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The world lies devastated after the massive oil crisis that was described in LAST LIGHT. Human society has more or less entirely broken down and millions lie dead of starvation or disease. There are only one or two beacon communities that have managed to fashion a new way of living. Jenny Sutherland runs one of these groups. Based on a series of decaying offshore oil rigs - for safety - a few hundred people have rebuilt a semblance of normality in this otherwise dead world. But as Jenny and her people explore their surroundings once again, they start to realise not every survivor has the same vision of a better future than their catastrophic past. There are people out there who would take everything they have. War is coming, and the stakes are truly massive ...
wave. Just the bloody staring. He knew what it was. That silly rumour. Alice Harton’s rumour, or whoever else she’d picked it up from. Just words. The rigs were full of words. In between chores it was all there was to do, gossip. But this . . . it was nasty. And there really was no verbal defence a man could make against that kind of innuendo. In fact, to bluster aloud that he’d never had any inappropriate thoughts about Hannah would seem to condemn him still further. He protesteth too much!
to have managed thus far on what they could produce. ‘You grow food,’ she replied. Adam’s lips curled with a derisory sneer. ‘It’s not enough. Nowhere near enough. There are two thousand, two hundred and seventy-nine people living here. What we’ve managed to produce out there would sustain less than half that number. This is our third year of trying to grow our own stuff. Last summer was better than the first. This summer was worse than either. I don’t know whether we’re doing things all wrong;
his feet. The tug bobbed on the choppy water like a stir-crazy dog on a leash as the last dozen workers shuffled across the boarding plank and down into the third barge’s hold. ‘That’s it I think, Chief,’ said Snoop. ‘Thank you, Edward.’ The late-afternoon sun burned off the glass and steel sides of the distant office towers of Canary Wharf. He’d so very much wanted to get off at first light this morning without a fuss . . . without having to post cordons of guards, without having to waste
getting up now. ‘I’m going,’ she announced. ‘You boys stay here and get pissed if that’s what you want, but I’m leaving.’ ‘Look,’ said one of them, ‘why don’t you stay?’ Phrased as a question, as if she was being given a choice in the matter. The nearest boy took another step forward, wobbling uncertainly on his feet and swigging again from his plastic bottle. Her hand closed around a wooden handle poking out from the waistline of her skirt. She pulled the knife out, feeling emboldened by the
nagging Nathan to swap because his saddle looked more padded. She held the iPod in her hand, still smooth and unscratched, box-new in fact. Her thumb remembered how to switch it on. The small screen flickered, glowing weakly in the afternoon light. She stared down at the small screen in the palm of her hand, a menu that, once upon a time, had been so familiar to her. She must have scrolled up and down through it a million times back in the old world . . . Music Photos Videos Extras Settings