The Price of Useful

"My kidnapper gave me water and a blanket. I said thank you. Mum raised me polite, even when the host is the bloke who ordered my throat cut. Etiquette's funny like that."

The man threw me against a rock face like I was a sack of spoiled produce.

My shoulder hit first, then my head, and for a moment the darkness exploded into stars—not the missing constellations that should have been overhead but weren’t, but the kind that came from having your skull bounced off stone. I slid down the rock and crumpled at its base, too exhausted to catch myself, too broken to care.

"Stay," the man said, the way you'd command a dog.

I stayed. Not because I wanted to obey, but because my body had stopped taking instructions from me hours ago. Every muscle felt like it had been replaced with wet sand. My legs were beyond useless—dead weight attached to my hips by some cruel joke of anatomy. My throat burned with each breath, the old wound from Berriedale reminding me that I'd already died once and should probably stop pushing my luck.

The man moved away, his silhouette briefly blocking the soft glow of whatever hung around his neck before he disappeared around a boulder. I heard sounds—scraping, shifting, the clatter of objects being moved—but I couldn't see what he was doing. Couldn't see much of anything except the rock in front of my face and the faint green luminescence that painted the edges of the stones in sickly light.

Get up, some part of me whispered. Run. While he's distracted. Run.

But run where? Into the darkness that held those growling things? Across a landscape I didn't know, couldn't navigate, could barely walk through even with someone dragging me? I'd be dead within minutes. At least with the man, I had a chance.

Some chance. The man who killed you is now your best hope for survival.

The irony was so bitter I could taste it.

The man returned, looming over me like a monument to everything that had gone wrong in my life. In the dim glow, I could see his face more clearly than I had during our flight—the scars that mapped his skull like roads through hostile territory, the way his skin stretched tight over bone and muscle, the cold assessment in his eyes as he looked down at me.

He's deciding, I realised. Whether I'm worth the trouble.

"Get up," he said.

"I can't."

The words came out flat, not defiant. Just fact. My legs had stopped working. My arms had stopped working. Everything had stopped working. I was a machine that had finally run out of whatever kept machines running.

The man crouched down, bringing his face close to mine. The glow from his neck cast shadows upward across his features, turning him into something demonic—all sharp angles and hollow eyes.

"I said get up."

"And I said I can't." My voice cracked on the last word, throat burning. "Kill me or carry me, but I'm not walking another step."

Silence stretched between us. I watched his jaw tighten, watched the calculation happening behind those ice-chip eyes. Somewhere in the darkness beyond our little bubble of light, something howled—distant but not distant enough.

The man grabbed the front of my shirt—Jamie's shirt, I was still wearing Jamie's shirt—and hauled me upright. The movement was rough enough to make my vision swim, and for a moment I thought I was going to vomit. Would have, probably, if there'd been anything in my stomach to bring up.

"Through there," he said, pointing to a gap between two boulders I hadn't noticed. "Move."

He didn't wait for me to comply. Just shoved me forward, letting me stumble and catch myself against the rock, then shoved again when I didn't move fast enough. It was like being herded by a particularly aggressive sheepdog, except the sheepdog had a knife and had already demonstrated a willingness to use it.

The gap was narrow—barely wide enough for my shoulders—and I had to turn sideways to squeeze through. The rock scraped against my back and chest, tearing at Jamie's borrowed shirt, adding new scratches to the collection I'd accumulated over the past hours. But then I was through, and the space opened up into something like a room.

Not a real room. A cave, maybe, or just a natural hollow formed by the way the boulders had fallen against each other. The ceiling was low—I could have touched it if I'd stretched—and the floor was uneven stone softened in places by what looked like stolen blankets and clothing. Supplies were stacked against one wall: tins, bottles, a rucksack, things I couldn't identify in the dim light.

He's been living here, I realised. This is where he's been hiding.

The thought was chilling. How long had this man been out here, watching the camp, waiting? Since Berriedale? That was days ago. Days spent in this hollow, surviving on stolen supplies, biding his time until... what? Until tonight? Until me?

"Sit," the man said from behind me, and I sat.

Or rather, I collapsed. My legs folded under me and I went down hard, barely managing to avoid cracking my head on the stone floor. I ended up half-propped against the curved wall of the hollow, my legs splayed out in front of me, my arms limp at my sides.

This is it, I thought. This is where I find out what he wants.

The man moved past me, deeper into the hollow, and began doing something with the supplies. I heard the sound of a container being opened, liquid being poured. A moment later, he was back, thrusting something toward my face.

"Drink."

I stared at the container—some kind of canteen, military-looking—without reaching for it.

"It's water," the man said, and there was a thread of impatience in his voice. "I need you alive, which means I need you hydrated. Drink."

I need you alive.

The words should have been reassuring. They weren't. There was something in the way he said them—the emphasis on need, the implication that my life was a requirement rather than a preference—that made my skin crawl.

But I was thirsty. God, I was thirsty. My throat felt like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper, and the thought of water was enough to override every survival instinct screaming at me not to take anything this man offered.

I took the canteen. Drank. The water was warm and tasted faintly of metal, but it was the best thing I'd ever tasted in my life. I drank until the man pulled it away, leaving me gasping and wanting more.

"Enough," he said. "Too much and you'll be sick."

He was right, probably. Mum used to say the same thing when I'd come in from summer heat, desperate for cold drinks. Sip, Joel. Don't gulp. Your body needs time to catch up.

The memory hit me like a punch to the chest. Mum. Sitting in our house in Glenorchy, probably. Waiting for me to come home from a delivery shift that ended days ago. Had she called the depot? Called the police? Was she lying awake right now, staring at the ceiling, wondering if her son was alive or dead?

Dead, I thought. She probably thinks I'm dead. And she's not wrong, is she? I was dead. I just... didn't stay that way.

"What's your name?"

The man's question cut through my spiralling thoughts. I looked up at him, startled. He was crouched a few feet away, his back against the opposite wall, the glowing thing around his neck casting his face in that eerie green light.

"What?"

"Your name," he repeated. "You have one, don't you?"

The question seemed almost absurd given everything that had happened. This man had ordered my death, had dragged me through a monster-infested wasteland, had thrown me against rocks and shoved me through gaps and treated me like cargo rather than a person. And now he wanted to know my name?

"Joel," I said, because what else was I going to say? "Joel Gibbons."

The man's eyes narrowed slightly. Something flickered in his expression—recognition? Interest? I couldn't tell.

"Gibbons," he repeated, as if testing the word. "Any relation to Luke Smith?"

The question hit me like cold water. How did he know about Luke? How did he know we were connected?

"He's my father’s partner," I said, and immediately wished I hadn't. Giving this man information felt dangerous, like handing ammunition to an enemy.

But the man just nodded, as if I'd confirmed something he'd already suspected.

"I wondered," he said. "You've got that look about you."

I didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know if it was meant as an observation or a threat. Everything this man said felt like it could be either.

"Your name," I managed. "What's yours?"

The man studied me for a long moment. I could feel him weighing the question, deciding whether to answer.

"Nelson," he said finally. "Nelson Price."

Nelson.

Putting a name to the face felt strange. Wrong, somehow. Like naming a nightmare and expecting it to become less frightening. But it didn't. If anything, having a name made him more real, more dangerous. Nightmares you could wake up from. Men with names were harder to escape.

"Why didn't you kill me?"

The question came out before I could stop it. I hadn't planned to ask, hadn't planned to say anything that might remind him that killing me was an option. But the words were out now.

Nelson's expression didn't change. "At the camp? Or before?"

"Both." My voice was steadier than I expected. "At the house in Hobart, you gave the order. One of your men—" I couldn't say it. Couldn't describe the feeling of the blade across my throat, the warmth of my own blood. "And then tonight. You had me on my back with a knife at my neck. Why am I still alive?"

The silence stretched. I could hear my own breathing, harsh and ragged. Could hear the wind outside the hollow, the distant sounds of a world I didn't understand.

"I had my reasons," Nelson said.

"That's not an answer."

Something flickered in his eyes—amusement? Irritation? Both?

"No," he agreed. "It's not."

He didn't elaborate. Didn't explain. Just sat there, watching me with those cold eyes, letting the silence answer for him.

He's not going to tell me, I realised. He wants me alive, but he's not going to tell me why.

That was almost worse than not knowing. The uncertainty. The constant awareness that my value to this man was conditional, temporary, subject to change without notice. I was alive because I was useful somehow. The moment I stopped being useful...

I didn't want to think about what would happen then.

The hollow was cold.

Not the brutal, cutting cold of the desert night—the stone walls offered some protection from the wind—but a seeping, persistent chill that worked its way into my bones and refused to leave. I huddled against the wall, arms wrapped around myself, trying to conserve whatever body heat I had left.

Nelson seemed unbothered. He moved around the space, pulling a thin blanket from the pile of supplies and tossing it in my direction. It landed on my legs, and I grabbed it with trembling fingers, wrapping it around my shoulders.

"Thank you," I said, the words automatic, and immediately felt stupid for saying them.

Thank you to the man who kidnapped me. Thank you to the man who ordered my death. What was wrong with me?

Nelson didn't acknowledge the thanks. He was doing something with the supplies—sorting through them, checking quantities, the kind of inventory-taking that spoke of someone used to rationing limited resources.

"How long have you been here?" I asked.

The question was a risk. Every question was a risk. But the silence was worse, and my mind wouldn't stop churning out things I wanted to know.

"Long enough," Nelson said without looking up.

"Since Hobart?"

He paused. Turned to look at me. In the green glow, his face was unreadable.

"You ask a lot of questions."

"I'm trying to understand what's happening."

"No." He said it flatly, final. "You're trying to find an advantage. Looking for weaknesses, gathering information." A cold smile touched his lips, gone as quickly as it appeared. "I'd do the same in your position. But I'm not going to help you."

The assessment was accurate enough that I couldn't argue with it. Not that I would have, even if it wasn't. Arguing with Nelson felt like arguing with a cliff face—pointless and potentially fatal.

"We move at first light," Nelson said, returning to his inventory. "Get what sleep you can."

"Where are we going?"

He didn't answer immediately. Finished whatever he was doing with the supplies, then moved to his own spot against the opposite wall. Sat down. Drew his legs up. The blade appeared in his hand—I hadn't seen him draw it—and he began cleaning it with a scrap of cloth.

"The mountains," he said finally. "There are caves. Shelter. Safer than being out in the open."

Safer. The word felt hollow. Nothing about this situation was safe.

"And after the caves?"

The blade caught the light as Nelson turned it, examining the edge. "That depends."

"On what?"

His eyes lifted from the blade to my face. The green glow made them look almost reptilian—cold-blooded, patient, utterly devoid of warmth.

"On you," he said. "On what you're worth."

The threat was implicit but unmistakable. My value was being assessed. My life hung on the outcome of that assessment.

"What do you want from me?"

Nelson's smile returned, thin and sharp as the blade in his hand. "Sleep, boy. Tomorrow's going to be a long day."

He didn't answer my question. I hadn't expected him to.

I couldn't sleep.

The blanket helped with the cold, but nothing helped with the fear. It sat in my chest like a stone, heavy and immovable, making each breath feel like an effort. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Nelson's face—the scars, the calculating eyes, the blade catching the light.

He's going to kill me, I thought. Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow. But eventually. When I stop being useful.

The certainty of it was almost calming. At least it was something definite. Something I could plan for, even if the plan was just survive as long as possible.

I tried to focus on the sounds of the night. The wind outside, whistling through the gaps in the boulders. The occasional distant howl that made my skin prickle with primal fear. Nelson's breathing, steady and slow—he was either asleep or pretending to be.

Pretending, I decided. Men like him don't sleep deeply. Not when there's a potential threat in the same room.

I was the threat, I realised. Or at least, I was something Nelson had to watch. Not because I was dangerous—I was about as dangerous as a wet paper bag right now—but because I was unpredictable. An unknown variable. He didn't know what I might do, and men like Nelson didn't like unknowns.

Men like Nelson.

What did I actually know about him? He'd been at the house in Hobart, giving orders to the others. He'd walked through the Portal while I bled out on the floor. He'd been surviving in this wasteland for days, stealing supplies, watching the camp. And now he wanted me alive for reasons he refused to explain.

He knows about the lagoon, I remembered. He said something about it, back in the tent. He knows I should be dead and I'm not.

Was that why? Did my survival mean something? Was there value in a man who had come back from death?

Don't flatter yourself. You're a hostage, not a prize. You're worth something to someone, that's all. Leverage. A bargaining chip.

But who would bargain for me? Jamie? What could Jamie possibly offer a man like Nelson?

The questions circled through my head, unanswered and unanswerable. I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders and stared into the darkness.

One moment at a time, I told myself. That's all you can do.

Mum's voice in my memory: Worrying about tomorrow doesn't change tomorrow, Joel. It just ruins today.

Today's already ruined, Mum, I thought. Yesterday too. And probably tomorrow, for good measure.

But she was right. She usually was. Worrying wouldn't help. Planning might, but I didn't have enough information to plan. All I could do was wait, and watch, and try to figure out why I was valuable enough to keep alive.

And hope that when the answer came, I could survive it.