back? There was so much to consider, so many ways of looking at it. And there was Tundra to think about, she was so innocent of so many things. Was it better that way?  Molly wasn’t going to think about that yet.  She wanted to make sure she remembered all the postcard stories.

There is no rush.

The postcard Finja had chosen hadn’t struck Molly as the most interesting, not at the time, but later she wondered if there was any connection with her later role as centre stage overly dramatic prophet. What an extraordinary scene that was! The unexpected party was quite enough excitement without all that as well.

Finja’s card was addressed to Miss FP Finly, c/o The Flying Fish Inn somewhere in the outback of Australia, Molly couldn’t recall the name of the town.  The handwriting had been hard to decipher, but it appeared to be a message from “forever your obedient servant xxx” informing her of a Dustsceawung convention in Tasmania.  As nobody had any idea what a Dustsceawung conference was,  and Finja declined to elaborate with a story or anecdote, the attention moved on to the next card.   Molly remembered the time many years ago when everyone would have picked up their gadgets to  find out what it meant. As it was now, it remained an unimportant and trifling mystery, perhaps something to wonder about later.

Why did Finja choose that card, and then decline to explain why she chose it? Who was Finly? Why did The Flying Fish Inn seem vaguely familiar to Molly?

I’m sure I’ve seen a postcard from there before.  Maybe Ellis had one in his collection.

Yes, that must be it.

Mikhail’s story had been interesting. Molly was struggling to remember all the names. He’d mentioned his Uncle Grishenka, and a cousin Zhana, and a couple called Boris and Elvira with a mushroom farm. The best part was about the snow that the reindeer peed on. Molly had read about that many years ago, but was never entirely sure if it was true or not.  Mickhail assured them all that it was indeed true, and many a wild party they’d had in the cold dark winters, and proceeded to share numerous funny anecdotes.

“We all had such strange ideas about Russia back then,” Molly had said. Many of the others murmured agreement, but Jian, a man of few words, merely looked up, raised an eyebrow, and looked down at his postcard again.  “Russia was the big bad bogeyman for most of our lives. And in the end, we were our own worst enemies.”

“And by the time we realised, it was too late,” added Petro.

In an effort to revive the party spirit from the descent into depressing memories,  Tala suggested they move on to the next postcard, which was Vera’s.

“I know the Tower of London better than any of you would believe,” Vera announced with a smug grin. Mikhail rolled his eyes and downed a large swig of vodka. “My 12th great grandfather was  employed in the household of Thomas Cromwell himself.  He was the man in charge of postcards to the future.” She paused for greater effect.  In the absence of the excited interest she had expected, she continued.  “So you can see how exciting it is for me to have a postcard as a prompt.”  This further explanation was met with blank stares.  Recklessly, Vera added, “I bet you didn’t know that Thomas Cromwell was a time traveller, did you? Oh yes!” she continued, although nobody had responded, “He became involved with a coven of witches in Ireland. Would you believe it!”

“No,” said Mikhail. “I probably wouldn’t.”

“I believe you, Vera,” piped up Tundra, entranced, “Will you tell me all about that later?”

Tundra’s interjection gave Tala the excuse she needed to move on to the next postcard.  Mikhail and Vera has always been at loggerheads, and fueled with the unaccustomed alcohol, it was in danger of escalating quickly.  “Next postcard!” she announced.

Everyone started banging on the tables shouting, “Next postcard! Next postcard!”  Luka and Lev topped up everyone’s glasses.

Molly’s postcard was next.

The twins, Luka and Lev, took charge of providing the drinks for the partygoers, occasioning a number of remarks on them being the most handsome barmen anyone had ever seen.  Tundra and Tala had come up with an idea to replace the advertised Friday quiz night, notwithstanding that nobody knew if it was Friday or not.

After a couple of drinks the survivors were relaxed and jovial. It was almost as if the setting, as well as the alcohol, had resurrected the idea of socialising, being carefree and social and cracking jokes, simply because it was the role one played in such a setting.

Tala signaled to Tundra. It was time to present the quiz.  Tundra reached into her bag for the wad of postcards, stood up and followed Tala to stand in front of the bar and face the gathering.

“Can I have your attention, please!” shouted Tala, quite unnecessarily as everyone was looking at them anyway.  “There are no wrong answers in this quiz. The winners will be the ones who can provide a personal anecdote about the places pictured on these cards.  In the event of nobody having a personal anecdote about a particular place, a general historical reference will be considered.”

“And if anyone recognises any of the people on the back of the postcard, either the sender or the recipient, ” added Tundra who had read the postcards already,  “They will win the first prize of The Golden Trowel!”

A buzz of excitement rippled through the pub.

After a short rest, Molly, Gregor and Petro ventured outside to wander around before the rain started.

“Az Aranysimító,”  Molly read the sign above the door. “Nemzetközi Likőrök. What does that say, Petro?”

The old man smiled at Molly, a rare gleam in his rheumy eye. “Fancy a night out, old gal? It’s a pub, The Golden Trowel.  International liquors, too.  Pénteki Kvízestek,” Petro added, “Quiz nights on Fridays. I wonder if it’s Friday today?”

“Ha! Who knows what day of the week it is.”   Molly took Petro’s arm, coquettishly accepting the date.  “I wonder if they have any gin.”

“Count me in for a booze up,” Gregor said trying not to look miffed.  “Now, now, boys,” laughed Molly, thoroughly enjoying herself.

“What are you all laughing at?” Vera joined them, cradling a selection of fruits held in her voluminous skirt. Gregor averted his eyes from the sight of her purple veined thighs.  He said, “Come on, let’s go inside and find you a crate for those.”

Brushing aside the dusty cobwebs, they made their way to the bar, miraculously and marvellously well stocked.  Gregor emptied a crate of empty bottles for Vera, while Petro surveyed the bottles on the shelf behind the bar. Molly stood transfixed looking at a large square painting on the wall.  A golden trowel was depicted, on a broken mosaic in a rich combination of terra sigillata orange and robins egg blue colours.  Along the bottom of the picture were the words

“Nem minden darab illik rá első pillantásra. Ülj le a töredékekkel, mielőtt megpróbálnád összekényszeríteni őket.”

Triumphantly, Petro handed a nearly full bottle of Larios gin to Molly. “I’ll get you a glass but we may need to get Finja in here, they’re all very dirty. That’s nice,” he said, looking up at the picture.

“Not every piece fits at first glance. Sit with the fragments before trying to force them together.”

“Oh, I like that!” exclaimed Molly, giving Petro a grateful smile. “I’d never have known that if you hadn’t been here.”

Petro’s chest swelled with pride and happiness. It was the first time in many years that he’d felt useful to anyone.

“We were heading that way anyway,” Molly informed the others.  She was  pleased with the decision to head towards Hungary, or what used to be known as Hungary.

“Slowly heading that way,” interjected Tundra.  “We spent years roaming around Ukraine and never saw a sign of survivors anywhere.”

“And I wanted to go home,” continued Molly. “Or try to, anyway. I’m very old, you know,” she added, as if they might not have noticed.

“I’ve never even been outside Ukraine,” said Yulia. “How exciting!”

Anya gave her a withering look. “You can send some postcards,” she said which caused a general tittering about the absurdity of the idea.

Yulia returned the look and said sharply, ” I plan to draw in my sketchbook all the new sights.”

“While we’re foraging for food and building campfires and washing our knickers in streams?” snorted Finja.

“Does anyone actually know where this city is that we’re heading for? And the way there?” asked Gregor, “Because if it’s any help,” he added, rummaging in his backpack, “I saved this.” Triumphantly we waved a battered old folded map.

It was the first time in years that anyone had paid the old man any attention. Mikhail, Anya and Jian rushed over to him, eager to have a look. As their hands reached for the fragile map, Gregor clapsed it close to his chest, savouring his moment of glory.

“Ha!” he said, “Ha! Nobody wanted paper maps, but I knew it would come in handy one day!”

“Well done, Gregor” Molly said loudly. “A man after my own heart! I also have a paper map!”  Tundra beamed happily at her great grandmother.

An excited buzz of murmuring swept through the gathered group.

“Ok, calm down everyone.” Anya stepped in to organise the situation. “Someone spread out a blanket. Let’s have a look at these maps ~ carefully! Stand back, everyone.”

Reluctantly, Molly and Gregor handed the maps to Anya, allowing her to slowly open them and spread them out. The folds had worn away completely in parts. Pebbles were collected to hold down the corners and protect the delicate paper from the breeze.

“Here, look” Mikhail pointed. “Here’s where we were at the asylum. Middle of nowhere. And here,” he pointed to a position slightly westwards, “Is where we are now.  As you can see, the Hungarian border is close.”

“Where was that truck heading?” asked Vera.

Mikhail frowned and pored over the map. “Eastwards is all we can say for sure. Probably in the direction of Mukachevo, but Molly and Tundra said there were no survivors there. We just don’t know.”

“Yet,” added Jian, a man of few words.

“And where are we aiming for?”  asked Finja.

“Nyíregyháza,” replied Mikhail, pointing at the map. “Should take us three or four days. Maybe a bit longer,” he added, glancing at Molly and Gregor.

“You’ll not outwalk Berlingo,” Molly snorted, “And I for one will be jolly glad to get back to some places that I can pronounce. And spell. Never did get a grip on that Cyrillic, I’d have been lost without Tundra.”  Tundra beamed again at her grandmother.  “And Hungarian names are only a tad better.”

“I can help you there,” Petro spoke up for the first time.

“You, help?” Anya said in astonishment, ” All you’ve ever done is complain!”

“Nobody has ever needed me, that’s why. I’m Hungarian. Surprised, are you? Nobody ever wanted to know where I was from. Nobody ever wanted my help with anything.”

“We’re all very glad you can help us now, Petro,” Molly said kindly, throwing a severe glance around the group.  Tundra beamed proudly at Molly again.

“It’s an easy enough journey,” Petro addressed Molly directly, “Mostly agricultural plains. Well, they were agricultural anyway. Might be a good chance of feral chickens and self propagated crops, and the like.  Finding water shouldn’t be a problem either.  Used to be a lovely area,” Petro grew wistful. “I might go back to my village,” his voice trailed off as his mind returned to his childhood. “Never thought I’d ever see it again.”

“Well never mind that now,” Anya butted in rudely, “We need to make a start.” She began to carefully fold up the maps.

“I didn’t much like where the world was heading anyway, Gregor,” Molly said, leaning towards the old man who was riding beside her. “Before it all ended I mean. All that techno feudalist stuff.  Once we got over the shock of it all, I’ll be honest, I rather liked it.  Oh not that everyone was dead, I don’t mean that,” she added. She didn’t want to give the impression that she was cold or ruthless. “But, you know, something had to happen to stop where that was going.”

Gregor didn’t respond immediately.  He hadn’t thought about the old days for a long time, and long suppressed memories flooded his mind.  Eventually he replied, “If it hadn’t been for that plague, we’d have been exterminated, I reckon. Surplus to requirements, people like us.”

Molly looked at him sharply. “Did you hear of extermination camps here? We’d started to hear about them before the plague. But there were so many problems with communication.  People started disappearing and it was impossible by then to find out what happened to them.”

“I was one of the ones who disappeared,” Gregor said. “They summoned me for questioning about something I’d said on Folkback.  I told the wife not to worry, I’d be back soon when I’d explained to them, and she said to me to call in at the shop on the way home and get some milk and potatoes.”  A large tear rolled down the old mans leathery cheek. “I never saw her again.”

Molly leaned over and compassionately gripped Gregors arm for a moment, and then steadied herself as Berlingo descended the last part of the hill before the track where the truck had been sighted.

The group halted and gathered around the tyre tracks. They were easily visible going in both directions and a discussion ensued about which way to go: follow the truck, or retrace the trucks journey to see where it came from?

“Down, Berlingo!” Molly instructed her horse. “I need to get off and find a bush. First time in years I’ve had to hide to have a pee!” she laughed, “There’s never been anyone around to see.”

Molly took her time, relishing a few moments of solitude.  Suddenly being surrounded by people was a mixed blessing. It was stimulating and exciting, but also tiring and somewhat unsettling.  She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths and calmed her mind.

She returned to the group to a heated discussion on which way to go.  Jian was in favour of going in the direction of the city, which  appeared to be the direction the truck had come from.  Mikhail wanted to follow where the truck had gone.

“If the truck came from the city, it means there is something in the city,” reasoned Jian.  “It could be heading anywhere, and there are no cities in the direction the truck went.”

“There might not be any survivors in the city though,” Anya said, “And we know there’s at least one survivor IN the truck.”

“We could split up into two groups,” suggested Tala, but this idea was unanimously rejected.

“We have all the time in the world to go one way first, and the other way later,” Mikhail said. “I think we should head for the city first, and follow where the truck came from. Jian is right. And there’s more chance of finding something we can use in the city, than a wild goose chase to who knows where.”

“More chance of finding some disinfectant in the city, too,” Finja added.

The Survivors:

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Gregor said, his face cracking into another toothless grin. “Beginning to think we might be the last ones.”

“So did we.” Molly glanced nervously around at the odd assortment of people staring at her and Tundra. “I’m Molly. This is Tundra.”

“Tundra? Like the frozen wasteland?” Yulia asked.

Tundra nodded. “It’s because I’m strong and tough.”

“Would you like to join us?” Tala motioned toward the fire.

“Yes, yes, of course, ” Anya said. “Are you hungry?”

Molly hesitated, glancing toward the edge of the clearing, where their horses stood tethered to a low branch. “We have food,” she said. “We foraged.”

“I’d have foraged if someone didn’t keep going on about food poisoning,” Yulia muttered.

Finja sniffed. “Forgive me for trying to keep you alive.”

Molly watched the exchange with interest. It had been years since she’d seen people bicker over something so trivial. It was oddly comforting.

She lowered herself slowly onto the log next to Vera. “Alright, tell me—who exactly are you lot?”

Petro chuckled. “We’ve escaped from the asylum.”

Molly’s face remained impassive. “Asylum?”

“It’s okay,” Tala said quickly. “We’re mostly sane.”

“Not completely crazy, anyway,” Yulia added cheerfully.

“We were left behind years ago,” Anya said simply. “So we built our own kind of life.”

A pause. Molly gave a slow nod, considering this. Vera leaned towards her eagerly.

“Where are you from? Any noble blood?”

Molly frowned. “Does it matter?”

“Oh, not really,” Vera said dejectedly. “I just like knowing.”

Tundra, warming her hands by the fire, looked at Vera. “We came from Spain.”

Vera perked up. “Spain? Fascinating! And tell me, dear girl, have you ever traced your lineage?”

“Just back to Molly. She’s ninety-three,” Tundra said proudly.

Mikhail, who had been watching quietly, finally spoke. “You travelled all the way from Spain?”

Molly nodded. “A long time ago. There were more of us then… ” Her voice wavered. “We were looking for other survivors.”

“And?”Mikhail asked.

Molly sighed, glancing at Tundra. “We never found any.”

________________________________________

That night, they took turns keeping watch, though Molly tried to reassure them there was no need.

“At first, we did too,” she had said, shaking her head. “But there was no one…”

By dawn, the fire had burned to embers, and the camp stirred reluctantly to life.

They finished off the last of their cooked vegetables from the night before, while Molly and Tundra laid out a handful of foraged berries and mushrooms. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to start the day.

“Right,” Anya said, stretching. “I suppose we should get moving.” She looked at Molly and Tundra. “You’re coming with us, then? To the city?”

Molly nodded. “If you’ll have us.”

“We kept going and going, hoping to find people. Now we have,” Tundra said.

“Then it’s settled,” Anya said. “We head to the city.”

“And what exactly are we looking for?” Molly asked.

Mikhail shrugged. “Anything that keeps us alive.”

________________________________________________

It was late morning when they saw it.

A vehicle—an old, battered truck, crawling slowly toward them.

The sight was so absurd, so impossible, that for a moment, no one spoke.

“That can’t be,” Molly murmured.

The truck bounced over the uneven ground, its engine a dull, sluggish rattle. It wasn’t in good shape, but it was moving.

The corridor outside Mr. Herbert’s suite was pristine, polished white and gold, designed to impress, like most of the ship. Soft recessed lighting reflected off gilded fixtures and delicate, unnecessary embellishments.

It was all Riven had ever known.

His grandfather, Victor Holt, now in cryo sleep, had been among the paying elite, those who had boarded Helix 25, expecting a decadent, interstellar retreat. Riven, however had not been one of them. He had been two years old when Earth fell, sent with his aunt Seren Vega on the last shuttle to ever reach the ship, crammed in with refugees who had fought for a place among the stars. His father had stayed behind, to look for his mother.

Whatever had happened after that—the chaos, the desperation, the cataclysm that had forced this ship to become one of humanity’s last refuges—Riven had no memory of it. He only knew what he had been told. And, like everything else on Helix 25, history depended on who was telling it.

For the first time in his life, someone had been murdered inside this floating palace of glass and gold. And Riven, inspired by his grandfather’s legacy and the immense collection of murder stories and mysteries in the ship’s database, expected to keep things under control.

He stood straight in front of the suite’s sealed sliding door, arms crossed on a sleek uniform that belonged to Victor Holt. He was blocking entry with the full height of his young authority. As if standing there could stop the chaos from seeping in.

A holographic Do Not Enter warning scrolled diagonally across the door in Effin Muck’s signature font—because even crimes on this ship came branded.

People hovered in the corridor, coming and going. Most were just curious, drawn by the sheer absurdity of a murder happening here.

Riven scanned their faces, his muscles coiled with tension. Everyone was a potential suspect. Even the ones who usually didn’t care about ship politics.

Because on Helix 25, death wasn’t supposed to happen. Not anymore.

Someone broke away from the crowd and tried to push past him.

“You’re wasting time. Young man.”

Zoya Kade. Half scientist, half mad Prophet, all irritation. Her gold-green eyes bore into him, sharp beneath the deep lines of her face. Her mismatched layered robes shifting as she moved. Riven had no difficulty keeping the tall and wiry 83 years old woman at a distance.

Her silver-white braid was woven with tiny artifacts—bits of old circuits, beads, a fragment of a key that probably didn’t open anything anymore. A collector of lost things. But not just trinkets—stories, knowledge, genetic whispers of the past. And now, she wanted access to this room like it was another artifact to be uncovered.

“No one is going in.” Riven said slowly, “until we finish securing the area.”

Zoya exhaled sharply, turning her head toward Evie, who had just emerged from the crowd, tablet in hand, TP flickering at her side.

“Evie, tell him.”

Evie did not look pleased to be associated with the old woman. “Riven, we need access to his room. I just need…”

Riven hesitated.

Not for long, barely a second, but long enough for someone to notice. And of course, it was Anuí Naskó.

They had been waiting, standing slightly apart from the others, their tall, androgynous frame wrapped in the deep-colored robes of the Lexicans, fingers lightly tapping the surface of their handheld lexicon. Observing. Listening. Their presence was a constant challenge. When Zoya collected knowledge like artifacts, Anuí broke it apart, reshaped it. To them, history was a wound still open, and it was the Lexicans duty to rewrite the truth that had been stolen.

“Ah,” Anuí murmured, smiling slightly, “I see.”

Riven started to tap his belt buckle. His spine stiffened. He didn’t like that tone.

“See what, exactly?”

Anuí turned their sharp, angular gaze on him. “That this is about control.”

Riven locked his jaw. “This is about security.”

“Is it?” Anuí tapped a finger against their chin. “Because as far as I can tell, you’re just as inexperienced in murder investigation as the rest of us.”

The words cut sharp in Riven’s pride. Rendering him speechless for a moment.

“Oh! Well said,” Zoya added.

Riven felt heat rise to his face, but he didn’t let it show. He had been preparing himself for challenges, just not from every direction at once.

His grip tightened on his belt, but he forced himself to stay calm.

Zoya, clearly enjoying herself now, gestured toward Evie. “And what about them?” She nodded toward TP, whose holographic form flickered slightly under the corridor’s ligthing. “Evie and her self proclaimed detective machine here have no real authority either, yet you hesitate.”

TP puffed up indignantly. “I beg your pardon, madame. I am an advanced deductive intelligence, programmed with the finest investigative minds in history! Sherlock Holmes, Hercule Poirot, Miss Marple, Marshall Pee Stoll…”

Zoya lifted a hand. “Yes, yes. And I am a boar.”

TP’s mustache twitched. “Highly unlikely.”

Evie groaned. “Enough TP.”

But Zoya wasn’t finished. She looked directly at Riven now. “You don’t trust me. You don’t trust Anuí. But you trust her.” She gave a node toward Evie. “Why?

Riven felt his stomach twist. He didn’t have an answer. Or rather, he had too many answers, none of which he could say out loud. Because he did trust Evie. Because she was brilliant, meticulous, practical. Because… he wanted her to trust him back. But admitting that, showing favoritism, expecially here in front of everyone, was impossible.

So he forced his voice into neutrality. “She has technical expertise and no political agenda about it.”

Anuí left out a soft hmm, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, but filing the information away for later.

Evie took the moment to press forward. “Riven, we need access to the room. We have to check his logs before anything gets wiped or overwritten. If there’s something there, we’re losing valuable time just standing there arguing.”

She was right. Damn it, she was right. Riven exhaled slowly.

“Fine. But only you.”

Anuí’s lips curved but just slightly. “How predictable.”

Zoya snorted.

Evie didn’t waste time. She brushed past him, keying in a security override on her tablet. The suite doors slid open with a quiet hiss.

Not knowing what else to do to calm his nerves Ellis took Finkley’s advice and took his box of postcards back down off the shelf. Extracting a random one from the middle of the stack he gazed at the picture of a lump of orange rock in the middle of a desert. Turning it over with trembling hands he tried to focus on the message.  It was written in a childish hand and mentioned an outing to the old Bundy place and that Mater had locked herself in her bedroom again, signed lots of love from Clove.

Ellis was trying to decipher the smudged postmark when Finkley barged in again.  “Ellis, sit down,” Finkley said pointlessly as Ellis was already seated. “Detective TP wants to talk to you about the murder victim.”

“But why? I don’t know anything about it.”

“You’re not the only one who doesn’t know anything, I can assure you. Nobody seems to know what’s going on, but TP says he wants to talk to you. Don’t shoot the messenger, Ellis, I’m as confused as you are.  You’re to go to his pod immediately.”  Seeing his discomfiture, Finkley added kindly, “I’ll come with you if you like.”

The Asylum 2050

They had been talking about leaving for a long time.

Not in any urgent way, not in a we must leave now kind of way, but in the slow, circling conversations of people who had too much time and not enough answers.

Those who had left before them had never returned. Perhaps they had found something better, though that seemed unlikely. Perhaps they had found nothing at all. The first group left over twenty years ago—just for supplies. They never came back. Others drifted off over the years. They never came back either.

The core group had stayed because—what else was there? The asylum had been safe, for the most part. It had become home. Overgrown now, with only a fraction of its former inhabitants. The walls had once kept them in; now, they were what kept the rest of the world out.

But the crops were failing. The soil was thinning. The last winter had been long and cruel. Summer was harsh. Water was harder to find.

And so the reasons to stay had been replaced with reasons to go.

She was about forty now—or near enough, though time had softened the numbers. Natalia. A name from a past life; now they called her Tala.

Her family had left her here years ago. Paid well for it, as if they were settling an expensive inconvenience. She had been young then—too young to know how final it would be. They had called her difficult, willful, unable to conform. She wasn’t mad, but they had paid to have her called mad so they could get rid of her. And in the world before, that had been enough.

She had been furious at first. She tried to run away even though the asylum was many miles from anywhere. The drugs they made her take put an end to that. The drugs stopped many years ago, but she no longer wanted to run.

She sat at the edge of the vegetable garden, turning soil between her fingers. It was dry, thinning. No matter how deep she dug, the color stayed the same—pale, lifeless.

“Nothing wants to grow anymore,” said Anya, standing over her. Older—mid-sixties. Once a nurse, before everything had fallen apart. She had been one of the staff members who stayed behind when the first group left for supplies, but now she was the only one remaining. The others had abandoned the asylum years ago. At first, her authority had meant something. Now, it was just a memory, but she still carried it like an old habit. She was practical, sharp-eyed, and had a way of making decisions that others followed without question.

Tala wiped her hands on her skirt and looked up. “We probably should have left last year.”

Anya sighed. She dropped a brittle stalk of something dead into the compost pile. “Doesn’t matter now. We must go soon, or we don’t go at all.”

There was no arguing with that.

Later, in the old communal hall, the last of them gathered. Eleven of them.

Mikhail leaned against the window, his arms crossed. He was a little older than Tala. He thought a long time before he spoke.

“How many weapons do we have?”

Anya shrugged. “A couple of old rifles with half a dozen bullets. A handful of knives. And whatever rocks and sticks we pick up on the way.”

“It’s not enough to defend ourselves,” Tala said. Petro, an older resident who couldn’t remember life before the asylum, moaned and rocked. “But we’ll have our wits about us,” she added, offering a small reassurance.

Mikhail glanced at her. “We don’t know what’s out there.”

Before communication went silent, there had been stories of plagues, wars, starvation, entire cities turning against themselves. People had come through the asylum’s doors shortly before the collapse, mad with what they had seen.

But then, nobody came. The fences had grown thick with vines. And the world had gone quiet.

Over time, they had become a kind of family, bound by necessity rather than blood. They were people who had been left behind for reasons that no longer mattered. In this world, sanity had become a relative thing. They looked after one another, oddities and all.

Mikhail exhaled and pushed off the window. “Tomorrow, then.”