Alice touched the glass of the car, looking out at the drab trees sweeping by. Beside her, Jill was doing her nails. Beside Jill, Carlos was sucking on his spillproof cup.

The sky was the colour of blank metal, angry-looking in its aggressive lack of colour. The trees were browning, and the grass looked dead. It looked cold outside, chilly. This was a land of wolves, and of hard farms, and dangerous myths.

"Hold it," Alice said, looking at the drivers. "Spain. We're supposed to be in Spain. We're supposed to be going to Madrid."

"My friend, but this is Spain," the driver said. "Look outside. Look at the trees, the hard ground, the drab colours, the chill in the air. There is almost a frost. How could it not be Spain?"

"This is look like some poor pre-Soviet Eastern European country."

"Yes. Like Spain. Exactly."

"Spain is warm. There's sunlight, and blue skies, and green trees. There's deserts, for crying out loud. It's on the Mediterranean! Ever heard of Tabernas?"

"No."

"It's in Almeria."

"Never heard of the place."

"It's right because a big, fucking desert. It's a big tourist attraction! Hollywood films movies there all the time!"

"Look outside. Do you see deserts? Do you see light, colour, passion, the music of Spain?"

"No."

"Exactly. You must be thinking of some other Spain. Obviously."

"We just want to go to Madrid."

"Ah, a sad city, indeed. The poor are numerous there, clad in their brown rags, lining up for their food tickets, braving the cold that always clings there, afraid of the warwolfs."

"No, it is not!"

"Look, who's the Spaniard? Me or you? Anyways, you're in luck. There was a cup came out here today looking for -- what was he looking for, Berovnovik?"

"Oh come on, now, that's not even a Spanish name!"

The other Spaniard turned and look at her. "Again, lady, we're Spanish. You're not. Yes, I remember that man well. He was looking for the president's daughter."

"Which president's daughter?"

"... The president?"

"The Spanish president?"

"There's a Spanish president? No, we meant the American president. Haven't you seen any American movies?"

The other Spaniard nodded. "Ivan Berovnovik here learned the knowledge of the world from American movies."

Ivan nodded. "Because there are not many Spanish schools, you know, being that this is such a poor country built on farming potatoes."

"Oh, come on now."

"And according to your American movies, the only president that exists is yours. So I assume the kidnapping of his daughter would be a major event."

"Makes sense," the other Spaniard said. "Since they're sending a single man off into the middle of nowhere with only two members of the local police to back him up."

"Makes perfect sense," Ivan said.

"Are we there yet?" Carlos asked, looking up.

"Oh, Carlos," Jill said, reaching over. "You've spit up all over yourself."

The car parked. "Here we go! Madrid!"

Alice looked out. A path led off into the forest. There was a broken-down wooden sign next to the path, stained with what looked like blood. The entrails of some animal hung off a rusty spoke.

"Do you even know what Madrid is?" she asked.

"Obviously, since we're Spaniards and this is Spain."

Moments later, Alice, Jill and Carlos stood on the side of the road, and the car drove off.

"Ah Madrid!" Jill said. "Sun and blue sky! Beaches! Rich millionaires! Bullfights! Spanish guitar! Maracas!"

She looked around. "Isn't Madrid supposed to be next to a river?"

Sighing, Alice started up the path. Carlos toddled after them, holding Jill's hand.

"Silence," Alice said, cocking her head. "Hear that? No birds or animals. Carlos, do you still have that gun?"

"Carlos doesn't want to get the gun!" Carlos said.

"Carlos..."

"Carlos doesn't waaaaaaaant!"

A number of blackbirds flew up into the trees. Alice looked up the path. There was a man there, teetering, looking at them. He looked like a grizzled farmer from a pre-Soviet Eastern European country. He muttered something, presumably in Spanish.

"There's a local," Alice said. "Does anyone have the eng-spa dictionary?"

"I left it on the car," Jill said.

"Perfect."

"Not to worry. I happen to know French."

"They're Spanish."

"Well, for fuck's sake, Alice."

"Carlos want potty," Carlos said.

"Bo-shuda, Solo," the man at the head of the path said. "Huh huh huh."

"Uh," Alice said. "Do you speak English?"

"Solo! Hay lapa no ya, Solo!" He started tottering towards them. Out of his pants he pulled a long knife.

"He's pulling a knife," Alice said.

"Probably some weird German greeting ritual," Jill said.

"Spanish."

"Whatever."

"Han, mah bukee, keel-ee caleya ku kah."

"Carlos?" Alice said.

"What?"

"The pistol, please?"

"I left it in the car."

"Oh, for god's sake, Carlos! I oughta-"

The man swung the knife. Alice rearranged his limb structure.

"Well," Jill said, leaning over the body. "He's not a zombie..."

"Whatever is happening here," Alice said, "it's bad. We should investigate."

"Investigate this Spanish wilderness?"

"Yes. Totally Spanish."

"Because we're in Spain."

"Obviously."