Meanwhile in the Mid-Atlantic…
It is day, and Rentwich awakes on the jagged unforgiving rock of the black islet. From the first, he knows there is something terribly wrong. He tries to call out from a throat too dry to sound, and when he gathers the strength to look around he sees nothing. He is alone on a dead rock. And death is all around him, on the rock. And the rock itself is death. All around. On the rock.
Gordnauld: “You’re awake!”
Gordnauld approaches from further down the charcoal shoreline. Rentwich strains, but still can’t manage a response. Gordnauld produces a plastic bottle half-filled with grimy liquid.
Gornauld: “Here. Drink this. It’s rain water that collected in a small rock pool… I guess there was some sea water already in there, or maybe it splashed in after the rain water… Well… it’s possibly just sea water. Um, you want some?”
Rentwich swigs the water like a man who has met far-worse concoctions and lived to chug again. He grimaces and, his throat somewhat refreshed, he looks at Gornauld and speaks: