Butter Chicken and Bad Blood

"Nothing brings out people's true colours quite like assigning chores. Food helps, but only until someone has to do something they don't want to."

The campfire had become the heart of our little settlement, its flames casting flickering shadows across the faces gathered around it.

I grabbed another log from the pile we'd accumulated and thrust it into the blaze, the rough bark scraping against my palms as I fed the hungry flames. Sparks exploded upward like tiny orange fireworks, swirling into the darkening sky before winking out of existence. The smoke shifted direction without warning, a thick grey plume rolling straight across Paul's face.

He threw up his hand too late, eyes already squinting against the sting.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to do that," I called out, genuinely apologetic. Campfire etiquette was something I'd learned the hard way over years of camping trips — you never wanted to be the one responsible for smoking out your mates.

Paul waved off my concern with a dismissive gesture. "All good."

His good-natured tolerance was becoming familiar. The man seemed incapable of holding a grudge, at least about the small stuff. I wasn't sure if that made him admirably easygoing or dangerously naive. Maybe both.

Movement caught my eye as Luke materialised from the shadows beyond the firelight, his arms laden with plastic containers that gleamed in the flickering glow. The smell hit me before I could identify what he was carrying — rich, creamy, heavy with spices that made my mouth flood with saliva.

Indian food. Actual, proper Indian food. Not camp rations or whatever random supplies Luke had been dropping at the Drop Zone, but real takeaway. The kind you'd order on a Friday night when you couldn't be bothered cooking, the kind that came in those distinctive containers with the plastic lids.

"Butter chicken for you?" Luke offered, presenting a container to Paul with something approaching a flourish.

"Yeah, thanks," Paul replied, his hands already reaching out with the eagerness of a man who'd been living on campfire cooking for days.

Luke moved on to Karen, extending a container of what looked like Chicken Tikka, the aroma of grilled meat and spices mingling with the smoky scent of the fire. I watched Paul tear into his meal, his eyes closing in what could only be described as bliss, his tongue darting out to catch every drop of sauce that threatened to escape.

I settled onto a log beside Glenda, the rough surface digging into my thighs through my jeans. From this angle, I had a perfect view of Paul's culinary performance — the man ate like he was afraid someone might snatch the container away mid-bite, his face gradually acquiring an orange tint from the sauce.

"Lois, sit!" Glenda's command cut through my observations, directed at the golden retriever who had apparently decided that Paul's every movement required her full attention. The dog's tail wagged hopefully, her eyes fixed on the food with the kind of desperate longing that only dogs and hungry teenagers could truly achieve.

Uncle Jamie's gruff voice intervened, redirecting Lois's attention toward Duke. "Go on, go see Duke."

Duke was the picture of canine composure, settled between Uncle Jamie's feet and Joel's chair, his head resting on his paws with the patience of a dog who'd been taught that begging got you nowhere. Henri, meanwhile, had positioned himself near the fire but kept his distance from the growing crowd, his tail tucked slightly, his eyes wary.

Luke passed Uncle Jamie a container of butter chicken, receiving a brief nod of acknowledgement in return. The exchange was quick, almost businesslike — none of the warmth that Luke seemed to reserve for others. The tension between them hadn't dissipated; if anything, it had settled into something harder, more permanent.

Watching Lois hover around Paul reminded me of Hudson. My dog — my ridiculous, enthusiastic, completely lacking in impulse control dog — would have been beside himself in a situation like this. Visitors to our place were greeted like long-lost family members, his tail becoming a weapon of mass destruction as it cleared coffee tables and knocked over anything not bolted down. And food? Hudson had zero patience around food. If you turned your back on a sandwich for even a second, it was gone, inhaled with a speed that defied the laws of physics.

Duke's calm demeanour was clearly the result of Uncle Jamie's training. Proper discipline, proper boundaries. Hudson could have used some of that, honestly. Brianne was always saying we needed to be stricter with him, that we were creating a monster with our lax approach to dog parenting.

The thought of Brianne sent a familiar ache through my chest, and I pushed it away before it could take root.

Henri's behaviour was puzzling me. The little dog had been avoiding Lois and the expanding crowd all day, seeking refuge near the fire whenever things got too chaotic. Uncle Jamie had set up the dog beds outside, near the warmth of the flames, and Henri had found his sanctuary there, curling up on the soft fabric with visible relief. Even now, with the smell of food heavy in the air, he wasn't trying to join the feeding frenzy. Just watching from a safe distance, nose twitching, longing evident in every line of his small body but making no move to investigate.

"Hey, what about Joel?"

Uncle Jamie's voice sliced through the evening's peace. I flinched at the sudden intensity, my shoulders tensing automatically. When I looked up, his face was flushed, his eyes flashing with a fury that seemed disproportionate to the situation.

"I'm sorry," Luke replied, his hands raised in a placating gesture that did nothing to defuse the tension. "I didn't realise he could eat."

"Of course he can fucking eat!" Uncle Jamie's voice rose to a near-shout, the veins in his neck standing out in sharp relief.

I shrank back slightly, wishing I could disappear into the log beneath me. Family arguments were bad enough in private — watching one play out in front of everyone felt like being forced to witness something intimate and ugly.

"What do you want?" Luke asked, his voice softening as he stepped closer to Joel, trying to read some preference from the young man's pale face.

Joel's response was a shrug, his shoulders rising and falling with complete indifference. The gesture seemed to deflate the tension somewhat, as if his lack of concern made Uncle Jamie's outburst seem excessive by comparison.

Luke recovered quickly, his composure snapping back into place. "Looks like butter chicken it is for you, too. Good thing that's what I got the most of."

The self-satisfaction in his voice grated on my nerves, but I couldn't deny that the man knew how to cater to a crowd. Butter chicken was a safe bet — creamy, flavourful, inoffensive enough for even the pickiest eater.

"You can't really go wrong with a good butter chicken," I exclaimed, my enthusiasm breaking through my attempts at restraint. My eyes were probably bulging out of my head, my dignity abandoned somewhere around the third whiff of that incredible aroma.

The smell had short-circuited something in my brain. All thoughts of dogs and family drama and existential dread evaporated, replaced by a single, overwhelming imperative: eat. My stomach had become a black hole, demanding sustenance with an intensity that drowned out everything else.

Hudson's face flickered through my mind again — that hopeful expression he wore whenever food was involved, the way his whole body seemed to vibrate with anticipation. For a moment, I felt a kinship with my absent dog that transcended species. We were the same, really. Slaves to our appetites, driven by the most basic of needs.

"You can have the last one then," Luke offered, extending a container toward me.

The plastic was warm against my fingers, the weight of it a promise of satisfaction. I accepted it with more gratitude than I probably should have shown, but at that moment, I didn't care about pride or composure or any of the social niceties that usually governed human interaction.

I just wanted to eat.

Paul's voice cut through the comfortable haze of good food and firelight.

I glanced up from my butter chicken to find him awkwardly clearing his throat, his face wearing that particular expression people got when they were about to say something they knew wouldn't be popular. He'd set aside his empty container and was now surveying the group with the air of a foreman about to deliver unwelcome news.

"I need everyone to check in at the Drop Zone regularly," Paul announced, his voice carrying an authority that felt slightly forced. "To see whether Luke has brought any of your belongings. Or perhaps there might be something there that you find you need."

The easy conversation around the fire stuttered and died. I could feel the shift in atmosphere, the warmth of the evening curdling into something more defensive. People who'd been relaxed moments before were now sitting straighter, their expressions guarded.

Karen was the first to show her displeasure, her chin lifting in a gesture I was beginning to recognise as her default position when challenged. Her eyes had taken on a hard gleam that reminded me of my Year Ten maths teacher right before she assigned detention.

"That sounds reasonable enough," Chris said, his voice cutting through the tension with forced cheerfulness.

Karen turned on her husband with a look that could have flash-frozen the butter chicken. "Reasonable? It's a long way to walk just to check. I'm too busy to wander over to simply... check."

The way she said "check" made it sound like Paul had suggested she crawl across broken glass for the privilege. I hunched lower over my food, hoping to avoid being drawn into whatever was brewing.

"I'm with Karen on this one. Too busy," Uncle Jamie added, his voice flat and final.

My stomach tightened. Uncle Jamie siding with Karen against Paul felt like watching storm clouds gather on opposite horizons, both heading toward the same point. Nothing good was going to come from this collision.

"Busy!?" Paul's voice cracked with disbelief. "All you've done is sit in the tent for the past two days!"

The accusation hung in the air like smoke that refused to dissipate. I wanted to shrink into the log, to become invisible, to be anywhere but caught between my uncle and the man I'd spent the day working alongside. This wasn't a conversation — it was a grenade with the pin already pulled.

"Fuck off, Paul!"

Uncle Jamie's eruption sent a chicken piece tumbling from his container into his lap, the orange sauce leaving a vivid stain on his trousers. Under different circumstances, I might have found it funny. Right now, it just added a layer of absurdity to an already uncomfortable scene.

Luke stepped in, his voice carrying that particular calm that people adopted when trying to defuse explosives. "Didn't you want to be responsible for managing the Drop Zone anyway?"

The question was aimed at Paul, delivered with a raised eyebrow that suggested past conversations I hadn't been privy to. Paul's face reddened, caught between defending himself and acknowledging some previous agreement.

Chris jumped back in, clearly desperate to steer the discussion away from open warfare. "I'm happy to wander over. It'll be a nice break, and good to see what's there."

His words hung there, a peace offering that nobody seemed particularly interested in accepting. Realising the odds were stacked against any resolution, Chris turned his attention back to his food, shovelling another forkful into his mouth with the determination of a man who'd learned that sometimes the best strategy was tactical retreat.

Glenda spoke up, her voice carrying a quiet authority that commanded attention. "You make a good Drop Zone Manager, Paul."

As she said it, she slipped a morsel of rice to Lois, who accepted it with a grateful wag of her tail. The gesture was subtle, almost absent-minded, but I caught it — and so did Glenda, her sharp glance in my direction making me feel like I'd been caught skiving off a job site.

The words slipped out before I could stop them, a muttered aside that was meant for my own ears. "Well, he is shit at building things."

Instant regret flooded through me. The comment was petty, born from frustration and the lingering memory of Paul's early attempts at tent construction and concrete setting. It wasn't fair — the man had skills, just not the same skills I'd spent years developing. Comparing his building abilities to mine was like judging a fish on its tree-climbing.

Glenda's gaze met mine, her expression carrying equal parts disappointment and understanding. I looked away quickly, my appetite suddenly diminished despite the excellent food in my hands.

"I think our settlement has a better chance of thriving if we each focus on our own strengths," Glenda said, her words measured and deliberate. She turned back to Paul, her eyes softening. "With Luke bringing supplies through so quickly now, perhaps it would be best if the Drop Zone had a dedicated manager."

The logic was sound. Someone needed to keep track of what was arriving, to organise the growing piles of supplies, to ensure nothing got buried under the ever-present dust before people knew it existed. Paul's organisational tendencies — his lists, his planning, his need to impose order on chaos — made him a natural fit for the role.

Paul's shoulders slumped in a heavy shrug, the fight draining out of him. "Fine. I'll be responsible for notifying people when things arrive for them and for keeping the Drop Zone in some sort of order."

"Marvellous," Karen declared, her tone carrying the finality of a judge's gavel. Case closed, as far as she was concerned. She'd won her exemption from walking duties and was ready to move on to more important matters.

"But..." Paul hesitated, something shifting in his expression as a new thought took hold. He gathered himself, his voice strengthening with renewed purpose. "If I am going to be going back and forth so often, we need to do something about this bloody dust! We need to build a road."

The suggestion landed differently than his previous announcement. This wasn't about assigning chores or demanding compliance — it was about solving a problem we all shared. The dust had been driving everyone mad, coating vehicles, clogging engines, infiltrating every surface and crevice until it felt like we were slowly being absorbed into the landscape.

Glenda nodded, her face reflecting understanding. "That sounds fair enough."

Chris practically bounced in his seat, his hand rising like a kid who knew the answer and couldn't wait to be called on. "I can help with that."

The eagerness in his voice was infectious. Here was something concrete — literally — that we could accomplish. Not survival, not just getting by, but actual improvement. Building something that would make life here marginally less miserable.

"Yeah, I guess we could all pitch in," I heard myself saying, surprised by my own enthusiasm.

I scanned the faces around the fire, looking for validation. Karen seemed indifferent, already mentally moving on to whatever occupied her thoughts. Uncle Jamie's expression was unreadable. Glenda looked pleased, Luke contemplative.

Then Joel spoke, his raspy voice stronger than I'd heard it since his... recovery.

"I'll help, too."

The words raised eyebrows around the circle. Joel had barely moved from the tent in two days, had barely spoken, had seemed more ghost than person most of the time. His offer to help with physical labour felt like a small miracle, a sign that whatever had happened to him wasn't going to keep him down forever.

The tension that had gripped the group began to ease, conversations resuming with a lighter tone. People shifted positions, the formal arrangement around the fire breaking up into smaller clusters. Somehow, in the shuffle, I found myself seated beside Chris, our shoulders almost touching as we settled onto adjacent logs.

He caught my eye and gave a small nod — acknowledgment, maybe, or just friendly recognition. The man had a quiet steadiness about him that I was beginning to appreciate, a groundedness that seemed at odds with his wife's sharper energy.

"So," he said, his voice pitched low enough that only I could hear, "you know much about road building?"

I snorted. "Enough to know it's going to be a bastard of a job in this dust."

Chris's smile widened slightly. "That's what I figured. But bastard jobs are still jobs. And jobs keep you sane."

He wasn't wrong. The work we'd done today — the concrete, the planning, the physical effort of building something from nothing — had been the best therapy I'd found since arriving in this place. Better than drinking, better than brooding, better than staring at the portal and wishing for things that might never happen.

Maybe that was the secret to surviving here. Not escape, but engagement. Not dreaming of home, but building something worth having in the present.

The fire crackled between us, sending another shower of sparks into the darkening sky. Around us, the conversations continued, the arguments of moments before already fading into memory.

We were still trapped. Still lost. Still a long way from anything resembling normal.