4338.210 · July 29, 2018 AD
The Ground Already Gone
The smell of Paul's chilli draws the camp together. Three caravans now. Generators humming. The beginnings of something that might survive. Then the newcomers introduce themselves—Grant and Sarah Ironbach, wildlife sanctuary directors, here for a two-week site assessment before heading home. They discuss schedules, rehabilitation releases, the project timeline. Around the fire, no one corrects them. No one explains that the portal only opens one way.
Evening settles over Bixbus Camp and the smell of cooking draws everyone from their separate corners. Paul's chilli bubbles over the fire — spiced meat and beans, the closest thing to normal any of them have tasted since arrival. Three caravans ring the perimeter now, generators humming with borrowed power, the defensive fires positioned at intervals against the darkness that hunts.
Grant and Sarah Ironbach sit near the flames, folding chairs positioned with the casual confidence of people who expect to pack them up again soon. Wildlife sanctuary directors from Bonorong. Conservationists who've dedicated their lives to protecting vulnerable creatures. They arrived this afternoon through the portal, delivered by a Guardian who called himself Brad and vanished before questions could be asked.
They're not confused. Not frightened. Not grasping at explanations the way every other arrival has done.
They're impatient.
The site assessment should take one to two weeks, Sarah explains. Then they'll return to Bonorong to compile their formal recommendations. Grant mentions a rehabilitation release scheduled for next month that needs his oversight. They discuss survey routes, ecosystem analysis, the challenges of establishing sanctuary infrastructure in such remote terrain.
Around the fire, the others listen. Paul's expression carries the weight of truths he can't speak. Kain recognises the cliff edge he stood on days ago — the moment before everything fell away. Karen and Chris exchange glances weighted with shared understanding. Nial stares into the flames, perhaps calculating how many lies he's now complicit in keeping.
Someone named Melanie recruited them. Showed them portals weeks ago. Prepared them carefully for a journey she knew they'd never return from. They thanked her for the opportunity.
The chilli passes from hand to hand. Conversations ebb and flow. Grant and Sarah make plans for tomorrow's assessment, for next week's progress report, for the return trip that will never come.
No one tells them.
Not tonight.
