Chickens, Chips, and Broken Hill

"Only in Clivilius could a BMW become a henhouse and a bag of chips pass for salvation."

The cloak of night had fully descended, draping the vast, open landscapes in an impenetrable darkness that seemed to press in from every side. Even the sky felt heavy, its blackness relieved only by the occasional glimmer of distant stars—pinpricks of light straining to make themselves known in the immense void. Out of that abyss, the “Welcome to Broken Hill” sign materialised in the sweep of my headlights, its faded letters briefly gleaming before slipping back into shadow. It felt less like a welcome and more like a quiet, sardonic reminder that I had finally reached the edge of somewhere, though not necessarily safety.

I had imagined arriving here under a burning sunset, the rugged outback bathed in copper and gold. Instead, the night’s obsidian embrace offered only silhouettes and guesswork, the town’s true face hidden away until morning.

Fatigue had begun its slow, merciless creep, settling into my bones and pooling heavily behind my eyes. Each blink lingered a fraction too long, and I could feel the sharp clarity of my earlier focus softening at the edges. The exhilaration of the road—the wide horizons, the rhythm of tyres on bitumen—had faded into a muted hum, replaced by an isolating quiet that seemed to swallow the town whole.

As I wound my way through Broken Hill’s quaint streets, I discovered that patience was my last reserve. The charm of the town’s naming conventions—streets and lanes that seemed plucked from a turn-of-the-century daydream—quickly wore thin when paired with the frustrating reality of navigation under the dim glow of sporadic streetlamps. The whimsical became the wearisome, each similar-sounding road name a fresh turn in what felt like an endless, meandering puzzle.

Upon arrival, Paul’s house presented itself as a tableau of abandonment, a lonely silhouette swallowed whole by the night. The modest, unassuming structure sat in stillness, its windows black and unblinking, offering no hint of welcome. Shadows pooled in the recesses of its frame, clinging stubbornly to the walls as though guarding its secrets.

The driveway was conspicuously bare, an expanse of cold concrete where a familiar car should have been. Neglected mail jutted from the letterbox like brittle tongues, some edges curled from exposure, as if they too had been waiting in vain for someone to return. Together, these details painted not just a picture of absence, but one of deliberate departure—a home not merely empty, but forsaken.

A pang of disappointment pierced through me, swift and sharp. The long hours on the road, the miles swallowed under relentless tarmac, all had been driving toward this moment. Yet the reunion I had envisioned—Charlie’s presence, the warmth of recognition—slipped further away with each breath of the cold night air.

The house’s locked doors stood as silent sentinels, their unyielding stance a tangible echo of my frustration. They were more than a physical barrier; they were the embodiment of distance, of yet another delay in a string of delays.

My stomach, ignored for far too long, voiced its protest in low, twisting growls, the hunger sharpening the edge of my disheartenment. With no other choice, I stepped back from the darkened threshold, retreating into the shadows from which I had emerged. The path to Clivilius stretched before me—a reluctant return, empty-handed, the purpose of my journey unfulfilled.

Manoeuvring the car to the side of the Portal after entry, I eased it into position, ensuring there would be no chance of blocking or collisions for anyone coming through after me. The engine ticked in cooling protest as I shut it off, the familiar hum fading into the stillness. Every muscle in my body felt leaden, my mind dulled by the long, unrewarding journey.

I slid out of the driver’s seat, my feet meeting the firm, cool earth with a muted thud. The door closed with a weary click—but before I could even take a full breath, the echo of another door slamming rang sharply through the evening air. The sound was too abrupt, too close, to be coincidence. Instinct prickled at the back of my neck, and the fine hairs there rose like sentinels on alert.

"Beatrix!" Paul’s voice broke the quiet, urgent and slightly frayed at the edges. His figure appeared in the dim halo of the firestick he carried, its orange light flickering across his face, deepening the lines of concern etched there. He was moving at a jog, breath labouring, the chaos of his movements telling me he’d been expecting me before I’d even arrived.

A second shadow trailed behind him—tall and purposeful—and as it stepped into the reach of the firestick’s glow, my stomach dropped. Karen. Of course.

"Beatrix!" Paul huffed again when he reached me, bending forward slightly as if to catch his breath. His cheeks were flushed, and beads of sweat clung to his forehead, glistening and catching the light like tiny shards of glass. “Did you find her?”

The question hit me harder than I expected, stirring the bitter taste of failure. I bit the inside of my cheek, a self-inflicted sting to anchor myself. "Sorry, Paul," I said quietly, my words weighted with the frustration and disappointment that churned low in my stomach. "I couldn't find her."

"Really?" His brows lifted, his eyes widening as if the possibility had never entered his mind. Saliva caught at the corner of his mouth as he spoke, his breath still uneven. There was disbelief in his voice, but also something softer—a thin thread of hope fraying fast as his gaze locked on mine, searching for the possibility of good news I couldn’t give him.

"Is everything okay here?" I asked, my eyes narrowing slightly as I took in Paul’s flushed cheeks and the shallow rise and fall of his chest. The laboured rhythm of his breathing was unsettling, far more strained than I was accustomed to seeing from him, and it tugged at my concern despite the heaviness in my own limbs.

"We’ve been chasing those blinkin’ chickens of yours," Karen replied before he could answer, her hands firmly planted on her hips. She was bent slightly forward, drawing deep, audible breaths, the cool evening air turning them into brief, misty clouds. Though her voice was laced with irritation, I caught the faint upward twitch of her lips—just enough to betray a hint of amusement beneath the exasperation.

My brow knitted in confusion, the statement colliding awkwardly with my fatigue. Chasing chickens? I had only just returned, and the thought of those hens already causing chaos felt almost absurd, even for today.

"Well," Paul began, straightening with a slow, deliberate breath, a satisfied grin spreading across his face. His eyes caught the firelight, glinting with that familiar, maddening mix of mischief and pride. "You gave me an idea earlier. I was going to wait for you to return, but then I figured that they’d probably be better in separate cars anyway."

I just stared at him, my mind, dulled by exhaustion, working sluggishly to piece together his meaning. His words floated there between us, as if the simple act of saying them should make everything clear.

"The chickens," he emphasised, leaning forward slightly, as if proximity would help my comprehension.

"Yeah, I got that part," I replied, my voice flat with confusion and the creeping edge of incredulity. "What about the chickens?"

Karen groaned loudly, rolling her eyes toward the dusky sky as if summoning divine patience.

"I’ve taken Glenda’s car—" Paul started again, speaking with the earnestness of someone unveiling a masterstroke.

"You mean we," Karen cut in sharply, her tone slicing through his momentum. Her gaze, cool and pointed, was the kind that made even Paul falter.

"Of course," he amended quickly, the faintest flush of embarrassment colouring his face. "We’ve taken Glenda’s car to the Drop Zone and decided to turn it into a hen house."

I gasped audibly, my mind reeling at the sheer ridiculousness of the idea. "You’ve put the chickens in a BMW?" The words tasted absurd even as I spoke them, the image they conjured both surreal and comical. In a world where luxury had long since lost its sparkle, the thought of a high-end German car becoming a makeshift poultry pen was the kind of absurdity I would have laughed at—if it weren’t actually happening in front of me.

"I take that back," said Karen, her tone clipped and unwavering, her face set like carved stone. "The idea was all yours, Paul."

I pressed my fingers to my temple, massaging the beginnings of a throbbing headache. The gesture was as much an attempt to ground myself as it was to quell the rising tide of disbelief. What the hell was wrong with Paul? Chickens in a BMW? It sounded like the punchline to an obscure joke, only there was no laughter—just the weight of the bizarre settling over me like a heavy cloak.

"It’s not as though we really had many options," Paul protested, his voice climbing in defensive pitch. "We can’t very well leave them running freely around camp. They’re a threat to all of us."

"He’s not wrong," Karen said, her tone softer now, her chin dipping in a small, definitive nod.

"We can’t risk them attracting any more wild creatures," Paul added, his gaze scanning the dusky horizon as though expecting something feral to materialise out of the shadows at any moment.

A deep frown carved itself into my face, my brows knitting tight in a cocktail of disbelief and concern. "So, you’d rather sentence them to a torturous death out here… alone?" My voice was sharper than intended, the words tipped with incredulity.

"Beatrix, don’t be so foolish," Karen shot back, her beady eyes narrowing, the intensity of her stare almost invasive. Her voice carried the conviction of someone who considered their view irrefutable. "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."

Oh my God, what a freak, I thought, my eyes rolling instinctively before I could stop them. The words hit me like a slap, wrapped in a bizarre mix of condescension and pseudo-philosophy. Logical faculties bestowed upon the universe? What the hell did that even mean?

It was a sobering moment, the kind that yanked me back from my own irritation just enough to recognise the sheer madness of it all. Here we were, in the ruins of a broken world, locked in a debate about chickens, ethics, and Karen’s warped sense of universal logic. And somehow, this was now my life.

Simultaneously, almost as though the new Clivilius universe had decided to deliver its latest communiqué in surround sound, all three of our stomachs growled. The noise was absurdly loud, a discordant symphony of hunger that reverberated in the cool air around us. It was the kind of sound you could almost feel in your ribcage—low, primal, and impossible to ignore.

"I'm so hungry," Karen confessed, her palm smoothing slow, deliberate circles over her midsection, her face tightening with an expression that mingled discomfort and mild self-pity. "I'm not sure I’ve eaten today."

Paul’s eyes suddenly lit up, the abrupt spark of animation in his features so unexpected that my pulse gave an involuntary jump. I braced myself instinctively, knowing from rapidly-growing experience that such enthusiasm from Paul rarely boded well for me. His energy shifted in an instant—from worn-down survivor to a man on the brink of asking for something outrageous—and I found myself already running through possible exit strategies in my head.

"You’re in Broken Hill now, aren’t you, Beatrix?" Paul asked, his tone a little too casual, but his tongue darting to moisten his lower lip in a slow, exaggerated sweep that felt unsettlingly performative. The gesture had a strange, theatrical quality to it, as though he were preparing for a role that no sane person had auditioned for.

I cringed before my voice even emerged, replying in the affirmative with a subdued, almost reluctant whisper. The sound barely carried between us, as though my own vocal cords were reluctant to sign off on this conversation.

Then came the groan. A long, drawn-out, disturbingly pleased sound rolled from Paul’s mouth—a grotesque cross between satisfaction and something far more private. The damp shine of his lips caught the firestick light, and my skin prickled with an involuntary revulsion. It was a sound so wildly at odds with our bleak surroundings that for a moment I felt as though the ground beneath me had shifted, warping reality just enough to make me doubt the sanity of the world I was standing in.

"I think there is some food being prepared back at camp, but–" Paul paused mid-sentence, the thread of his words dissolving into something entirely private. His eyes seemed to roll back ever so slightly, lids heavy as though he were sinking into some decadent, internal fantasy. The pause stretched far too long—an elastic band of silence pulled tight—until it began to fray at the edges.

The only sounds were the faint whistle of the wind across the dunes, the soft clucks of the nearby chickens and the soft, uneasy scuff of shoes on sand as Karen and I both shifted our weight, our glances meeting in a wordless exchange. Hers carried a hint of irritation; mine, wary curiosity edged with a silent question—Is he actually alright?

After what felt like a full minute of suspended reality, Paul returned to himself with a barely perceptible inhale, his gaze snapping back to the present. "You must get us some Rags chips. They are simply divine," he declared, his tone bordering on reverent, as though he had just imparted the name of some holy relic.

"Rags?" I asked, my voice dry and cautious, clinging to the least unsettling fragment of the conversation like a lifeline. It was a relief to anchor myself to something as mundane as a shop name, a distraction from the lingering mental image of Paul’s half-lidded, chip-inspired trance.

"They're on Oxide Street," Paul replied with surprising speed, a sudden urgency in his tone. "You can't miss the shop. Simply the best chips you've ever tasted!" There was a fervour in his voice that might have been endearing under different circumstances, but here, under the dim firestick glow and after the unsettling pause, it felt ever so slightly unhinged.

I hesitated, weighing the risk of further conversation against the relative safety of compliance. His expression was still charged, as though the very mention of Rags chips was enough to transport him into bliss. In the end, I nodded, agreeing with a quiet, almost reluctant "Alright." It felt like a small price to pay for steering the moment back toward something resembling normality, even if the echo of his earlier groan still lingered in the corners of my mind like an unwelcome guest.