The next world sees skies of silent blue. Salo trudges back from town on day three. The pack mule is loaded with groceries. Canned food, labels worn. Fresh water in gallons. No samples to speak of. At this point, we know every dead future like the backs of our hands.

Salo powers the pack mule down, setting it on its haunches on the beach.

"Any luck?" I ask.

"Respiratory disease," they sign. "Every place was empty when I got there."

"Too late, then." I check my timer. Zeroes fill the screen. "Next stop?"

We load the pack mule in and lash the supplies to the boat. I fold the pylons down. Salo pushes this time. I pack myself into the crawlspace. When it's far out enough, they slide in with me, and we sail into the surf once more.

"Increment coordinates by one."
///

Fingers on the dial, bracing for impact on the sand. Hatch is open brimming with dusk and cold. The sun is nowhere to be seen. Black octagons eclipse the sky.

"Rogue sunshade scenario," Salo signs. We both know what that means. The timer's dipping in the two-digits. Agriculture won't last long. We shutter the hatch and try again.

"Increment coordinates by one."
///

We exit on the boat to shifting sand. Salo unloads the pack mule and we trudge up the beach. A broken viaduct looms over the dunes, wildgrass in its shadow. Concrete wrecks litter the land beyond. Skeletons of a network that once was.

Inspecting the ruins, we find tide marks and rusted steel. With the pack mule's help, we piece together the remains of a pillar. Hard to tell how old it is, but the wine-dark stains reach more than twenty metres above the ground.

"Timer?" Salo signs.

I glance at my wrist. Two digits, but the numbers are changing. "Probably some holdouts," I reply. "Let's stay a while more."

We pitch camp below one of the fragments. I unfurl the boat's pylons, keeping them in sight. Salo, with the pack mule, journeys out into the plains.

They return three days later. The pack mule is empty.

"This continent starved a century ago," they sign.

I've caught no signals in three days. We pack our things onto the boat, and head out once more.

"Increment coordinates by one."
///

The water's impossibly shallow, too shallow for the boat. When we push it to shore, the pylons drag against the sand.

The sand is the colour of ash, stretching impossibly flat into the distance. Dust columns traverse the horizon. They are the same colour as the ground. They move with purpose, evenly-spaced. Programmed, no doubt, to the beat of some forgotten code.

Salo analyses a vial of the dust, reading silica crystals, copper microthreads, a sprinkling of magnetised rare earth metals. Under the microscope, it still continues to churn.

"Don't bother," I sign. "This world will soon be dust."

The timer on my wrist reads zero. We depart beneath the glittering moon, a chipped disk of polished steel. Overhead, the stars have all gone out.

"Increment coordinates by one."
///

Another dead world. Heavy rain beats against the hull. The sun is a red glow. Zeroes fill my timer. No need to open the hatch here.

"Sulfates, nitrates," proclaims Salo, glancing at the readouts in their lap. "Acid, all the way through."

Staying too long will dull our sensors and ruin our rations. I dial in the next stop.

"Increment coordinates by one."
///

On this beach, our suits sing a clicking, chiming polyphony. Three-and-a-half roentgens, more or less, flickering with the wind. It is stronger in the sand than in the sea.

"Timer?" asks Salo.

I show them my wrist. Three digits and stable.

"Maybe it's localised," Salo shrugs. "Check the signals."

I raise the pylons. Dead air, save for an encrypted pulsing in certain bands. Whoever's still alive won't be extending a welcome.

"We can resupply, at least," I sign. "Let's not stay out for long."

Camp becomes the crawlspace of the boat. Salo walks the pack mule to the nearest settlement for six hours at a time. They bring back leaden canfuls of dried grain. On my end, I try to unscramble the signals, assembling a militarised geography of the afterworld, etching their names on the sand. Novaya Zemlya. Castle Station. Longshan Zonghe Sheshi.

Once or twice, I hear what sounds like flight radar. I keep the pylons switched off at night, just in case.

Salo returns prematurely on night five -- sprinting in their suit, waving madly, pack mule galloping. They jab a finger to the sky. I squint, confused. Then their message hits me like a brick. I power up the generator. The pylons fold. The dials are warm and ticking long before my partner squeezes in.

They're mouthing to me, no time to sign. GO, GO, GO.

A shadow flies overhead, black and fast. A roaring from the sky. Then a flash, and a burst of hot wind.

The sea boils. Over the dunes, the night has turned to day.

"Increment the damn coordinates, now!"
///

We feel the heat of this landing through the metal of the hatch. Outside, the sun burns the sky pink. The timer flickers two, one digits. Decrementing in real time.

Our sensors are still attached, though some of them are fried. The pack mule, thankfully, remains intact.

We float in the surf for a little while. Salo helps me remove my helmet. I help them remove theirs. In the light of the crawlspace, I study the ridged contours of their face. Their eyes, deep black, look straight into mine.

"Are you okay?" I sign.

"Never been better," they smile.

"Well, then." I turn to the dial. "Onto the next one."

"Increment coordinates by one."