Just then a lorry emerged from behind us, in it sitting the ugliest man I’d come to see: patches of moss dressed his bare limbs, ants crawled through his unravelling shirt, and fleas dozed in his mess of hair. He smiled – his teeth were a lumpy brown.
‘Travellers, ye?’ Douglas nodded. ‘So where ye be going?’ Douglas pointed west. Obviously he’d no idea where we were headed.
‘Mocha City,’ he remarked. ‘Some few miles across.’ The driver raised his eyebrows.
‘I’ve never heard o’ no Mocha City,’ he grumbled, fumbling with his tar-stained fingers. ‘Guess ye better turn back ‘ome ‘an get a nice supper.’ I shrank back in my seat as the eyes penetrated through me. A moment later, he was off. I sighed in relief.
‘You think that chap was telling the truth?’
‘Well of course he was! You’ve no idea where you’re going! Admit it!’ I couldn’t stand it any longer. ‘Douglas, it’s time to wake up. We’re not getting anywhere, and even that lorry driver knows better.’ But before I could finish my sentence, a deafening roar sounded behind us. I turned and, to my horror, saw a stampede of bulls snorting across the wasteland, headed right for us. I screamed.