After what could have been another hour's worth of walking, Fring pointed to what looked like tire tracks. They stopped abruptly on their end, but on the other, they kept going for what could have been miles.

"Some of the people I spoke to made these tracks," said Fring. "They had a car...it wasn't like any car I've ever seen, but it was a car. They told me a lot. They had come to the fields to relax, as I think some people on this world do, provided they have the means to return. I asked the people if they would drive me back to where they came from, but there wasn't space."

Moriarty nodded, and they began to follow the tracks. A silence fell over the two men. Moriarty felt the damp cold of his own blood as it caked the top half of his suit. He felt a nausea that briefly override his hunger. As soon as he got any clothes to wear he would burn the Westwood, giving his old uniform a Viking burial. He sensed Fring would do the same, and that discarded somewhere on a far-flung corner of the Elysian Fields there was a crisp blue suit jacket, expensively tailored, with chunks of brain splattered all over it.

He pondered that as they walked. Why did people wake up in this world in the clothes they died in? Nothing else that was in his pocket; his wallet, his phone, had been carried over, but his blood-soaked designer suit had survived intact. It maddeningly bewildered him, but he managed to put it out of his mind with the help of the hunger. They were making their way; the tracks got thicker until they came across a broken end of road. It was not dark Tarmac but some lighter material, and the patch of road slightly shined as the setting sun's rays fell on it. The road led through a patch of those strange alien trees, which obscured everything beyond it.

As they came to the other side of the tree border, the highway greeted them. It was an American-styled highway, wide and straight for as many miles as the eye could see. The road was made of the same lighter building material and it glistened similarly. The highway was not on long grass like the Elysian Fields, but a dustier, more arid ground.

A car shot past from the right hand side, its appearance preceded by the loud, aggressive roar of its engine. Moriarty called it a car, but it was unlike any he had ever seen. The only way he could describe it would be as a cross between an American SUV and an oversized dune buggy. It was wide, and some of the parts were clearly makeshift. The car seemed barely able to keep itself together, but it was tearing across the highway at a breakneck speed.

"Jesus," he said. "I hope that's not the standard here."

"I imagine so," Fring replied, as the car shot out of view. "Mass production, the internal combustion engine...the average man doesn't know how to build these things. This world might only be populated by average men."

"Until now, anyway," Moriarty replied. Fring nodded. Before they could decide which way to walk, they heard the roar of another engine, signalling another vehicle. Judging by the sound, they would have another few seconds before the car would be on them. Moriarty could see it as a blip on the horizon.

"Do you know CPR?" he asked.

"Yes, why?"

Moriarty made a choking sound, and crumpled to the ground suddenly, his body making a slight thud as it collapsed. He lay flat, his body sprawled awkwardly. His eyes rolled to the back of his head and his mouth hung open. Fring regarded him with shock for a brief moment then, acting on impulse, sunk to his knees and began to beat his chest, performing CPR as he best remembered.

The car stopped in front of them. It was a rust bucket just like the previous one. The driver was a tall, portly man in his fifties. He wore a loose-fitting white shirt, pale jeans and a straw cowboy hat. His face was deeply tanned and he had a blonde moustache. He rushed over to where Fring was administering CPR, and knelt down to look at the prone man.

"What in the hell happened to 'um?" he asked, searching for life in Moriarty's face. He had a deep southern accent with a touch of the Appalachians about it.

"Nothing this won't solve," said Moriarty, opening his eyes. Before the man could react he took the flat end of his palm and drove it into the man's chin with as much force as he could muster. The man's head rocked back with a sickening crunch, and before Fring could blink Moriarty was on his feet, clutching a rock he'd picked up off the ground. He smashed the rock against the Good Samaritan's temple, and Fring knew that he had killed him. Moriarty, still operating at an incredible speed, smashed the rock against the man's head twice more before he hit the ground. Blood gushed out around him, and they both stepped back to avoid soaking their shoes.

"C'mon, let's get him in the boot," said Moriarty. "We can't bury him here, it's too exposed." Fring wordlessly agreed, and they carried the body into the boot of the car. Moriarty fished through his pockets and found the car key. It was not a traditional key, but an Allan key with divots carved into it. He also took some notes that he assumed were currency. They used the cowboy hat to soak up the worst of the blood and moved to the front.

Having the key, Moriarty took a look at the notes from the man's pocket. They were unremarkable, and only contained the words "20 ECD, Praxius Mint" in a faded print. Written slightly below was "Trust Him", the letters about half the size. Below the writing, on the bottom left hand side of the note, was a square sheet of gold leaf. It wasn't a particularly high carat, but it was there, and it shone in the last of the evening sun. He couldn't believe it wasn't the first thing he noticed. He passed the banknote to Fring, who studied it, admiring the gold leaf.

"Praxius," he said, handing it back. "Is that where we are, do you think?"

"Doubtful," said Moriarty, pocketing it. "I don't see a mint around here. What do you think ECD stands for?"

"Not a clue," said Fring. Moriarty put the Allan key in the ignition and the car purred into life. They took off, the same way that the unfortunate driver had been going. The alien sun was close to setting, and the highway was getting dark. It was a sunset just like that on earth, and just as beautiful. There was something Moriarty couldn't determine about how this planet rotated around it, though; there was no wind, but something in his natural sense of direction told him that they were going east.

"The sun sets in the east, here, I think," he said, voicing his suspicions. "This planet rotates the opposite direction."

"You know, I think you're right," said Fring, gazing forward at the sun thoughtfully. "We're travelling south east."

They drove on in relative silence. Moriarty had never handled a car like this one. It shook as he sped up, and he felt like their weights were fighting to keep it bolted to the road. He imagined that if you put a brick on the accelerator, the car would just tip upwards, like a motorbike when its rider pops too high a wheelie. At first, Moriarty wondered if the corpse in the boot was weighing them down, but he could tell after not too long that it was just the car. The noise was not nearly as bad inside though; he'd expected the roar to be deafening from the inside but it was smooth as a low moan. The highway took a slight turn to the left and he cleared it, steering like a professional. For all he'd been insulting the car earlier, it handled wonderfully. While Formula One back on earth would scoff at its design, they would probably fall in love with it if they tried it out.

The growling in his stomach told him that his hunger was back. What if this road led nowhere? Even on American highways, you could go a hundred miles without so much as a burger van jotting the highway. Was it possible this highway was even more devoid of life? He'd seen nothing yet, and if he had been on a road on earth he would have seen at least one house in the distance. He supposed that people like the previous owner of their car wouldn't travel the roads if they led to nothing for a thousand miles. There had to be something their victim was driving to.

"Stop the car," said Fring suddenly, and he spun his head around. He'd been silently observing the scenery, but his cunning, beady eyes had fixed on something. Moriarty ground to a halt, and his passenger immediately got out. He gestured for him to follow, and after a few steps, pointed to a road sign in the dusk. It was wooden and barely on its hinge, but it was definitely a road sign.

"Jesus Christ," said Moriarty. "Thank fuck."

They moved to its front and studied the roadsign. The directions had been burned into the wood with some kind of soldering iron, and the effect was that the thing looked like a child had erected it. They studied the writing, which, despite the effect of the soldering iron, was very legible.

"Pangaw. 3CM," Fring read, shrugging. "Do you know what it means?"

"Of course not. But CM is obviously a unit of distance otherwise it wouldn't be on a roadsign. I'd guess Pangaw is a town? Maybe even a city? Either way," he said, and an edge crept into his voice, "both of our healths are going to deteriorate if we waste any more time."

Fring was briefly taken aback, and his cold eyes bore straight into Moriarty's. The look in his eyes said that he wasn't accustomed to receiving threats, and he did not take well to them. Any other man would have taken Fring's gaze as a cue to back down, to take a step back and perhaps mumble some kind of apology without losing face. The Napoleon of Crime, however, did not move an inch and met his travelling companion's eyes without blinking. The standoff lasted for perhaps three seconds without either man saying a word. After those three seconds, which could have lasted a lifetime to either one of them, Fring's featured softened and he turned towards the car.

"You're right," he said, slowly. "Let's move."

They sat in the same places as they got into the car. Moriarty sped them in the direction of Pangaw. He pictured the kind of place it would be. The crude wooden road sign suggested it was probably not a metropolis, probably some one-horse town where cars would gas-up. Did cars take petrol here? He had no way of telling, but he struggled to think of what alternative fuel they would use. This was most certainly not an electric car.

There was no small-talk for the next step of the journey. It was a contented silence, not awkward, but one of two individuals who simply don't have anything pressing to say to one another. Moriarty started a yawn and stifled it. He was tired as well as hungry; once they ate and found a convenient place to dump the body, he would sleep like baby.

After a few minutes, he saw it.

In front of them on the highway rose a stone wall, around twenty feet in height. The stone was of an old, dark texture, making it look vaguely medieval. Behind this wall there was a town. He could only see it from a slight angle (the highway was on a slight incline) but he could tell it was a frontier town, like in the old west. The buildings were made of wood and crude brick. The medieval stone wall enveloped the town completely, again like a medieval village. When he was in school (before he killed Carl Powers) he had been taken to Boulogne in France, the famous walled city, and Pangaw struck him as a miniaturised version of it. The highway stretched around Pangaw, which struck Moriarty as strange. It diverted clear off of it, with only a diverted road carrying on to the town itself. At the end of the diverted road there was a gate built into the stone wall. It was less a medieval village gate than an opening with thick parking lot barrier gates set in front of it. When he looked closer, he saw that the barriers were made of logs. It was quaint in a way that, were he more of an aesthete, he could have considered it fascinating.

"I don't like this, Jim," Fring said, suddenly.

"Give it a rest, you sound like fucking Spock." He grinned, and it was not reciprocated.

"We have a body in our trunk," Fring replied. "There's obviously someone manning that gate. If they ask to search the trunk, we're in trouble. There's a reason the highway diverts from this place…they're obviously selective over whom they allow in."

"If they ask to search our trunk, I'll kill them too," said Moriarty, hoping that was not the case. "I need to stop. If we keep going and I don't find a place to eat, I'm going to start by eating our friend back there. You heard me say start, right?"

"We'll go in," Fring replied, ignoring the second threat. "But be cautious."

They approached the gate, and a small, officious-looking man appeared from the other side of the gate. He was perhaps five foot tall, and he wore what looked like a primitive military uniform. It was something you might find in the Yugoslav wars; faded green khaki and a leather jacket. He gazed on the two suspiciously.

"Bonsoir, gentlemen," he said in a perfect French accent. "You are from the Fields, yes? You are passing through?"

"Peut-être, Monseur," said Moriarty, remembering the French word for 'maybe'. "We would like to settle for the night."

"Most of the newborns sleep in the Fields," the guard replied, but he sounded sympathetic. "You may have difficulty finding a bed without money. If you cannot find somewhere, I would still recommend you sleep outside within the walls. The roads are très dangereux, oui?"

"Dangerous how?" Fring asked.

"Bandits!" said the strange little Frenchman. "Vagabonds, yes? You can learn more about them inside if you wish. Talk to Vicky, the barkeeper."

"Thank you," said Moriarty. The man removed both of the logs from the gate, allowing them to pass. As they prepared to drive in, the man gave them a small wave.

"Welcome to Pangaw," he said. "My name is Henri."

They introduced themselves briefly, then drove slowly inside the town.