The voices, loud and carrying moments before, softened as I neared the Portal. Cresting the final dune, I spotted two figures—a man and a woman—crouched in front of the translucent, enigmatic surface of the Portal. Their presence, an unusual sight, piqued my curiosity and heightened my alertness.
"Hello?" My call, tentative yet clear, broke the silence as I continued my approach, jogging lightly over the sand.
"Hey! Over here!" The woman's response was immediate, her voice a beacon as she stood, signalling me with wide, unmistakable arm waves.
"Hello!" I echoed back, slowing to a walk as I drew closer. Caution tempered my steps; the recent unpredictabilities of our situation had ingrained a deep-seated wariness in me. A brief mental risk assessment was necessary—I couldn't afford to throw caution to the wind.
The man, noticeably shorter, rose to stand by the woman, his posture suggesting a dependency or closeness. Mother and son? The thought momentarily crossed my mind as I observed their dynamics from a distance.
Deeming it at least somewhat safe to proceed, I decided to introduce myself. "I'm Glenda," I said, managing to keep a chuckle at bay as I extended my hand towards the woman. The initial assumption of their relationship quickly shifted in my mind. More likely husband and wife, I reconsidered, noting their familiar interactions.
"Oh, stop it!" The woman's playful reprimand followed a swift whack across the man's back, a response to a whispered comment I couldn't catch. Their interaction, light and familiar, momentarily eased the tension of the unknown.
"I'm Karen," the woman introduced herself, her grip firm and assured as she accepted my handshake. There was a certain strength in her manner, a resilience that seemed to radiate from her. "And this is my husband, Chris," she added, nodding towards the man beside her. Chris, shorter and with a less imposing presence than Karen, offered a stark contrast to her stature.
"Nice to meet you, Chris," I said, extending my hand to him as well. His handshake, though not as assertive as Karen's, carried its own story. The roughness of his skin spoke of labour and toil, qualities that garnered immediate respect in our current circumstances. Like Luke's, I reflected, a thought that brought a fleeting sense of reassurance. Luke's Guardian abilities and contributions were invaluable to our collective survival. The comparison prompted a sudden concern. "Where is Luke?” I found myself asking, my curiosity piqued.
"I don't think he's coming," Chris replied, his words succinct, yet they left an echo of uncertainty. Karen's accompanying shrug offered no further clarity, leaving a vague sense of unease hanging in the air.
"He didn't arrive with you?" My curiosity piqued, my eyebrows arched in surprise.
"No," Karen responded, her voice carrying a note of uncertainty. "I don't think this is how he meant for things to happen." Her words hinted at a complexity and intention behind their arrival, suggesting Luke's role was more than incidental.
"It was an accident?" The question slipped out, almost of its own accord, as I tried to piece together the fragments of their tale.
Karen inhaled deeply, the weight of her next words palpable. "I don't really understand it, but Luke made the most beautiful colours appear on the back of the living room door. I wanted to touch it, but he told me not to."
"He did?" Chris interjected before I could voice my own disbelief and the question burning within me. If Luke had warned against touching it, why had the urge to do so been so compelling?
"Yes," Karen affirmed, her glare directed at Chris, underscoring a tension that seemed to swell with the recounting of their tale. "And then you came bursting through the door and then, well, here we are." The blame she cast was clear, a direct line drawn from Chris's actions to their current predicament.
"You're blaming me for this?" Disbelief and defence mingled in Chris's response, his bewilderment at the accusation evident in his wide eyes.
"Well, if you had just come through the kitchen like you usually do, this wouldn't…" Karen's argument trailed off, caught in the escalation of a domestic dispute that seemed incongruous against the backdrop of our survivalist reality.
"Excuse me, excuse me!" My voice cut through their burgeoning argument, a firm interruption meant to quell the rising tide of blame. "I don't think this is really anybody's fault."
"Of course, it is. It's Luke's fault!" Chris's dramatic proclamation silenced us, a pointed finger of blame that seemed to simplify and yet complicate the narrative all at once.
Karen and I exchanged a glance, both falling silent in the wake of Chris's outburst.
"Accident or not," Chris's voice softened, a slight retreat from his earlier fervour, yet his words carried a weight of conviction. "It was ultimately Luke's carelessness that got us in this situation." His statement hung in the air, a pointed conclusion that seemed to leave little room for debate.
Karen's response was nonverbal, a quiet acquiescence as her head dipped, her eyes finding the ground. The gesture spoke volumes, a silent acknowledgment of the complex web of causality that had led them—and indirectly, all of us—to this moment.
"When can we go back home?" The question from Chris was directed at me, a plea for clarity amid the uncertainty that enveloped them. It was a question I had heard before, a reflection of the hope and desperation that clung to the idea of returning to what was familiar.
"We're not," Karen's voice cut through, her reply sharp and devoid of hesitation. Her interruption was unexpected, preempting my own response, and it caught me off guard.
How does she know that? The question echoed in my mind as I turned to look at Karen, her declaration surprising me. Her certainty, her acceptance of our reality here, was unsettling in its immediate finality.
"This is our home now," she stated, a definitive closing of the door on any notions of return. Her words, though simple, reshaped the contours of our conversation.
"It is?" Chris and I asked in unison.
Just how much has Luke told her about this place? The question lingered in my mind, a puzzle piece that refused to fit neatly into the emerging picture of our shared narrative. Karen's knowledge, her acceptance of our permanence here, suggested a level of understanding that went beyond the initial shock and confusion expected of a newcomer. It hinted at conversations, at revelations shared between her and Luke, that had not necessarily been extended to everyone.
Karen's brow furrowed, signalling a deep dive into her thoughts before she formulated a response. "Do you remember the times that we sat in bed at night and I used to joke about all of those crazy dreams Luke told Jane and I about on the bus?" she asked Chris, her question laden with a newfound significance.
Dreams? The word echoed silently in my mind, igniting a spark of intrigue. Luke's had dreams about this place? The possibility that our current reality could have been foreshadowed in Luke's dreams was both fascinating and unsettling.
"Yeah," Chris replied, his initial skepticism giving way to a dawning realisation as the implications of Karen's words began to settle. His eyes widened, reflecting a mixture of astonishment and apprehension.
I found myself captivated by the unfolding conversation, an observer to a revelation that seemed to bridge the gap between the mundane and the mystical. Karen bent down gracefully, her movements deliberate as she scooped up a handful of the dusty ground beneath us.
"Hold your hands out," she instructed Chris, a solemnity in her tone that commanded attention. Chris complied, extending his hands forward with a hesitance born of uncertainty and curiosity.
"I think it may actually all be real," Karen continued, her voice soft yet imbued with a conviction that seemed to solidify with each word. She slowly allowed the dust to cascade from her hand, a symbolic gesture that seemed to underscore the gravity of her realisation. The fine grains tumbled through the air, landing in Chris's open palms—a physical manifestation of the ethereal truths they were beginning to confront.
"Shit," Chris breathed, his reaction a succinct encapsulation of the shock and awe that such a revelation warranted. His response, punctuated by sharp intakes of breath.
Karen looked to me, her eyes alight with curiosity and a hunger for answers that seemed to mirror the intensity of the sun above us. "How many people are there? Are we close to the capital? And what about the facility?" Her questions tumbled out in rapid succession, each one a testament to the layers of confusion and hope that seemed to envelope us all.
My expression must have shifted dramatically because as I silently echoed her words, Capital? Facility? I could feel the confusion writ large across my own face. "What facility?" The words felt foreign on my tongue, out of place in the simplicity of our current existence.
"You know, the breeding facility," Karen elaborated, as if the term should have sparked recognition. My mind, however, drew a blank, the concept so alien it might as well have been, ironically, from another world.
Capital. The word resonated with a distant memory, a fragment from conversations with my father. Yet, the facility Karen mentioned was entirely unknown to me. What the hell is Karen talking about? The questions began to multiply in my mind, each one branching off into a myriad of possibilities. If Karen harboured beliefs about other people here, about a structured society with a capital and facilities, then her knowledge was crucial.
Chris's voice cut through my spiralling thoughts, bringing me back to the present. "I don't think Glenda knows what you're talking about," he said, his tone a mixture of concern and clarification. His intervention was timely, halting the barrage of questions I was on the verge of unleashing.
I'll ask her later. The resolution formed solidly in my mind. I'll ask her about everything. There was so much I needed to understand, so many pieces of this puzzle that Karen and Chris could potentially help assemble. But as the immediate reality of our situation reasserted itself, the flicker of hope that had briefly ignited within me sputtered and died. The vast unknowns that lay beyond our small settlement seemed suddenly insurmountable.
"There's only a few of us. We're just a tiny settlement," I confessed to Karen and Chris, the words heavy with the weight of our isolation. In the grand scheme of things, our group was but a speck in the vastness of this new world, our knowledge and understanding limited to the immediate challenges of survival.
"Take us," Karen's words carried a hint of excitement, a spark that almost managed to reignite my own sense of wonder. However, it wasn't quite enough to dispel the layers of unease that had settled over me since their arrival.
"Sure," I responded with a nod, a gesture of acceptance rather than enthusiasm. Despite the swirling questions and concerns, Karen and Chris didn't present any immediate threat. Introducing them to our small camp seemed the right thing to do, though I braced myself for the potential disappointment they might face. The reality of our settlement was far removed from any preconceptions they might have had about organised societies or structured facilities.
As we walked, the thick dust underfoot marked our passage through the vast, arid landscape that surrounded us. It was a silent journey, Karen and Chris following quietly behind me, their presence a constant reminder of the unpredictable nature of the Portal. Every step seemed to stir up more than just the loose earth; it churned a mix of apprehension and curiosity within me.
