As we crested the final dusty hill, a large huff from Paul breezed past me, mingling with the dry air that seemed to carry every sound with crystal clarity. "But I just came from there and..." His words trailed off into the vast expanse that lay before us, unfinished and hanging in the balance.

Before us, the Portal erupted into life, a spectacle that, despite its now familiar presence, never failed to capture my full attention. Its colours, an ethereal mix of hues I could hardly find names for, swirled and danced in the air, creating a mesmerising display of light and energy. Sparks flew, igniting brief but brilliant fires whenever the larger streams of light collided, painting the sky with fleeting moments of intense beauty.

"Luke?" I found myself uttering the name, though I knew the answer even as I spoke. It was more a confirmation of my own thoughts than a question meant for Paul.

"I guess so," he responded, his tone reflecting a mixture of resignation and intrigue. It was clear that the Portal's activation was no longer an unusual event for us, yet it retained an element of surprise.

"Were you expecting anything else?" Paul turned to face me, his expression one of genuine curiosity. It was a fair question. The Portal, with its sudden activations and the mysterious arrivals it heralded, was fast becoming a constant source of speculation.

My face must have been a canvas of thought, wrinkles forming as I concentrated, piecing together the possibilities. "Oh," the realisation struck me suddenly, like a missing piece of a puzzle snapping into place. "It could be the tents Luke said he had ordered." It was a mundane conclusion, yet it made sense given our needs and Luke's previous information.

Paul looked at me with a blend of skepticism and curiosity. "In a truck?" he asked, his voice laced with the incredulity of the situation. The idea of something as normal as a delivery truck appearing in proximity to the Portal with tents seemed almost laughable, yet here we were, contemplating just that.

"Who knows," I replied, my voice tinged with dry humour. "This is Luke we're talking about, remember." Luke's methods and decisions often bordered on the unconventional, if not outright bizarre. It was part of what made dealing with him both frustrating and oddly reassuring; you could never quite predict what he would do next.

"True," Paul conceded with a nod, the corners of his mouth turning up in a reluctant smile.

As if on cue, the truck, a solid mass of metal and intent, came to an abrupt stop ten meters from the Portal's reach. The sudden halt threw up a cloud of dust, enveloping the vehicle in a haze that seemed to blur the lines between the mundane and the mystical. There it was, a tangible link to the world we once knew, parked incongruously on the edge of the unknown. The sight of it, so ordinary yet so out of place, was a stark reminder of the duality of our existence: caught between the familiar and the unfathomable, always on the brink of the next discovery.

"You're not even going to drive it into the Drop Zone?" I couldn't help but huff out my disbelief as Luke made his agile descent from the cab.

Paul reached out to grab the keys still dangling from Luke's hand, perhaps thinking ahead to moving the truck ourselves.

"No!" Luke's voice snapped through the air, sharp and urgent, cutting off any further speculation. He turned on his heel, rushing to the back of the truck with a purpose that left no room for argument. Paul and I exchanged a quick, bemused glance before hurrying after him, drawn into the unfolding drama.

"But..." Paul started, obviously still trying to piece together a plan that made more sense than standing idly by.

"There's no time to move it. The delivery guy is in the toilet. We only have a matter of minutes to get all these boxes out!" Luke's voice was thick with urgency, his explanation tumbling out in a rush. The situation was far from ideal, teetering on the edge of absurdity.

"Shit!" The expletive slipped out, a reflexive acknowledgment of our predicament. Time was not our ally, and the unexpected complication of a temporarily absent delivery driver only added to the pressure.

"Tents?" Paul sought confirmation.

"Yeah," Luke confirmed, his actions betraying his haste. He threw the back door of the truck open with such force that the resulting clang resonated like a gong, the sound reverberating off the truck's metal confines and into the open air around us. The noise was so unexpectedly loud in the quiet that surrounded us, it felt like a physical blow.

"Shit, Luke," I couldn't help but cry out, my hands flying to my ears in a vain attempt to muffle the ringing that ensued. The world seemed to vibrate with the echo of metal on metal, a harsh reminder of our urgency.

"Oops," Luke's voice carried a hint of sheepishness as he reached up to grab the metal pole just inside the door, pulling himself up with ease.

"How many are there again?" Paul's voice was steady as he reached up, ready to take the first box from Luke.

"Three."

"At least that will give us something to do," Paul commented, throwing the statement in my direction, a wry acknowledgment of our sudden shift from searching for food to frantic activity.

I don't want something else to do, my tired brain wailed silently. The day's exertions had already taken their toll, and the thought of additional tasks was anything but welcome. I just want to go home. Yet, despite my internal protests, I reached out to take another box from Luke. "True," I found myself agreeing, albeit reluctantly. The admission was heavy with resignation, a tacit acceptance of our shared plight.

The urgency of our task lent an almost frantic pace to our movements as the three of us worked in tandem to unload all the tent boxes. We dumped them unceremoniously in the dust at our feet, a testament to the haste dictated by the circumstances. I had already formulated a plan in my mind, intending to leave Paul with the task of relocating the boxes to a more suitable spot once Luke had disappeared from the scene. It was a silent expectation, one born of necessity rather than desire.

"Thanks," Luke's voice cut through the thick air, a semblance of gratitude lacing his words as he jumped down from the back of the truck. His motion for Paul and me to close up the back was swift, a clear indication of his rush to return to the cab. The urgency was palpable, a tangible force that seemed to drive every action, every decision in those moments.

"You coming back soon?" I called after him, the words almost catching in the dryness of my throat. "I'm hungry." It was a half-hearted attempt to inject a semblance of normalcy into the situation, a reminder of mundane concerns amidst Luke’s chaos. But Luke's silence in response was as telling as any words could have been.

I looked at Paul, seeking some semblance of understanding or perhaps solidarity in our shared predicament. And Paul looked back at me, his gaze reflecting the resignation that had settled over us. It was a silent exchange, one that spoke volumes of our expectations—or the lack thereof—when it came to Luke's promises and assurances. We were not surprised by the lack of response, it was a pattern we had come to expect.

The truck roared to life, a mechanical beast awakening, and vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving behind a cloud of dust and the echo of its departure. The abruptness of its exit left a palpable void.

"Odd," I said aloud, my voice breaking the silence that had settled over us. My brow creased in thought, a reflection of the puzzlement that nagged at the back of my mind.

Paul picked up the corner of one of the larger boxes, his actions pragmatic as always. "What is?" he asked.

"The Portal is still open," I replied, my words tinged with a sense of foreboding. I moved closer to it, drawn by an inexplicable curiosity and perhaps a hint of concern. The Portal's persistent openness was an anomaly, one that did not align with the usual patterns we had come to expect.

"Luke must be coming back then," Paul surmised, his statement more a reflection of hope than conviction. It was a possibility, of course, one that offered a semblance of reassurance in the face of the unknown. Yet, as I stood there, staring into the swirling colours and the infinite possibilities beyond, I couldn't shake the feeling of unease that settled over me. The open Portal was a doorway to untold stories, and Luke's silence hung between us like a heavy curtain, obscuring what lay ahead.

Standing there, barely an inch away from the swirling colours that obscured the Portal's usually translucent screen, a mix of dread and curiosity welled up inside me. The vibrant hues seemed almost alive, a mesmerising dance of light and shadow that beckoned and warned all at once. Daring to hope, yet aware of the potential consequences, I tentatively pushed my hand towards the vibrant wall of colour, my heart hammering in my chest with a mix of fear and anticipation.

Do not tempt me, Jamie Greyson! The voice of Clivilius, cold and stern, crashed into my thoughts like a wave against rocks, sending a shiver of fear down my spine. Or the next time I will rescind the offer of new life. And you will need it. The threat, laced with a chilling certainty, echoed in the recesses of my mind, turning the fear into a tangible force that gripped my heart.

"Fuck!" The word tore from my lips, a raw expression of frustration and anger, as I kicked at the ground, sending a large cloud of dust billowing into the air. The action was futile, a physical manifestation of my inner turmoil, yet it offered a brief, cathartic release.

"No luck then?" Paul's voice drifted to me, tinged with a note that sounded perilously close to sarcasm, though I knew it was more likely an attempt at levity in the face of our bizarre and tense situation.

Sardonically, I responded not with words but with a gesture, my middle finger raised in a silent reply. It was a crude but succinct expression of my current state of mind. Words felt inadequate, too constrained to convey the tumult of emotions roiling within me—anger, frustration, a gnawing sense of helplessness.

I wanted to lash out at Clivilius, to scream into the void that the threats had opened within me, but a sharp pain in my chest, a physical reminder of my vulnerability, made me reconsider. Is this what Clivilius meant? The question spun in my head, a dizzying reminder of the precariousness of my situation. Is this wound going to kill me if I don't surrender?

Shaking my head vigorously, I sought to dispel the dark thoughts, to reject the notion of surrender as an option. No, I'm not going to die. Not like this. The defiance, stubborn and fierce, surged within me, a beacon against the encroaching despair. I was determined, in that moment, to find another way, to defy the odds that seemed so insurmountably stacked against me. The resolve hardened within me, a silent vow that I would not let Clivilius's threats dictate the course of my fate.

Bringing myself back to the present, I turned my attention towards Paul, who was methodically moving boxes, his figure etched against the backdrop of chaos we had found ourselves in. "Where are you taking that?" I inquired, my voice breaking the heavy silence that had settled between us, just as Paul hoisted one of the smaller boxes into his arms.

"Why do you care?" His response came sharp, a bark really, laced with an edge of frustration. He didn't even bother to turn and face me, his body language closed off, a physical barrier to match the emotional one he had just erected.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I couldn't hide the sting in my voice, a mix of surprise and irritation bubbling to the surface. I found myself jogging to catch up, eager, or perhaps desperate, to bridge the distance his words had created.

Paul stopped then, his movements halting as abruptly as his words had. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice softer now, the harsh lines of his figure relaxing as he shook his head, a gesture of regret. His gaze lowered, perhaps in shame, perhaps in exhaustion. "I'm just tired and my whole body is aching."

Hearing the genuine weariness in his voice, I couldn't hold onto my frustration. It melted away, replaced by a thread of empathy. "It's okay," I replied, my voice gentle, trying to offer solace in the sparse comfort we had at our disposal. "I get it." The truth was, I did. The physical toll of our situation was matched only by the mental and emotional strain we were both grappling with.

Paul's gaze then lifted, locking onto mine, and in that moment, I felt a wave of discomfort wash over me. It was an intense scrutiny, one that seemed to search for something I wasn't sure I wanted found.

Seeking to break the tension, I reached for a distraction. "That dust storm last night was pretty brutal," I said. I lifted my sweat-drenched t-shirt to reveal the evidence of the storm's brutality—a very red chest marred by a large welt sitting squarely between my pecs—the intention was to share in the mutual acknowledgment of our shared ordeal.

"What the fuck!" The exclamation burst from Paul, a mix of shock and concern colouring his tone. "What the hell is that?" His approach was swift, a step closer taken with the intent of inspecting the damage.

Quickly, almost reflexively, I let go of my top, allowing the fabric to fall back into place, concealing the angry mark on my chest. Despite knowing the severity of the injury, I hadn't mustered the courage to examine it closely since first pulling the shirt over my head earlier. Paul's reaction, a mix of shock and concern, was unsettling. It served as a stark reminder of the situation's gravity—a reality I was all too keen to downplay in my own mind. Yet, despite the unease that twisted in my gut, I managed to muster a façade of nonchalance.

"I think one of the hot coals struck me last night,” I found myself saying, trying to sound matter-of-fact. It was a simple explanation, one that belied the actual pain and the sudden fear that came with the realisation of how close we were to real danger.

"Shit, Jamie! I'm so sorry!" Paul's exclamation was laden with immediate concern, his earlier frustration forgotten in the face of tangible harm.

"It wasn't you," I hastened to assure him, pushing back against the guilt that seemed to shadow his features. "I think it just got caught in a gust of wind." My words were chosen to alleviate blame, to frame the incident as an unfortunate act of nature rather than anyone's fault. The truth was, in the unpredictability of our current existence, such accidents were perhaps inevitable. Yet, admitting that felt like acknowledging our vulnerability more fully than I was prepared to do.

As I watched Paul struggle with his emotions, his eyes brimming with tears and his breaths coming in heavy gulps, a weight seemed to settle over us, tangible and oppressive. "But you wouldn't have been out there if it weren't for me," he managed to say, his voice choked with guilt. It was a confession, an acknowledgment of a shared burden we both bore, though he seemed inclined to shoulder it alone.

In response, I reached down, picking up the corner of the box that had slipped from Paul's grasp in his moment of distress. Seeking to redirect our focus away from the brewing storm of guilt and recrimination, I proposed a practical course of action. "If we're going to set these up down by the river with the other tent, we may as well take these boxes straight there rather than bother with the Drop Zone," I said, my voice steady, attempting to inject a sense of pragmatism into the situation. Without waiting for his response, I turned to walk away, signalling the need to keep moving, both physically and metaphorically.

"Jamie," Paul's voice called out, a note of desperation threading through my name.

I gestured for him to follow, unwilling to pause, to allow the conversation—and by extension, our fears and doubts—to catch up to me. But Paul was persistent.

"Jamie!" His voice, louder now, carried a note of urgency that forced me to stop. "You need a doctor!" he exclaimed, hobbling to catch up, his concern for my well-being overruling any discomfort between us.

Whipping around, I confronted him, and with him, the reality of our predicament. "We don't have a fucking doctor!" I yelled, the fear and frustration I had been battling all morning breaking free in a raw, unguarded outburst.

Paul stopped, the impact of my words hitting him as visibly as a physical blow. In that moment, the barriers between us seemed to crumble, leaving us exposed to the raw pain and vulnerability we each carried.

As the tears I had been staunchly fighting began to well in my eyes, betraying the fear and desperation I felt, I found myself unable to maintain the façade of strength I had clung to. A hard sniff was my futile attempt to hold back the floodgates.

Then, unexpectedly, Paul closed the distance between us, wrapping me in a bear hug that was both surprising and grounding. "I'm so sorry, Jamie," he whispered, his voice laden with remorse and empathy.

With my eyes closed, I allowed a single tear to break free, tracing a path down my cheek. My face grew rigid, not from the physical discomfort but from the emotional turmoil that swirled within. Paul's embrace, though comforting, served as a stark reminder that our battle was far from over.

In the privacy of my own mind, I reached out to Clivilius, the entity whose presence loomed over us, unseen yet palpable. I accept your offer, Clivilius! The declaration was bold, a silent scream against the darkness. So, what the fuck do you want from me?

Sharp, insistent barking cut through the tension like a knife, snapping my focus to the present and momentarily forgetting the heavy emotions that had enveloped me. Instinctively, I pushed Paul away, my movements abrupt but driven by an urgency that went beyond our current conversation.

"Henri!" The name burst from me in a surprise. My steps quickened into a run, eager to close the distance between myself and the small, barking figure that had somehow entered the madness.

As I reached him, I bent down, my arms scooping up the chubby brown and white Shih Tzu with an ease born of many such greetings. Henri, in his unbridled joy, wasted no time in covering my face with licks, each one a testament to the bond we shared. It was a moment of pure, unadulterated happiness, a stark contrast to the complex web of emotions I had been navigating just moments before.

However, the simplicity of the moment was short-lived. My elation cooled, turning into a complicated mix of emotions as Luke appeared through the Portal, a solid figure against the pulsating colours, carrying Duke in his arms. My face dropped, the fleeting happiness of reuniting with Henri now tinged with a sense of foreboding.

"Luke! What the fuck are you doing!? Why the hell did you bring them here!?" The words erupted from me, a visceral response to the sight before my eyes. I had already made an unspoken pact with Clivilius, a promise to tether myself to this uncertain existence in exchange for some semblance of protection for us all. Yet, standing there, confronted by Luke's actions, I couldn't help but wonder what more I would be asked to sacrifice to keep the encroaching nightmare at bay.

The tension that vibrated through the air seemed to unsettle Duke, and Luke, sensing the dog's discomfort, set him down in the dusty terrain. Freed from Luke's arms, Duke almost a mirror image of Henri, with little hesitation, he began to explore his new surroundings, his nose buried in the dust as he navigated through this unfamiliar landscape with an innocence that belied our grim reality.

"What the fuck, Luke!" My frustration boiled over once more, propelling me forward. With a surge of emotion-driven strength, I gave Luke a hard shove in the chest. It was an impulsive act, driven by a mix of fear, anger, and a desperate need for answers. The force of my push sent Luke stumbling backwards.

As Luke's face hardened into an expression of anger and defiance, his words came at me like a physical blow. "Fuck off, Jamie!" he retorted with a ferocity that matched the tension crackling between us. “They’ll be fine,” he continued to yell, and mirroring my aggression, he shoved me hard in the chest, a gesture that felt like both a rebuttal and a challenge.

The force of his push caught me off guard, sending a sharp pain through my chest as I stumbled backwards. An involuntary cry escaped my lips as my hands flew to my burning chest, a reflexive attempt to shield myself from further harm. For a moment, the world seemed to pause, the air around us growing deathly still, charged with the weight of the confrontation.

"Is that blood?" Luke's voice cut through the silence, his tone shifting from anger to concern as he took a cautious step towards me. The change in his demeanour, from confrontational to worried, only served to heighten the surreal nature of the moment.

Shaking my head, I tried to dismiss his concern. "It's nothing," I insisted, though the pain and the evident physical damage suggested otherwise. My attempt to downplay the injury was a reflex, born out of a desire to avoid further conflict and perhaps to protect myself from acknowledging the severity of my condition.

"Nothing?" Luke's repetition of my words was sharp, his skepticism evident as he moved closer, dismissing my attempts to conceal the injury. With a decisiveness that left no room for protest, he snatched my arm away from my chest and lifted my shirt, revealing the extent of the damage.

The gasps from Paul and Luke were simultaneous, a shared reaction of shock and dismay that echoed my own sense of dread. As my gaze drifted downwards, the sight that greeted me was grim—a rupture where Luke's shove had aggravated the existing welt, now oozing blood and pus in ugly trails down my body. The reality of my condition, was now laid bare for all to see.

Luke’s wide eyes, filled with a dawning understanding of the consequences of his actions, held mine in a silent exchange filled with unspoken fears and accusations.

I didn't dare break my lock on Luke's eyes, the intensity of our gaze conveying more than words ever could. "You've sentenced us to death, Luke," I said softly, the words heavy with resignation and an underlying accusation. My statement was not just an expression of anger but a declaration of the grim reality we faced. "Welcome to the fucking nightmare,” I added, the bitterness in my voice a reflection of the harsh truth we could no longer avoid.

Before the camp's familiarity could offer any semblance of comfort, I veered northwest, following the river upstream with a single-minded determination. The wound on my chest, a relentless reminder of the confrontation and the raw vulnerability of my situation, continued to ooze. Each step sent a fresh trickle of blood weaving down my abs, but the physical discomfort paled in comparison to the turmoil within. The notion of escape, of finding a way out of this relentless nightmare, propelled me forward. I clung to the hope that beyond the horizon lay answers, or at the very least, a respite from the madness that had engulfed my life.

The camp, with its fragile sense of safety and companionship, faded into the distance as I pressed on. Ahead, the landscape unfolded in a tapestry of reds, browns, and the occasional splash of orange—a stark, beautiful wilderness that seemed indifferent to human suffering. The sweat that beaded on my brow and soaked through my t-shirt was a testament to the effort of my trek, the fabric clinging to my skin with an uncomfortable persistence. My shorts, damp with sweat, chafed against my inner thighs, each step becoming a test of endurance. Yet, the discomfort, the pain—it all seemed a small price to pay if it meant finding a way out.

But as the desert stretched on, the initial rush of determination began to wane, replaced by the creeping realisation of my physical limits. My legs, once driven by a desperate need to escape, began to betray me, shaking with exhaustion until they wobbled uncontrollably. The landscape, once a blur of colours and possibilities, narrowed to the immediate struggle with each faltering step.

"Shit," I whispered to the empty expanse, the word barely a breath as my legs finally succumbed to the strain, folding beneath me. The ground came up to meet me, the soft, ochre dust a cold comfort as I groaned in agony. The fall, a harsh return to reality, was a reminder of my humanity. As I lay there, the fight to keep my eyes open became increasingly difficult, the world around me blurring at the edges until, finally, I could fight no more. My eyelids fluttered closed, surrendering to the exhaustion and pain that I had tried so hard to outrun.