Some Assembly Required

"I've poured concrete, wired houses, operated machinery that could take your arm off. But the moment Paul says 'Chris can help,' suddenly I'm confident I can figure out a generator on my own. Amazing what guilt does to your DIY skills."

The task of moving my belongings should have been simple.

I didn't own much anymore — a few changes of clothes, some toiletries, and the scattered remnants of a life that had been shoved into whatever backpack Luke had found in my bedroom. Two days ago, Luke had snuck through the halls of Jeffries Manor and retried some of my belongings for me. According to Paul, it seemed that Luke was enjoying playing the role of professional thief far too much.

But I wasn’t one to judge.

Nothing in Clivilius was ever simple.

I started with Henri's things, reasoning that getting the dog settled would be easier if his familiar items surrounded him. His bed went first — a plush oval that had survived the shadow panther attack and still maintained its particular doggy smell. I positioned it carefully near the caravan's double bed, close enough that Henri could see me if he needed reassurance, far enough that he'd have his own space.

His toys followed: a squeaky bone that had lost most of its squeak, a rope tug that showed the wear of countless games, a ball so worn that its original colour had become a mystery.

Henri supervised from his position on the mattress, his eyes tracking my movements with the critical attention of a homeowner watching renovators work. He seemed to approve of the arrangements, or at least didn't object strongly enough to move from his comfortable spot.

Then I returned to the tent for the rest.

The canvas walls had become familiar in the few days I'd occupied this space — the way the light filtered through, the particular smell of heated fabric and trapped air, the sounds of the camp filtering in like whispers through a confessional screen. It wasn't comfortable. It wasn't safe. But it had been mine, in a way, a temporary nest that had seen me through the worst moments of my time in Clivilius. Which come to think of it, those worst moments had been pretty much my entire time in Clivilius.

My hands gathered clothes automatically, sorting through the pile I'd accumulated without much thought to what belonged to whom. Uncle Jamie's shirts had gotten mixed with mine at some point — the fabrics had become indistinguishable in the general chaos of survival. Joel's smaller garments were there too, remnants of a teenager who'd vanished while his father was chasing a dog into the darkness.

I packed it all. Uncle Jamie and Joel would need their things when they returned. If they returned. The thought tried to surface, but I pushed it down before it could take root.

Then my gaze fell on Duke's bed.

It sat in the corner where it had been since the attack, empty and untouched, a hollow that should have contained a sleeping dog and instead contained only absence. The fabric was flattened in the middle, moulded to the shape of a body that would never occupy it again. A few stray hairs still clung to the surface, catching the light that filtered through the canvas.

I stared at it for longer than I should have.

The sight of that vacant bed opened something in my chest — a grief I hadn't had time to properly feel, a mourning I'd been postponing in favour of more immediate crises. Duke had been Uncle Jamie's dog, not mine. But his death had been real. His absence was real. The empty space where he should have been was a wound that wouldn't close with river water or bargains with ancient entities.

Should I bring it to the caravan?

The question circled through my mind, examining itself from multiple angles. Henri might find comfort in his brother's scent, in the familiar presence of something that had been part of his life since birth. Or the reminder might intensify his grief, might force him to confront an absence that was easier to forget than to face.

I stood there, paralysed by indecision, the empty bed accusing me with its very existence.

In the end, I left it.

The choice felt like a betrayal, like I was abandoning Duke's memory to the tent that would soon become storage space, relegating him to the category of things no longer needed. But I couldn't bring that emptiness into the caravan. Couldn't look at that bed every day and remember the teeth that had torn through flesh, the blood that had stained the ground, the silence that had replaced barking and playing and the simple joy of a dog who didn't know how dangerous his world had become.

I positioned Duke's bed in the far corner of the tent, a silent farewell to the memories it held. The vacant cushion stood as a solemn testament to what this place could take from you — not just safety or comfort, but the living things you'd grown to care about.

The fragility of life, I thought, staring at the empty bed. The ever-present threat of loss.

We couldn't protect anyone here. Not really. We could build fires and plan fences and huddle in caravans, but the darkness would always be waiting. The shadow panthers would always be hungry. And one by one, the things we loved would be taken from us until nothing remained but survival for its own empty sake.

The thought should have crushed me. Would have crushed me, maybe, if not for the counter-image that surfaced without invitation.

Brianne.

Her face appeared in my mind's eye — not the worried version I'd conjured during my darkest moments, but the smiling one. The one that had glowed when she'd told me about the pregnancy, about the life growing inside her, about the future we were building together.

What if I could bring her here?

The thought was insane. Was the product of exhaustion and trauma and the desperate need to believe that something good could exist in this place. Brianne didn't belong in Clivilius. Our daughter didn't belong in a world with shadow panthers and ancient entities and water that violated your autonomy with every touch.

But the image persisted anyway — the two of us in the caravan, making a home out of impossible circumstances, raising our child in a community of survivors who'd learned to protect each other. It was a fantasy, probably. A coping mechanism dressed up as hope.

I clung to it regardless.

Because the alternative was admitting that I might never see them again. That the life waiting for me on the other side of the portal might as well be on another planet, unreachable and lost forever.

I gathered the last of my belongings and left the tent behind.

The camp had settled into a rhythm of activity that felt almost normal.

Paul had returned while I was unpacking, the arrival of a second caravan bringing a fresh wave of energy to our little settlement. I'd watched from the doorway of my new home as he and Nial fell into conversation, their voices blending into the background noise of a community learning to function.

The second caravan now sat at a distance from mine — close enough for security, far enough for privacy. Paul had chosen its position with the same practical logic that seemed to guide all his decisions, creating the beginning of what might eventually become something resembling a neighbourhood.

I'd retreated inside after that, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up with me. The mattress welcomed my weight with a comfort that felt almost sinful after days of sleeping on the ground, and I'd let myself sink into its embrace with a gratitude that bordered on reverence.

Henri had joined me at some point, his warm body curling against my leg in a companionship that required no words. We'd dozed together, man and dog, the afternoon light filtering through the caravan's windows in patterns that shifted with the sun's slow journey across the alien sky.

The camp around us had grown quiet, its occupants lost in their own tasks and contemplations. The weight of recent events hung over everything — the attack, the departures, the constant undercurrent of fear that came with knowing how easily everything could fall apart. But there were also moments of peace, small pockets of stillness that allowed you to catch your breath before the next crisis arrived.

I'd almost drifted into actual sleep when the knock came.

Sharp. Resounding. The sound of knuckles against metal, shattering the fragile veil of rest I'd been weaving around myself.

Henri erupted into barking, his alarm filling the caravan with a symphony of sound that made my ears ring and my heart hammer. I jerked upright, the transition from drowsiness to alertness happening so fast it left my head spinning.

"Easy, mate," I muttered, though whether I was talking to Henri or myself remained unclear.

The dog's chorus continued as I swung myself off the mattress, my leg protesting the sudden movement with a twinge that reminded me it wasn't fully healed despite its improved appearance. I rubbed at my eyes, trying to clear the remnants of whatever unsettling dreams had been forming behind my eyelids.

The door creaked as I opened it, hinges protesting the motion, and bright sunlight flooded the interior with an intensity that made me squint.

Paul stood on the step, his face carrying the same expression of determination and exhaustion that seemed to have become his default setting. At his feet sat an object that looked like it had been designed by someone who'd never heard of aesthetics — a jumble of wires, metal housings, and components that my brain struggled to categorise.

"It's a power generator for the caravan," Paul announced, his voice strained with the effort of whatever exertion had brought him here.

He stretched his tired muscles, the movements of a man whose body was demanding rest while his responsibilities demanded otherwise. The generator must have been heavy — the way he straightened his back suggested he'd carried it a considerable distance.

"The latest gift from Beatrix," he continued, a note of wonder creeping into his tone. "She's managed to bring us ten of them."

My eyebrows climbed toward my hairline. "We've got ten caravans now?"

The number seemed impossible. Just hours ago, we'd been living in tents, vulnerable to anything that chose to attack us. Now we apparently had a fleet of caravans and enough generators to power a small village.

Perhaps I'd slept longer than I'd realised. Perhaps time in this dimension followed rules I hadn't yet understood, compressing and stretching in ways that made a mockery of clocks and calendars.

Paul's chuckle dispelled some of my confusion. "We've just received our third caravan, but it's good for us to try and get ahead where we can."

The logic was sound. Build capacity before you need it. Prepare for growth rather than scrambling to catch up. It was the kind of forward thinking that might actually give us a chance of surviving here long-term.

I nodded, though part of my mind still struggled to accept the pace of change.

Could we truly find a semblance of stability in this place?

The question felt dangerous to ask, like tempting fate to prove how wrong my optimism was.

Paul turned to leave, and something in my chest lurched with sudden urgency.

"You're not going to help set it up?" I asked, the words coming out with more desperation than I'd intended.

The generator squatted at my feet like a puzzle box designed by sadists, its wires and components arranged in patterns that defied my comprehension. I'd worked construction for years, had learned to operate all manner of equipment, but this thing looked like it belonged in an engineering lab rather than outside a caravan.

Paul pivoted back toward me, his eyebrows raised in a mixture of surprise and apology. "I've got no idea how these things work."

The admission came with a nonchalant shrug, the comfortable confession of someone who'd accepted the limits of their knowledge and moved on.

A sigh escaped my lips — louder than I'd intended, carrying more frustration than I'd meant to reveal.

Paul seemed to sense my distress, his expression shifting to one of reassurance as he continued.

"But Chris knows what he is doing with them."

The name landed in my stomach like a fist.

Chris. Of course it would be Chris. Of all the people in this camp, of all the possible sources of expertise, it had to be the man I'd assaulted. The man whose unconscious body I'd violated to fulfil Clive's demands. The man who carried a wound on his head because I'd pulled him into the lagoon and watched him crack his skull against the rocks.

The turmoil must have shown on my face, because Paul pressed on with enthusiasm that seemed oblivious to my internal collapse.

"He and Karen have plenty of experience with these sorts of things from all the camping and outdoor expeditions they go on regularly. If you talk to Chris, I'm sure he'll be happy to help you get power to your new home."

Happy. The word felt like mockery, like Paul was deliberately rubbing salt into wounds he didn't know existed.

"Thanks," I managed, the word feeling hollow on my tongue.

Gratitude and unease warred within me, creating a cocktail of emotion that left me slightly nauseous. I should be grateful. Paul was trying to help, was providing solutions to problems I couldn't solve on my own. But the solution required me to face the one person I'd been desperately avoiding, to ask for assistance from someone I'd wronged in ways that defied explanation.

Paul took a few steps away, then stopped again, turning back with an air of excitement that suggested he had more news to share.

"I've allocated Karen and Chris the second caravan and Nial the third. Beatrix has promised we'll receive more over the next few days."

The camp was growing. Expanding. Transforming from a cluster of tents into something that might eventually deserve to be called a settlement. The dynamics were shifting, relationships forming, a community taking shape from the raw materials of desperate survivors.

With a final nod and wave, Paul departed, his figure retreating into the dust-coloured landscape until it blended with the dunes and disappeared.

I stood in the doorway of my caravan, staring at the generator that sat at my feet like an accusation.

I don't need Chris's help, I told myself. Connecting a generator can't be that difficult.

My hands found their way to my hips as I fixed my gaze on the incomprehensible tangle of wires and components. I'd built houses. I'd poured concrete that would outlast the people who walked on it. I'd operated machinery that could kill you if you looked at it wrong.

Surely I could figure out a bloody power generator.