Five Bars

"Found out the internet works through the portal. First thought wasn't supplies or survival—it was her. What do you say to someone who thinks you're dead? 'Having a rough week, love, don't wait up'?"

The camp looked different.

Smaller, somehow. More fragile. The tents huddled together like refugees seeking warmth from each other, their canvas walls offering the illusion of shelter against a world that had proven it could tear through any barrier it chose. The fires from the night before had burned down to smouldering ash, grey remnants that would need to be rebuilt before darkness fell again.

I approached with the wariness of a man returning to a crime scene, my eyes scanning for Chris's figure among the few people visible. He wasn't there. The relief that washed through me carried its own particular shame — I shouldn't be avoiding him, shouldn't be treating the man I'd wronged as an obstacle to be navigated around. But the alternative was confrontation, conversation, the possibility of questions I couldn't answer and truths I couldn't speak.

Cowardice was easier. For now.

Nial sat alone by the main fire pit, his attention focused on something in his hands. As I drew closer, I realised he was tending to a wound — a small gash across his palm that he was wrapping with strips of cloth that had probably been clean at some point but now carried the universal greyness of fabric that had seen too much use.

The sight of blood — even a small amount, even someone else's — sent a jolt through my stomach. We couldn't go a single day in this place without someone getting hurt. The universe seemed determined to remind us of our fragility at every opportunity, to demonstrate just how easily flesh could be opened and life could spill out onto the indifferent ground.

"What happened?" I asked, my voice carrying genuine concern.

Nial looked up, his expression cycling through surprise and something that might have been relief at having company. The wound on his hand was relatively minor — a cut that would heal without stitches, that would leave a scar so small it might eventually be forgotten. Compared to shadow panther attacks and head injuries and legs torn open by serrated teeth, it was nothing.

But it was still blood. Still damage. Still evidence that this place would take whatever pieces of us it could reach.

Nial launched into an explanation, his words tumbling out with the enthusiasm of someone who'd been waiting for an audience. He and Paul had gone to the portal that morning, driven by some theory about connectivity and communication. They'd brought Nial's laptop — the computer from his fence construction business, the one that had travelled through dimensions along with its owner — and they'd discovered something extraordinary.

The internet worked.

Not perfectly, not reliably, but it worked. The portal, it seemed, maintained some kind of connection to Earth that extended beyond the physical transportation of objects and people. Data could flow through it. Websites could be accessed. The digital infrastructure of the world I'd left behind was somehow reachable from this impossible place.

My interest sharpened with every word Nial spoke, hope kindling in my chest like a flame catching on dry tinder. Communication with Earth. Access to information, to resources, to the people we'd left behind. The implications spiralled outward in my mind, each one more tantalising than the last.

"What sparked the idea to try?" I asked, genuinely curious about the chain of reasoning that had led to this discovery.

Nial explained that Paul had suggested using the connection to order supplies through Nial's business. Practical, logical, exactly the kind of mundane problem-solving that Paul seemed to excel at. They needed resources that couldn't be found in this dimension — tools, materials, the infrastructure of civilisation that we'd all taken for granted until it wasn't there anymore. And Nial had a business, complete with accounts and ordering systems and all the digital apparatus required to acquire things from the real world.

The plan was impressive in its simplicity. I found myself developing a grudging respect for Paul's ingenuity, his ability to find solutions.

"And did you manage to make an order?" I pressed, my heart accelerating with anticipation.

Nial nodded, though uncertainty flickered in his eyes. "I think so."

His gaze drifted to the shadow panther's head that still stood sentry at the camp's entrance, that grotesque trophy serving as constant reminder of the dangers we faced. The sight of it seemed to drain some of the enthusiasm from his expression, reality asserting itself over the brief excitement of their discovery.

But I wasn't thinking about supplies or fencing materials or the practical necessities of survival. My mind had seized on something far more personal, far more desperate, a possibility that had been burning in my chest since Nial first mentioned the internet connection.

"Does this mean we can communicate with our loved ones?"

The words came out raw, stripped of any pretence at casual curiosity. Brianne's face floated through my consciousness — her smile, the warmth in her eyes, the way she'd looked at me when I'd knelt before her and asked her to spend her life with me. If I could reach her, could send her a message, could hear her voice telling me that she was okay and the baby was growing and there was still a future waiting for me on the other side of this nightmare—

"I guess it does," Nial replied, his tone carrying a weight that pulled against my rising hope. "But given the lack of security around here and..." He paused, his gaze shifting once again to the shadow panther's severed head, to that monument of violence that dominated the camp's entrance. "I'm not convinced that we should be telling anybody about this place."

The words landed like a bucket of cold water on the fire I'd been nurturing.

He was right. The rational part of my brain knew that immediately, even as the desperate part screamed in protest. What could I possibly tell Brianne? That I'd fallen through an inter-dimensional portal and was now stranded in a world that wanted to eat me? That the sky was always blue and cloudless and the water made you come against your will and an ancient entity lived inside my head and had forced me to sexually assault a stranger?

She would think I'd lost my mind. Would assume I'd had a breakdown, was lying in a hospital somewhere hallucinating worlds that couldn't exist. And if, by some miracle, she did believe me — what then? There was nothing she could do. No rescue to mount, no cavalry to send. The knowledge would only cause her pain, would transform her grief from the clean uncertainty of disappearance into the messy horror of understanding exactly what I was enduring.

But still.

"But still, it's worth a try, isn't it?" The words escaped before I could stop them, before rationality could strangle the hope that refused to die.

I needed to hear her voice. Needed to know she was okay, that the pregnancy was progressing, that our daughter was still growing in the safety of her mother's body while her father fought to survive in a dimension that shouldn't exist. Even if I couldn't explain where I was, even if I had to lie or evade or offer partial truths — wouldn't some contact be better than none?

Nial's gaze fixed on me with an intensity that made me shift uncomfortably, his eyes seeming to see past the surface of my words to the desperation that lurked beneath.

"Your fiancée is pregnant, isn't she?"

The question sounded more like a statement, a confirmation of something he already knew. I'd mentioned Brianne before, must have let slip details about my situation in the brief conversations we'd shared.

"Yes," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.

Nial's expression shifted, his features rearranging themselves into something that looked uncomfortably like pity mixed with practical concern.

"And how do you expect the baby to be delivered with no doctor?"

The question hit hard.

I'd been so focused on survival — on my leg, on Clive's demands, on the immediate threats that crowded every moment — that I hadn't fully considered the longer-term implications of Glenda's absence. If she didn't return before Brianne gave birth... if something went wrong during the delivery... if complications arose that required medical expertise none of us possessed...

My mind recoiled from the scenarios that began to unfold, each one worse than the last. Brianne screaming in a tent, surrounded by people who didn't know how to help her. The baby arriving wrong, positioned badly, unable to breathe. Blood — too much blood — pooling beneath her body while I stood helpless, watching the two people I loved most in the world slip away because our only doctor had gone chasing a Portal pirate through an unknown dimension.

"Glenda's only going to be gone a few days," I said, forcing confidence into my voice that I didn't feel. "As soon as they've found Joel, they'll all be back."

The words sounded hollow even to my own ears. A few days. As if I had any way of knowing how long the search would take, how far Charity would lead them, what obstacles they might encounter in their pursuit. Time in this place seemed to follow its own rules, stretching and compressing in ways that defied the calendars I'd grown up trusting.

Nial's response carried the weight of someone who'd already run the calculations and found them wanting.

"For all of our sakes, I hope you're right."

The silence that followed was thick with implications neither of us wanted to voice. Glenda might not come back. Joel might never be found. The hunting party might encounter dangers that killed them, leaving the rest of us without medical care, without guidance, without the experienced hands we desperately needed.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady the thoughts that were spiralling toward panic.

Glenda is coming back, I told myself, the words taking on the quality of a prayer. She has to come back. She wouldn't abandon us, wouldn't leave Lois, wouldn't give up on finding her father without exhausting every possibility.

But even as I formed the reassurances, doubt crept in through the cracks. This place had a way of taking things from you. People, certainties, the assumptions you'd built your understanding of the world upon. Nothing was guaranteed here except the constancy of threat and the persistence of fear.

I needed to move. Needed to do something with my hands, my body, the restless energy that was building in my limbs with nowhere to go. The conversation had awakened too many worries, had stirred up sediment I'd been trying to let settle.

"I'll grab some food," I said, pushing myself upright. "Then I need to check on Henri."

The excuse was thin, but Nial didn't challenge it. He simply nodded, returning his attention to the wound on his hand, to the simple task of bandaging flesh that had been cut and needed care.

I filled a bowl with the slop that Chris had prepared earlier — lukewarm now, its contents congealing into something that looked unappetising but smelled of the nutrients my body was demanding. The first bite was tasteless, fuel rather than food. But I forced myself to eat, knowing that I needed strength for whatever came next.

The tent welcomed me with its familiar dimness, its canvas walls creating an illusion of privacy that was probably more psychological than actual. Henri raised his head as I entered, fixing me with eyes that seemed to carry more understanding than any dog had the right to possess.

"Hey, mate," I murmured, settling onto the edge of my sleeping bag with the bowl balanced on my knee. "How are you holding up?"

Henri didn't answer — couldn't answer, obviously — but something in his gaze made me feel less alone. This small creature, abandoned by his owner just as I'd been abandoned by the universe, was depending on me now. The responsibility felt less like burden and more like anchor, something to hold onto when everything else threatened to slip away.

I ate in silence, the spoon scraping against the bowl with a rhythm that became almost meditative. The food sat heavily in my stomach, solid and real, a reminder that my body was still functioning despite everything I'd put it through.

My thoughts drifted back to Brianne, to the conversation with Nial, to the possibility of communication that had been dangled before me like a lifeline. The internet worked. Messages could be sent. Somewhere on the other side of reality, my fiancée was carrying our child and wondering what had happened to the man who'd promised to stand beside her through everything.

What would I say to her, if I could? What words existed for this situation, for the explanations I couldn't give and the reassurances I couldn't make honestly? "I'm alive" would be a start, but it would only lead to questions I couldn't answer. "I'm safe" would be a lie. "I'm coming home" would be a promise I had no certainty of keeping.

And yet.

The thought of her thinking I was dead — of her grieving for me, mourning a man who was still breathing, still fighting, still desperately trying to find his way back to her — was worse than any of the complications that communication might create.

She deserved to know I was trying.

I set the empty bowl aside and looked at Henri, who was watching me with that patient, knowing expression that dogs seemed to perfect through generations of living alongside humans and their endless drama.

"I won't abandon their future," I declared, my voice ringing with a conviction that surprised me.

The words echoed in the small space of the tent, a promise made to no one and everyone, to myself and to the daughter I'd never met and to the woman I loved more than I'd ever found the vocabulary to express. Whatever this place demanded of me, whatever prices Clive tried to extract, whatever horrors lurked in the darkness waiting for their chance to strike — I would not give up.

Henri's tail thumped once against his bed, a small gesture that felt like endorsement.

I would find a way to contact Brianne. Would find the words, however inadequate, to let her know I was alive and fighting. Would find a path through the labyrinth of impossible circumstances and improbable threats back to the life that was waiting for me.

Because the alternative — giving up, surrendering to the despair that crouched at the edges of every thought, accepting that I would never hold my daughter or kiss my fiancée again — was not something I could survive.