The island, naturally, sank. As things tend to do when their narrative usefulness expires. Lorgnette floated ashore on a plank made from the marsupial’s unfinished sonnet collection, only to be greeted by a fox in a trench coat and a rabbit with a twitchy eye and a vendetta against soup. “Name’s Larry,” said the fox. “This here’s Hank. We’re in logistics.” Lorgnette stared at the burning cityscape behind them. “Logistics,” he repeated. “Yep,” Larry nodded. “We help desperate survivors trade their loved ones for canned meat.”

Over the next 48 hours, Lorgnette learned many things. For example, rabbits will absolutely sell your kidneys if you nap near a fire. And zombies, as it turns out, are surprisingly conversational—especially once you offer them a job and dental benefits. Somewhere between looting a maternity ward and being conned into organising a hostage-themed puppet show, Lorgnette began to feel the stirring of something foul. Not regret. That had long since died. No, this was deeper—like an itch beneath the soul. Something was coming. And it was wearing gloves.

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