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just excitement at being addressed after so long, at having someone other than a wild animal acknowledge his existence? He heard the distinctive click-clack of a gun being primed for action. And, sure enough, when he turned around, he was greeted with the sight of a man – early forties, though he might have been younger, it was hard to tell after what he must have gone through in the past couple of years – and he was holding up a double-barrelled shotgun. It was a farmer’s weapon, probably wielded by an ex-farmer. There’d certainly been enough of them round these parts. The ruddy complexion had faded somewhat, but Robert could tell that he must still spend a lot of his time outside. The pigeon-chested man wore a checked shirt beneath a tank top with holes in it, his trousers were loose as if he’d lost weight, and his boots had definitely seen better days.
    “I’ll say it again. What ye doin’ spying back here?”
    Robert said nothing, not even when the man lifted the shotgun higher, not quite aiming at him, but not pointing it away, either. Robert held up his hands to show he meant him no harm.
    “What’s a matter, can’t ye speak or summat? Bit slow, eh?”
    Robert shook his head. There was nothing wrong with his faculties. It had just been so long since he’d spoken, he wasn’t even sure if he could anymore. Carefully, he began to reach across into his open coat.
    “Keep yer hands where I can see ’em,” instructed the man, moving forward.
    “I...” began Robert. The sensation of talking felt odd; alien even. The look of shock on his face must have registered, because the man frowned.
    “Just what’s yer game? We don’t want no trouble at the market.”
    “No game. No trouble,” Robert assured him. With each word, his voice grew stronger. “I’ve just come along to trade.”
    “That so?”
    “It is. If you’ll let me...?” Robert reached into his coat again, very slowly, the shotgun trained on him the whole time. “Easy... easy... See, in my pouch.”
    The man drew nearer to get a better look. “Rabbits?”
    “Rabbits,” repeated Robert.
    Then the ‘farmer’ began to laugh: long, hard chuckles that caused his frame to shake. “Oh, that’s a good un,” he said eventually. “Rabbits... Judas Priest! What yer thinking of swappin’ for them scrawny devils?”
    Robert shrugged, pulling down his hood. “Whatever I can.”
    Lowering his shotgun, the other man wiped the tears from his eyes. “Aye, I’d be interested to see it an’ all. Well, come on. Let’s take yer down there, then, before all the best bargains are gone.”
    For a second, Robert hesitated, the very thought of meeting, of mixing with that number of people was terrifying. What if the men after him should happen by? “Is... is it safe?” asked Robert.
    The man frowned. “Safe? What yer talkin’ about?”
    He didn’t have a choice, he had to ask. “The... the men in yellow suits. The ones who set fire to the bodies.”
    He looked at Robert like he was insane. “Where yer bin, on Mars or somethin’?”
    “Something,” admitted Robert.
    “They haven’t bin round for ages, that lot. Not since the early days.”
    “What happened to them?”
    “Dead,” said the man, his face stern. “Like everyone else.”
    “So there was no cure?”
    “Cure?” He laughed again, but there was a bitterness to it this time. “There were never any cure. Look, are ye comin’ to the market or not? I haven’t got all day.”
    Robert gave a small nod, and they began to walk across the field. The closer they came, the more he wanted to run – even though he knew the fear was irrational.
    What if he’s wrong – what if they’re still out there somewhere, looking for you?
    You heard what he said, they’re all dead. Only the O-Negs are left. It’s the grand total of the human race.
    But...
    “So, yer a poacher?” the man said, interrupting Robert’s argument with himself. He nodded at the bow to emphasise what he