Cheeseslaw Communion

“Sometimes, salvation isn’t a portal or a plan—it’s a chip dipped in something unexpected, eaten in silence beside someone who’s earned it.”

The sudden growl of tyres on hardened earth snapped our focus clean away from the BMW. A vehicle was emerging from the Portal, its silhouette shimmering slightly in the residual energy haze. The shift in Paul was immediate—his head jerked toward the sound like a hound catching scent, body already turning before thought could catch up. It was instinctive, magnetic.

“Beatrix!” he called out, the name bursting from him with a raw blend of relief and urgency.

I barely had time to register the vehicle before he took off, dust flaring in little bursts beneath his boots as he sprinted towards her.

I grabbed the fire torch from where I’d propped it against a container. I followed after him, not quite running but moving quickly, my curiosity flaring anew.

“And hopefully it’s not more hens,” I muttered under my breath, my tone dry with fatigue and only half in jest. My skin still itched with the sweat from our recent poultry pursuit—my muscles reminded me that I’d crouched, leapt, and skidded far more than was dignified for one evening. Still, the absurdity of it had provided a strange, welcome levity in a world otherwise defined by the precarious mechanics of survival.

Beatrix was just stepping out of the car when Paul reached her. He didn’t waste a second.

“Did you find her?” he asked, voice rushing ahead of him, like the words might drag the answer out faster. I saw it in his posture—the way he leaned forward, the tight set of his shoulders. Hope can make a man look younger and more fragile, all at once.

Beatrix didn’t speak straight away. She shook her head slowly, deliberately, and then the words came, quiet and blunt.

“Sorry, Paul. I couldn’t find her.”

It landed like a dull thud.

The moment stretched in the cooling air, still but not peaceful. The spark in Paul’s eyes flickered, and then dulled. He swallowed hard, nodding once without quite meeting her gaze.

I stood just behind him, feeling oddly peripheral—present but not included, as though the emotional gravity of their exchange belonged to another orbit entirely.

Who?

The question settled into my chest like a pebble dropped into water, sending out small, silent ripples. ‘Her’—the word rang with significance, too personal for idle speculation, too casual for it to be merely a lost item or animal.

I glanced between them, watching their expressions carefully, searching for clues in the creases of Paul’s brow and the subtle tension in Beatrix’s jaw. Whoever she was, her absence mattered. It mattered enough to send Beatrix searching. Enough to summon that flash of desperate hope in Paul’s voice.

I stood beside him, but I might as well have been behind glass—peering in through a fogged window at something private, something I hadn’t been invited to understand.

Theories began to form, unspooling quietly in the corners of my mind, but I said nothing. Not yet.

Paul’s reaction was immediate and raw—his whole posture shifted as if someone had removed an invisible brace from his spine. His shoulders slumped, arms falling loose by his sides like strings cut from a puppet.

“Really?” he said, the word thin and flat, his voice deflating like a punctured balloon. Whatever hope had lit his expression seconds earlier drained away, leaving something far more subdued in its place.

It was then that Beatrix turned and noticed me. Her eyes, still clouded by the weight of disappointment, shifted from Paul and landed on mine.

“Is everything okay here?” she asked, her brow creased with genuine concern, her tone gentle but edged with tension.

“We’ve been chasing those blinkin’ chickens of yours,” I replied, my voice carrying a note of humour, though not without a pointed edge.

I wasn’t angry, not exactly. But irritation had definitely found its footing.

Beatrix’s gesture—bringing livestock through the Portal—may have come from a place of compassion, but the execution left a great deal to be desired. It felt impulsive, like a child turning up with a stray puppy, expecting someone else to figure out where it would sleep, what it would eat, how it would survive.

The goat and chickens weren’t just amusing additions to our camp—they were living, breathing responsibilities. Creatures with needs. With consequences. And here in Clivilius, where every resource was already stretched thin and every action carried echoes, that kind of decision wasn’t small. It sent ripples—ripples that spread and pulled at the fabric we were all trying desperately to stitch together.

I glanced at her, silently hoping she might see it—truly see it. That this wasn’t just about goats and chickens. That every unplanned addition could tip the scales.

But her expression only darkened with confusion, eyebrows pulling together like tangled threads, her gaze flickering between me and Paul.

For a moment, I hesitated. A strange flicker of uncertainty passed through me.

But before I could give shape to the question forming on my lips, Paul spoke again, stepping forward as if to reclaim the thread of his thoughts.

“You gave me an idea earlier,” he said, his voice steadier now, his hands moving with restless energy, sketching the outline of a plan in the air. “I was going to wait for your return, but then I figured that they’d probably be better in separate cars anyway.”

His words came in that same half-rushed rhythm he always used when his mind was already a few steps ahead. Whatever disappointment he’d felt was being masked now—redirected into practicality, into forward momentum.

Still, I watched him closely, noting the residual shadow behind his eyes. The unanswered question hadn’t vanished. It had only been shelved.

However, Beatrix remained utterly blank, her eyes fixed on Paul with the vacant confusion of a student staring down an exam question written in an unfamiliar dialect. Not a flicker of recognition passed across her features. Whatever mental link Paul thought they’d shared—it clearly hadn’t travelled both ways.

“The chickens,” Paul reiterated, leaning slightly forward as if proximity might somehow make his words more intelligible. There was a faint edge of exasperation creeping into his tone now, like a teacher repeating the answer he’d already written on the board.

“Yeah, I got that part,” Beatrix snapped back, her voice suddenly sharp—acidic, almost. “What about the chickens?”

I let out a loud, theatrical groan and tipped my head back, glaring up at the uncaring sky for strength. The conversation had taken a turn into the realm of the needlessly complicated, and my patience—already worn thin by poultry herding and unanswered questions—was quickly fraying.

“I’ve taken Glenda’s car…” Paul began, hesitating like a schoolboy rehearsing a confession.

“You mean we,” I cut in smoothly, not about to let him take the full credit for our unexpected achievements.

“Of course,” Paul said quickly, correcting himself. A flush crept into his cheeks, his embarrassment visible even in the fading light. “We’ve taken Glenda’s car to the Drop Zone and decided to turn it into a hen house.”

“You’ve put the chickens in a BMW?” Beatrix blurted out, the disbelief in her voice practically vibrating in the air. Her eyes went wide—comically so, like someone watching a priceless vase being used to catch rainwater.

I couldn’t help myself. A laugh bubbled up, and I let it go, wry and unrepentant. The whole situation was absurd.

“I take that back,” I said, turning toward Paul with a smirk. My tone was light, but the look in my eyes was playfully conspiratorial. “The idea was all yours, Paul.”

He straightened defensively, his posture stiffening as though expecting another round of judgement. His voice pitched a little higher, the words quick and clipped.

“It’s not as though we really had many options,” he said, almost bristling. “We can’t very well leave them running freely around camp. They’re a threat to all of us.”

I nodded, the smirk fading as my mood shifted back to something closer to concern. “He’s not wrong,” I said evenly, my tone firm.

“We can’t risk them attracting more wild creatures,” Paul added, doubling down. His hands gestured vaguely toward the darkness beyond the light—toward the unknown, the edge of what we understood.

Beatrix’s face darkened, her expression folding inwards like a sky thickening with storm. Her arms crossed, jaw tightening as she levelled her gaze at us.

“So, you’d rather sentence them to a torturous death out here… alone?” she asked, each word dipped in accusation.

Something snapped in me. I took a step forward, my grip on the torch tightening slightly. The heat from it licked my wrist.

“Beatrix, don’t be so foolish,” I said, more sharply than intended. My eyes locked on hers—unflinching, unwavering. “You know as well as I do that we can’t let our love for the preservation of nature surpass the logical faculties that the universe has bestowed upon us.”

Silence followed—heavy, pressing. Paul and Beatrix both stared at me, their faces unreadable, as if trying to process the full weight of what I’d said. The torch crackled quietly in my hand.

For a moment, I thought the tension might stretch indefinitely.

Then, almost on cue, the silence was broken by a soft, unmistakable chorus—the synchronised rumbling of all three of our stomachs.

“I'm so hungry. I don't think I've eaten today,” I admitted, startled by the realisation. My hand went instinctively to my stomach, pressing against the faint ache that had been building quietly, like a low tide rising unnoticed until it lapped against the shore. The growl that escaped was almost comical—primal and insistent, like some caged creature demanding attention.

It was strange how easily basic needs could be forgotten here. The day’s events—chasing hens, improvising shelters, managing tempers—had consumed every corner of my focus. Eating had slipped to the back of my mind, shuffled aside like a chore left unfinished in a life that no longer followed any of Earth’s familiar rhythms.

Paul’s head lifted at the mention of food, his expression shifting so quickly it was almost comical. “You’re in Broken Hill now, aren’t you, Beatrix?” he asked, voice brightening, the earlier shadows of disappointment melting from his features as quickly as mist under sun.

“Yeah,” Beatrix replied. Her tone was less guarded now, the tension easing from her shoulders. The change in topic, away from judgement and into something more ordinary, seemed to offer her an emotional off-ramp.

Paul seized on it, visibly perking up like a man who’d just remembered he had something worth living for. His grin spread like sunlight after a storm, wide and irrepressible—so broad it bordered on cartoonish.

“I think there is some food being prepared back at camp, but…” He trailed off, eyes drifting toward some imagined horizon, his expression becoming almost reverent.

“You must get us some Rags chips. They are simply divine,” he declared with the theatrical flair of a stage actor delivering a climactic line. One hand clutched dramatically at his chest, as though the memory of the flavour had physically wounded him with its beauty.

“Rags?” Beatrix echoed, brow furrowing. She looked genuinely puzzled, tilting her head slightly in the half-light, like a curious terrier unsure whether she was being offered a treat or a trick.

“They’re on Oxide Street,” Paul said with relish, now fully immersed in his ode to deep-fried perfection. “Simply the best chips you’ve ever tasted!” His tone was so earnest, so full of unshakeable conviction, that I couldn’t help but chuckle.

After everything we’d endured—dimension-hopping, survival triage, chicken diplomacy—it was oddly comforting to see someone so moved by the memory of a greasy takeaway shop. His passion, absurd and beautiful in equal measure, was a welcome antidote to the emotional weight of the last hour.

“Sure,” Beatrix said at last, her voice carrying the reluctant tone of someone who knew resistance was futile. Whether she actually knew the place or simply gave in to Paul’s enthusiasm, I couldn’t tell. She gave a small shrug, her expression unreadable, and the moment settled into an odd, almost tender quiet.

---

As we waited for Beatrix’s return, Paul and I slipped into easy conversation, our words spilling into the evening like water meandering down a sunlit stream. There was no clear beginning or end—just a natural rhythm, a shared release after the long and surreal day. Our voices rose and fell gently in the hush of the Drop Zone, threading between flickers of torchlight and the rustle of settling dust.

We began, inevitably, with the chickens—their unexpected speed, their flair for chaos, the sheer incongruity of herding them into a BMW. That alone gave us a good ten minutes of laughter, the kind that comes not from the joke itself, but from relief, from the simple pleasure of being able to laugh at all.

But our thoughts didn’t stay light for long. The conversation shifted, as it often did, to the realities pressing in around us. Supply rations. Structural vulnerabilities. We moved fluidly between topics—some urgent, some merely distracting—our thoughts winding together like tangled vines in a jungle neither of us fully understood.

There was something oddly grounding about it.

It was a peculiar, yet deeply comforting, sort of bonding. Like the kind of quiet exchange you might share in a tent during a storm—half-whispered confidences, spoken not because they were profound but because they were real. The act of sharing, of putting voice to absurdities and small victories, tethered us to something essential.

Despite the strangeness of the world around us—the silence of the soil, the uncanny stillness of the sky—it was these human moments that anchored us. Conversations like this reminded me we weren’t just surviving; we were still living, still reaching out across the void for companionship, for understanding.

The torch beside us crackled softly, casting a warm, flickering halo over our seated forms. The firelight danced across Paul’s features—lining his jaw, catching briefly in his eyes. His silhouette was etched in soft gold against the monochrome dusk, his laughter quieter now, more thoughtful.

I glanced at him in the glow, a quiet sense of gratitude blooming in my chest.

There was something about Paul—some natural inclination toward levity, even in the face of uncertainty. He had a way of finding humour in our circumstances, of conjuring light without ignoring the dark. It wasn’t naïve optimism; it was something more durable. A resilience that felt lived-in.

And in that moment, I admired him for it.

Not just for his resourcefulness, or his ability to adapt—but for the way he made this place feel, if not like home, then at least like something survivable. Something shared.

---

As Beatrix approached, a warm breeze carried the unmistakable scent of freshly cooked chips towards us, curling through the air like an invisible hand beckoning us closer. It hit me with the force of a long-forgotten memory—salt, oil, perhaps a hint of vinegar—and for a moment, everything else fell away.

My stomach growled loudly in response, a primal sound that seemed to rise from the very centre of me, like a beast stirring from hibernation. The aroma was intoxicating, immediate—a fragrant herald of something simple, comforting, human.

But it wasn’t just the chips that caught my attention. As Beatrix drew nearer, I spotted a second container nestled in the crook of her arm. It was brimming with something unfamiliar—pale and flecked with colour, its creamy texture catching the firelight with a soft sheen.

“This,” Beatrix announced, her tone elevated with a quiet triumph, “is cheeseslaw. Apparently it’s a game-changer.”

She held the container out like an offering at a sacred altar, eyes alight with anticipation. There was something almost reverent about the way she presented it, as though she were revealing a rare treasure.

Paul didn’t hesitate. His hand darted forward with unrestrained glee, already reaching for the contents like a child at a sweet shop.

Curiosity tugged at me. I plucked a chip from the bag—still warm and golden, its edges delicately crinkled—and dipped it into the unfamiliar mixture, scooping up a generous dollop.

The cheeseslaw clung to the chip in thick, creamy ribbons. I hesitated a moment longer—then took a bite.

The effect was instant. My eyes widened in surprise as a cascade of flavour hit my tongue. It was nothing like I’d expected.

The cheeseslaw—somewhere between a coleslaw and a dairy indulgence—delivered a richness that paired shockingly well with the salty crunch of the chip. The sharpness of the cheese cut through the creamy dressing, while the sweetness of the carrot offered a subtle, grounding note. There was a tang to it, too—vinegary, just enough to brighten the whole thing.

Each bite was a small revelation. The textures—crisp, smooth, yielding—and the flavours, both familiar and strange, seemed to harmonise in a way that felt far greater than the sum of their parts.

“Wow, this is amazing!” I said, unable to contain my astonishment. Whatever reservations I’d had melted away instantly.

Paul had been right. The chips alone were divine—perfectly crisp, piping hot, and golden as desert sunlight. But the cheeseslaw… the cheeseslaw elevated them. It transformed a simple comfort food into something almost celebratory.

For a moment, the bleakness of Clivilius receded. The dust, the silence, the ever-present weight of uncertainty—they were still there, of course. But they faded into the background, replaced by this brief and glorious communion over shared food.

And in this strange, inhospitable world, that counted for more than I would’ve guessed.

Paul, still chewing happily, spoke through a mouthful of food—his words slightly muffled, his tone casual but coloured with the faintest note of inner conflict. “Should we share this with the rest of the camp?”

The question hung between us like smoke—soft, drifting, but tangible. It was a generous offer, yes, but not without reluctance. He sounded like a child torn between instinct and obligation, clutching a beloved toy while trying to convince himself to pass it along.

I didn’t answer straight away. The thought lingered in my mind as I licked a smudge of dressing from my thumb and glanced out at the darkened horizon, weighing the idea with the seriousness it oddly deserved. Sharing this—this odd, delightful thing—would undoubtedly lift spirits. It could spark conversation, break tension, remind everyone we were more than just survivors. We were still people.

But even as those thoughts swirled, both Paul and I reached, in perfect synchrony, for another chip. The motion was unconscious, smooth, almost rehearsed. Like dancers returning to a well-practised step, our hands moved in tandem, dipping again into the container.

There was no further discussion. No need.

In that small, silent accord, the answer became clear. This—just this—was our moment. A rare, private reprieve carved out from the desert. A brief escape wrapped in greaseproof paper and stained with cheeseslaw.

We ate on in contented silence, shoulders relaxed, the distant sun retreating further towards the horizon, unbothered by our selfishness.

And for once, I didn’t feel guilty.

Some things, however small, were meant to be held a little closer—shared not with the world, but with the few who’d earned their place beside you in the quiet.