Welcome to the Fucking Nightmare

"There's a particular cruelty in getting exactly what you wished for—I'd been missing Henri desperately, and now he's trapped in the same hell I can't escape."

As we crested the final dusty hill, a large huff from Paul breezed past me, his breath mingling with the dry air that seemed to carry every sound with crystal clarity in this place.

"But I just came from there and..."

His words trailed off into the vast expanse, unfinished and left dangling in the space between us. I understood the frustration. We'd been heading to the Drop Zone in search of food—any food, anything that might quiet the gnawing emptiness in our bellies—and now Paul was being asked to retrace steps his injured foot had already protested against.

But the complaint died on his lips as the Portal erupted into life before us.

The spectacle never failed to arrest my attention, no matter how many times I'd witnessed it. The colours—an ethereal mix of hues I couldn't find proper names for—swirled and danced, creating a display that seemed to belong in fever dreams rather than waking reality. Sparks flew wherever the larger streams of light collided, igniting brief but brilliant fires that painted the sky with fleeting moments of impossible beauty. Greens that weren't quite green. Blues that shifted into purples that became something else entirely. The whole thing pulsed with a life of its own, breathing in and out like some massive cosmic lung.

"Luke?"

I found myself uttering his name, though I already knew the answer. It was more confirmation of my own thoughts than a genuine question directed at Paul.

"I guess so," he responded. "Were you expecting anything else?"

Paul turned to face me, his expression one of genuine inquiry. It was a fair question. The Portal's sudden activations had become a constant source of speculation—who or what might emerge next, what fresh complication Luke might deliver along with whatever supplies he'd procured.

My face must have been a canvas of concentration, wrinkles forming as I pieced together the possibilities. We were expecting things. Luke had mentioned orders. What had he said exactly?

"Oh," the realisation struck me suddenly, a missing piece clicking into place. "It could be the tents Luke said he had ordered."

Paul looked at me with skepticism and curiosity competing for dominance in his expression. "In a truck?"

His voice carried the absurdity of the situation.

"Who knows," I replied, letting dry humour colour the words. "This is Luke we're talking about, remember."

Luke's methods had always bordered on the unconventional. In the years we'd been together, I'd learned that predicting his actions was an exercise in futility. He operated according to some internal logic that made perfect sense to him and baffled everyone else. It was part of what had drawn me to him initially—that unpredictability, that sense that anything might happen. Now, trapped in a dimension he'd created, that same quality felt less charming and more like a warning I should have heeded long ago.

"True," Paul conceded with a nod, the corners of his mouth turning up in reluctant acknowledgment.

As if responding to our conversation, a truck materialised through the Portal—a solid mass of metal and intent emerging from the swirling colours like something being born from chaos. It came to an abrupt stop ten metres from the Portal's reach, the sudden halt throwing up a cloud of dust that enveloped the vehicle in a haze. The particles caught the light, creating a momentary veil that blurred the boundaries between the mundane and the impossible.

There it sat. A delivery truck. The kind you'd see on any suburban street back home, parked incongruously on the edge of the unknown. The sight of it—so ordinary, so utterly out of place—struck me as a reminder of the strange duality we now inhabited. Caught between the familiar and the unfathomable, always on the brink of something we couldn't quite comprehend.

"You're not even going to drive it into the Drop Zone?"

I couldn't help the disbelief that huffed out with the words as Luke made his descent from the cab, dropping to the ground and immediately turning away from us.

Paul reached out to grab the keys still dangling from Luke's hand, probably thinking ahead to moving the truck ourselves. A practical solution to what seemed like a practical problem.

"No!"

Luke's voice snapped through the air, sharp and urgent. He turned on his heel, rushing toward the back of the truck with a purpose that left no room for argument or questions. The urgency in his movements sent my pulse climbing. Something was wrong. Something was always wrong.

Paul and I exchanged a quick, bemused glance before hurrying after him. Whatever was happening, standing still wouldn't help us understand it.

"But..." Paul started, still trying to piece together a plan that made more sense than scrambling in Luke's wake.

"There's no time to move it. The delivery guy is in the toilet. We only have a matter of minutes to get all these boxes out!"

Luke's explanation tumbled out in a rush, his hands already reaching for the truck's rear door. The situation teetered on absurdity—a delivery driver taking a bathroom break while his truck was stolen through a portal to another dimension. The kind of thing that would be funny if it weren't so desperately real.

"Shit!"

The expletive escaped before I could stop it, a reflexive acknowledgment of our predicament. Time wasn't our ally. It never was, not in this place. And now we had minutes—maybe less—to unload whatever Luke had brought before the driver returned to find his vehicle and cargo vanished.

"Tents?" Paul sought confirmation.

"Yeah," Luke confirmed, his actions betraying his haste.

He threw the back door open with such force that the resulting clang reverberated like a struck bell, the sound bouncing off the truck's metal interior and exploding outward into the silent landscape.

"Shit, Luke," I cried out, my hands flying to my ears in a futile attempt to muffle the ringing that followed. The sound seemed to vibrate in my skull, settling into my teeth and behind my eyes.

"Oops," Luke offered, his voice carrying sheepish acknowledgment as he reached up to grab the metal pole inside the door, pulling himself into the truck's interior.

Oops. Fucking oops. As if that covered anything.

"How many are there again?" Paul's voice was steady as he positioned himself to receive the first box, his arms already reaching upward.

"Three."

Three tents. More shelter. More permanence. More evidence that this place was becoming home whether I accepted it or not.

"At least that will give us something to do," Paul commented, throwing the observation in my direction with that wry acknowledgment of how quickly our situation had shifted. Minutes ago we'd been searching for food. Now we were unloading camping equipment in a desperate race against a bathroom break.

I don't want something else to do.

The thought wailed through my tired brain, petulant and genuine in equal measure. The day's exertions had already taken their toll—the failed concrete, the burning in my chest, the endless dust coating every surface of my body. The thought of additional tasks was anything but welcome.

I just want to go home.

Yet despite the internal protest, my arms reached out to take another box from Luke's waiting hands. "True," I found myself agreeing, the word heavy with resignation.

The urgency of the task lent an almost frantic pace to our movements as the three of us worked together, passing boxes hand to hand in a chain that had no time for care or coordination. We dumped them unceremoniously in the dust at our feet—cardboard meeting dirt with soft thuds that marked our progress. The haste left no room for organisation, for planning, for anything beyond simple transfer of objects from vehicle to ground.

In the back of my mind, I was already formulating a strategy. Once Luke disappeared back through the Portal, Paul could relocate the boxes to a more suitable location. The Drop Zone, perhaps, or straight to the campsite. A silent expectation, born of necessity rather than desire.

"Thanks," Luke's voice cut through the thick air, carrying a semblance of gratitude as he jumped down from the truck. He motioned for Paul and me to close up the back, his movements swift with the urgency of someone desperate to return to the cab.

"You coming back soon?" I called after him, the words scraping against the dryness in my throat. "I'm hungry."

It was a half-hearted attempt to inject normality into the chaos—a reminder of mundane needs that persisted regardless of inter-dimensional truck heists. The kind of thing a person said when they wanted to pretend their situation wasn't completely insane.

But Luke's silence in response was more telling than any words could have been.

I looked at Paul, seeking understanding or perhaps solidarity in our shared frustration. And Paul looked back at me, his gaze reflecting the resignation that had settled over us both. A silent exchange that spoke volumes about our expectations—or lack thereof—when it came to Luke's promises. We were not surprised by the lack of response. It was a pattern we'd come to expect. Luke operated according to his own priorities, and our hunger apparently didn't rank among them.

The truck roared to life, engine growling like some mechanical beast, and vanished through the Portal as quickly as it had appeared. The abruptness of its departure left a palpable void—dust swirling in the space where it had stood, the echo of its engine fading into nothing.

"Odd," I said aloud, my voice breaking the silence that had settled over us in the truck's wake. My brow creased in thought, something nagging at the edges of my awareness.

Paul picked up the corner of one of the larger boxes, his movements pragmatic as always. "What is?"

"The Portal is still open," I replied, the words carrying foreboding I couldn't quite explain.

I moved closer, drawn by curiosity and perhaps a hint of concern that I couldn't fully articulate. The Portal's persistent activity was an anomaly. Usually it closed once Luke passed through, sealing off the connection between worlds until his next arrival. But now it continued its dance of colours, swirling and pulsing as though waiting for something.

"Luke must be coming back then," Paul surmised, his statement more hope than conviction. It was a possibility—a reassurance that someone might return with the food we needed, with answers to questions we hadn't yet thought to ask.

Yet as I stood there, staring into the hypnotic patterns of light and shadow, unease crept through my gut like cold water finding cracks in stone. The Portal's openness felt less like an invitation and more like a trap. A mouth waiting to speak words I didn't want to hear.

Standing barely an inch away from the swirling colours that obscured the Portal's usually translucent surface, dread and curiosity warred in my chest. The vibrant hues seemed almost alive—beckoning and warning simultaneously, promising and threatening in the same breath. I remembered the last time I'd approached, the force that had thrown me backward, Clivilius's voice echoing in my skull with its absolute authority.

But hope is a stubborn thing. It clings to life even when evidence suggests it shouldn't.

Daring to believe, yet aware of what might happen, I tentatively pushed my hand toward the wall of colour. My heart hammered against my ribs—a drumbeat of fear and anticipation that seemed too loud in the surrounding silence.

Do not tempt me, Jamie Greyson!

Clivilius's voice crashed into my thoughts like a wave against rock, cold and implacable, sending ice cascading down my spine.

Or the next time I will rescind the offer of new life. And you will need it.

The threat carried a certainty that turned fear into something solid—a weight in my chest, a constriction in my throat. The words weren't anger. They weren't negotiation. They were simply fact, delivered with the dispassion of natural law. Water flows downhill. Fire burns. Jamie Greyson cannot leave.

"Fuck!"

The word tore from my lips, raw and ragged, as I kicked at the ground. Dust billowed upward in a cloud that obscured my vision momentarily—a physical manifestation of the fury I couldn't otherwise express. The action was futile, accomplishing nothing except the brief satisfaction of violence against something I could actually affect.

"No luck then?" Paul's voice drifted over, carrying a note that sounded dangerously close to sarcasm. Though I knew it was probably just exhaustion, an attempt at dark humour in circumstances that offered little else.

I responded not with words but with a gesture—my middle finger raised in silent reply. It was crude. It was childish. It was the only thing I could manage that didn't involve screaming until my throat bled.

Words felt inadequate. Too constrained to convey the rage and helplessness churning inside me. I wanted to lash out at Clivilius, to scream into the void that its threats had opened within me. But the sharp pain in my chest—that persistent throb that had become my constant companion—made me reconsider any dramatic gestures.

Is this what Clivilius meant?

The question spiralled through my thoughts, dizzying in its implications.

Is this wound going to kill me if I don't surrender?

The burn between my pecs pulsed as if in answer, a reminder of damage I couldn't see and didn't fully understand. Whatever Clivilius had promised in the lagoon—that offer of new life I'd accepted without comprehending—was it contingent on something? Was my survival now tied to conditions I hadn't agreed to, bargains I hadn't consciously made?

I shook my head, trying to dispel the darkness gathering at the edges of my thoughts. No. I'm not going to die. Not like this. The defiance surged up, stubborn and fierce, a beacon against the encroaching despair. Whatever game Clivilius was playing, I refused to be a passive piece on its board. I would find another way. I had to.

Bringing myself back to the present, I turned my attention toward Paul. He was methodically moving boxes, his figure silhouetted against the backdrop of barren landscape we'd found ourselves marooned in.

"Where are you taking that?" I inquired as Paul hoisted one of the smaller boxes into his arms.

"Why do you care?"

The response came sharp—a bark really—laced with an edge of frustration that caught me off guard. He didn't even turn to face me, his body language closed off in a way I hadn't seen before. The warmth of our earlier collaboration had vanished, replaced by something harder and more brittle.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I couldn't hide the sting in my voice, surprise and irritation bubbling to the surface in equal measure. I found myself jogging to catch up, eager—or perhaps desperate—to bridge the distance his words had created.

Paul stopped then, his movements halting as abruptly as his tone had shifted. "I'm sorry," he said, softer now, the harsh lines of his shoulders relaxing as he shook his head in what looked like regret. His gaze lowered, perhaps in shame, perhaps simply from exhaustion. "I'm just tired and my whole body is aching."

The genuine weariness in his voice dissolved my frustration like sugar in hot water. We were both running on fumes—physical, emotional, psychological. The constant stress of survival in this place was wearing us thin, fraying edges that had once been whole.

"It's okay," I replied, gentling my voice in an attempt to offer whatever comfort our sparse circumstances allowed. "I get it."

The truth was, I did. The physical toll of our situation was matched only by the mental and emotional strain. Every moment required adaptation, required pushing through discomfort that would have been unthinkable a week ago. We were all breaking, in our own ways, at our own speeds.

Paul's gaze lifted then, locking onto mine with an intensity that sent discomfort washing through me. There was scrutiny in that look—a searching quality that suggested he was seeing more than I wanted to reveal. His eyes traced across my face, down to my chest, back up again.

Seeking to break the tension, I reached for a distraction. "That dust storm last night was pretty brutal," I said, hoping to redirect whatever train of thought was building behind his eyes.

Without fully thinking it through, I lifted my sweat-drenched shirt to reveal evidence of the storm's brutality—the intention was simply to share, to acknowledge our mutual ordeal. The burn sat between my pecs, angry and red and larger than I'd allowed myself to examine. The welt had darkened since yesterday, the edges raised in ways that suggested damage deeper than surface level.

"What the fuck!"

The exclamation burst from Paul, shock and concern colliding in his tone. "What the hell is that?" His approach was immediate—a step closer taken with obvious intent to inspect the damage.

Quickly, reflexively, I let go of my shirt, allowing the fabric to fall back into place and conceal what I'd thoughtlessly exposed. Despite knowing the severity—suspecting it, at least, from the constant throbbing and the way certain movements sent fire racing across my chest—I hadn't mustered the courage to examine it properly. Paul's reaction, that mixture of horror and worry, was unsettling in ways I hadn't anticipated. It served as stark confirmation of what I'd been trying to deny.

Yet despite the unease twisting in my gut, I managed to muster something approaching nonchalance.

"I think one of the hot coals struck me last night," I found myself saying, trying to sound matter-of-fact. As if discussing a minor inconvenience rather than a wound that might be festering beneath my shirt.

"Shit, Jamie! I'm so sorry!" Paul's exclamation was laden with immediate concern, his earlier frustration completely forgotten in the face of tangible harm.

"It wasn't you," I hastened to assure him, pushing back against the guilt that was already shadowing his features. "I think it just got caught in a gust of wind."

The words were chosen carefully—designed to alleviate blame, to frame the incident as an unfortunate accident rather than anyone's fault. The storm hadn't been Paul's doing. His nightmare, his terror, his desperate flight into darkness—none of that had put a coal in my chest. The universe had simply decided to add injury to the insult of our imprisonment.

As I watched, Paul's composure began to crumble. His eyes glistened, filling with moisture that threatened to spill over. His breaths came heavier, gulping air as though he couldn't get enough of it.

"But you wouldn't have been out there if it weren't for me," he managed to say, his voice choked with guilt that seemed to press down on him like a physical weight.

It was a confession. An acknowledgment of shared burden that he seemed determined to shoulder alone. The truth was complicated—I wouldn't have been outside in that storm if Paul hadn't run screaming into the night, if I hadn't chased after him through pitch blackness while dust tried to bury us alive. But assigning blame felt pointless. It wouldn't heal the burn. It wouldn't undo what had happened.

In response, I bent down to pick up the corner of the box that had slipped from Paul's grasp during his emotional unravelling. Physical action. Practical focus. A way to redirect us both away from the storm of feelings threatening to engulf this moment.

"If we're going to set these up down by the river with the other tent, we may as well take these boxes straight there rather than bother with the Drop Zone," I said, keeping my voice steady, injecting pragmatism into a situation drowning in emotion.

Without waiting for his response, I turned and began walking. Moving forward. Leaving the conversation—and the uncomfortable vulnerability it had exposed—behind me.

"Jamie," Paul's voice called out, desperation threading through my name.

I gestured for him to follow, unwilling to pause, to allow the fears and doubts to catch up. But Paul was persistent.

"Jamie!" Louder now, carrying urgency that forced me to stop despite myself. "You need a doctor!"

He was hobbling to catch up, his injured foot clearly protesting each step, his concern for my wellbeing overriding whatever discomfort he was experiencing.

I whipped around, confronting him and through him the reality of our predicament. "We don't have a fucking doctor!"

The words exploded from me—fear and frustration breaking free in a raw, unguarded outburst that echoed across the empty landscape. We didn't have a doctor. We didn't have medicine. We didn't have anything except dust and tents and a Portal that wouldn't let me leave.

Paul stopped as though my words had struck him physically. In that moment, the barriers between us seemed to dissolve entirely, leaving us both exposed to the pain and vulnerability we each carried.

The tears I'd been fighting began to well in my eyes, betraying emotions I'd tried so hard to suppress. A hard sniff was my futile attempt to hold back the flood.

Then, unexpectedly, Paul closed the distance between us. His arms wrapped around me in a bear hug—awkward, surprising, and somehow exactly what I needed. The embrace was firm and grounding, an anchor in the storm of feelings threatening to sweep me away.

"I'm so sorry, Jamie," he whispered, his voice heavy with remorse and empathy.

With my eyes closed, I allowed a single tear to escape, tracing a warm path down my cheek. My face grew rigid—not from physical discomfort but from the emotional chaos churning within. Paul's embrace, though comforting, served as a reminder that our battle was far from over. That comfort was temporary. That the wound in my chest might be more serious than either of us wanted to admit.

In the privacy of my own mind, I reached out to Clivilius. The entity whose presence loomed over everything, unseen yet inescapable.

I accept your offer, Clivilius!

The declaration was bold—a silent scream against the darkness threatening to consume me.

So, what the fuck do you want from me?

Sharp, insistent barking cut through the tension like a blade, snapping my focus to the present and momentarily banishing the heavy emotions that had enveloped me.

The sound was unmistakable. I knew that bark. I knew it the way I knew my own heartbeat—a sound that had been part of my mornings for years, part of the rhythm of home.

Instinctively, I pushed Paul away, my movements abrupt but driven by an urgency that went beyond our current conversation. Beyond injury and guilt and the impossible situation we found ourselves in.

"Henri!"

His name burst from me in surprised recognition, joy flooding through my chest in a way I hadn't felt since arriving in this godforsaken place. My steps quickened into a run, feet pounding against the dust as I closed the distance between myself and the small, barking figure that had somehow appeared in this madness.

As I reached him, I bent down, my arms scooping up the chubby brown and white Shih Tzu with the practiced ease of countless similar greetings. Henri was heavier than I remembered—or maybe I was weaker, exhausted, running on nothing. But the familiar weight of him settled against my chest like coming home.

Henri, in his unbridled joy, wasted no time in covering my face with licks. His tongue swept across my cheeks, my nose, the corner of my mouth—wet and enthusiastic and utterly indiscriminate in its affection. Each lick was a testament to the bond we shared, a connection that transcended dimensions and impossibility. He squirmed in my arms, tail wagging so hard his entire backend moved with it, making those happy snuffling sounds he always made when he was excited.

Henri. My Henri.

It was a moment of pure, unadulterated happiness. A stark contrast to the complex web of emotions I'd been navigating just seconds before.

But the simplicity of the moment was short-lived.

My elation cooled, curdling into something more complicated as Luke appeared through the Portal. He stepped through that pulsing membrane of colour and light, a solid figure against the impossible backdrop, carrying Duke in his arms.

My face dropped. The fleeting happiness of reuniting with Henri turned cold in my chest, replaced by dawning horror.

Duke looked around with alert curiosity, his intelligent eyes taking in the landscape with the same sharp attention he gave to everything. He'd always been the more perceptive of the two—quick to notice changes, quick to respond to emotional shifts in the household. Now those dark eyes were scanning Clivilius, trying to make sense of a world that made no sense at all.

"Luke! What the fuck are you doing!? Why the hell did you bring them here!?"

The words erupted from me, a visceral response to the sight before my eyes. Henri squirmed in my arms, startled by my sudden shift in tone, but I held him close—protective instinct overriding everything else.

I had made a deal with Clivilius. I had accepted whatever bargain it had offered, had surrendered to the entity's demands in exchange for some promise of protection, of new life, of survival. But standing there, confronted with Luke's casual delivery of our dogs to this prison, I couldn't help but wonder what more would be demanded. What else would I be asked to sacrifice to keep the encroaching nightmare at bay?

The dogs. Our dogs. Duke and Henri, who'd been safe at home in Tasmania. Who'd been waiting for us to return, not knowing we never would. Luke had brought them here. Had condemned them to the same exile we suffered.

The tension vibrating through the air seemed to unsettle Duke, and Luke, sensing the dog's discomfort, set him down in the dusty terrain. Freed from Luke's arms, Duke—almost a mirror image of Henri with his brown and white markings, though leaner, more alert—began to explore his new surroundings. His nose buried itself in the dust as he navigated through this unfamiliar landscape with an innocence that broke my heart. He didn't know. Couldn't know. This place would be his prison now too.

"What the fuck, Luke!"

My frustration boiled over again, propelling me forward. With a surge of emotion-driven strength, I gave Luke a hard shove in the chest—an impulsive act born of fear, anger, and desperate need for him to understand what he'd done. The force of my push sent him stumbling backward, dust rising around his feet as he fought for balance.

As Luke's face hardened into anger and defiance, his words hit me like a physical blow. "Fuck off, Jamie!" he retorted, matching my fury with his own. "They'll be fine," he continued to yell, and mirroring my aggression, he shoved me hard in the chest.

The force of his push caught me completely off guard.

His hands connected directly with the burn—that angry wound I'd been hiding, protecting, pretending didn't exist. The impact sent pain exploding through my chest like someone had driven a hot poker between my ribs. An involuntary cry tore from my lips as I stumbled backward, hands flying to the source of the agony in a reflexive attempt to shield myself from further harm.

For a moment, the world seemed to freeze. The air grew thick and still, charged with the weight of what had just happened.

"Is that blood?" Luke's voice cut through the ringing in my ears, his tone shifting from anger to something that might have been concern as he took a cautious step toward me.

I shook my head, trying to dismiss the question even as wetness spread beneath my fingers. "It's nothing."

"Nothing?" The repetition was sharp, skeptical. Luke moved closer, brushing aside my attempts to conceal the damage.

With decisive force that left no room for protest, he snatched my arm away from my chest and lifted my shirt. The fabric peeled away from skin that had grown sticky and wrong.

The gasps from Paul and Luke were simultaneous—a shared reaction of shock and dismay that confirmed what I'd been dreading. As my own gaze drifted downward, the sight that greeted me turned my stomach. The welt had ruptured where Luke's shove had aggravated it, the skin split and weeping. Blood and pus oozed in ugly trails down my abdomen, tracking through the dust and sweat that coated my body. The wound looked worse than anything I'd imagined—infected, angry, the kind of damage that needed proper medical attention in a place that had no medicine to offer.

Luke's eyes, wide with dawning understanding, met mine. The consequences of his actions written across his features. The anger was gone, replaced by something that might have been guilt, might have been fear, might have been the same horror I felt looking at my own ruined flesh.

I didn't dare break my lock on his gaze. The intensity of our eye contact conveyed more than words ever could—accusation, desperation, the shared recognition that everything had just gotten significantly worse.

"You've sentenced us to death, Luke," I said softly, the words heavy with resignation and accusation both. My statement wasn't just anger—it was declaration. The grim reality we could no longer avoid. "Welcome to the fucking nightmare."