Beyond the Firelight

"Whiskey can make you forget for a few hours that you're stranded in hell—right up until something reminds you why you needed to forget in the first place."

As the darkness enveloped our campsite, the atmosphere shifted from one of survival to something resembling normality, if only for a moment. Our bellies full—or as full as meagre sandwiches could make them—and the bottle of whiskey making its rounds added a warmth that wasn't just from the campfire. The alcohol loosened something in all of us—the constant vigilance, the ever-present fear, the weight of questions we couldn't answer—and for the first time since I'd stumbled through that Portal, I felt almost human again.

The whiskey was good. Better than I would have expected from whatever Luke had scrounged. It burned going down in that familiar, comforting way, spreading warmth through my chest and into my limbs. Each sip pushed the horrors a little further back—Joel's resurrection, my grey-touched arm, the night terrors that waited in the darkness. For just this moment, I could pretend we were camping. Just a group of adults around a fire, sharing a drink, enjoying each other's company.

A loud cackle, surprising even to myself, erupted from my mouth, cutting through the stillness of the night and filling the empty darkness with a moment of cheer.

"Shh," Glenda hushed, her finger pressed to her lips in a playful yet earnest gesture. "The zombie is sleeping," she whispered, her attempt at solemnity crumbling into a fit of giggles.

Her laughter was infectious, a reminder of the lighter moments we could still share amidst the uncertainty. The whiskey had loosened her too, the composed doctor giving way to something more relaxed, more human. Her eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed, I noticed—a detail that seemed too ordinary for this extraordinary place. She looked younger when she laughed. Less burdened.

Kain's chuckle resonated loudly, his amusement clear. "Well, I didn't know how else to describe him."

His comment, a reference to Joel's miraculous recovery and current condition, was both apt and humorously grim. Zombie. It wasn't far from the truth. A man who had died and come back, who now lay sleeping in a tent with stitches holding his throat together and blood that had appeared from nowhere. We probably shouldn't have been joking about it. The wrongness of Joel's existence—his resurrection, whatever you wanted to call it—should have demanded reverence, or at least solemnity. But the whiskey made everything seem lighter, more manageable. The whiskey made it possible to laugh at things that should have terrified us.

"Are we sure it's safe in there? We don't really know what's going on," I found myself saying, leaning forward with a not-so-quiet voice that betrayed my lingering concern.

Despite the laughter and light-hearted banter, the reality of our situation, the unknowns surrounding Joel's condition, hovered at the back of my mind. The whiskey could only push it so far. The memory of Joel's hand grabbing my arm, his fingernails carving into my flesh, the grey that had spread like frost across my skin—it refused to be fully suppressed. Jamie was in that tent with him. Jamie, who had seen his son dead and come back. Jamie, who might not notice if something went wrong. If something changed.

"Oh," Luke sighed heavily, his patience with the topic seemingly thinning. "Don't be so stupid, Paul."

The words stung more than they should have. Stupid. My brother thought I was stupid for worrying about safety, for asking questions that seemed obvious to me. But then, Luke had always had that way about him—dismissive of concerns he deemed beneath consideration, confident in knowledge he refused to share.

"Ah," I gasped, feigning hurt feelings in an attempt to lighten the mood further. The gesture was exaggerated, theatrical—the kind of playacting that might have earned a laugh from Mack or Rose. The thought of them sent a brief pang through my chest, but I pushed it aside. Not now. Not while the whiskey was working its magic. I could miss them later, in the darkness, when no one could see.

Luke staggered to his feet, using Glenda's shoulder as a makeshift support. His hand pressed down on her, and she grimaced slightly at the weight before he found his balance.

"Of course, it's safe," he muttered, his voice a mixture of assurance and slight irritation as he made his way past me, heading toward the silent tent where Joel and Jamie rested.

His movements, slightly unsteady, betrayed the effect of the whiskey more than any concern about Joel's condition. I watched him go, wondering—not for the first time—what secrets churned behind those familiar eyes. My little brother had become a stranger. A keeper of mysteries. A man who appeared and disappeared through impossible doorways, who spoke of Guardians and dangers without ever explaining what they meant. Who was he now? Who had Clivilius made him into?

"Is he alright?" Kain leaned in, his voice hushed, a note of genuine concern laced with the alcohol-induced bravery to ask.

The question could have been about Luke or about Joel—perhaps about both. About all of us, really. Were any of us alright?

"Oh, he's fine," I answered, dismissing the concern with a slight wave of my hand.

The lie came easily, smoothed by whiskey and the desire to maintain what fragile peace we'd found this evening. Luke was many things, but fine wasn't one of them. None of us were fine. We were all just pretending, moment by moment, that we could hold ourselves together. That the cracks wouldn't show. That we wouldn't shatter if pressed too hard.

The three of us fell into a calm silence, a respite that felt almost surreal given the chaos that had become our new normal. I stared at the empty plate at my feet, its barren paper surface a reminder of the meagre dinner we had managed. The fire crackled softly between us, sending occasional sparks spiralling into the darkness above.

I should've made more sandwiches, I realised, as my stomach responded with a betraying gurgle.

Hunger was a constant companion, yet in the face of this world's unending uncertainties, even basic needs became secondary. We were all guilty of neglecting our health to some extent—eating too little, sleeping too poorly, pushing our bodies past what they should have been asked to endure. All except Glenda, of course. Her reminders about nutritional needs were as frequent as they were well-intentioned. The doctor couldn't stop doctoring, even when there was nothing in her bag to prescribe.

"Well, dinner was tasty," Glenda offered, her voice cutting through the stillness with a warmth that felt both comforting and misplaced.

Tasty was generous—the sandwiches had been functional at best, thrown together from whatever supplies Luke had delivered. Bread that was starting to go stale. Cheese that had begun to sweat in the heat. Some kind of preserved meat that tasted more of salt than anything else. But her words were kind, and kindness was in short supply.

"I wonder whether now might..."

"Shh," I hushed her, cutting off her words with a sharpness that surprised even me.

A sudden, instinctual alertness took hold as my ears picked up on something—a discordant harmony of voices, their pitch and tension rising in a way that set every nerve on edge. It was emanating from the tent, a cacophony that promised nothing good. Raised voices. Anger. Something happening that we couldn't see. Jamie's voice, I thought, though I couldn't make out the words. And Luke's, higher, more urgent.

Quietly, I pushed myself up from the log that had been my seat, my actions deliberate. The whiskey's warmth retreated, replaced by the cold clarity of alarm. Whatever comfortable haze the alcohol had provided evaporated in an instant, burned away by the adrenaline now flooding my system.

As a dark figure burst from the tent, my heart skipped a beat.

I recognised Luke immediately—his silhouette unmistakable even in the fleeting shadows, the way he held his shoulders, the particular rhythm of his movement. But the way he moved—not walking, not strolling, but fleeing—sent ice through my veins. This wasn't his usual casual exit. This was escape. This was running from something.

"Luke!" I called out, desperation tinting my voice.

But Luke didn't stop. Didn't slow. Didn't even turn his head to acknowledge that he'd heard me. Instead, he broke into a run, his form swallowed by the darkness that stretched like a chasm between us. Within seconds, he had passed beyond the reach of our firelight, becoming nothing more than the sound of footsteps receding into the void.

I stared after him, my mind a whirlwind of confusion and fear.

What the hell just happened? Is he hurt? Did Jamie...?

My body tensed, ready to sprint after him, to cross the void his departure had created. He was my brother. Whatever had happened in that tent, whatever had sent him running into the darkness, I needed to know. I needed to help. My legs were already moving, already preparing to chase.

However, Glenda's hand shot up, warning me off with an abrupt gesture. Her eyes, wide with a mix of caution and recognition, locked onto mine, silently urging me to reconsider. In that moment, our world seemed to shrink to the space between us, filled with unspoken worries and the heavy weight of decision. She knew something. Or suspected something. Either way, her warning was clear: don't follow. Let him go.

In the distance, the night was momentarily chased away by the surreal glow of Portal colours, painting our rugged surroundings with fleeting, ethereal light. Blues and greens and purples swirled in that impossible way, colours that had no business existing in nature, dancing against the darkness like aurora made solid. The display was both beautiful and heart-wrenching, a swirling dance of colours that I had come to recognise as the signature of inter-dimensional travel.

Luke was leaving. Not just leaving the camp—leaving Clivilius entirely.

As quickly as it appeared, the light show vanished, leaving behind a darkness that felt even more profound. The contrast was jarring—from that brilliant swirl of colour to absolute blackness, as if the night had swallowed something precious and refused to give it back.

My face tightened into a deep frown, the muscles around my mouth and eyes contracting with a mixture of frustration and concern.

Luke's gone. He's left us again.

The words echoed in my mind like a haunting refrain. Just hours ago he had returned from finding Cody, and now he was gone again. Running from something. Running toward something. Either way, running away from us. Away from me. Whatever had happened in that tent with Jamie, whatever had been said or done, it had been enough to send my brother fleeing through a dimensional portal without so much as a backward glance.

"Yep, looks like it's definitely you and me tonight, Paul," Kain's voice broke through my thoughts, his tone attempting levity but failing to mask the underlying tension.

He was trying to lighten the mood, to pretend that Luke's dramatic exit was something we could simply shrug off. I appreciated the effort, even if it fell flat. The attempt at normalcy was its own kind of comfort.

"I guess so," I sighed, the weight of the situation settling heavily upon my shoulders.

Another night without Luke. Another night of questions unanswered. Another night of wondering what secrets my brother was keeping and whether those secrets would get us all killed. The whiskey's warmth had fled entirely now, leaving only the chill of uncertainty and the bitter aftertaste of abandonment.

"I might get used to this dust yet," I said with a half-hearted attempt at humour, sitting back on the log and absently patting the ground with my foot, sending small clouds of dust swirling into the air.

The red-brown powder had become a constant companion, coating everything we owned, working its way into every crevice of our clothes and our skin. I could taste it when I breathed. Could feel it grinding between my teeth. Could see it staining the creases of my palms no matter how many times I washed them in the river.

"Oh no," Glenda interjected, her voice carrying a hint of the earlier lightness. "There's a sleeping bag for you in the other tent."

"Really?" I asked, my surprise genuine.

The thought of a sleeping bag, an artefact of comfort in this desolate world, felt almost luxurious. Nights spent on the bare ground, the dust pressing into my back, the cold seeping through my clothes, stones finding every sensitive spot along my spine—the idea of even modest padding seemed like an impossible gift. A sleeping bag. Something soft. Something designed for human comfort rather than alien endurance.

"That should make a nice change."

I looked over at Kain, offering a semblance of a smile. "But the tent's all yours," I said casually, though a part of me craved that minor comfort. "I'll sleep out here again tonight. I don't want to let the fire completely burn out."

My gaze lingered on the flames, their flickering light a fragile barrier against the encroaching darkness. The fire was more than warmth. It was sanity. It was safety. It was the only thing standing between us and whatever horrors lurked in the absolute blackness of a Clivilius night. The fire meant we could see. Meant we weren't blind. Meant that if something came for us, we would at least know what it was before it arrived.

Kain looked at me, his surprise evident. "Don't like the dark?" he probed, an undercurrent of curiosity in his voice.

"Hmph," I managed, a non-committal grunt, as I glanced across at Glenda, seeking an ally in my ambiguous response. "Something like that."

The truth was more complicated. The darkness here wasn't like darkness on Earth. It was alive somehow, pregnant with terrors that screamed inside the mind. The night terrors I had experienced—the visions, the sounds, the overwhelming sense of dread—were unlike anything I had ever known. They weren't dreams. They weren't hallucinations. They were something else entirely, something this place produced like a natural phenomenon. But how could I explain that to Kain, who had been here less than a day? How could I describe the night terrors without sounding like I had lost my mind?

"Is there something out there?" Kain pressed, his voice lowering to a cautious whisper. "Other people maybe?"

The question hung in the air between us, heavy with implication. Other people. The words seemed almost absurd in this emptiness. And yet...

"Not that we know of," I replied quickly, too quickly perhaps. The words came out before I could properly consider them, a reflexive denial that didn't quite ring true.

But is that really true?

I couldn't help but question myself. Luke had shared whispers of a Guardian named Cody, a figure shrouded in mystery who was supposedly out there, somewhere in the vast unknown. He hadn't shown up at camp, at least not within the sphere of my awareness. But that didn't mean he wasn't watching. Didn't mean others weren't out there too.

He must be somewhere out there, I mused, my gaze drifting beyond the firelight to the expanse of darkened emptiness that stretched before us. The darkness seemed to stretch forever, an ocean of black that could hide anything. Anyone.

"But," Kain's voice cut through the tension that hung like a thick fog around us, his words louder, more forceful than before. The alcohol had given him courage to voice what we'd all been avoiding.

"If Luke is telling the truth about not bringing—"

He paused, the weight of his thoughts momentarily halting his speech. I could see him working through it, the logic chain forming in his mind, leading somewhere none of us wanted to go.

"About not bringing Joel here, then who did? And how did they get him here without any of us seeing something? There isn't exactly any cover here. And he looked like he'd spent a fair amount of time in the water already."

The questions landed like blows, each one striking a truth I had been avoiding.

Yes, of course! My mind screamed in silent revelation. If we follow the river upstream far enough, we'll likely find the source of Joel's...

My thoughts trailed off, a mixture of dread and determination settling in. The mystery of Joel's appearance wasn't just a puzzle; it was a gaping hole in our understanding of this place, a place that seemed to defy the very laws of nature and humanity we thought we knew. Someone had cut his throat. Someone had dumped him in the river. Someone was out there, and they had intended for Joel to die.

Someone who might still be watching us. Might be watching us right now, from just beyond the reach of our firelight.

The thought sent ice down my spine. I found myself scanning the darkness, searching for movement, for shapes, for any sign of presence. There was nothing. Only blackness. But absence of evidence wasn't evidence of absence. That much I remembered from my university philosophy classes, a lifetime ago.

Glenda shifted uncomfortably on her log, her movements drawing my attention away from the spiralling thoughts. Her constant shuffles, the physical manifestations of her anxiety, were beginning to grate on me, adding to the already overwhelming tension. She knew something. Or she suspected something. Her discomfort was too pronounced to be mere coincidence.

"Do you know something that you're not telling us?" I asked, my voice carrying an edge of suspicion and frustration.

It wasn't just the situation with Joel that bothered me; it was the ever-present feeling that we were all holding back pieces of a puzzle only solvable through collective honesty. Luke with his Guardians and secrets. Glenda with her mysterious past in Borneo. Jamie with his singular focus on his resurrected son. Everyone hiding something. Everyone keeping cards close to their chest while we all pretended to trust each other.

Glenda hesitated, her eyes darting between Kain and me, as if measuring the weight of her words against the potential consequences of sharing them. The firelight danced across her face, casting shadows that made her expression difficult to read.

"I'm just as confused as the two of you are," she said finally, her voice a mix of resignation and defensiveness.

It wasn't a lie, exactly. But it wasn't the whole truth either. I could feel it in the way she held herself, the way her eyes wouldn't quite meet mine. There was something there—some knowledge or suspicion she was keeping to herself. Another secret in a camp full of them.

Kain's breathing quickened noticeably, his chest rising and falling with increasing urgency. "I don't think we're safe here," he whispered, the words barely escaping his lips, as if saying them louder might make them more real.

The fear in his voice was raw, unfiltered—the fear of a young man who had been ripped from his life, his pregnant fiancée, his entire world, and dropped into a nightmare he couldn't understand. He was younger than I had initially thought, I realised. Barely more than a boy, for all his physical strength. And he was terrified.

I let out a soft sigh, the sound more a release of pent-up frustration than anything else. Here I sat, caught in a web of mysteries and half-truths, with a woman who played her cards close to her chest and a young man whose fear seemed to amplify with every breath. And then there was Luke, with his erratic behaviour and enigmatic warnings, and Jamie, whose newfound obsession with his son painted a picture of desperation and denial. According to Luke, Joel should be nothing more than a memory, yet here we were, grappling with a reality that seemed to mock the very essence of logic and loss.

"Right now, we don't have any other option," I said, trying to inject a note of certainty into my voice.

The flickering shadows cast by the campfire seemed to dance with my words, creating an eerie ballet of light and darkness. The flames threw our shadows long against the dust, distorting our shapes into something larger, something stranger.

"I'm sure Luke would have warned us if it wasn't safe."

My statement hung in the air, a fragile banner of hope in the uneasy silence that enveloped us. Even as I said it, I wasn't sure I believed it. Luke had kept so many secrets. Why would this be any different? Why would he share a danger when he had shared so little else?

Kain scoffed loudly, a sound that cut sharply through the night. "Luke doesn't know everything."

My eyebrow raised in suspicion at his quick dismissal. I knew that was indeed an understatement—Luke's knowledge, or lack thereof, had been a recurring theme in our struggles. But there was something in Kain's tone, something that suggested more than simple scepticism.

But does Kain know something else too? Is he hiding something that could put us all in danger?

The question wormed its way through my thoughts, unsettling me further. My stomach growled uneasily, a reminder of the physical demands that mirrored our psychological turmoil. Everyone was hiding something. Everyone had their secrets. And in this place, where survival depended on trust, secrets could kill.

We can't afford to be divided. We need a leader, someone with the skills and charisma to unite our growing settlement, to navigate the treacherous waters of uncertainty that lay ahead.

The thought surprised me with its clarity. We needed leadership. We needed someone to make decisions, to set direction, to hold us together when fear threatened to tear us apart. Luke appeared and disappeared on his own schedule. Jamie was consumed by Joel. Glenda was capable but kept herself apart. And Kain was too young, too new, too frightened. Which left...

I pushed the thought aside. Not now. Not yet.

"We'll just have to watch out for each other," I told them emphatically, trying to bridge the gaps of mistrust and fear with words of solidarity. "We're all we've got right now," I said pointedly, glancing across at Glenda, hoping to find some semblance of agreement or reassurance in her eyes.

Glenda shifted uncomfortably again, her movements betraying an inner turmoil or perhaps a reluctance to confront the reality we faced. Her gaze flickered toward the medical tent, then back to the fire, then to some middle distance that held nothing but darkness.

"I think it's time for bed," she said abruptly, slapping both her thighs in a motion that seemed to signal a retreat more from the conversation than the night.

Without another word, she got up and left the warmth of the campfire, her footsteps crunching softly in the dust as she made her way toward the medical tent.

Probably a good idea, although that was a bit sudden, I mused, watching her retreating back. The night air felt cooler now, the absence of her presence making the darkness seem more oppressive. Three had become two. The circle around the fire was shrinking.

"I'll go grab a sleeping bag," I said to Kain, pushing myself up from the ground, my limbs stiff from sitting. The whiskey had worn off entirely now, leaving only the heaviness of fatigue and the persistent ache of muscles too long in one position. "Does it matter which one?"

Kain shook his head, his gaze lingering on the dying fire. The flames were lower now, the wood burning down to coals. "Nah."

His voice was flat, exhausted. The bravado that the whiskey had given him had faded, leaving behind the fear that lived beneath it. I felt a pang of sympathy for him. He was just a kid, really. A kid who should have been home with his pregnant fiancée, planning a nursery, arguing about baby names. Instead, he was here, sleeping in the dust, wondering if something was going to come out of the darkness and kill him.

I casually made my way to the tent, the night around me thick with shadows that seemed to stretch and reach out with every step I took. The firelight grew fainter behind me, its warmth fading from my back, replaced by the cool embrace of darkness. As I let myself inside, the darkness enveloped me, a stark contrast to the weak flicker of light from the distant campfire. This tent, the furthest from our makeshift hearth, lay in near complete darkness, the glow barely brushing its entrance with a teasing touch of light.

Suddenly, a familiar cry echoed in my mind.

Daddy!

Rose's voice, filled with fear and longing, sent a shuddering wave of terror crashing over me. My heart clenched, a physical reaction to the pain of her absence. I could see her face in the darkness—those bright eyes, wide with the particular terror that only children know. That stubborn chin, so like Claire's, trembling with unshed tears. The way she would run to me when she was scared, her small arms wrapping around my legs with desperate strength, her face pressed against my thigh as if I could shield her from anything.

My throat tightened. My eyes stung.

Not tonight, I told the darkness, my voice a silent declaration of defiance.

My fingers found the sleeping bag's carry strap, their grip firm and resolute. The fabric was rough under my fingertips, real and present, an anchor to the physical world.

Not tonight.

I refused to let the haunting memories and what-ifs consume me, not when survival demanded every ounce of focus and strength. There would be time for grief later. There would be time for missing them, for aching over the distance that separated us. But not now. Not in the darkness, where those thoughts could swallow me whole. Not in this tent, alone, where Rose's phantom voice could pull me under and never let me surface.

Moving carefully across the tent's floor, I navigated by memory and the faint glow that filtered in. The canvas rustled as I passed, a whisper of fabric against fabric. Pushing my way outside, the cool air hit me like a splash of reality, a reminder of the world beyond my fears.

The fire still burned. Kain still sat beside it.

The decision to sleep next to the campfire suddenly felt not just wise but necessary. It was a tether to the present, a guard against the ghosts of the past. Out here, with the flames between me and the darkness, I might have a chance of keeping Rose's voice at bay. Out here, I might survive another night.

I made my way back to the fire, sleeping bag in hand, and tried not to think about how many more nights like this might lie ahead.