The Nuclear Option

"There's a particular kind of trust involved in giving someone a weapon that can destroy a family—you have to believe they'll only use it to save one."

The thud arrived before the explanation.

I was making my way back toward the Portal, my mind still processing the humiliations of the latrine when the sound cut through Clivilius's oppressive silence—a heavy impact, the distinctive percussion of something solid meeting dust. My feet hesitated mid-stride, uncertainty freezing me in place as I scanned the landscape for the source.

Could it be Luke?

The thought propelled me forward, my walking pace accelerating into a jog as the Portal's swirling colours came into view. Whatever was happening, whatever had made that sound, the Portal was the only variable in this otherwise static wasteland.

My reflexes saved me.

Another small bag of wood came hurtling through the Portal's shimmering surface, spinning end over end in a trajectory that would have connected directly with my skull had I been two steps further along.

"Fuck!" The exclamation was involuntary, my body already ducking away from the unexpected projectile. The bag hit the ground with another thud, joining its predecessor in the dust as I processed what was happening.

Luke's delivery method, apparently, involved treating the Portal like a cosmic rubbish chute. He was simply lobbing the firewood through without any consideration for who or what might be standing on the receiving end. The realisation sparked a mixture of amusement and irritation that seemed to characterise most of my interactions with him lately.

Mental note: stay the fuck away from the Portal's immediate vicinity.

I stepped back, giving the shimmering gateway a wide berth as I watched the subsequent arrivals. Bags tumbled through one after another, a chaotic cascade of kindling and logs that seemed to follow no particular order or timing. The sight was almost comedic—this absurd ballet of flying fuel, each bag appearing from nowhere and landing with a soft explosion of dust.

Despite the danger, despite everything, I found myself smiling. Luke had taken my advice about the petrol station. Taken it and implemented it in the most characteristically hazardous way possible.

Then, as abruptly as it had burst into life, the Portal's colours vanished. One moment: swirling, vibrant, active. The next: nothing. Just empty air and the bags of wood scattered across the ground like debris from an explosion.

"That lazy bastard!"

The exclamation escaped into the emptiness, directed at no one because there was no one to hear it. I'd expected—hoped—that Luke might follow the wood through. That he might help carry the bags to our campsite by the river. That he might, for once, share in the physical labour of keeping us alive.

But no. Apparently, yeeting firewood through an inter-dimensional portal was the extent of his contribution.

"Figures."

The word was resigned rather than angry. I picked up two of the bags, their weight reassuringly substantial in my grip. At least the wood was here. At least we'd have fire tonight, protection against whatever this alien darkness might bring. And it would only take a few trips to move it all.

Small mercies. The currency of survival.

The final bag of wood settled into the dust with a satisfying thud, marking the end of my self-imposed labour. My back protested as I straightened, muscles I hadn't used in months making their displeasure known with sharp, insistent complaints.

Paul had been gone longer than expected. The thought surfaced with unexpected concern, a flicker of worry that surprised me given how thoroughly I'd been enjoying his absence. I hope he isn't in danger. The mere idea sent unease rippling through my exhausted consciousness.

I don't have the energy left to save him. Not this late in the day.

The admission was harsh but honest. Clivilius had already extracted more from me than I'd thought possible, leaving behind a hollow shell where reserves of strength should have resided. If Paul was in trouble, he'd have to find his own way out.

My gaze drifted upward, seeking the sun's position in the unfamiliar sky. Despite hours spent in this landscape, I still couldn't decode its rhythms, couldn't translate the celestial mechanics into meaningful time. The sun was lower than before—that much was obvious—but whether we had two hours of daylight remaining or four, I genuinely couldn't say.

"Where's Paul?"

Luke's voice startled me. I'd been so absorbed in my own thoughts that I hadn't noticed his arrival at camp. He stood scanning the area with an expression of concern that mirrored my own earlier worry.

"He's off bathing again," I said, trying for nonchalance despite the residual anxiety Paul's extended absence had stirred.

"Again?" Luke's brow furrowed with confused amusement. "He didn't make another mess, did he?"

It wouldn't surprise me. The thought brought a reluctant chuckle. After the incidents of the past few hours, nothing about bodily functions could embarrass me anymore. We'd been thoroughly stripped of dignity.

"Not that I know of. He just got tired of waiting for the wood."

The explanation fell flat even to my own ears, but Luke's attention had already shifted elsewhere. His focus seemed to sharpen, his demeanour taking on an urgency that pulled at my awareness.

"Well, it's arrived now, hasn't it? We have more pressing issues to deal with right now anyway."

The words carried weight I couldn't immediately identify. Something was wrong. Something beyond our ordinary catalogue of problems.

"I need your help to convince Gladys to believe me about all this."

The name hit me like a physical blow.

Gladys. My best since moving to Tasmania. The woman who'd been my confidante through every crisis, every joy, every mundane moment of the past decade. Gladys, who I'd assumed was safely distant from this nightmare, protected by the simple fact of not being here.

But Luke had mentioned her. Had involved her somehow. And the implications of that involvement sent ice water flooding through my veins.

"Gladys is here!?"

The question emerged as something between a scream and a whisper, terror strangling my voice even as panic demanded volume. The thought of Gladys being pulled into this chaos, of her being trapped alongside us in this hostile dimension—it was unthinkable. She deserved better. She deserved safety and normality and the successful life she'd built for herself.

"No! God no!" Luke's hasty denial did nothing to calm the storm gathering in my chest. His hands rose in a placating gesture that only intensified my suspicion. "And I don't want her to come here either. I don't want her to get trapped. But I need her to believe that this actually is where you are."

I fixed him with a glare that should have reduced him to ash. The very idea that Luke might even contemplate bringing Gladys near the Portal, might risk her safety for some scheme I didn't yet understand—it was intolerable.

"So, she knows about the Portal then?"

The question hung between us, heavy with accusation.

Luke's eyes dropped to the ground before meeting mine again. "Yeah," he admitted. "I had to show it to her."

"What the fuck, Luke!"

The explosion was inevitable. Every frustration of the past hours, every resentment I'd been hoarding, every fear I'd been suppressing—all of it channelled into those four words. Gladys, my Gladys, exposed to this insanity because Luke couldn't keep his cosmic discovery to himself.

"She didn't leave me any other choice," Luke countered, his voice rising to match my anger. "It's complicated, okay?"

"What the hell does that mean, 'It's complicated'!?"

But Luke had no satisfactory answer. His plea was simple, almost desperate. "Just help me will you."

The conversation had reached an impasse. The air between us crackled with tension, thick with everything we weren't saying. I needed to think. Needed to process what he was asking and what it might cost.

"Wait here then," I said, the words sharper than intended. Without waiting for a response, I turned and disappeared into the tent, my mind already racing through possibilities I'd hoped never to consider.

The tent's dim interior felt almost claustrophobic after the vast openness of Clivilius. I fumbled through the supplies Luke had brought, searching for something to write with, something to write on. The task ahead loomed large and terrible—to convince Gladys of the impossible truth of our situation by revealing an impossible truth about her own family.

My fingers closed around a pen. Nearby, an empty plastic water bottle caught my eye—the kind that might survive the journey through the Portal, might carry a message from one world to another.

What would convince Gladys? What would prove this message came from me, from here, from a reality she has no reason to believe exists?

The answer surfaced from the depths of memory, dragged up from conversations held in confidence, from secrets shared between best friends during wine-soaked evenings when the walls between discretion and truth grew thin. Beatrix. Brody. The storage unit in Moonah. The truth that Gladys had never even suspected nor considered.

I knew because Beatrix had told me, in a moment of drunken confession that she'd probably forgotten by morning. The story had spilled out of her—the debts, the threats, the choice she'd made when Blake Karger gave her an ultimatum. The casino winnings or Brody's life. And Beatrix, impulsive, boundary-pushing Beatrix, had chosen the money.

Gladys had found Brody's body. Had lived with questions that authorities refused to answer, with grief for a death that never made sense. She didn't know what her sister had done. Didn't know that Brody's death could have been prevented if Beatrix had made a different choice.

My hand trembled as I uncapped the pen. This secret wasn't mine to tell. It would shatter Gladys's relationship with her sister, would force her to confront truths that might break her. But it was also the only thing I could write that would prove beyond doubt that this message came from me—from someone who knew what only I knew.

The pen moved across the bottle's label, forming words that felt like betrayals.

Brody’s death wasn’t an accident. I know why he was murdered. And so does Beatrix!

Brief. Devastating. Undeniable.

Capping the pen, I sat back on my heels, heart racing as I contemplated what I'd just set in motion. Gladys and I had been friends for years, had weathered countless storms together. But this? This was different. This was weaponising a secret to prove an impossible truth, and the fallout could be catastrophic.

What choice do I have?

The question echoed without answer. If Gladys didn't believe Luke, didn't accept that I was alive in another dimension, then what? Would she call the police? Would she assume Luke had done something to me? The complications spiralled endlessly, each path leading to consequences I couldn't fully predict.

Less than two minutes after entering the tent, I emerged with the small plastic bottle in hand.

"Here." The word came out steadier than I felt as I tossed the bottle to Luke. It spun through the air, landing securely in his grasp. "Tell her to read my message. That should do the trick."

The weight of what I'd done settled onto my shoulders, invisible but crushing. I'd just handed Luke the power to destroy a family. And I had to trust that he'd use it responsibly—trust that felt increasingly naive given everything he'd already done.

Luke stared down at the water bottle, his brow furrowing as he squinted at the label.

"You don't have to read it," I muttered, irritation bubbling to the surface. Of course Luke would try to read it. His compulsion to absorb every scrap of information was one of his most annoying traits.

"You know I can't help it," Luke replied without looking up, his eyes still fixed on the brief message I'd written. The words were small, cramped by the limited space, but apparently legible enough for his persistent curiosity.

I huffed, frustration tightening my chest.

"Is this true?" Luke's head snapped up suddenly, his gaze seeking confirmation of what he'd just read.

"Yep." The response was terse, my face hardening as I braced for whatever came next. "But you need to stay out of it. I think you've got us all into enough trouble already."

Luke's frown deepened, concern and guilt warring across his features.

"Luke, I mean it," I pressed, my voice carrying the full weight of warning I could muster.

"Thanks," said Luke softly, holding up the water bottle as if it were something precious. With a quick nod, he turned and jogged away, leaving me behind once again.

As I watched him go, anxiety coiled in my stomach like something alive. The doubt arrived immediately, insistent and unwelcome. Was telling Gladys the truth about Beatrix the right thing to do? The question had no clean answer. I'd chosen to reveal a devastating secret about her sister's involvement in Brody's death, gambling that the shock of recognition would outweigh the pain of betrayal.

But gambling with other people's lives was what had gotten us into this mess in the first place.

I turned my attention to the bags of wood, ripping open the first one with determination that masked my uncertainty. Some questions didn't have answers. Some choices couldn't be unmade. The only direction available was forward.

The fire crackled with enthusiastic abandon, flames leaping and dancing with a vigour that seemed almost celebratory. Each snap and pop of burning wood created a symphony of destruction, the sound wrapping around me like a blanket woven from isolation. Silver smoke rose in lazy spirals, climbing toward the late afternoon sky before dispersing into the vast unknown above.

I'd built something. It wasn't much—just a campfire, the most basic of human technologies—but it represented progress. Control. The ability to impose my will on an environment that had otherwise treated me as an irrelevant intruder.

Watching the flames, my thoughts began to drift into territories I'd been avoiding. The fire's hypnotic rhythm seemed to unlock doors I'd kept carefully closed, releasing questions that had been pressing against my consciousness since our arrival.

How high would the smoke rise? Would it eventually merge with whatever atmosphere existed beyond our immediate perception? Did Clivilius even have an atmosphere in the traditional sense, or were we breathing something else entirely—something that merely resembled air closely enough to sustain our biology?

The uncertainty was maddening. Every assumption I'd carried about reality had been challenged, undermined, potentially invalidated. The ground beneath my feet looked like dust but might be something else. The sun overhead provided warmth but might operate according to principles I couldn't comprehend. Even my own body, processing food and water and waste as it always had, might be functioning through mechanisms that defied earthly explanation.

"Is this place the same as Earth?" I mused aloud, my voice barely audible above the fire's crackle. The question felt philosophical rather than practical, an attempt to impose framework on chaos. "Are we still actually on Earth, somewhere?"

The words hung in the air, unanswered. The fire offered no insight, only heat and light and the steady consumption of Luke's university textbooks. The flames didn't care about dimensional mechanics or existential uncertainty. They simply burned, as fires had burned since before humanity learned to control them.

"Jamie! Fire!"

Paul's scream shattered my contemplation, his voice carrying across the distance with an urgency that bordered on hysteria. The word pierced through the stillness like an alarm, demanding immediate response.

But my body refused to cooperate.

The numbness that had been gradually accumulating since our arrival had calcified into something approaching paralysis. I registered Paul's panic intellectually—understood that he was frightened, that he believed something was wrong—but couldn't summon the energy to react. The exhaustion was too deep, too thorough, too fundamentally integrated into my being.

"Fire!" His cry came again, even more desperate as he crested the hill overlooking our camp. His arms were waving, his movement frantic, his entire demeanour suggesting catastrophe.

And I just... couldn't.

"For fuck's sake! I know there's a fire!" The response erupted from somewhere beneath the exhaustion, raw and harsh and completely inappropriate to the situation. "I started the bloody thing!"

The words carried more weight than just response—they were a release valve for everything I'd been suppressing. The frustration, the fear, the bone-deep weariness of being trapped in an impossible situation with people who kept expecting me to cope when coping felt like asking too much.

Paul stopped abruptly, his frantic movement freezing as my outburst reached him. For a moment, we stood in silence—his panic meeting my irritation across the space between us. Then something shifted in his posture, the tension draining away as understanding replaced alarm.

He walked back toward camp with measured steps, his earlier urgency replaced by something more subdued.

"I got the fire started," I announced as he approached, deliberately softening my tone. An olive branch, however reluctant, after my earlier outburst.

"Oh." The flush that spread across Paul's cheeks was almost endearing—embarrassment colouring his features in shades that made him look unexpectedly human. "That's great."

I continued feeding kindling to the flames, watching them grow with something approaching satisfaction. Each piece of wood I added felt like a victory, however small.

"All I could see from over the hill was smoke. I was worried that it may have been the tent. We've got nothing else here."

The concern in his voice was genuine, and I felt a twinge of guilt for my earlier harshness. His worry made sense. The tent was literally the only structure we had, the only thing separating us from sleeping directly on Clivilius's hostile dust. Losing it to an accidental fire would have been catastrophic.

"Obviously," I retorted, the word slipping out with more edge than intended. My frustration was still simmering, not yet fully dissipated despite my attempt at reconciliation.

Paul took the sneer in stride, seemingly unbothered by my continued hostility. He stood there with clothes tucked under one arm and a towel wrapped around his waist, looking for all the world like a tourist returning from the beach rather than a prisoner in an alien dimension.

The sight triggered an unexpected thought: Now it's my turn. The river, cool and presumably clean, suddenly seemed incredibly appealing. Hours of physical labour, emotional turmoil, and basic biological functions had left me coated in dust and sweat. The prospect of washing it all away felt almost luxurious.

I pulled my t-shirt over my head in one fluid motion, the fabric whispering against my skin before arcing through the air toward the tent. It landed in a heap against the canvas, a small declaration of intent.

"Don't let the fire go out," I instructed Paul, glancing toward the flames I'd worked to coax into life. The kindling had been precious, limited. The last thing we needed was for his occasional absent-mindedness to undo my efforts.

Paul's head turned sharply, worry creasing his brow. "Are you sure having a fire is the best thing? What if there is something out there and our fire attracts it?"

The question stopped me mid-motion, my hands freezing on the zipper of my jeans. I hadn't considered that possibility—hadn't thought beyond the immediate comfort of warmth and the psychological security of flame. But Paul's words opened doorways to fears I'd been successfully avoiding.

"You really think there might be something else out there?"

"Maybe." His shrug was noncommittal, but the uncertainty in his voice echoed my own newly awakened concern. The landscape had seemed empty, but empty and uninhabited weren't the same thing. And fire, visible for miles in a place without artificial light, would announce our presence to anything with eyes to see.

I weighed the options, comfort against caution. "I'm sure it'll be fine for now. We'll make sure we put it out shortly after nightfall."

"Okay." The agreement came reluctantly, Paul's unease clearly not fully resolved. But he accepted the compromise, which was the best I could hope for.

The anticipation of cool water propelled me through the final preparations. My jeans joined my shirt in the pile of discarded clothing, flung toward the tent with an eagerness that bordered on desperation. The river waited, promising relief from the dust and sweat and accumulated grime of this endless day.

I made a beeline for the bank, my heart racing with something that felt almost like excitement. After everything—the humiliations, the revelations, the physical and emotional exhaustion—a simple swim represented pure, uncomplicated pleasure. A moment of normality in a day that had offered precious few.

"Hey! Wait!"

Paul's urgent shout came too late, the warning arriving when my body was already committed to motion. My left foot planted firmly in the dust, preparing to launch me into a grand dive that would carry me arcing through the air and into the river's welcoming depths.

But the shout itself became the problem.

My concentration shattered at the sound, attention dividing fatally between the momentum of my dive and the source of Paul's alarm. The ground, which I'd expected to provide solid purchase for my leap, betrayed me completely. The fine dust shifted beneath my weight, treacherous and unstable, offering no resistance as my foot slipped sideways.

What should have been a graceful arc became a graceless sprawl.

I went down hard, sliding across the dust in a cloud of particles that invaded every crevice, coated every exposed surface, filled my nose and mouth with the taste of Clivilius's essence. The fall seemed to last forever—a slow-motion humiliation captured in excruciating detail by my own mortified awareness.

From my position on the ground, sprawled like a starfish in the dirt, I heard Paul explode into laughter. The sound was unrestrained, genuine, bubbling up from somewhere deep in his chest with an intensity that suggested he'd been desperately needing release.

"What?" I called out, making no immediate effort to rise. The absurdity of the moment had grounded me as thoroughly as the fall itself.

"I'm so sorry," Paul managed between gasps of laughter. "I can't help it."

He didn't need forgiveness. The laughter was contagious, cutting through the accumulated tension and seriousness that had weighted everything since our arrival. For one moment, we were just two people in an absurd situation, and sometimes absurd situations were funny.

Then I pushed myself up from the dust, and the humour died a rapid death.

My face flushed instantly, heat flooding my cheeks as I realised what I was wearing. The bright green thong—Luke's stupid, sexy thong—was now on full display. I could feel the thin material wedged tight between my buttocks, could imagine exactly what I looked like from any angle.

Shit. Shit shit shit.

I froze on the spot, uncertainty paralysing me. The mental calculus was immediate and unsolvable. What's better? Showing Paul my arse or my package? Neither option appealed. I could turn sideways, but that would only enhance the silhouette, make the situation somehow worse.

A sigh escaped me, heavy with resignation and embarrassment. My palms pressed against my temples, rubbing at the headache that had suddenly bloomed. I should have been in the river by now. Should have been submerged in water rather than standing here like a contestant in the world's most unwanted fashion show.

Paul's voice cut through my frozen mortification, offering an unexpected lifeline. "There's a nice little lagoon just over the way, near the end of the river's bend."

"Thanks." The word carried genuine gratitude, despite the circumstances. My hands moved to brush away the dust that clung to my legs, each stroke removing evidence of my spectacular failure while the thong remained stubbornly visible.

I moved past Paul with what dignity I could muster, my steps carrying me with deliberate purpose toward the promised lagoon. The air held a quality I couldn't name—expectation, perhaps, or just the lingering vibrations of shared laughter and mutual embarrassment.

A towel. I needed a towel.

I grabbed one from the pile near the tent, the fabric rough against my dust-covered skin. Then I continued downstream, leaving Paul and the fire and the accumulating complications of our camp behind.

The lagoon waited. Privacy waited. The chance to wash away the physical evidence of this day, even if the memories would prove more stubborn.

Clivilius was exposing me in more ways than one. My secrets, my body, my limitations—everything I'd tried to keep hidden was being dragged into the unforgiving light of this alien sun. And there was nothing I could do but keep moving forward, one humiliation at a time.