Fresh Blood

“Nothing wakes you up like the sight of blood that wasn’t there a minute ago.”

Taking a momentary step back from the tent, I let my shoulders sag, the weight of the day's efforts settling into my bones. A wave of exhaustion rolled over me—dense, familiar, but accompanied this time by the quiet satisfaction of progress. I lifted the back of my hand to my forehead, wiping away the sweat that clung stubbornly to my skin. It was gritty with dust, but it felt good—like proof of something earned.

I'm impressed.

Despite the heat, the setbacks, and the heavy tension that had haunted our every step since the incident with Joel, we’d done it. In the silent aftermath of Kain’s departure, Paul and I had slipped into an unspoken rhythm. Between brief exchanges and long, focused stretches of work, we had completed the third tent and made solid headway on the fourth—even without its pegs. The missing pieces had barely slowed us. Improvised weights, a few creative anchor points—it was all starting to feel like second nature.

There was a quiet pride blooming somewhere beneath my ribs. It wasn’t loud or triumphant—just a calm recognition that we were still capable of building something in the midst of all this uncertainty. Something solid. Something ours.

"There can't be more than an hour or so of daylight left. I'm going to check on Jamie and Joel." Paul's voice broke through the warm hum of my thoughts, grounding me once again in the present.

I turned instinctively toward him, then followed his gaze upward. The sky had begun to change while we worked, and I was only now registering it. The sun had dipped low against the horizon, trailing long shadows like fingers reaching across the dust. The colours overhead bled into one another—fiery oranges, bruised purples, the delicate pinks of a day giving way to night.

Paul’s right.

The air was beginning to shift too, cooler now, the breeze no longer carrying the weight of midday heat. That drop in temperature brought with it a sense of urgency—not panic, just the recognition of a natural order. Light was leaving, and with it, the momentum of the day.

"Alright," I replied, my voice soft but steady, edged with the kind of resolve that came from accepting the inevitable.

There was always a turning point in the evening, when the energy of the day yielded to the necessities of night. Less movement. More caution. Fewer distractions. The rhythm changed.

"I'll get the fire started." The task wasn’t glamorous, but it was essential. It grounded me—like drawing a line in the sand between what had been and what was to come. The fire meant more than warmth or visibility. It meant continuity. Safety. A gathering point for weary bodies and restless minds. A ward against the unknowns still lurking out there in the dark.

With a sigh, I rubbed the small of my back, feeling the ache from hours bent under canvas and tension, then turned towards where we kept the firewood stacked. There was comfort in the ritual. Flint, kindling, careful stacking—it was methodical. And tonight, like every night, we would need it to feel human again.

The fire quickly took to the kindling, its orange tongues leaping up eagerly, wrapping themselves around the dry twigs with the hunger of something long denied. The flames crackled and hissed as they found the thicker logs, beginning their slow, patient conquest of solid wood. Within moments, the fire grew steady and sure, its warmth pushing back the encroaching chill of twilight. Shadows danced across the camp, flickering on the canvas of the tents, painting the surrounding dust in shifting hues of amber and coal.

A sigh escaped me, unbidden. There was something soothing—almost ceremonial—about watching a fire grow. It reminded me that, despite all else, we were still human. Still capable of kindling light in the dark.

“Pierre would enjoy this,” I murmured to the flames, my voice soft, almost reverent, as if speaking to the fire might bridge the space between this world and the one I’d left behind. A nostalgic smile curled on my lips as I imagined him here beside me, his long legs stretched out before the fire, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. He’d have a tin cup in one hand, and a sarcastic comment ready in the other.

The image warmed me in a way the fire couldn't. My heart fluttered briefly with the memory of him—his laugh, the way his hair always fell slightly over his brow, the curve of his grin when he knew he was about to say something infuriatingly true.

But something is missing. The thought whispered through my mind, uninvited, bringing a shadow to the smile that had momentarily lit my face. I looked down at the fire again, the crackling logs a poor substitute for shared laughter and a warm body beside me.

But where would I sit? I could almost hear him say it, his French accent curling around the words like smoke, full of mock offence and theatrical disbelief. That was Pierre through and through—always managing to point out the one thing I’d missed, always with that half-teasing tone that somehow never felt like criticism.

He would be right, of course.

My eyes scanned the perimeter of the fire—just dust and scattered debris, no real place for comfort or conversation. The campsite, though functional, still bore the sterility of survival. No softness. No intention. Just necessity.

Motivated by the phantom of Pierre’s voice and the echo of his gaze, I turned toward the small stack of firewood nearby. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. I crouched and sorted through it with care, setting aside the larger, flatter pieces—the ones that had some shape and surface to them. I found five that would do. Weathered but stable. Solid.

One by one, I hauled them closer to the fire and positioned them in a rough semicircle. Makeshift stools, crude but practical. I even brushed them off with the edge of my sleeve, as if Pierre himself might inspect them for splinters and complain about comfort.

Stepping back, I surveyed the result. It was nothing fancy, but it added something. A sense of place. A hint of welcome.

In the quiet that followed, I heard his voice again, clear as a bell and just as familiar. Perfectly done, my sweet pastry. The words echoed with tenderness, wrapped in a whisper that seemed to brush against my ear like a breeze. My chest ached, a bittersweet pull that was both comfort and ache. I closed my eyes briefly and smiled again, smaller this time, softer. It was a memory, but it felt like a blessing.

The seats were ready. The fire was strong. And for a moment, amidst the strangeness of this world, I felt almost… home.

"Luke's here," Kain’s voice sliced gently through the hush of my reverie, carrying with it a ripple of change. I turned my head instinctively, blinking out of the fire’s trance. The light that had felt warm and private now spilled wider, catching on the fabric of returning company.

I caught sight of Kain as he passed the firelight’s edge, his arms burdened with sleeping bags, their weight tugging slightly at his posture. The shadows danced across his face, flickering with the fire’s rhythm. He moved purposefully towards the tents, and in the shifting glow, I saw another man approach—familiar, lanky, and unmistakably Luke.

"Luke!" I called, the name escaping with a flicker of warmth that surprised me. It truly did feel like an age since we’d exchanged more than a nod.

He raised a hand in greeting. A rolled sleeping bag was slung loosely across his shoulders, bouncing with his easy stride like an old friend trying to keep pace. There was something about his presence—buoyant, grounded—that had a way of softening the air around him, as if the heaviness of the day couldn’t quite stick to his skin.

"Haven’t seen much of you since this morning," I said, with a slight tilt to my head, my tone riding the fine line between light-hearted chiding and genuine curiosity. I hadn't meant it as a challenge, but I couldn’t deny the quiet thread of disappointment that had tugged at me throughout the day, wondering where he'd gone.

"I know," Luke replied, the fatigue in his voice softening the admission. There was no defensiveness in it, only the straightforward tiredness of someone who had been working quietly in the background.

Still, I couldn’t help but press on, a smile tugging at one corner of my mouth. "But I’ve noticed new supplies at the Drop Zone, so I figured you hadn’t forgotten us."

"Of course not," he said, his voice simple and sure. The words settled something in me, reaffirming a truth I hadn't quite realised I’d been needing to hear. That we were still a team, however scattered we might sometimes seem.

As my gaze dipped, I caught sight of the bottle nestled in his hand—a dark amber shape that caught the firelight and glowed like liquid gold. The familiar silhouette of comfort. My eyebrows rose with interest.

"Oh, that's some good whiskey you’ve got there," I said, a note of cheer seeping into my voice as I nodded towards the bottle. It wasn’t just about the drink—it was the gesture, the human comfort of sharing something warm and strong at day’s end.

Luke chuckled softly, the sound rich and unhurried, like the whiskey itself. "Help yourself," he offered, extending the bottle towards me without hesitation.

I took it with a grateful smile, the cool glass sweating slightly against my palm. I paused only briefly before tilting it back, the liquid burning smooth and deep down my throat, the sensation both jarring and oddly restorative. It settled in my belly like a sunbeam, stirring something deep and old within me—memory, weariness, resilience.

"Ahh. Just what I needed," I breathed, the words catching on a small sigh of contentment as I passed the bottle back to him. My lips tingled from the heat, my chest blooming with warmth. "Whoo," I added with a soft shake of my head, blinking away the sudden fuzz behind my eyes. That’s some strong booze.

And thank god for it.

“Where's Paul?” Luke asked.

I looked up from the fire as I tossed a small log onto the glowing embers, the bark catching with a quiet crackle as flame licked up its edge. “He went to check on Jamie and Joel,” I said, trying to sound casual—too casual. I watched the fire consume the new addition, the smell of scorched wood mixing with dust and sweat and something more elusive… uncertainty, perhaps.

Luke’s shoulders squared slightly as he turned, already walking toward Joel’s tent with a kind of urgency that struck me. His steps were quick, decisive, each one crunching through the dry earth with intent.

"No," I called out, sharper than I meant to, my voice catching him mid-stride. He stopped, turning halfway back to me with a puzzled expression. "They're at the lagoon," I added, trying to temper my tone.

"The lagoon?" Luke repeated, the single word heavy with confusion as his brow furrowed. He faced me fully now, as if hoping I might explain something that could actually be explained.

I hesitated, my fingers tightening around the cuff of my sleeve as the air thickened between us. "Joel died… Again," I said, the words sounding absurd even as I heard myself say them. There was no preparing someone for that. No neat summary of events. Just that blunt truth.

Luke stared at me, his confusion giving way to something more subdued—wary understanding, maybe. Was he ever really dead… or alive at all? The thought looped again in my mind, and this time it throbbed behind my temples like a pressure building.

“Well, that's hardly a surprise,” Luke said after a beat, with the dry pragmatism of someone who’d seen too much strange in too little time. “Perhaps he really was dead.” His voice was flat, not unkind, but detached, as though speaking of something theoretical rather than a boy who’d walked truly alive just days ago.

"Perhaps," I echoed, my shoulders rising and falling with the word. What else could I say? Every hypothesis seemed to crumble under the weight of contradiction.

Luke held the bottle out again. “More?”

I eyed it for a moment, the amber liquid catching the fading sunlight like liquid fire. It tempted me—not just for its warmth, but for the oblivion it offered in small, burning sips. A way to blur the edges of thoughts I couldn’t begin to organise.

"No thanks," I murmured, shifting my gaze back to the fire. The flames were starting to grow taller now, fed by the dry wood and the breeze that picked at their edges. I stared into them, letting my thoughts tangle with the smoke, uncertain whether I was resisting the whiskey out of discipline or because I feared what I might feel if the confusion dulled even slightly. Still… if this headache persisted, I might change my mind.

"Bag," came Kain’s voice, cutting cleanly through the dusky quiet. He stood a few metres away, arms lifted in a wordless gesture that demanded action.

Luke turned, his easy smile returning like a small spell cast to keep things light. Without a word, he tossed the sleeping bag in a high arc through the glowing air. It tumbled gracefully and landed neatly in Kain’s outstretched arms. Kain turned and disappeared into the medical tent, the canvas flap swinging closed behind him.

I watched the tent settle, then looked back to the fire, its flames flickering low but steady, casting long, stretching shadows across the ground. For now, there were no answers—only flame, tension, and silence stitched with uncertainty. The stillness around me was not peaceful, but poised—like the air just before a storm.

“Glenda!”

Paul’s call, sharp with urgency, struck a chord deep inside me. I spun towards the sound instinctively, heart lurching before I could even process the meaning. "Joel?" I whispered, barely audible, the name escaping me like a prayer, or a warning. My eyes darted to the edge of camp, where the soft light played tricks on my vision. For a moment, I feared my imagination was running wild again. But then—no, it was real. Figures were moving toward us. Three of them.

Joel was between them.

He moved awkwardly, like a puppet whose strings had been half-repaired—his arms slung over Paul and Jamie’s shoulders, his feet dragging in the dust as though rediscovering the mechanics of motion. I stared, dumbfounded. This wasn’t some miracle resurrection with trumpets and glory—this was stumbling, fragile, raw. And it was happening right in front of me.

I felt Luke's eyes meet mine. No words passed between us, but the shared urgency in that single glance was enough to send both of us running toward them.

Joel. Alive—or something close to it.

As we drew closer, my medical instincts surged forward to overtake the chaos of my thoughts. His pallor was wrong. His limbs barely responsive. The eerie, sluggish rhythm of his steps. Something wasn't right. None of this was right.

"He's bleeding!" The words tore from me as I caught sight of it—a slow, vivid thread of red running from one nostril. So simple, yet somehow terrifying. My stomach tightened. This wasn’t just some miraculous recovery. Something inside him was still very wrong.

"Luke, get me some tissues from the medical tent." My voice snapped into the sharp register of command, clear and firm, even as my heart pounded in confusion.

"Yeah," Luke muttered, his limbs already turning but his voice laced with the fog of disbelief.

"I got it!" Kain’s voice rang out before Luke could take another step, cutting cleanly through the gathering haze of shock. He moved like lightning, the urgency in his body language grounding us all in action. He thrust the packet of tissues into my hand, no hesitation, no questions.

“Ta,” I said, distractedly, already pressing the tissues to Joel’s nose, watching as the blood soaked through the first layer in seconds. Still bleeding. Still too much we didn’t understand. Still no answers.

“Let's get him sitting,” I said, louder now, more deliberately. It was the only thing that made sense in that moment: stabilise the patient, buy some time. My fingers brushed Joel’s clammy skin. He didn’t resist, but neither did he respond. That trickle of blood—so human, so normal—felt like the most unnatural thing I’d seen all day.

And yet, he was here. Upright. Breathing. Moving.

I didn’t know what scared me more—his return, or what it might mean.

Paul and Jamie guided Joel to sit on a large log by the campfire, his movements still awkward, like a marionette unsure of its strings. I followed closely, tension tightening in my chest.

“Not too close,” I cautioned, raising a hand instinctively as they approached the flames. The last thing we needed was for Joel, already fragile, to faint or fall into the fire. His skin looked pale beneath the flickering light, almost waxy, and I couldn't help but flinch at how unnatural this all felt.

“Is it just his nose?”

“I think so,” Jamie replied, a flicker of hope in his voice—as if we might finally be dealing with something straightforward. I wanted to believe it too, that we were returning to familiar ground, where symptoms had explanations and problems had treatment plans.

“I didn't even notice it was bleeding,” Paul added, frowning. His words hung in the air, adding weight to the confusion already thickening around us. So much had happened so quickly, details slipping through the cracks like sand through open fingers.

I dropped to my knees in front of Joel. His expression was vacant, hollow. His eyes flicked in my direction but didn’t hold—like he was here, but not fully. “I don’t understand how,” I murmured, more to myself than anyone else. My mind whirred, desperately trying to catalogue and match his symptoms to anything remotely familiar. But nothing made sense.

Jamie shook his head slowly. His face bore that haunted look I was starting to associate with Clivilius—half disbelief, half grim acceptance. “I didn’t give him any blood, but he seems to have plenty of it now.”

That shouldn’t be possible. But then again, nothing about Joel's condition had played by the rules.

I gently rolled up his sleeves and began pressing into the skin at several points along his forearms and calves, watching for blanching, for signs of pressure response—anything. My fingers moved with practiced care, but inside, I was coming undone. This was no ordinary patient. And yet...

“Yes,” I confirmed aloud, my voice barely hiding my astonishment. “There is definitely blood in his veins now. It’s a medical anomaly!” The phrase felt woefully inadequate, like trying to explain lightning with a matchstick.

I straightened slowly, the strain in my knees nothing compared to the strain on my reasoning. Joel had been dead. Gone cold. Lifeless. And now he was bleeding. Sitting. Alive? Whatever that meant here.

Luke silently held out the whiskey again, and I didn’t hesitate. I took it, savouring the burn that followed the swig—a momentary escape from the relentless assault of questions I couldn’t answer.

“You better lie him down again once the bleeding stops,” I said, sliding the bottle back into Luke’s hand. I could already feel the first twinges of a headache rising behind my eyes, tension building like a storm front. My voice was low but resolute, slipping back into clinical focus as a way to stay grounded.

Luke chuckled—sharp and slightly unhinged. The kind of laugh that comes not from humour, but from sheer disbelief. And maybe that was appropriate. What else could we do in the face of something so utterly absurd?

Standing there, my hands resting firmly on my hips, I stared at Joel with narrowed eyes. I could see it—thick and red, just beneath his skin. It's blood. Real blood. The thought pulsed with every heartbeat, circling through me like an incantation. Not borrowed, not imagined, not artificial. Real.

I didn’t know if it was a miracle or a warning.

“Nightfall can’t be too far away now,” Paul said, his voice bringing me back down to earth. The sky had deepened further, and though light still held, it was fading—stretching the shadows longer, softening the world at the edges. His tone was calm, but laced with unspoken weariness.

“I'll prepare us some food.”

I nodded, silently thankful for his pragmatism. Food. Rest. Normal things. Maybe if we clung to those, we could stay anchored in a world that no longer followed the rules we knew.