Borrowed Fire

"A man can share your whiskey and still hate your guts. The two aren't mutually exclusive."

Luke stood a few metres away, a bottle clutched casually in one hand. The amber liquid inside caught the fading sunlight, glowing like trapped fire. Whiskey, if I had to guess. Something strong enough to take the edge off, to blur the sharp corners of reality into something more manageable.

God, I wanted that.

"Come join us for a drink," Luke said, lifting the bottle slightly in invitation.

My gut twisted at the sight of him. This was the bloke who'd pushed me through a portal, who'd torn me away from everything I loved, who'd dumped me in this nightmare without warning or explanation. I should tell him to fuck off. Should turn my back and walk away, refuse to accept anything from his hands.

But the whiskey.

"Shit, yeah," I muttered, the words slipping out before my better judgment could intervene. My curiosity — or maybe just my desperation — won out over my anger. I adjusted the sleeping bags and hurried to catch up with him, the tent pegs box tucked awkwardly under my armpit.

"What have you got?" I asked, slightly breathless from the jog.

Luke paused, holding the bottle toward me with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. I freed up one hand, securing the box more firmly, and grabbed the bottle.

I brought it to my lips and drank.

The whiskey hit my throat like liquid flame, burning a path down to my stomach and spreading tendrils of heat through my chest. My eyes watered. My sinuses cleared. For a moment, I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything except feel the fire working its way through my system.

"Fuck, that's some strong shit," I managed, wiping away a dribble of saliva with the back of my hand.

"Of course," Luke agreed, that knowing smile still playing at his mouth. "It's the only way."

We walked together toward the camp, Luke matching his pace to mine. A small consideration, given that I was loaded down with three sleeping bags and a box of tent pegs while he carried nothing but the whiskey. Part of me bristled at the implied pity. Another part — the tired, worn-down part that had been through too much today — was just grateful not to be rushing.

The whiskey was already working, softening the jagged edges of my thoughts, blurring the sharp lines of my anger into something more manageable. A smile flickered across my face, brief and unexpected, before reality reasserted itself. This wasn't real comfort. Just borrowed time, a temporary reprieve from the weight pressing down on me.

Luke cleared his throat, and I felt the shift in the air before he spoke. The casualness in his voice when he asked the question set my teeth on edge.

"Forgive me yet?"

I stopped walking.

The words hung between us, light and easy, like forgiveness was something you could ask for the way you'd ask to borrow a tenner. Like what he'd done was a minor inconvenience, a misunderstanding that could be smoothed over with a shared drink and a bit of time.

My hand shot out and ripped the whiskey bottle from his grip. The movement was sharp, aggressive, fuelled by a surge of anger that cut through the alcohol's haze like a blade through cloth.

"I'm doing this for Uncle Jamie. Not for you."

The words came out hard and flat, each one a brick in the wall between us. I held his gaze for a long moment, letting him see exactly what I thought of his question, exactly how far he was from anything resembling forgiveness.

Then I took another long swig from the bottle, the burn welcome now, a physical sensation to match the heat in my chest.

Without another word, I shoved the bottle back against Luke's chest, hard enough to make him stumble. His hands came up reflexively to catch it, surprise flickering across his features.

"Let me take one of those bags from you," he called out as I turned away, something that might have been genuine concern threading through his voice.

I didn't answer. Didn't trust myself to speak without saying something I'd regret — or maybe something I wouldn't regret at all, which was worse. Instead, I let one of the sleeping bags slide off my shoulder, dropping it to the dust without looking back. Let him carry that, if he wanted to help so badly.

I kept walking, my jaw clenched tight, my footsteps sending up small clouds of dust with each angry stride. The camp grew larger ahead of me, the tents taking shape against the darkening sky, the thin line of smoke from the campfire rising straight up in the still air.

"Luke's here," I called out as I approached, not bothering to hide the edge in my voice.

Glenda looked up from where she was working on one of the tents, her face flushed with exertion. Despite the absence of tent pegs, she and Paul had made decent progress — the fourth tent was taking shape, its canvas walls starting to look like something you could actually live in.

"Luke!" Her voice warmed with genuine welcome, her eyes lighting up in a way that made something twist in my gut. "Haven't seen much of you since this morning."

"I know," Luke replied, a hint of guilt colouring his tone as he caught up to us.

"But I've noticed new supplies at the Drop Zone so I figured you hadn't forgotten us," Glenda continued quickly, her words tumbling out with the ease of someone trying to smooth over an awkward silence.

"Of course not," Luke agreed, that small smile back in place.

I dropped the tent pegs box under the canopy of one of the completed tents and paused, my chest heaving from the walk. The sleeping bags were getting heavier by the second, the straps digging into my shoulders, my muscles screaming for relief.

Taking a deep breath, I pushed my way into the third tent.

The interior was dim and cool, a welcome respite from the fading heat outside. The canvas filtered the light into something softer, easier on my tired eyes. I shrugged the remaining bags off my shoulders with a sigh of relief, tossing one into each wing of the tent.

This would be where Paul and I slept tonight, I figured. Jamie would stay with Joel — that much was obvious from the way he'd been hovering over the kid all day. And Glenda would want to be near her medical supplies, ready to respond if anything went wrong.

The tents were bigger than I'd expected, now that I was inside one. Room for ten people, easily, with two spacious wings branching off a central living area. The front opened onto a canopy extension, providing shade and shelter. Practical. Well-designed.

At least Luke had made some sensible choices, even if everything else he'd done was completely unforgivable.

I pushed that thought aside before it could take root. Sentiment wasn't going to help anyone.

Emerging from the tent, I spotted Luke offering the whiskey bottle to Glenda.

"More?" he asked, holding it toward her.

"No thanks," she declined with a polite wave of her hand.

"Bag," I called out, gesturing for Luke to toss over the one he'd picked up.

He complied without comment, lobbing it in my direction with a smooth underhand throw. I caught it one-handed and ducked into the medical tent to deposit it in the empty wing.

The smell hit me immediately — sharp, antiseptic, completely out of place in this dusty wasteland. Glenda had been busy, organising her supplies into some semblance of order. Bandages and bottles lined one side of the tent, their labels facing outward with the kind of attention to detail that spoke of someone who knew exactly what they might need and when.

I considered spreading the sleeping bag out on the floor for her, a small gesture of kindness. But something held me back — maybe exhaustion, maybe the lingering anger that wouldn't quite fade — and I settled for placing it in the unoccupied wing instead. She could sort it out herself.

"Glenda!"

Paul's voice cut through the air from outside, sharp with urgency. The tone sent a spike of adrenaline through my system, clearing away the last cobwebs of whiskey-induced haze.

I pushed through the tent flaps, my heart already pounding.

The scene before me made no sense at first. My brain struggled to process what my eyes were telling it, the information refusing to slot into any reasonable pattern.

Joel was walking.

Well, not walking exactly. More like stumbling, his legs moving in jerky, uncoordinated motions that looked more like a puppet with tangled strings than a person taking steps. Paul and Uncle Jamie flanked him, their arms hooked under his shoulders, supporting most of his weight as they guided him toward the camp.

The freak is walking, my mind supplied, unhelpfully.

Glenda and Luke rushed forward to meet the approaching trio, their footsteps kicking up small clouds of dust. I stayed where I was, rooted to the spot in front of the tent, watching from what felt like a safe distance.

"He's bleeding!" Glenda's voice rang out, alarm sharpening every syllable.

I could see it now — a dark trickle running from Joel's nose, streaking down his upper lip and dripping off his chin. Red against grey-white skin, vivid and wrong. Hours ago, this kid had been a bloodless corpse floating in a river. Now he was upright and bleeding like a normal person.

Nothing about any of this was normal.

"Luke, get me some tissue from the medical tent," Glenda directed, her voice snapping into professional mode.

Luke stood frozen, shock written across his features. His feet seemed rooted to the ground, his body refusing to respond to the command. I couldn't blame him, really. This whole situation had gone so far past reasonable that even simple instructions seemed to bounce off without registering.

But someone needed to do something.

I ducked back into the medical tent, my hands already moving, rummaging through the organised supplies until I found a packet of tissues. The plastic wrapper crinkled as I grabbed a handful and burst back outside.

"I got it!"

I rushed over and pressed the tissues into Glenda's outstretched hand, our fingers brushing briefly in the exchange. Up close, Joel looked even worse — his skin that sickly grey-white, his eyes unfocused and drifting, his body limp between the two men supporting him.

"Ta," Glenda said simply, accepting the tissues and pressing them against Joel's dripping nose. The white fabric bloomed red almost immediately, soaking through with startling speed.

"Let's get him sitting," she instructed, her voice calm but firm.

Paul and Uncle Jamie guided Joel toward a large log near the campfire, easing him down onto the rough surface with careful movements. I trailed behind, maintaining my distance, unable to shake the crawling sensation along my spine.

"Not too close," Glenda warned, stepping between the men and the fire's warmth. "Is it just his nose?"

"I think so," Uncle Jamie said, his voice thick with worry.

"I didn't even notice it was bleeding," Paul admitted, his face pale beneath the dirt and sweat.

Glenda knelt before Joel, her movements brisk and professional. The flickering firelight cast dancing shadows across her face as she examined him, her fingers probing gently at his wrists, his neck, checking for God knew what.

"I don't understand how he can be bleeding. I was certain there was no blood in him earlier," she murmured, almost to herself.

Uncle Jamie shook his head, his expression mirroring Glenda's confusion. "I didn't give him any blood. But he seems to have plenty of it now."

A wave of discomfort rolled through me as the memory of my earlier conversation with Uncle Jamie surfaced. The lagoon. The glow. The revelation about what that glow actually was.

Oh, you gave him plenty, my mind whispered, the thought dripping with dark sarcasm. I bit down on the inside of my cheek to keep from saying it aloud.

Glenda continued her examination, her fingers moving to various points on Joel's arms and legs. Her brow furrowed deeper with each passing moment, confusion and fascination warring across her features.

"There is definitely blood in his veins now," she confirmed, her voice carrying a note of disbelief.

I stood there, unable to move, unable to look away, unable to comprehend what I was witnessing. A dead man brought back to life, his body somehow generating blood from nothing — or from something I really didn't want to think about too closely.

Glenda rose to her feet, reaching for the whiskey bottle still clutched in Luke's hand.

"It's a medical anomaly!" she declared, taking a long swig from the bottle. The statement hung in the air, equal parts diagnosis and surrender — an admission that whatever was happening here existed beyond the boundaries of anything she'd been trained to understand.

"You better lie him down again once the bleeding stops," she added, lowering the bottle.

Luke let out a loud chuckle, finding some dark humour in the situation that escaped me entirely. I couldn't see anything funny about it. Couldn't find anything in this whole mess that warranted laughter.

Paul glanced up at the sky, where the last traces of daylight were fading into deeper shades of blue. "Nightfall can't be too far away. I'll prepare some food."

The words were a lifeline, an excuse to step away from this circus of impossibilities, to focus on something mundane and manageable.

"I'll help you," I said immediately, seizing the opportunity.

Paul caught my eye and nodded, a flicker of understanding passing between us. He knew. Maybe not the specifics, but he could see that I needed distance from Uncle Jamie and his strange fixation on Joel, from the medical anomalies and the questions without answers.

Together, we turned toward the cooking area, leaving the others to deal with the bleeding miracle.

But even as I walked away, I could feel Joel's unfocused gaze on my back. Watching. Waiting.

For what, I had no idea.

And I wasn't sure I wanted to find out.