The Rest Will Follow

"Family loyalty is just herd mentality dressed in Sunday clothes. Find the shepherd, and the flock walks itself to the slaughter."

The campfire painted everything in shades of amber and shadow, its warmth a small mercy against the chill that had settled over Clivilius with the fading light. I stood at its edge, close enough to feel the heat against my mud-stained clothes, watching the flames dance their ancient patterns while soft voices wove themselves into a backdrop I couldn't quite focus on.

My face felt like a mask of exhaustion—every muscle heavy, every thought requiring effort that seemed disproportionate to its value. The day had been too long, too full of disasters and near-misses and the particular kind of luck that felt less like fortune and more like a debt accumulating interest. The fence interception had worked, somehow. The materials were here, transported through dimensions while a truck driver on Earth presumably lost his mind trying to explain where several tonnes of fencing had vanished to.

Small victories. They were all I had left to count.

Beatrix stood nearby, her scars catching the firelight in ways that made them appear almost deliberate—battle markings rather than wounds. I found myself studying them without meaning to, wondering if my own journey would leave similar evidence. Probably. This work had a way of writing itself on the body, claiming its due in flesh and sleep and all the small pieces of humanity that eroded so gradually you didn't notice until they were gone.

Beyond our small circle of warmth, Bixbus stretched in the gathering darkness—a settlement that had grown faster than anyone had planned, tents giving way to caravans, strangers becoming neighbours, the fragile architecture of survival taking shape one desperate improvisation at a time. And now, encircling it all, the chain-link fence that had cost me a morning of mud and rain and narrowly avoided arrest.

The shadow panthers were out there somewhere, beyond the reach of our firelight. I didn't need to see them to know they were watching. This dimension had taught me that much, at least—the darkness here was never truly empty.

"That's everyone," Nial's voice cut through my reverie as he secured the metallic gate, the sound of the lock engaging carrying clearly in the still evening air. Paul stepped through the gap just before it closed, his silhouette momentarily framed against the last traces of sunset before the shadows claimed him.

I watched the gate's closure with something that wanted to be satisfaction but fell short. We were protected now—or at least more protected than we'd been this morning. But there was something uncomfortably final about that metallic clang, something that spoke of boundaries and limitations and all the ways our world had contracted.

"It feels a bit like a zoo here now," I remarked, attempting to inject a lightness into my voice that I didn't feel.

Paul's sigh carried the weight of responsibilities neither of us had asked for. "Except this time, I think we are the animals locked in the cage."

The observation landed with more truth than I wanted to acknowledge. We'd built walls to keep danger out, but in doing so, we'd also built walls to keep ourselves in. The irony wasn't lost on me.

"I'm not so sure that the goat and chickens you've locked in the car and left out there would agree with you," Beatrix interjected, her tone carrying that particular dryness she wielded like a blade. Her gesture indicated the direction of the Drop Zone, where Vincent the goat and the handful of chickens she'd acquired waited in automotive limbo.

The animals. Another item on the endless list of things requiring attention, resources, solutions I didn't have. Everything in this place demanded something—time, energy, the rapidly depleting reserves of whatever kept me moving forward when stopping seemed so much easier.

"It won't always be this way," I said, rubbing at my brow where a headache had begun to establish permanent residence. The words were meant as reassurance, though whether for them or for myself remained unclear. I turned to Beatrix, forcing determination into my expression. "Beatrix and I will bring you more supplies tomorrow."

She nodded, the agreement carrying the weight of shared burden. "Yeah. I'll get you as many motorhomes as I can over the next few days."

"And you've got some skilled people here now; you'll have a little village built and buzzing with enthusiasm in no time," I added, trying to paint a picture of the future that felt more hopeful than the present deserved.

"I wouldn't go that—" Beatrix began, her pragmatism rising to temper my optimism, but Paul cut across her words.

"Speaking of motorhomes and supplies, Luke can give you my house keys." His gaze found mine, seeking confirmation of something he already knew.

"Yeah," I said, "I've got them all in a safe space."

The keys. Paul's house keys and several others, collected and stored against future need. A small collection of metal shapes that represented homes, lives, existences that had been left behind when their owners crossed into Clivilius.

"If Claire and the kids really have gone to Queensland, I doubt they'll return anytime soon," Paul continued.

My eye twitched involuntarily at the mention of Claire. The questions I wanted to ask pressed against my teeth—What happened? Why did they leave? What aren't you telling me?—but this wasn't the moment, and Paul's expression made clear he wasn't inviting inquiry. Whatever had transpired between my brother and his family, it was his story to share when he chose to.

If he ever chose to.

Paul's attention had already shifted back to Beatrix. "You may as well bring anything from the house that looks useful."

"Include furniture with that." Kain's voice preceded his arrival, the uneven rhythm of crutches on packed earth announcing his approach. He moved toward our circle with the particular determination of someone refusing to let injury define their limitations, each step a small act of defiance. "I could really do with a good couch to rest my leg."

The crutches I'd left outside his caravan gleamed in the firelight—aluminium supports that had seemed like such a simple solution when I'd arranged them. Looking at Kain now, at the way pain lived in the corners of his expression despite his attempts to hide it, I wasn't sure anything about this place allowed for simple solutions.

"Has it still not healed fully yet?" The question emerged before I'd fully considered it, genuine concern mixing with the calculations that ran constantly beneath my surface thoughts.

"No." Kain's response carried an edge that went beyond physical discomfort. "I don't seem to be as privileged as Joel."

The comparison stung in ways he probably hadn't intended—or perhaps had intended exactly. Joel had died and returned, his body restored to wholeness by whatever forces operated at the lagoon. Kain had nearly died and received... what? A half-measure. Enough healing to survive, not enough to restore. The mathematics of this dimension's mercy remained opaque to me.

"Any news on that front?" I asked, steering toward information rather than dwelling on the unfairness of selective miracles.

"No." The word fell between us like a door closing.

"We've not seen anything of Joel, Jamie, or Glenda," Paul added, his contribution doing nothing to lift the weight that had settled over our circle.

Joel. Jamie. Glenda. Three names, three people who had ventured into Clivilius's wilderness in pursuit of the Portal Pirate, and three absences that grew more concerning with each passing hour. The calculations ran automatically—how long was too long, what did silence mean, when did hope become foolishness.

"Give them a couple more days," I said, trying to inject confidence I didn't feel into the suggestion.

"And then what?" Beatrix's question cut to the heart of the matter, exposing the emptiness behind my optimism.

I shrugged. The gesture felt inadequate, cowardly even, but honesty seemed preferable to fabrication. I didn't know what came next. Didn't have a plan for the eventuality that our people simply didn't return. The possibilities were too numerous and too grim to catalogue.

Paul's sigh filled the silence—another exhalation that seemed to carry more weight than lungs should hold.

"You've really got no idea what you are doing, do you, Luke?" Kain's words struck like a physical blow, all the frustration and fear of his situation condensed into a single accusation.

The response that wanted to emerge was defensive, angry, full of justifications for decisions made under impossible circumstances. My mouth opened to deliver it—

"It's not that easy," Beatrix snapped, her defence cutting off my words before they could form. The fierceness in her voice surprised me, a protective instinct I hadn't expected and wasn't sure I deserved.

"You don't have to tell me that," Kain retorted, his hand gesturing toward his injured leg with bitter emphasis.

My jaw tightened. The argument building between us felt like a fire catching—each response feeding the next, heat building toward something destructive. I had arguments prepared, justifications for every choice, explanations that would make nothing better and might make everything worse.

But it was Paul who intervened, his voice cutting through the rising tension with the particular authority of someone who had spent years managing difficult personalities.

"My car is still parked at the Adelaide airport carpark. Can you collect it for me and bring it here?" The question was directed at Beatrix, a deliberate pivot away from confrontation and toward practicality.

"Sure," she muttered, the word clipped but compliant.

"Oh," I said, the idea crystallising as I spoke. "I am flying from Hobart to Adelaide first thing in the morning. I won't have time to collect Paul's car, but I can register a Portal location to make it easier for you, Beatrix."

"Thanks, but there's no need to fly; I've already registered several locations in Adelaide," she replied, her competence rendering my offer redundant.

"Oh." The deflation was minor but noticeable. "I've already got my flight booked. I may as well use it. Besides, I might find something useful at the airport. In any event, it'll give you a much closer point of entry for collecting Paul's car."

"Alright," Beatrix agreed, her acquiescence a relief.

The mental notebook in my head was already full, pages crowded with tasks and obligations and the countless small actions required to keep this fragile settlement functioning. Tomorrow would add more. Every day added more. The weight of it pressed against my skull from the inside, a constant pressure I was learning to live with.

"What are you actually going to Adelaide for, Luke?" Paul's question carried suspicion beneath its surface—the wariness of a brother who had learned to be cautious about my schemes.

I hesitated. The decision had been forming for days, gathering weight and urgency in the back of my mind while I dealt with the immediate crises that seemed to multiply like cells dividing. But speaking it aloud would make it real, would commit me to a course of action that carried risks I hadn't fully calculated.

"I'm thinking I might bring our parents and siblings to Clivilius." The words emerged with more confidence than I felt, as if speaking them with conviction could make the plan less terrifying.

Beatrix's gasp was audible. "Is that a good idea?"

The question hung in the air, valid and unanswerable. Was it a good idea? I had no certainty to offer.

Surprisingly, it was Paul who spoke next, his support cutting through my uncertainty. "It'll be a lot more mouths to feed, but I think you are right. I think they could really help us here."

The agreement from my brother loosened something in my chest that had been wound tight with anticipation. Paul understood. Whatever complications existed between us, whatever unspoken tensions had accumulated over years of diverging paths, he understood why this mattered.

"How many?" Beatrix's question was practical, her mind already calculating resources and accommodations.

"Only Adelaide?" Paul inquired.

"I think so, for now," I replied.

Paul turned to Beatrix with the air of someone presenting a summary. "Parents and three brothers."

"Two brothers," I corrected quickly. The mistake was minor but significant. Confusion flickered across both their faces. "Eli is still visiting Lisa in the United States."

"Girlfriend?" Beatrix ventured.

"Sister," Paul and I responded simultaneously.

"Oh, you've got a big family," Beatrix observed, her fingers seeming to move as she counted.

"Yep," we confirmed together, another moment of unity in an evening that had held too few of them.

A big family. Parents, brothers, a sister scattered across the globe. All of them carrying on with their lives, unaware that their sons and brothers had become architects of an inter-dimensional settlement, unaware of shadow panthers and portals and the particular dangers that came with knowledge of Clivilius's existence.

Bringing them here meant changing that. Meant ripping them from everything familiar and depositing them in a world that operated by rules they couldn't imagine. It was a gift and a violation wrapped together, indistinguishable.

But the alternative—leaving them behind—felt worse.

"Are you going to bring them to Bixbus tomorrow?" Paul's question pulled me back to logistics, to the practical concerns that kept overwhelming the philosophical ones.

I shrugged, the gesture feeling less evasive than it had earlier. "I'm not sure yet. I still haven't worked out the best way to approach them." The admission was uncomfortable but honest. After a brief pause, acknowledging that I needed input rather than simply offering plans, I asked, "Any ideas?"

Paul's initial shrug mirrored my own uncertainty, but it didn't last. Something shifted in his expression—insight breaking through the exhaustion.

"I suspect that all you need to do is find a way to convince dad, and the rest will easily follow."

The observation landed with the weight of truth. Our father had always been the centre around which the family orbited—his approval the currency that purchased peace, his disapproval the storm that disrupted everything. If I could convince him, the others would follow. They always had.

"Hmm," I mused, rubbing my chin as the shape of a strategy began to form. "I think you're onto something there."

The plan was still incomplete, still missing crucial details about approach and timing and the specific words that might move our father from scepticism to acceptance. But the framework existed now. A path forward, however uncertain.

"Come on, Beatrix," I said, pulling myself from the planning that threatened to consume me entirely. "Let's get you these keys."

She stirred from whatever thoughts had claimed her attention, and together we moved away from the fire's warmth toward the tasks that waited. Behind us, the flames continued their dance, casting light against the darkness that pressed in from every direction.