Arms and legs stuck out at uncomfortable, unnatural angles. The bodies had been cored like apples, their brains and spinal cords having been cut out and pasted into new cyborg bodies. Flies swarmed over the cooling meat. The workers tending the conveyor belt turned to watch her pass with dull, frightened eyes. At the end of the row of structures, they came to an exposed area that had once been a car park but which was now empty, save for a couple of rusting Citroëns and a large military transport helicopter. The helicopter’s twin rotors turned lazily. The craft had been painted the same dull, oppressive grey as the sky. Warm yellow light spilled from the ramp gaping open at its rear. The guards led Victoria to the base of the ramp and pushed her forward. She took a couple of steps, and then looked back. “You’re not coming?” she asked. They regarded her with blank, impassive expressions, their faces betraying all the verve and personality of shop window mannequins. “You go on,”
