Grunting and panting, the physical exertion felt almost primal as Charles and I wrestled with the fifth large white barrel, its daunting weight a test of our determination. This wasn't just any task; it was a trial, a tangible measure of our resolve. The barrel, its surface smooth and unyielding under our sweat-slicked palms, seemed almost a beast to be tamed as we strained to tilt and rotate it along its round bottom edge. Each movement was a calculated effort, a dance of strength and balance, as we slowly inched our way toward the Portal.

The Portal itself had been strategically relocated to the glass sliding door separating the living room from the outdoor patio, a threshold between worlds both literal and metaphorical. Emerging from the large garage, the cool air of the afternoon kissed our flushed faces, offering a brief respite from the stifling confines we'd just left. Our tremendously heavy loot—this particular container filled with rice, each grain a potential lifeline in the world of Clivilius—seemed to mock us with its inert weight.

Amidst our concerted struggle, Charles abruptly halted, his sudden stop nearly causing me to lose my grip on the barrel's thick plastic edge. The abrupt cessation of movement threw me off balance, both physically and mentally, as the ambient sounds of our efforts were abruptly replaced by an eerie silence. It was as if the world itself had paused, holding its breath in anticipation. The only sound that remained was the muffled thumping of our own hearts, a result of the exertion and the sudden spike of adrenaline coursing through our veins.

"What's—" I began, the confusion clear in my voice, my mind racing to understand the sudden change. But Charles swiftly shushed me with a gesture, his index finger pressed against his lips, his eyes wide with a mix of caution and curiosity. It was a look that immediately set my nerves on edge, a clear signal that something was amiss.

"Did you hear that?" he whispered, his voice barely audible over the now apparent silence that enveloped us. The question sent a shiver down my spine, a premonition of something unseen and perhaps unfriendly lurking in the shadows.

I shook my head, my senses straining in the silence, trying to pierce the quiet with sheer will. "Hear what?" I whispered back, the words barely escaping my lips. My eyes darted around the dimly lit garage, seeking out any anomaly, any sign of the source of Charles's alarm. The air felt charged, thick with the tension of unseen dangers, a stark contrast to the mundane task we had been so focused on moments before.

A sudden, loud bang echoed against the garage door, its force reverberating through the air and sending a jolt of fear straight through me. The announcement that followed, "Police. Anyone in there?" carried with it the unmistakable weight of authority, its words slicing through the silence and casting an ominous shadow over our clandestine activities. The reality of our situation crashed down on me, the thrill of our adventure now tinged with a sharp edge of danger.

An unsettling chill raced down my spine, momentarily paralysing me as the implications of being discovered threatened to overwhelm my thoughts. Beside me, Charles, his youthful face etched with a mixture of fear and determination, delivered a hushed directive. "We must go, now," he hissed, his voice barely a whisper yet imbued with an urgency that propelled me into action. Without a second thought, we abandoned our heavy cargo, the barrel of rice suddenly insignificant compared to the threat looming just beyond the garage door.

My heart hammered in my chest as Charles led the way. We moved with caution, navigating the narrow path between stacked boxes and forgotten items, remnants of a life less complicated. The thumping of police on the garage door grew louder, an unsettling percussion that seemed to echo with each beat of my heart, urging us to hasten our escape.

Reaching the end of the garage, Charles abruptly stopped and turned back to me. His eyes, wide and questioning, bore into mine. "Aren't you coming too?" he hissed, the urgency in his gaze mingling with a hint of fear. The sounds of the police, their authoritative knocks growing ever more insistent, seemed to punctuate his question, lending an acute sense of immediacy to our predicament.

Shaking my head, I silently mouthed, "No," my decision made in the span of a heartbeat. My eyes briefly darted toward the source of the rhythmic echoes of authority that seemed to be closing in with each passing second. I returned my gaze to Charles, ensuring our exchange remained as discreet as possible under the circumstances.

"I'm going to hang around a bit longer," I whispered back to him, my voice a mere breath against the backdrop of the intensifying drumming of police fists on metal. The resolve in my voice belied the turmoil churning within me. "I need to know what the police know and why they are even here." The words felt heavy, laden with a mix of courage and recklessness. In that moment, I was acutely aware of the gravity of my decision, the potential consequences it could have not just for me, but for Charles, Jerome, and our entire undertaking.

Charles eyed me with a look that was hard to decipher, his expression caught somewhere between concern and the uncertainty of our predicament. The dim light of the garage cast shadows across his face, making his youthful features appear more solemn than usual.

"It could have huge implications," I found myself whispering, the words barely escaping my lips as I glanced nervously towards the closed garage door. I wasn't entirely sure of the exact implications myself, but the urgency of staying informed and ahead of any potential threat pressed heavily upon me.

"I don't think you should," Charles insisted, his voice carrying a weight of fear and protective concern that was uncharacteristic of his usually adventurous spirit. His eyes, wide and searching, seemed to probe for reassurance in mine, looking for a sign that might dissuade me from what he perceived as a risky course of action.

"It's okay," I reassured him, trying to muster as much confidence into my voice as I could. My hands moved almost of their own accord to close the Portal, severing the visible connection between our hidden Clivilius and the outside world.

Charles looked perplexed, torn between his trust in me and the fear of the unknown that loomed just outside our sanctuary. "They can't enter without a warrant," I assured him, trying to sound more convinced than I felt. The rhythmic pounding of authority outside served as a stark, unnerving reminder of our vulnerability, the thin veil of security that hung precariously between us and them.

Biting his lower lip, a nervous habit he'd had since childhood, Charles's fingertips absently scratched at the eczema in the crook of his elbow—a telltale sign of his growing anxiety. "Are you sure they don't already have one?" he whispered, his voice barely audible over the growing cacophony outside. The question, simple yet loaded with fear, caught me off guard, sending a jolt of panic through my veins.

"Why would they?" I retorted almost defensively, my brain racing through potential scenarios, searching for a rational explanation that could quell the rising tide of fear. The truth was, I had no way of knowing for sure, no solid ground upon which to base my reassurance.

Charles shrugged, a gesture that felt heavy with implication. His eyes, reflecting the dim light, mirrored the unsettling reality we found ourselves in. "Why would they even be here in the first place?" he asked, his voice barely more than a breath.

The tight knot in the pit of my stomach twisted tighter, a physical manifestation of the dread that crept along the edges of my mind. My youngest brother had a very valid point—one that I couldn't ignore. What are they even doing here? The uncertainty of it all felt overwhelming, a nebulous threat that loomed larger with each passing second.

The roller door rumbled to life, its mechanical growl a sudden and jarring herald of the urgency now coursing through my veins. "Shit!" I hissed under my breath, the expletive slipping out almost reflexively as my fingers tightened around Charles's arm. With a firm grip, I pulled him along, our escape from the garage propelling us onto the expansive patio. The cool air of the afternoon brushed against my skin, and the heated rush of adrenaline flooded my system.

Charles, breathless from the sudden exertion, whispered sharply in my ear, "Crap, they're inside the house!" His words, laced with panic, sent another shock of fear through me. Without taking a moment to confirm his claim, I pressed on, guiding us around the corner of the shed. Here, we were concealed from the garage and the clear glass of the backdoor, our movements as stealthy as shadows in the dim light of the mottled sky.

Time seemed to stretch into an agonising eternity, each moment elongated as we strained to avoid detection. The adrenaline coursing through me heightened my senses, making every sound, every shadow, feel like a potential threat. What felt like hours transpired in mere minutes, the distorted passage of time a testament to the intensity of our predicament.

Then, the sliding door of the house glided open, its movement accompanied by a low hum that signalled the approach of a formidable presence. My breathing deepened, unconsciously matching the erratic thump of my heart as the sound of heavy police boots clomped around the patio. The deliberate pace of those boots, the authority they commanded with each step, felt like a noose tightening around us.

"Can't we go to Clivilius now?" Charles pleaded, the fear evident in his shaky voice cutting through the tension. His eyes, wide and searching, looked to me for a solution, a way out of this increasingly dire situation.

My head shook in response, my eyes scanning our immediate surroundings for any possible advantage. "There's nowhere to activate the Portal here. I need a flat surface," I told him, running my hand along the shed's undulating exterior to emphasise the point. The rough texture of the shed's surface under my fingertips felt grounding. "A surface big enough for a person to fit through," I added, the weight of our limited options pressing heavily upon me.

"Crap!" Charles hissed, his eyes widening in a realisation that mirrored my own. The blunt reality of our situation was clear—we were trapped, with no immediate means of escape to Clivilius. The realisation hung between us, heavy and foreboding, as the sounds of the police presence drew nearer. In that moment, the shed wasn't just a barrier between us and them; it was a reminder of the thin line we walked between freedom and capture.

Another set of footsteps joined the symphony of sounds on the patio, the crisp clarity of their approach cutting through the tense silence. "Have you found anything?" the firm voice asked, its authoritative tone slicing through the air like a knife. The presence of another, confirming the search was intensifying, sent a fresh wave of anxiety coursing through me.

"There appears to have been recent activity here, but there doesn't appear to be anyone here now," the female officer replied. Her voice, professional and detached, offered a stark contrast to the racing thoughts in my head. An exhale I hadn't realised I was holding escaped me as a temporary reprieve settled over us, the tension in my shoulders easing ever so slightly at her words.

"Would it really be so bad if we, or at least I, reveal myself to them?" Charles whispered, his voice barely audible, laden with a mix of desperation and naivety. The question, innocent in its asking, belied the complexity of the further complications such an action might cause.

My eyes narrowed, and I frowned at him. "The rest of the family is in Clivilius. Do you think the police will let you join them so easily? Imagine all the questions they'll force you to answer." My words were sharp, not out of irritation with Charles, but from a place of protective urgency. The thought of entangling him further into this web of complexity and danger was unbearable.

Charles sighed. I could see the internal conflict playing out on his face, a tumultuous sea of realisation and resignation. "You're right," he admitted, his voice a murmur of acquiescence to the harsh truths of our situation.

The male officer spoke again, his voice cutting through our whispered exchange. "Let's go. There's nobody inside either. There's an almost empty room at the back of the house, and a shopping trolley full of toilet paper. No idea what that means." The casual dismissal of our carefully laid plans, represented by that trolley full of toilet paper, felt like a mockery of our efforts.

"Judging by all the Jesus pictures on the walls," a third voice spoke condescendingly, "I'd say they're preppers." The scorn in the statement, the reduction of our lives and fears to a stereotype, stung with an unexpected intensity. It was a reminder of how easily misunderstood our actions could be, how quickly our attempts to protect and prepare could be trivialised by those looking in from the outside.

The footsteps on the patio, once a distant threat, began to move again, each step a palpable echo of our escalating fear. "Wait!" the female officer's voice pierced the tense silence, a command that froze me in place. The urgency in her tone suggested she had discovered something significant.

"What is it?" The inquiry from her colleague was laced with curiosity and concern, reflecting the gravity of her interruption.

"Somebody was here very recently," the woman officer replied, her tone indicating a discovery that piqued her interest and heightened the stakes of our precarious situation.

A pause hung in the air, thick with anticipation, before the second pair of feet stepped onto the patio once more. The moment stretched on, each second a sharp note of suspense. Then the female officer continued, "It looks like there is blood on the edge of the shed. It's fresh too." Her observation, clinical and detached, sent a jolt of fear through me.

"Shit!" I hissed under my breath, the word slipping out as a reflex. My gaze locked with Charles’s, his eyes wide with panic. Quickly, we checked ourselves over and I found a small cut near my left elbow, the skin there tender and slightly parted—a minor injury that now felt monumental. "I think it's my blood," I told Charles, the words heavy with dread. My blood pressure skyrocketed at the realisation that this inadvertent clue could lead the police directly to me, that they would have my DNA.

"I'll call for backup," an officer stated, his voice carrying the weight of authority and the promise of an escalating situation.

"Detective Santos is already on his way. He's not far. I'll call in forensics too," the female officer called out, her voice echoing slightly as she communicated the need for further investigation.

The mention of Detective Santos and the decision to call in forensics solidified the seriousness of our situation. My mind raced, trying to piece together a plan, any plan, that could help us evade detection and the mounting legal complications. The implications of leaving behind such a personal trace as my own blood were staggering, transforming our attempt at escape into a nightmare scenario of potential capture and interrogation.

Tugging on my arm, Charles's actions spoke louder than words as he gestured toward the fence, a silent proposal that we make our escape by vaulting over it. His eyes, wide with the immediacy of our situation, conveyed a sense of urgency that was hard to ignore. However, the reality of the blood they had discovered—an undeniable trace of our presence—anchored me to the spot. Whispering sharply, a hint of frustration laced with fear colouring my tone, I reminded him, "I need to destroy the evidence."

In response, Charles pulled out his smartphone, a tool that had become an extension of our modern lives, now repurposed as a means of survival. Using the camera to carefully survey the corner of the shed, he assessed our situation with a critical eye. "I don't think they're going anywhere," he remarked, his voice low but clear.

I sighed, a mix of resignation and acknowledgment of Charles's assessment. He was right; the officers seemed to have settled in for a thorough investigation. "Wait," I whispered hastily before he could dismiss the utility of his phone in this moment.

Charles looked at me, confusion momentarily clouding his expression. His silent 'what'? hung in the air between us, a question mark that demanded an answer without the luxury of spoken words.

Responding in kind, I gestured for him to take some photos, my hands mimicking the action of snapping pictures. The necessity for visual documentation dawned on me as a crucial tactic—not just for our immediate needs, but for validating the assumption that they were simply police officers. In a world where appearances could be deceiving, and every detail mattered, these photos could prove to be invaluable.

Charles's face broke into a brief smile, a flicker of understanding crossing his features as he grasped the unspoken necessity of the action. The smartphone, a device so often used for mundane captures of daily life, was now our tool for gathering evidence, a silent witness to the unfolding drama. In that moment, the roles we had assumed—of fugitives, of survivors—were crystallised, underscored by the simple act of documenting our actions.

"Okay," I whispered to Charles, the word barely leaving my lips as I prepared us for what came next. The urgency of our situation had condensed into this single moment, a pivotal leap that could mean the difference between capture and escape.

Almost instantly, Charles lunged forward, his body tensed for action. But my quick reflexes caught hold of him and dragged him back. He turned to me, his face etched with questions, the silent 'why' clear in his eyes.

Not wanting to risk any unnecessary noise that could betray our position, I held out the Portal Key. The small device, unassuming to any unknowing observer, was our lifeline. Employing our years of childhood charade gaming, I mimed the action of activating the Portal swiftly after crossing the fence. The gestures, exaggerated and precise, were a language all their own, one that Charles and I had mastered over countless hours of play and practice.

Charles responded with a nod of acknowledgment, his features hardening with determination. He understood the plan without needing words to cloud the air between us. Then, with a leader's clarity, he signalled for me to follow his lead. He held up three fingers, a silent sentinel marking the beginning of our final countdown.

Two fingers now. My heart hammered against my ribcage, adrenaline surging through my veins like wildfire. The world seemed to narrow down to this very instant, every sense heightened, every thought focused on what needed to be done.

As the final finger closed into a closed fist, a signal as potent as any starting gun, Charles and I launched ourselves off the side of the shed. We were like lightning, our bodies propelled by a mixture of fear, hope, and sheer will. Bolting toward the back fence, every muscle fibre in my body screamed with the effort. Our footsteps clanged loudly against the metal, a cacophony that seemed impossibly loud in the quiet of the afternoon.

I landed with a heavy thud on the other side, the impact jarring yet exhilarating. Quickly, I scrambled to my feet, my first thought to check that Charles was still with me. The relief that flooded through me when I saw him land, albeit with a graceless thud of his own, was palpable. We were together, we were on the other side, and for a moment, that was all that mattered.

Yelling echoed not far behind us, a vocal reminder that our escape was far from secure. The sound, sharp and urgent, spurred us forward even as we glimpsed the first officer's head peering over the high fence. The sight sent a shock of fear through me, the realisation that we were barely a step ahead of capture.

"Keep going," Charles instructed, his voice a mix of determination and urgency as we sprinted through a small gum tree-filled reserve. The trees, with their twisted trunks and sprawling branches, offered scant cover but did little to dampen the sounds of our pursuers. The reserve, usually a place of tranquility and natural beauty, had transformed into the backdrop of our frantic flight for freedom.

Barely waiting for a gap in the traffic, we darted across the busy main road, our actions driven by desperation. The roar of engines and blare of horns filled the air as we made our daring dash, the danger from the vehicles almost as palpable as that of the chasing officers. Our destination—the shopping centre—loomed directly in our line of sight, a beacon of relative safety in the mad dash of our escape.

Glancing over my shoulder, the sight of at least one officer in pursuit added weight to the fear gnawing at my insides.

"This way," Charles said, his voice cutting through my spiralling thoughts as he pointed away from the bustling shopping centre. His quick thinking directed us around the back of the complex, away from the prying eyes of the public and, hopefully, our pursuers. The less attention we drew to ourselves, the better our chances of slipping away unnoticed.

Soon, we found a secluded alley, a narrow passageway hidden from the main thoroughfares of the shopping centre. The alley, with its shadows and silence, felt like a temporary sanctuary. With a hefty sigh of relief, we silently slipped into Clivilius, the familiar sensation of the Portal enveloping us in its embrace. The transition from the tangible, frenetic energy of our escape to the serene realm of Clivilius was initially disorienting, yet welcome.