Seeping Into the Surrounding Dirt

"There's a particular humiliation in failing at something you never claimed to know how to do—somehow the honesty of your ignorance doesn't soften the sting of watching your work literally bleed away into the ground."

Swinging the pickaxe with all the force I could muster, the tool easily cut through the layer of dust before striking the ground beneath with a resonant crack. The impact vibrated up through the wooden handle, through my arms, through my shoulders, and directly into the burn on my chest.

The pain was immediate and excruciating—a searing lance that stole my breath and made my vision swim. I'd braced for discomfort, had known the exertion would aggravate my hidden injury, but I hadn't anticipated this. The force of the swing had pulled at the damaged tissue, stretching and tearing in ways that sent fire radiating across my entire torso.

I gritted my teeth against the agony, refusing to let any sound escape. Paul couldn't know. If he knew about the burn, he'd insist on doing the physical work himself, and with his injured foot he'd only make things worse. Better to suffer in silence than to admit weakness that would complicate our already complicated situation.

Bracing myself for another swing, I raised the pickaxe again—and the sharp ache reminded me with brutal clarity of my current limitations.

"Wait!"

Paul's voice cut through my focus, freezing my motion mid-swing. The pickaxe hung in the air, suspended by arms that trembled slightly from the combination of effort and pain.

Grateful for the interruption—though I'd never admit it—I lowered the tool and turned to face him. "What?"

Paul approached, his gaze fixed on the crust of earth I'd exposed with my initial strike. The dust had parted to reveal something unexpected: a layer of compacted ground beneath, solid and resistant in ways the surface hadn't suggested.

"That crust is really firm. Maybe we should just leave it and only move the few feet of dust?" His voice carried an unexpected note of practicality that surprised me. "I reckon the concrete will set better on that solid ground."

I considered his words, fighting to keep my expression neutral despite the relief flooding through me. Paul's suggestion meant less digging. Less swinging. Less of the brutal impacts that were turning my chest into a screaming map of agony.

"That's actually not a bad idea," I conceded, trying to mask the gratitude beneath a veneer of professional assessment.

My primary concern wasn't really the optimal conditions for setting concrete—I had no idea what conditions were optimal, and I suspected Paul didn't either. What mattered was avoiding further assault on my battered body. Paul's suggestion offered an appealing alternative, and I was going to take it regardless of whether it was correct.

Paul's face brightened at having his idea accepted, relief and pride mingling in his expression. "I'll go and get us some water for the concrete mix," he offered, eager to contribute something beyond suggestions.

"Sure," I responded, setting aside the pickaxe in favour of the shovel.

The decision to switch tools was strategic. The shovel would let me clear the dust without the violent impacts of the pickaxe—without the jarring collisions that sent fire through my chest with every strike. I silently congratulated myself for the foresight of bringing it, appreciating its gentler demands.

The sun bore down mercilessly as we worked, transforming the task into a gruelling ordeal of heat, sweat, and relentless discomfort.

Each shovel of dust lifted sent fresh twinges through my chest—nothing as severe as the pickaxe had delivered, but a constant low-grade torture that accumulated over time. The dust clung to my sweaty skin, mixing with perspiration to form a gritty paste that coated my arms and face. It found its way into my eyes, into my mouth, into every fold and crevice of my body.

The pain in my chest served as a cruel and constant reminder of my vulnerability. Whatever bravado I might project, whatever strength I might pretend to possess, I was operating on damaged hardware. Every movement was a negotiation with my own limitations—how much could I push before something gave way entirely?

Yet there was no option but to persevere.

In this vast, desolate expanse—this world or land or dimension that Clivilius had claimed us for—Paul and I could only rely on each other. There were no reinforcements waiting in the wings, no professionals we could call for help, no one to share the burden except ourselves. If I stopped working, the work would stop. It was that simple.

As I laboured under the oppressive sun, the thought of Clivilius's promise lingered in the back of my mind. The entity had whispered of a new life—a cryptic bargain made in the strange waters of the lagoon, terms I hadn't fully understood and certainly hadn't consciously accepted.

Give yourself to me and I will grant you new life.

The words echoed hollowly against the backdrop of our immediate struggle. What did new life even mean in a place like this? Survival wasn't new life—it was just continuation. Building sheds and pouring concrete wasn't transformation—it was adaptation. Whatever Clivilius had promised, this grinding physical labour didn't seem to be part of the package.

And yet I clung to those words. A flicker of hope—or perhaps defiance—in the face of our isolation. I didn't know what shape this promised existence might take, didn't understand what I'd agreed to in that moment of surrender at the lagoon. But I was determined to hold Clivilius accountable for its offer, whatever that meant.

You promised me new life. Show me what that means.

For now, I would continue to dig. To plan. To build. I would grin and bear the hardships—the dust, the heat, the burning in my chest—because the alternative was to succumb to despair. And if there was any truth to Clivilius's enigmatic promise, I intended to see it through.

Paul returned with the bucket of water, setting it beside the wheelbarrow with careful attention. He scrutinised the instructions on the cement mix bag for long moments, his brow furrowed in concentration, his lips moving slightly as he read.

Observing his prolonged focus, I recognised the danger of analysis paralysis. If I didn't intervene, we'd spend the rest of the day under the scorching sun achieving nothing—standing around reading and re-reading instructions while the heat drained whatever energy we had left.

"I'll pour, you stir," I suggested, taking charge before hesitation could become inaction.

Paul nodded, his movements syncing with mine as he carefully poured half of the cement mix into the wheelbarrow. The grey powder billowed slightly, releasing that distinctive mineral smell that always reminded me of construction sites and new buildings. The process felt like one of the few structured activities we'd managed to coordinate—actual cooperation toward a tangible goal.

"You finished clearing the dust already?" Paul asked, glancing toward the patch of ground I'd prepared.

"Yeah. I think it's as good as it's going to get." I tried to sound more confident in our preparations than I actually felt.

My body told a different story than my words. Every muscle ached in protest. My skin was coated with dust that no amount of wiping could remove. The burn on my chest throbbed with renewed intensity after the exertion of clearing, each breath a reminder of the coal that had branded me during the storm. The thought of dealing with any more of that ubiquitous dust—of breathing it in, of feeling it cake against my skin, of watching it settle on everything we tried to create—was enough to fray the last strands of my patience.

"Great," Paul replied, his attention now focused on the task at hand as he picked up the stirring stick.

We worked together in something approaching rhythm—me adding water in careful amounts, Paul stirring the mixture as it transformed from dry powder to thick grey sludge. The consistency changed gradually, becoming something that looked almost like it might serve its intended purpose.

Exhaustion had fully set in by the time we finished with the first ten kilograms. I slumped into the dust at the edge of our nascent foundation, my body surrendering to gravity with relief that bordered on gratitude. Every part of me ached. My arms felt like they'd been filled with sand. My chest burned with that now-familiar fire that never quite subsided.

Paul ventured back to the Drop Zone for the next bag while I sat in the dust, too tired to move, too sore to care about the dirt accumulating on my already filthy clothes. My gaze drifted over the work we'd accomplished—a small patch of grey concrete slowly setting in the Clivilius sun.

It wasn't until Paul's figure reemerged, bag in tow, that something caught my attention. Something wrong.

"Stop!"

The word burst from me with urgency that made Paul freeze mid-motion, his hands poised to tear into the new bag.

"This isn't looking right."

"Really?" Paul's query was laced with doubt. To his eyes, apparently, our efforts appeared adequate—perhaps even commendable given our complete lack of expertise.

But I was certain of the problem.

"Nah. It shouldn't be clumping like that. And see how it is seeping into the surrounding dirt." I pointed toward the edges of our work, where the concrete was migrating slowly outward, bleeding into the soil rather than setting in place.

"Hmm," Paul hummed, his optimism momentarily clouded by the evidence before us.

"We could probably fix it," he suggested, his voice still buoyed by that persistent belief in our ability to overcome obstacles through sheer determination.

"I dunno." The doubt in my voice matched the uncertainty churning in my gut. We didn't know what we were doing. We'd never known what we were doing. And pretending otherwise wasn't going to make this concrete set properly.

"Maybe we should ask Luke to bring us a short how-to guide for laying concrete for a small shed?"

Paul's eyes surveyed the expanse of our failed endeavour, and I watched his optimism finally yield to practicality. "You're probably right."

"Well..." I started, my gaze drifting across the landscape—the dust, the heat haze, the mountains that never grew closer. "I really don't know what else we can do."

The admission hung in the air, heavy with the acknowledgment of our limitations. We'd tried. We'd failed. And now we were stuck waiting for help from someone who might not return for hours.

Paul's stomach broke the silence between us with a loud gurgle that seemed almost aggressive in its volume—a biological demand that cut through the contemplative quiet we'd fallen into.

He rubbed his abdomen in a half-hearted attempt to quell the noise, then glanced over with a wry smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'd suggest we get something to eat," he said, his voice carrying resignation that spoke of more than just current circumstances. "But even that is a little challenging at the moment."

The words landed with uncomfortable truth. Food wasn't just scarce—it was entirely dependent on Luke's deliveries. We couldn't forage; there was nothing to forage. We couldn't hunt; there was nothing to hunt. We were prisoners twice over—trapped in this dimension and trapped by our reliance on supplies from a world we couldn't access.

I felt the grime caked on my skin, the aches in muscles I'd forgotten existed, the familiar throbbing of the burn that had become my constant companion. My chest was a map of pain—the wound protesting every breath, every movement, every reminder that I'd been injured in service of surviving this place.

The uncertainty of our food situation loomed over everything, adding weight to a situation that was already crushing.

"Fuck it!"

The words burst from me, raw expression of the frustration that had been building beneath my surface calm. In a moment of overwhelming irritation—at the failed concrete, at our ignorance, at the heat and the dust and the endless uncertainty—I threw my hands in the air.

Surrender to impulse. The need to do something, anything, to change our circumstances.

"Where are you going?" Paul's voice reached me, concern and confusion blending as he scrambled to follow.

"To the Drop Zone," I called back over my shoulder, not slowing my pace. Each step kicked up dust that swirled around my feet, leaving a visible trail through the barren landscape.

"What for?" His steps quickened behind me, the uneven rhythm of his injured gait audible even over my own footfalls.

"To look for food."

The words were sharp, edged with desperation I couldn't fully hide. The idea of finding something edible among Luke's deliveries was slim—most of what he'd brought seemed to be building supplies and tools. But the gnawing emptiness in my stomach pushed me forward anyway, because hope and hunger made a persuasive combination.