Dust and Glory

"First rule of driving in another dimension: don't open the windows. Second rule: definitely don't floor it. I broke both in the first five minutes."

Glenda's voice drifted across the distance, faint and unintelligible, carried on the dry breeze.

"Breakfast must be ready," Paul remarked, tilting his head toward the camp.

I glanced in that direction, then back at the portal. The translucent screen stood there, empty and waiting, giving no indication of when — or if — Luke would return with my ute.

"We might as well wait for Luke to bring my ute. Imagine everyone's surprise when we drive it back to camp," I said, the words coming out before I'd fully thought them through.

Paul's face brightened. "Yeah, it will be a surprise." He paused, his expression shifting to something more thoughtful. "By the way, have you seen Jamie or Joel yet this morning?"

"Yeah, I went and saw them just after you left," I replied, keeping my voice casual. No need to go into details about the tension, about Uncle Jamie snapping, about the strange protective way he hovered over Joel. "I'm surprised Luke didn't ask about them."

Paul's gaze followed the direction Luke had gone, something flickering behind his eyes. "I think Luke's a bit distracted right now."

Before I could ask what he meant by that, the portal flared to life.

Colours burst across the translucent surface — swirling, shifting, that impossible palette of violets, blue, greens and golds that still made my brain hurt if I looked at it too long. Something was coming through. Something large, judging by the way the light distorted and rippled.

Then my ute appeared.

Or rather, lurched appeared. The Hilux came through the portal like a drunk stumbling out of a pub, its front wheels hitting the dust at an awkward angle, the whole vehicle bucking forward in a series of violent hops. The engine made a sound like a cat being strangled, sputtered twice, and died completely, the ute rolling to a stop barely a metre from a proper arrival.

Paul and I looked at each other.

The laughter hit us both at the same time.

It started as a snort — Paul, I think — and then I was gone, doubled over with my hands on my knees, tears streaming down my face. The sound that came out of me was half wheeze, half howl, the kind of laugh that hurt your stomach and made it hard to breathe. Paul was no better, his whole body shaking, his face red, gasping for air between fits.

Luke emerged from the driver's side looking like someone had pissed in his cornflakes.

His expression only made it worse. I tried to stop, tried to get myself under control, but one look at Paul's tear-streaked face set me off again. We must have looked like lunatics, two grown men losing their minds over a stalled car, but I couldn't remember the last time I'd laughed like this. Really laughed, without reservation or self-consciousness, just pure involuntary joy.

"Luke! Wait!" Paul managed between gasps, struggling to rein himself in.

Luke had already turned away, his shoulders stiff with wounded pride. He paused but didn't look back.

"I said no," he replied, his tone flat and dismissive.

No to what? Some conversation I'd missed while they were talking earlier? I didn't care enough to ask. My ute was here, sitting in the dust of another dimension, and that was all that mattered.

Paul called something else after his brother, but I was already moving, drawn toward the Hilux like a moth to flame. My hand found the driver's door handle, the metal already warming from the alien sun, and I slid into the seat with a feeling that bordered on religious.

The leather steering wheel was exactly as I remembered. Slightly worn on the left side where my thumb always rested, a small tear near the bottom that I'd been meaning to fix for months. The smell hit me next — that particular combination of fuel and dust and the pine air freshener Brianne had hung from the rear-view mirror, now faded to a ghost of its former scent.

I closed my eyes and let myself feel it.

The familiarity was overwhelming. After twenty-four hours of strangeness — portals and lagoons and dead men breathing — this was real. This was mine. This was a piece of the life I'd lost, delivered into my hands like a gift I hadn't known I needed.

A smile crept across my face, wider than anything I'd worn since arriving in this place. My fingers itched toward the ignition, toward the keys that Luke must have left in the column. One turn and the engine would roar to life. One press of the accelerator and I could be moving, going somewhere, doing something other than standing around feeling helpless.

I opened my eyes and glanced back at Paul and Luke. They were still talking, their bodies angled toward each other in that tense way that suggested the conversation wasn't friendly. Sibling stuff. The kind of argument that could go on for hours if you let it, rehashing old grievances and scoring points that meant nothing to anyone outside the family.

My foot tapped restlessly against the floor. Come on, come on.

Finally, Luke turned and walked back toward the portal. The colours swirled around him once more, and then he was gone, leaving Paul standing alone in the dust.

I hit the horn.

The blast cut through the stillness, sharp and sudden, making Paul jump. He spun toward me, eyes wide, and I grinned at him through the windscreen, gesturing impatiently. No reason for him to stand around now. No reason for either of us to wait.

Paul jogged over and climbed into the passenger seat, sinking into the worn fabric with a sigh that spoke of tired muscles and aching joints.

"Let's go!" I exclaimed, already reaching for the key.

"No, wait!"

His hand caught my arm, stopping me mid-motion. I turned to stare at him, frustration bubbling up. We were so close. The engine was right there, waiting to be woken, and he wanted to delay?

"What now?"

"We may as well pack those tent boxes in the back," Paul said, a mischievous glint in his eye. "It'll save us coming back for them."

I scowled. The logic was sound — infuriatingly sound — but the thought of more manual labour before I could drive made my teeth grind together.

"Fine," I huffed. "But make it quick!"

Paul laughed, the sound carrying genuine amusement at my expense. He scrambled out of his seat with more energy than I'd seen from him all morning.

"You're helping too," he called back.

My eyes rolled so hard I thought they might get stuck. A heavy sigh escaped my lips as I opened my door and stepped back out into the dust. The tent boxes weren't far but they weren't light either, and my muscles were already complaining about yesterday's exertions.

But Paul was right. One trip was better than two, especially if fuel was going to be an issue.

We worked in silence, hauling boxes from the supply pile and stacking them in the ute's tray. The work was harder than it looked — each box seemed to weigh more than the last, and the dust made everything slippery, hard to grip. By the time we'd loaded the last one, sweat was running down my back and my arms felt like overcooked noodles.

I'd moved the ute closer during the process, edging it forward between loads to save us carrying distance. Now it sat at the edge of the Drop Zone, fully loaded, ready to go. The tailgate slammed shut with a satisfying thunk, and I dusted off my hands on my jeans — a pointless gesture, given that my jeans were already more dust than fabric.

"Ready to make a grand entrance?" I asked, unable to keep the grin off my face.

Paul matched it with one of his own. "Let's do it."

I was back in the driver's seat before the words had finished leaving his mouth. The key turned, the engine caught, and the sound that filled the air was the most beautiful thing I'd heard since arriving in this place. A proper engine, rumbling and powerful, ready to go wherever I pointed it.

Paul climbed in beside me, barely getting his door closed before I had us moving.

We didn't go straight to camp.

I couldn't. Not yet. The temptation was too strong, the hunger too fierce. I'd spent an entire day walking everywhere, my feet sinking into dust, my legs burning from the effort of navigating terrain that fought back against every step. Now I had wheels. Now I had power. Now I had something that responded to my commands without hesitation or resistance.

The ute swung left, away from the camp, carving a path around the perimeter of the Drop Zone. The steering wheel felt alive in my hands, the vibrations of the engine thrumming up through my fingers, and I pressed down on the accelerator with a recklessness that would have made any driving instructor weep.

"What are you doing?" Paul's voice cut through the roar, pitched high with a mixture of excitement and alarm.

"Just a short detour," I replied, my grin stretching so wide it hurt.

The tyres churned through the dust, throwing up plumes of red and orange in our wake. The landscape blurred past — browns and tans and rusts, all blending together into a smear of colour as we picked up speed. The ute bounced over uneven ground, the suspension working overtime, each jolt sending us lurching in our seats.

I didn't care. This was freedom. This was movement. This was the closest I'd felt to myself since falling through that portal.

Paul was laughing now, the sound mixing with the engine's growl in a symphony of joy. His hands gripped the sides of his seat, knuckles white, but his face was split with the same manic grin I could feel on my own.

The landscape unfolded around us, vast and empty and somehow beautiful in its desolation. Reds and browns stretched to the horizon, broken only by the occasional rock formation jutting up from the dust like broken teeth. In the distance, mountains rose against the too-blue sky, their peaks hazy with distance.

"How much petrol?" Paul yelled as we crested a hill, the ute briefly airborne before slamming back down with a bone-jarring impact.

I glanced at the gauge. "Still three-quarters!"

The needle sat comfortably in the upper range, plenty of juice left for whatever adventure we wanted. The sight of it sparked something reckless in my chest, a wild abandon that drowned out all the sensible voices in my head.

"Floor it!" Paul shouted.

I didn't need to be told twice.

My foot slammed down and the ute surged forward, the engine roaring its approval. The speedometer climbed — fifty, sixty, seventy — and the world outside became a blur of motion and colour. Dust exploded around us, thick clouds that swallowed everything in their wake, painting the air in shades of rust and gold.

We tore across the terrain like something unleashed, leaving behind a trail of churned earth and suspended particles. The wind roared through the open windows — when had I opened those? — whipping at our hair, filling our mouths with dust and laughter in equal measure.

For a few glorious minutes, nothing else existed. Not Clivilius, not the portal, not Brianne or Mum or any of the people I'd left behind. Just speed and sound and the pure, uncomplicated joy of going fast in a vehicle I'd built half my identity around.

Paul whooped beside me, the sound animal and unrestrained, and I joined him, our voices rising together in a howl of exhilaration that the empty landscape swallowed whole.

The ute bounced over a rise, caught air, slammed down hard enough to rattle my teeth. We kept going. Kept pushing. Kept chasing whatever it was we were chasing — escape, maybe, or just the feeling of being alive, of having some small measure of control in a world that had stripped us of everything else.

Dust coated the windscreen, the windows, our skin and clothes. I could taste it on my tongue, gritty and mineral, but I didn't care. Let it come. Let it coat everything. Right now, in this moment, I was exactly where I needed to be.

Behind the wheel.

In control.

Alive.

The engine died without warning.

One moment we were flying across the landscape, dust billowing behind us, laughter filling the cabin. The next, the ute shuddered, coughed, and went silent. The sudden absence of the engine's roar was deafening, the only sound the soft hiss of our momentum carrying us forward through the dust before friction brought us to a gentle, anticlimactic stop.

Paul turned to me, his eyes wide. "What the hell?"

Good question. I had no answer.

My hand went to the ignition, twisting the key with desperate hope. The starter clicked. Clicked again. The engine made a sound like someone clearing their throat, then nothing. I tried again, and again, each attempt yielding the same feeble response — mechanical throat-clearing followed by stubborn silence.

"Come on," I muttered, as if the ute could hear me, as if encouragement might make a difference. "Come on, come on, come on."

Nothing.

We looked at each other, the same frustration mirrored in both our faces. Then, without needing to discuss it, we opened our doors and stepped out into the dust.

The heat hit me immediately — the sun had climbed higher while we'd been joyriding, and now it beat down with proper intensity. My boots sank into the soft ground as I made my way to the front of the ute, Paul falling into step beside me.

I reached for the bonnet release, the metal hot enough under my fingers to make me wince. The bonnet swung up, and a string of expletives poured out of me before I could stop them.

The engine was buried.

Not damaged, not broken — just completely, thoroughly, catastrophically coated in dust. Every surface, every component, every gap and crevice had been infiltrated by the fine particles we'd been churning up during our reckless sprint across the landscape. The air filter looked like it had been dipped in flour. The radiator fins were packed solid. Even the spark plug leads had disappeared under a layer of pale brown powder.

"How are we going to clean that?" I demanded, my voice pitching higher than I'd intended.

Paul leaned in, studying the mess with an expression that suggested he was either thinking very hard or trying not to laugh. Then he did something I didn't expect.

He blew on it.

A sharp, focused exhale, directed at the air filter housing. A cloud of dust exploded outward, momentarily obscuring his face before drifting away on the breeze.

"Help me blow," he said, glancing over his shoulder at me.

I stared at him. It was such a simple solution — childishly simple, the kind of thing you'd do to clear dust off a book or a photograph. Not a car engine. Not something with hundreds of moving parts and precise tolerances and all the other things that made vehicles work.

But we didn't have compressed air. Didn't have cleaning supplies. Didn't have anything except our lungs and whatever moisture we could muster.

I shrugged and leaned in beside Paul, our faces inches apart over the dusty machinery. Together, we exhaled — hard, sustained breaths that sent particles flying in all directions. The dust swirled and eddied, coating our skin, filling our nostrils, making us cough and splutter between attempts.

But it was working.

Beneath the accumulated grime, the engine was emerging. The air filter housing appeared first, then the radiator top, then the various hoses and cables that connected everything together. We kept at it, moving systematically across the engine bay, clearing one section at a time.

"It's working," Paul exclaimed, stepping back to gulp fresh air, his face flushed with exertion.

I didn't waste time celebrating. I rushed back to the driver's seat, my fingers fumbling with the key as I twisted it in the ignition. A plume of dust floated out from under the hood — the last remnants of our cleaning efforts being expelled — and for a moment I thought we'd failed, that the damage was already done.

Then Paul stepped into view through the windscreen, his face split with a grin, both thumbs raised in triumph.

The engine was running.

Relief flooded through me, so intense it made my hands shake. Paul closed the bonnet with a solid thunk and jogged around to the passenger side, sliding in with a satisfied sigh.

"Right," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "Let's try this again. Slower this time."

The journey back to camp was nothing like the wild sprint that had brought us out here.

We crept along, the ute barely managing walking pace in places, the engine labouring against the thick dust that seemed determined to swallow us whole. Twice we nearly got stuck, the tyres spinning uselessly in patches where the surface had given way to something softer, deeper, more treacherous. Each time, I had to reverse, find a different line, approach from another angle.

The engine struggled constantly. Every few hundred metres I'd hear that familiar coughing sound, that warning note that meant the filters were clogging again. We stopped three times to clear dust from the air intake and radiator, our impromptu cleaning technique becoming more refined with each repetition.

By the time the camp came into view, my shoulders ached from gripping the steering wheel and my jaw hurt from clenching it.

"We need some roads," I sighed, glancing over at Paul. "We need to contain this bloody dust!"

The words came out sharper than I'd intended, frustration bleeding through despite my best efforts. This place was impossible. Every solution created new problems. Every step forward revealed three more obstacles waiting ahead.

Paul furrowed his brow, his expression thoughtful but unconvinced.

"Even if we just clear a few trails down to the hard crust beneath, it should be good enough to drive on," I pressed, warming to the idea as I spoke. "The dust is only the top layer. Get through that, and there's packed earth underneath. Something solid. Something you can actually drive on without the whole bloody vehicle choking to death."

Paul's eyes brightened for a moment, interest flickering in their depths. Then his face fell again, the brief spark extinguished by the weight of everything else demanding attention.

"There's so much to do," he muttered, the words barely audible over the engine's laboured breathing.

He wasn't wrong. Tents to erect, concrete to pour, sheds to build, supplies to organise. Roads were a luxury, a nice-to-have in a world of desperate necessities. We could barely keep ourselves fed and sheltered — carving transportation corridors through the landscape felt like worrying about curtain colours while the house burned down.

"We need a bulldozer," I chuckled, trying to inject some lightness into the moment.

Paul looked at me, his expression shifting to something more serious than the joke warranted. "That's actually not a bad idea."

Before I could respond, movement caught my eye. Figures near the camp, more than there should be. I squinted through the dust-coated windscreen, trying to make sense of what I was seeing.

"More people?" The words came out uncertain, questioning.

"Huh?" Paul turned his attention forward, his mind clearly still wrestling with bulldozers and infrastructure.

The ute crested the final rise, and the camp spread out below us. The tents were there, the fire pit, the scattered evidence of our nascent settlement. Glenda stood near the cooking area, her posture suggesting conversation.

But she wasn't alone.

Two figures flanked her. Man and Woman, from the looks of it — one tall and lanky, the other shorter and rounder. Neither of them was anyone I recognised. Neither of them had been here when I'd left this morning.

I brought the ute to a stop, the engine sputtering and dying with something that sounded almost like relief. My hands stayed on the wheel, my eyes fixed on the strangers below.

"Shit!" Paul's voice cut through my confusion, sharp with sudden realisation. "I forgot about Karen!"

I turned to stare at him, questions piling up faster than I could voice them.

"Who the hell is Karen?"

But Paul was already scrambling out of the ute, his attention fixed on the scene below, leaving my question hanging unanswered in the dusty air.

I sat there for a moment longer, watching the tall woman gesture animatedly while Glenda nodded along. Her companion stood slightly apart, arms crossed, his posture radiating a wariness that I recognised all too well.

More people. More strangers. More complications in a situation that was already complicated beyond bearing.

The adrenaline from our joy ride had faded completely now, replaced by a familiar knot of unease settling in my stomach. New arrivals meant new dynamics, new personalities to navigate, new potential for conflict in an environment already stretched thin by stress and uncertainty.

But beneath the apprehension, something else stirred. Curiosity, maybe. Or just the basic human need to know what was happening, to understand who these people were and how they'd ended up here.

I opened my door and stepped out into the dust.

Time to find out.