Welcome to Bixbus

“Some names are jokes, some are wishes. Bixbus might be both.”

"Not much of a settlement, is it," Chris remarked as we approached the cluster of tents and improvised structures that made up our small encampment. His tone carried a blend of disappointment and disbelief, as if the reality before him fell short of an expectation he hadn't realised he'd held.

"Is this it?" Karen's voice echoed Chris's sentiment, her confusion palpable.

"This is it," I confirmed, my voice steady despite the undercurrent of apology I felt for their apparent letdown. "Welcome to Bixbus." The name of our settlement, chosen in a moment of camaraderie and perhaps a touch of whimsy, suddenly felt exposed under their scrutiny—quaint and threadbare against the backdrop of their silent evaluation.

"Bixbus?" Chris's repetition of the name was tinged with a mix of surprise and curiosity. "I thought we were in Clivilius?"

"Oh," I managed between light laughs, trying to ease the awkwardness, "we are in Clivilius, but we've called our own little settlement Bixbus."

"Oh," he said again, his demeanour shifting to one of sheepish acceptance, as if realising he’d expected something grander. Something with walls, perhaps. Roads. Not this sparse assembly of canvas and compromise.

I studied Karen closely. She stood a little apart from us now, her gaze sweeping slowly across the scene—taking in the battered tents, the haphazard arrangement of supplies, the fragile illusion of order we clung to. Her brows drew together in thought, her posture rigid, as if bracing herself against the reality of what lay before her. The energy she had radiated at the Portal seemed to have quieted, dulled slightly by the starkness of what we'd returned to.

Her silent contemplation was broken by the flap of the main tent lifting and Jamie stepping out into the sunlight, Duke at his heel like a well-worn shadow. Jamie gave a cursory glance in our direction but said nothing, his eyes instead catching on the scene that pulled my own attention moments later.

The frying pan. It lay upside down in the dust, its contents scattered like careless brushstrokes on the ground. I felt an inward sigh coil within me. All that effort. All that careful juggling of heat and patience and frustration. Gone. Now just another detail lost to the unrelenting disorder of this place.

For a fleeting second, I felt the sting of defeat. Not from the lost breakfast, but from the reminder that even our smallest efforts to maintain normality were precarious, subject to the whims of dogs, wind, or simple missteps.

"Duke?" Karen's voice was tinged with a note of recognition as she squatted down to greet the eagerly tail-swishing dog. Her familiarity piqued my interest, pulling my attention away from the disappointment of the spoiled breakfast. Duke responded with his usual enthusiasm, tail swishing the air in tight squiggles, ears perked as he pressed forward to nuzzle against her outstretched hand.

"You know him?" My curiosity was genuine, and the distraction from my earlier frustration was oddly welcome.

"Not really," Karen admitted, her gaze shifting from Duke up to meet mine. "I've seen pictures. Is Henri here too?"

A heavy sigh slipped from me as I followed her glance to the campfire and the chaos surrounding it—the upturned frying pan, the unsalvageable clumps of eggs, the tell-tale signs of Henri’s mischief. "I'm assuming he had something to do with that mess?" The question was directed towards Jamie, who had been tasked—admittedly unfairly—with watching the food. My tone carried a blend of accusation and weary resignation.

"That assumption would be correct," Jamie replied evenly, his voice dry with that familiar brand of quiet annoyance. "Now he's sulking in his bed."

"Not quite," I replied, the corners of my mouth twitching into an involuntary smile. The image of Henri, guilty but unrepentant, was hard not to find amusing. I pointed towards the tent, where Henri had just emerged, his posture halfway between stealth and curiosity. He paused a few metres from the entrance, clearly torn between joining his brother or returning to the scene of the culinary crime.

"Hi, I'm Jamie," Jamie said, stepping forward with the plain-spoken candour that had come to define him. There was no formality in his introduction, just the simple truth of it.

"Ahh, Luke's partner," Karen said, recognising him immediately, as if mentally checking him off a list of names she'd kept tucked away.

"Yep."

"This is Karen, and her husband Chris," I added, stepping in to complete the introductions and smooth the social terrain. Their arrival had stirred the dust in more ways than one—it felt important to ground us all in something as familiar as names.

"Bus friend, Karen?" Jamie asked, his voice coloured with mild curiosity, but lacking any judgement.

"Yes," Karen replied, a soft chuckle escaping her lips. "That'd be me." Her tone carried with it the warmth of shared history, something between fondness and quiet sorrow, as if her connection to Luke bore layers not yet spoken aloud.

"I'd normally say nice to meet you, but this is hardly a fun place to meet in," Jamie stated plainly.

"Do you mind if Chris and I take a moment for a quick chat, just us?" Karen’s request came without warning, her gaze flicking between Jamie and me as though weighing the social balance of the moment.

"Sure," I said easily, catching the faint tension between them. "A river runs behind the tents. Might make a more pleasant spot for you."

"Thanks, Glenda," said Karen, her words sincere. Then she took Chris firmly by the arm and began leading him away with the determined urgency of a mother removing a toddler from the confectionary aisle. Chris, for his part, stumbled after her with a bemused expression, throwing a glance back at us as if wondering what he’d just agreed to.

As they disappeared around the side of the tent, a stillness fell between Jamie and me—one that, for once, didn't feel strained.

Jamie exchanged a nonchalant glance with me. His shoulders lifted in a light, almost theatrical shrug, as if to say well, that’s that. With the ease of someone used to the ebb and flow of unpredictable days, he turned to head back to his tent, the encounter with Karen and Chris already being filed away as just another strange chapter in an increasingly strange story.

"Wait! Do you hear that?" I suddenly exclaimed, my voice slicing through the calm like a snapped twig in a forest. My ears pricked, straining to confirm the faint sound that had just teased its way into my awareness. A low rumble—subtle, persistent, mechanical. My pulse quickened.

Jamie froze mid-step, half-turning back towards me, his brow furrowed. He tilted his head slightly, lips parting as he listened. "Engine?" he asked, his tone tentative, the suggestion hanging in the air like something forbidden.

"It definitely sounds like a vehicle," I replied, barely above a whisper. My eyes were locked on the horizon beyond the tents, though nothing moved there yet. A breeze stirred the dust at our feet, as if the air itself were waiting. Jamie stepped closer, drawn in by the gravity of my unease.

"That's impossible... isn't it?" I added, the question betraying the tremor that had crept into my voice. A tremor born of all the unknowns we lived with, the hundreds of impossibilities that had already proven possible in this place. Every day, Clivilius rewrote what we thought we understood.

My heartbeat thudded in my chest like a drum of warning. What if it wasn't one of us? What if this was someone else entirely? Other people? Are they friendly… or a threat?

A chill slipped down my spine, not from the wind but from the cascade of thoughts flooding my mind. Where were Paul and Kain? Had they heard it too? Had something happened to them?

"Shit," I murmured, my breath catching. My eyes swept across the campsite, calculating, appraising—searching for anything that could be repurposed as a weapon or a defence. The camp, moments ago mundane and familiar, now felt vulnerable, exposed.

"We should arm ourselves."

"Huh?" Jamie’s eyes widened at the suggestion, his body tensing in the same moment. His expression flickered—disbelief edged with the early signs of concern.

"Quickly," I pressed, tugging at his arm, my grip tightening with urgency. "We need to arm ourselves."

I scanned the area around us with increasing desperation. The firewood pile was the nearest source of something solid. I lunged for the nearest log—a broad, rough thing that had been a crude seat only minutes earlier.

"No, too heavy," I grunted, immediately dropping it with a thud that sent a puff of dust skyward. My eyes darted to the cooking area. Then I saw it—the frying pan, still lying discarded from Henri’s earlier raid.

"Aha! Perfect!" I cried, snatching it up in one swift motion. I gripped the handle tightly, feeling the residual warmth from the fire still clinging to its base. Holding it aloft like a makeshift shield, I straightened my spine and fixed my eyes on Jamie with fierce determination.

"This should do, yeah?"

He stared at me, caught somewhere between admiration and disbelief. And for a moment, the absurdity of it all—a campfire warrior wielding a greasy frying pan—nearly made me laugh. But the distant rumble continued, growing ever so slightly louder.

Whatever was coming, we wouldn’t be caught unprepared.

A grin split Jamie’s face, wide and unrestrained, his relief so palpable it seemed to radiate off him like heat from the campfire. “It’s only Paul and Kain!” he exclaimed, his laughter bubbling up and spilling into the air, cutting clean through the anxiety that had coiled tight in my chest only moments before. The sound of his laughter was infectious, a release of tension that echoed around the camp like a bell rung after a long silence.

“Oh, it is?” I asked, my voice still laced with caution as I dropped the frying pan and brushed the dust from my trousers. I squinted toward the horizon, shielding my eyes against the glare of the Clivilius sun. A churning cloud of sand loomed in the distance, its edges smudged by heat haze and swirling grit. For a moment, the figures within were ghosts—half-glimpsed shapes in motion, indistinct and dreamlike.

But Jamie was right. As the dust began to thin, the outline of a ute emerged, lurching ungracefully over the uneven terrain. Its wheels threw up more sand than they conquered, but it pressed on with tenacity. Behind the glass, now streaked with grime, I made out the unmistakable contrast of Paul’s broad frame beside Kain’s shorter build. Their faces, blurred by a veil of dust, still carried the stamp of familiarity.

The ute rolled to a jarring stop just inside the boundary of our camp, its tyres skidding slightly before locking in place. A final gust of ochre dust surged forward like a cresting wave, washing over us and settling on every surface with indifferent ease.

“That was bloody awesome!” Kain whooped as he sprang from the vehicle, his limbs a burst of restless energy. His voice, bright with adrenaline, rang out across the clearing. He met Paul at the front of the ute, their hands slapping together in an exuberant high-five that punctuated their shared triumph. Both were coated in a fine film of red dust, hair matted, shirts creased, but their expressions were alight—alive in a way I hadn't seen since I had arrived in this place.

“Apart from clogging up the engine!” Paul laughed, clapping Kain on the back, though he shook his head with a half-exasperated fondness. Beneath the layer of grit, his smile was genuine.

“Where the hell did that come from?” Jamie called out from beside me, eyebrows raised in bemused disbelief. The entire scene—dust-streaked men, battered ute, wild grins—looked more like the aftermath of a joyride than a supply run.

“Come on,” Kain replied, voice still tinged with elation as he turned briefly toward us. “You have to admit even that was fun.” His eyes sparkled with mischief, the high of the drive still coursing through him.

I watched their camaraderie unfold, feeling an odd blend of relief and residual unease. They were safe—alive, laughing, whole. But beneath the banter, something itched at the back of my mind. Perhaps it was the way the dust still hovered like smoke in the air, or the fact that the engine hadn’t been meant for this sort of abuse. Perhaps it was just the contrast—between their exuberance and the precariousness of everything we were trying to hold together.

The ochre haze settled slowly, draping our camp in a blanket of fine grit. It clung to tents, skin, clothes—an ever-present reminder of where we were. Of what we were becoming.

"Guys!" I shouted, my voice cutting clean through the dusty air. The momentary joy and casual ease from Paul and Kain’s return fractured under the weight of my words. Karen and Chris had just reappeared from their private exchange by the river, walking side by side, their expressions unreadable in the glare of the relentless sun. "We have two new guests."

"I wouldn’t call them guests," Jamie interjected. He didn’t even look up as he spoke, his tone grounded in quiet cynicism. "They’re not going anywhere."

Silence crept in—uneasy and absolute. The reality of what Jamie said wasn’t just true; it was unavoidable. They were here now. Whether by fate or failure, they belonged to Clivilius too.

Paul, ever the peacemaker, was the first to step forward and soften the silence. "I’m Paul," he said, extending his hand to Chris with a nod and an encouraging smile. The gesture felt almost ceremonial, like the first greeting between diplomats of two newly converging worlds.

"Chris Owen," the shorter man replied, shaking Paul’s hand with a touch of formality. There was a tension in his posture—stiff shoulders, careful gaze—that made me wonder whether the gravity of their new life had fully registered yet. "And this is my wife, Karen." He inclined his head towards the woman beside him, who stood calmly observing the rest of us.

"Nice to meet you, Karen," Paul said, offering her his hand in turn. She accepted it with a firm grip, her face betraying none of the emotional fatigue I would have expected from newcomers.

Kain stepped forward next, brushing dust from his hands before introducing himself. "Kain," he said simply. "Jamie’s nephew."

Karen’s eyes lit with recognition at the name. "Ahh," she breathed, a flicker of familiarity in her gaze.

"I see you’ve met Jamie," Paul added, glancing toward the shaded tent where Jamie had resumed his post, Henri nestled like a sentinel by his feet.

"We’ve only just met," Karen replied, her voice carrying a thoughtful cadence, "but Luke has told us a lot about him over the years."

“Us?” Chris asked, turning toward her, his brow creased in confusion. "I’ve never heard his name before."

"Not you, darling. Jane," Karen clarified gently, and her lips curled into a smile tinged with old affection.

"Who’s Jane?" Kain asked, curiosity flashing in his eyes.

Before Karen could reply, Paul’s voice rose in sudden understanding. "Oh! You must be one of Luke’s bus friends."

"Yes," Karen replied simply, her eyes drifting momentarily back to Chris, as if some part of her had travelled further than the distance from the Portal.

"But where is Luke?" Kain’s question was directed at Chris, but it was Karen who answered, her voice soft but definitive.

"He’s not here."

There was a quiet finality in her words that stole the wind from our lungs. It settled over the camp like a dust blanket, and I felt my own shoulders droop slightly under the weight of it.

"Appears this was another accident," I offered, breaking the tension with a sigh that was half disappointment, half grim acceptance. I caught Paul’s glance—he hadn’t even asked the question outright, but it was there in his eyes, sharp and expectant.

"Figures," Kain muttered, his voice low but audible enough for it to reach us all.

"Not to be rude, but what do you actually do?" Paul asked, tilting his head as he looked at Karen with the frankness of someone too tired to bother dressing questions in polite language.

A flicker of amusement danced through me. I thought I could be blunt, I mused, catching myself smiling as Paul’s question landed—straightforward, honest, and entirely without malice.

"I’m an entomologist," Karen answered, her voice shifting slightly—there was pride there.

"A what?" Paul’s brow crinkled, his head tilting slightly in confusion.

"She studies bugs," Kain chimed in.

"Oh," Paul responded, still clearly processing the information as if it needed time to settle.

“Insects,” Karen corrected, fixing Kain with a stern look. “Insects, not bugs.”

They are different, I found myself silently agreeing, recalling the distinctions I’d once learned in passing but never truly appreciated—until now. Until we were standing in a place where every role mattered, and even a knowledge of insects might one day mean the difference between hardship and survival.

"Well," Karen began, her tone matter-of-fact and brimming with quiet conviction. "Insects need an environment to thrive. I work with the University of Tasmania to understand how they contribute to ecosystems and collaborate with local communities and environmental groups to advocate for greater protections." Her voice carried with it the kind of passion that demanded attention—not loud or boastful, but precise, purposeful. She barely paused for breath, as though each word had been waiting patiently for this moment to be spoken.

Her explanation drew everyone in, pulling the conversation out of the realm of survival and into something richer—something layered with meaning and identity beyond mere circumstance.

"That's great!" Paul said, his eyes lighting up, clearly taken by the strength of Karen’s purpose. There was genuine admiration in his tone, and I saw a flicker of something hopeful in his expression—perhaps the recognition that expertise like hers might actually serve us out here, if not now, then soon.

He then turned towards Chris with a casual wave of his hand, clearly expecting the same level of detail.

"I do yard work," Chris replied plainly, the stark contrast in delivery catching us all off guard.

"Yard work?" Kain echoed, the corners of his mouth twitching, not quite mocking, but clearly amused by the understated reply.

Without elaborating, Chris crouched low to the ground and scooped up a palmful of the dry, sun-baked earth. He held it for a moment, then let it spill slowly between his fingers. The grains caught the sunlight like glitter in the wind, disappearing into the dust already blanketing our feet. There was a strange dignity in the gesture, a silent acknowledgement of where we stood and what it meant.

"It's everywhere!" Paul said, exasperation bubbling over, throwing his arms up as though the dust itself were some persistent antagonist.

"Fucking oath, it is," Jamie muttered, rejoining the circle with a sharp edge to his voice. The bitterness in his tone was unmistakable, a reminder of how little he trusted this place—or those now arriving within it.

"Yeah, I've noticed that," Chris said with a small nod, still watching the last of the dust fall from his hands. He looked up at Karen, his expression softening. There was weariness there, yes, but something stronger threaded through it—resolve. "But if this is our home now, we’ll find a way."

His words carried weight. They weren’t flashy or particularly eloquent, but there was power in their simplicity. A promise, almost. A recognition that the past was gone, and the only way forward was to start again.

"Call me crazy," Karen said, turning to face him with a warm smile, her tone gentle and unwavering, "but I trust Luke."

"You're definitely crazy then," Jamie sneered. He stood with his arms crossed, his posture defensive, his eyes hard.

A hot surge of anger flared in my chest. My hands clenched into fists before I even realised it. What an arrogant prick! The thought screamed in my head. I bit the inside of my cheek, holding the words back, teetering on the edge of confrontation.

But I didn’t have to respond—Karen did.

She didn’t flinch. She stood her ground, chin lifted, gaze steady. There was no venom in her tone, no anger—only a sense of peace so rare in Clivilius, it almost startled me.

"A beautiful masterpiece starts with a single brushstroke. This is our blank canvas, let’s create a masterpiece. Together."

My jaw slackened. The words struck something deep within me—something buried beneath the routine of rationing, worrying, and adapting. I hadn't expected that from her. None of us had.

And just like that, I saw her not as a new arrival or an outsider, but as someone who might already understand this world in a way the rest of us were still learning to. Someone who carried a vision that defied the barrenness around us.

I stared at her, wondering not just what she believed, but how she came to believe it.

I have to find out what you know, I thought, directing the silent vow toward Karen, my mind racing with possibilities. There was more to this woman—more than met the eye—and I intended to uncover every layer.

"I better check in with Joel," Jamie finally broke the heavy silence that had settled like a shroud over the camp. His voice, quiet but resolute, carried the weight of unspoken concerns—perhaps about Joel, but just as likely about the strange new faces now sharing our dwindling space. His eyes flicked briefly towards Karen and Chris, still measuring them in some internal scale, then he turned. "Nice to meet you both," he added, offering a half-hearted wave before disappearing inside the tent, Duke slipping in behind him without hesitation.

"Joel?" Karen’s voice held a note of curiosity. Her brow arched subtly as she turned to me, her question posed with the kind of casual interest that belied the intensity of the morning so far.

"Jamie’s son," I replied, keeping my tone neutral, though my mind momentarily drifted back to Joel’s injury—his broken finger, the pain he’d borne so stoically, and the larger mystery of his sudden appearance in the river.

"He's not been well," Paul added, stepping in just as the silence threatened to stretch too long. His eyes darted towards me, seeking silent permission before offering anything more. "I’m sure he’ll be fine after a few days’ rest."

"Yes," I said with a small nod, meeting Paul’s glance and understanding the unspoken message: keep it light, keep it vague. Joel’s condition, and the circumstances surrounding it, weren’t for open discussion—not yet. We both knew how fragile first impressions could be.

"Perhaps you and Kain would be best moving back in there for a short time," I suggested gently, inclining my head towards the tent Jamie had just disappeared into. It was, after all, the only one not currently spoken for—temporarily, at least.

A flicker of discomfort shadowed Paul’s features, his reluctance to encroach on Jamie’s space evident in the way his brows pinched together. But then his expression shifted, brightened by sudden recollection.

"We have another tent," he exclaimed, pointing towards the back of the ute. There was a lift in his voice—something close to triumph—and I found myself mirroring it.

"Brilliant!" I said, a genuine smile breaking through the fatigue. Relief washed over me like a fresh breeze. With Luke absent, each new supply we discovered felt like a breadcrumb trail from someone who had planned ahead when we had barely dared to think beyond the present.

"Looks like they got a little dusty," Kain remarked with a small chuckle as he swung one of the boxes down from the back of the ute. He gave it a hearty shake, dislodging a film of fine, red dust that erupted in a brief cloud. It swirled into the dry air before settling in a slow, crimson drift across the ground, clinging to everything it touched.

I stood still, momentarily transfixed by the sight—something so mundane, yet strangely beautiful. That dust carried the story of Clivilius, of its ancient, untamed terrain. It coated everything here, like time itself had been ground down and scattered across the land.

"Here, let me take that," Chris offered, stepping forward with a quiet confidence and lifting the box from Kain’s arms.

"Thanks," Kain replied with a nod, brushing his hands on his trousers and glancing back at the vehicle for more supplies.

"May as well put it next to ours, I guess," Paul suggested, squinting across the encampment and gesturing to the open space beside the third tent. His voice held the faintest trace of something almost like pride. The site was no longer just a scattering of shelters—it was beginning to look like a community.

Chris nodded, already moving, the box held firmly in his grasp as he walked with measured steps across the camp. There was something almost ceremonial about it, as though placing that box marked a claim—a small, silent declaration: we’re staying.

"Tent pegs," Paul said suddenly, holding aloft a small box like a prize unearthed from the depths of the ute. He handed it to Karen with a small, knowing smile.

"Thanks," she replied, taking it with a grateful nod. Her eyes lingered on Chris’s retreating back, watching him navigate the terrain that would now be their home. Her fingers tightened slightly around the box, a subtle but telling gesture. No matter how strange or uncertain this place was, they were settling in—and that, in itself, was something.

"I'm going back to the Drop Zone for the concrete," Kain announced as he swung open the front door, its hinges letting out a groan that pierced the still air.

Meanwhile, Paul turned his attention back to the rear of the ute, reaching for the final box. But something gave him pause—an idea, a calculation perhaps—and he reacted suddenly.

"Hold up," Paul said sharply, abandoning the box mid-lift to stride quickly after Kain. He nearly lost his footing on the uneven ground, fumbling slightly before grabbing hold of Kain's arm to halt him.

"What?" Kain retorted, effortlessly yanking his arm free in a motion that was almost dismissive, as though this conversation had already played out in his mind. "If you want these sheds up, we gotta get this concrete poured asap."

Paul’s brow creased, lips pursed in contemplation. "Five to seven days?" he asked, seeking confirmation, his voice tinged with the faintest trace of doubt.

"Five to seven days," Kain confirmed with a nod, brushing dust from his hands. "Although if we're going to keep getting these cloudless skies, we might get away with four."

Leaning against the opposite side of the ute’s roof, I found myself drawn into their discussion, intrigued but confused. The rhythm of their urgency had a logic to it, though I was still catching up. "What takes five to seven days?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"We have to let the concrete rest," Paul replied, glancing briefly my way.

"Ahh, that makes sense," I said, nodding as understanding clicked into place. Foundations. Stability. A timeline of days—not hours—reminded me again that nothing here came quickly or easily. "How many sheds are we talking about?"

"Not sure," Kain replied, already halfway to the driver’s side. "I'll check how many Luke's left us."

"We may as well do as many slabs as we can for the concrete we have available," Paul suggested, his gaze scanning the parched terrain surrounding our tents. "I don't think we can have too much storage and protection here."

"And Luke can always bring us more sheds," I added, trying to inject a little hope into the moment, even if it felt a touch too optimistic.

"I'll bring all the concrete supplies we have then," Kain said, nodding with fresh resolve as he climbed into the driver’s seat of the ute. The door clanged shut behind him with finality.

"I'll come with you," Paul offered, already taking a step towards the passenger door, his eagerness barely concealed.

Kain hesitated, his hand on the steering wheel. "No offence," he began carefully, "but maybe you'd be better off helping Glenda with the new tent."

I watched the words land. Paul blinked once, as if registering a mild slap. He managed a nod, though the shift in his posture—shoulders lowering, stance softening—betrayed the sting of rejection.

"Chris and I can help," Karen offered, appearing once more at Paul’s side, Chris trailing just behind. "We’re accustomed to camping on our short research trips. It shouldn't take too long."

I met her eyes and offered a grateful smile. Their help would be useful, yes—but more than that, it would help buffer Paul’s pride. He meant well. He always meant well.

Paul exhaled softly and gave a small shrug, the fight visibly draining from him. "Okay. So, what am I doing now?"

A beat of silence fell over the group. Everyone hesitated, as though trying to find the gentlest way to direct him. I could see the eager light in his eyes dimming, just a little.

"You're helping us put the tent up," I said warmly, putting just enough cheer in my voice to lift the moment. I gave him a quick smile and a nod of encouragement. "We’ll get it done in no time."

Paul returned my smile with a faint, appreciative one of his own, and for a moment, I saw the flicker of his earlier enthusiasm rekindle. In this place, small victories mattered.