First Watch

"The secrets people keep aren't as dangerous as the ones they're trying to keep from themselves."

As the dwindling sun's rays stretched across the sky, casting long shadows and painting the horizon in hues of orange and pink, Glenda and I found ourselves in the quiet companionship that comes with shared tasks and mutual understanding. We had finished erecting the tent together, our movements synchronised in a dance of necessity rather than conversation. Her presence had made the work lighter — not just physically, but in some harder-to-name way. Having someone competent beside you, someone who understood without needing explanation, transformed a chore into something almost companionable.

Afterward, I had busied myself with getting the campfire going, a task that offered both warmth and usefulness, while Glenda had taken on the responsibility of organising our food and medical supplies in the newly pitched shelter. The division of labour had been wordless, intuitive. She knew what needed doing; I knew what I could manage. We simply did it.

The campfire crackled and popped, a comforting sound in the growing evening chill. The temperature dropped sharply once the sun began its descent — a surprise I was still adjusting to after a day of oppressive heat. The fire's warmth pushed back against the encroaching cold, creating a small circle of comfort in the gathering darkness.

Wiping the last of the sauce from my paper plate with my finger, I tossed the plate into the flames, watching as it curled and blackened, consumed by the fire's insatiable appetite. The meal had been simple — tinned beans — but it had tasted better than any restaurant dinner I could recall. Hunger, it turned out, was the finest seasoning.

Moments later, Glenda, who had been rhythmically tapping her empty plate against her knee, mirrored my action. The repetitive tapping, a seemingly absent-minded action, had caught my attention, and I found myself watching her more closely. There was something in the rhythm of it — not the tap of someone lost in thought, but the tap of someone trying to suppress something. Nervous energy finding an outlet.

The moment her plate left her hand, I noticed her fingers immediately took its place, dancing nervously on her thigh. It was a small gesture, but in the quiet of the evening, it spoke volumes. The calm physician who had extracted a splinter from Jamie's chest without flinching, who had been nipped by a dog and brushed it off as a surface wound — that woman was unsettled by something she wasn't sharing.

"Everything okay?" I ventured, breaking the silence that had settled between us.

"Ahh, yeah," she replied, her voice carrying a hint of hesitation as she rubbed the hand that had been tapping along her thigh.

The quick, almost reflexive movement did little to mask the underlying tension I sensed in her. The word "yeah" stretched slightly, as if she'd had to think about it before answering — never a good sign.

I wasn't convinced. The unease that seemed to radiate from her was palpable, and concern tightened its grip around my heart. Something was wrong. Something beyond the obvious wrongness of our entire situation.

"You sure?" I pressed gently, hoping to offer an opening should she need it. "I'm here if you need to talk."

The offer hung between us, sincere but perhaps presumptuous. We'd known each other for less than a day. What right did I have to expect her confidences?

Her response was almost immediate, a swift "I need to check on Jamie," as she got to her feet with a speed that suggested a desire to escape rather than address whatever was weighing on her mind. The motion was too quick, too decisive. Jamie was sedated; she'd said so herself. He wasn't going anywhere, and neither was his condition likely to have changed in the twenty minutes since she'd last checked.

As she walked away, the flickering light of the campfire casting her shadow long and wavering against the ground, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was indeed more on Glenda's mind than she was willing to share.

Sitting there, watching the flames dance and consume everything thrown into them, I felt a sense of isolation creep in. It wasn't just the physical distance Glenda had put between us by walking away; it was the emotional distance, the barriers we all sometimes erect when we're struggling to cope. I recognised the behaviour because I'd done it myself, countless times. Retreating from Claire when conversations grew too difficult. Withdrawing from the children when work pressures mounted. Building walls and calling them privacy.

In that moment, I realised that despite our proximity, despite the shared experiences and the camaraderie that had momentarily begun to blossom among us, there were still chasms that remained unbridged, secrets and fears that lay hidden in the shadows, just beyond the reach of the campfire's light.

Whatever Glenda knew — or suspected — she wasn't ready to share it. And perhaps that was her right. We were all entitled to our private terrors.

The return of Glenda from attending to Jamie marked a subtle shift in the atmosphere beside the campfire. Her presence seemed to carry a heavier weight this time, as if the brief respite in the tent had failed to ease whatever burden pressed upon her. As she settled herself back into the dust beside me, the fine particles billowing softly around her, I couldn't help but notice the weariness etched into her features.

The firelight caught the lines around her eyes, the slight downturn of her mouth. She looked older than she had this afternoon — not in years, but in experience. As if the hours since her arrival had aged her in ways that time alone couldn't account for.

"How is he?"

The question slipped from my lips, filled with genuine concern, not just for Jamie's well-being but for Glenda's too. She had become, in the space of a single day, indispensable to us. The thought of her crumbling under the pressure was almost too much to contemplate.

"Still in a lot of pain," she admitted, her voice tinged with a hint of frustration. "I've changed the dressing on his wound and given him some more painkillers and a few sedatives. He should be out for the rest of the night."

"Thank you, Glenda," I found myself saying. "I'm not sure we would have survived here long without you."

It was the truth, unvarnished and simple. Glenda had become our beacon of hope in a situation that often seemed bleak and unforgiving. Without her, Jamie would be worsening by the hour. Without her, my burned foot would be a mystery I was trying to solve with guesswork and prayer. Without her, we would be two lost souls stumbling through an alien landscape with no one qualified to patch us up when we inevitably fell.

At my words, Glenda shifted awkwardly in the dust, the movement betraying a discomfort with the praise or perhaps with the weight of responsibility that had been thrust upon her. Being essential was a burden of its own. I knew that from business — the more indispensable you became, the more trapped you felt.

"Is this all of you?" She asked, a question that seemed to come from a place of deep contemplation.

"Yes," I replied, puzzled by the direction of her inquiry.

"There's been nobody else?"

"No," I answered, my curiosity piqued. "Were you expecting more?"

I couldn't help but probe further, sensing an undercurrent of something unspoken, a hidden layer of concern or doubt within her. The question seemed loaded, somehow. As if there were a right answer and a wrong answer, and she was waiting to see which I'd give.

"Oh... um... no," Glenda stammered, her response coming out more as a hurried evasion than a clarification.

The moment stretched between us, filled with a palpable awkwardness that neither of us seemed able to dispel. She was lying, or at least not telling the full truth. I was certain of it now. But pressing further felt intrusive, dangerous even. Whatever secret she carried, she would share it when she was ready — or not at all.

We continued to sit in that awkward silence, the minutes stretching into what felt like an eternity. All the while, I listened to the fire crackle, its sounds a soothing yet sombre background to my racing thoughts. The flames, with their relentless consumption of the wood, seemed almost like a metaphor for our situation — constantly burning through resources, through hope, leaving behind nothing but ashes and the lingering warmth of our shared humanity.

The darkness beyond our circle of light had grown complete now. Not the darkness of Earth, with its ambient glow from distant cities, its stars and moon providing at least the suggestion of light. This was absolute darkness. The kind that pressed against your eyes and made you doubt whether you'd gone blind.

"You know you can't go back," I found myself saying to Glenda, the statement carrying more weight than a question ever could. It was an acknowledgment of our situation, a mutual understanding of the point of no return that we had crossed. She had stepped through that Portal knowing — or perhaps not fully knowing — that there was no return ticket. Now she was here, trapped with the rest of us.

"I know," she replied, her voice steady yet laden with an unspoken mix of acceptance and resignation.

Her simple acknowledgment sent us spiralling back into a silence that was both reflective and charged with the weight of our reality. She knew. She had made her choice. Whatever had motivated that choice — and I suspected Luke's persuasion had played a significant role — she was committed to it now.

The silence stretched on, a tangible entity that seemed to envelop us, until Glenda broke it with a question.

"So, what did actually happen last night?"

Her inquiry, gentle yet probing, sought to pierce the veil of uncertainty that had shrouded the events of the previous night. The question I'd been dreading. The question I still didn't know how to answer honestly without terrifying her — or myself.

I weighed my response carefully, aware that the full truth might be more than either of us was prepared to handle in this moment. I recounted the tale of the dust storm and the overwhelming darkness that had enveloped us, a narrative that, while true, omitted the chilling encounter with the night terror. The scraping sounds. The circling presence. The sense of something hunting us in the blackness.

It was a deliberate choice, a bid to spare her from the added burden of knowing every harrowing detail.

I've given her enough to think about already, I rationalised, hoping the partial truth would suffice for now. She had secrets she wasn't sharing with me; perhaps I was entitled to the same courtesy.

Glenda's gaze drifted upwards, seeking out the sky that had turned the same eerie black as the night before.

"It's very dark. There is no moon, or stars here?" She pondered aloud, her question voicing a sense of disorientation and loss — a yearning for the familiar comfort of celestial bodies that seemed absent in this place.

I understood the feeling. On Earth, even the darkest night offered some reference points, some reminder that you were part of a larger universe. Here, there was nothing. Just blackness pressing down like a lid on a coffin.

"I don't think so," I replied, my own voice tinged with a hint of regret. "At least we didn't see anything last night."

The words felt inadequate. We hadn't seen stars or moon — but we'd sensed something else entirely. Something that made the absence of celestial bodies seem like a minor inconvenience by comparison.

"Oh, I see," Glenda murmured, her attention returning to the fire.

The light from the flames reflected in her eyes, casting a warm glow on her face, yet unable to dispel the growing shadows of concern. Whatever she was thinking, she kept it to herself. The fire crackled between us, filling the silence with its own language of pops and hisses.

As I observed her, lines of worry etched themselves deeper into her expression, a map of the stress and challenges she had faced.

She must be nearing her early forties, I mused, noting the graceful way she carried the weight of her experiences. Despite the hardships, Glenda seemed to be ageing with a resilience and strength that was as admirable as it was enviable. Some people crumbled under pressure; others crystallised into something harder and more beautiful. Glenda appeared to be the latter.

"Glenda," I whispered, breaking the silence that had once again settled around us like a thick blanket.

"Yes, Paul," she responded, her voice carrying a note of readiness, as if braced for whatever concern or confession I was about to voice.

"The dark can be a scary place here," I admitted, the words feeling both vulnerable and true. "I'm going to keep the fire going all night tonight."

It was a declaration as much as it was a reassurance to myself — a way to ward off the shadows that seemed to press in closer with each passing hour. Last night, the fire had died. Last night, something had come. I would not make that mistake again.

"Do you feel safe here?"

Glenda's question cut to the heart of our situation, simple yet profound in its implication. The directness of it caught me off guard. She wasn't asking if things were fine, or if we'd manage. She was asking the fundamental question: were we safe?

I paused, considering the reality of our circumstances. The burned foot. Jamie's near-fatal wound. The night terror. The absolute darkness. The fact that we were stranded in an alien dimension with no way home and no real understanding of what threats this world might contain.

"Nothing about this place seems particularly safe," I confessed. The admission felt heavy, laden with the weight of our collective unease. But there was no point in pretending otherwise. Glenda was too intelligent to be fooled by false reassurances, and I respected her too much to offer them.

"But I think having the light is the best thing for us, if we are going to avoid a repeat of last night's fiasco."

It was a tactical decision, born of necessity rather than comfort, a small beacon of hope in the form of a flickering flame. Fire had protected humanity since the beginning. Fire would protect us now.

Glenda shifted uncomfortably in the dust again, her movements reflecting the internal turmoil that seemed to grip her. Something was building in her — I could see it in the tension of her shoulders, the way her jaw tightened before she spoke.

"I think we should build some security for our settlement. And soon," she urged, her voice laced with a sense of urgency that belied a deeper concern.

I eyed Glenda cautiously, her suggestion sparking a mix of curiosity and apprehension within me.

What isn't she telling me? The question echoed in my mind, a silent alarm that hinted at unseen dangers lurking just beyond the firelight's reach. She knew something. She'd been told something, or guessed something, or feared something that she wasn't sharing. The nervous tapping, the questions about whether there were others, now this urgency about security — the pieces didn't quite fit together, but they formed an unsettling pattern.

"I'll have a chat to Luke about it tomorrow," I told her, attempting to offer some measure of reassurance.

Although, to be honest, I wasn't sure what good that would do right now. In the brief time since our arrival, our accomplishments had been modest at best and disastrous at worst. In two days, all we had managed to do was put up two tents, botch a slab of concrete, and nearly kill Jamie. The idea of building any form of security felt daunting, almost laughable in the context of our current capabilities.

Security implied walls, or fences, or weapons. It implied understanding what you were securing against. We had none of those things. We were barely managing to keep ourselves fed and sheltered, and now Glenda was talking about fortifications as if we were expecting siege.

As I sat there, watching the flames dance with a hypnotic, mesmerising glow, I couldn't help but feel the weight of the challenge ahead. Building security, both physical and psychological, in this Clivilian environment was going to be a monumental task. We would need materials, plans, manpower. We would need Luke's ability to fetch things from Earth. We would need skills none of us possessed.

But first, we would need to survive the night.

"You'll take the first watch then," Glenda's said, rising from our shared spot by the fire.

The simple act of brushing dust from her slacks, seemed to punctuate the end of our fleeting respite. The conversation was over. The night shift was beginning.

"First watch?" My question echoed faintly.

"Well, you can't very well sit there awake all night," Glenda pointed out, her voice carrying a blend of logic and concern. "I'll switch with you when I check on Jamie during the night."

"Sure," I agreed, my assent automatic, yet imbued with a deep-seated appreciation for her thoughtfulness.

As I turned back to the fire, its flames a mesmerising dance of light and shadow, I felt a solitary weight settle upon my shoulders. It was a responsibility not just to the flames before me, but to the safety and well-being of our makeshift family. While they slept — Jamie drugged into oblivion, Glenda resting in the supply tent — I would be the one standing between them and whatever might emerge from that absolute blackness.

The thought was terrifying. The thought was also, in some strange way, clarifying. Purpose has a way of burning away confusion.

Glenda's departure was marked by a pause, a moment of hesitation that drew my attention away from the hypnotic flames.

"Oh, Paul?"

Her voice, calling out before she reached the sanctuary of the food and medical tent, held an unexpected note of curiosity.

"Yeah?"

My response, slightly apprehensive, sought to bridge the distance between us. What now? What else had she thought of? What other concern was about to land on my already overburdened mind?

"Does our little settlement have a name yet?"

The question, seemingly innocuous, carried an undercurrent of significance.

I smiled, despite the seriousness of our conversation and the weight of the night ahead. The question had caught me off guard, but I realised I had an answer ready. It had been forming in the back of my mind without my conscious awareness, waiting for exactly this moment to emerge.

"Bixbus."

The word felt right on my tongue. Odd, certainly. Not a name that would appear on any Earth map. But this wasn't Earth, and our settlement wasn't ordinary. It deserved something unique.

"Hmm, odd name," Glenda mused, her voice carrying a mix of amusement and contemplation. And without another word, she turned and disappeared into the tent, leaving me with the fire, the night, and my thoughts.

Bixbus. Our strange little settlement with its two tents and its botched concrete and its wounded inhabitants. Our claim on this alien world. Our home, for better or worse.

I fed another piece of wood to the flames and watched the sparks rise into the starless sky, tiny fragments of light ascending into infinite darkness. Somewhere beyond the firelight, the world held its breath. The night had begun, and I was its sole witness.

Whatever came next, I would be ready. Or at least, I would try to be.