The moment I reentered the familiar confines of the living room, the urgency of the situation propelled me forward, my query directed at Gladys without a moment's hesitation. "How long did you say you've hired that other small truck for?" The question was sharp, cutting through the mundane tranquility of the room.

Gladys, caught off guard, choked on her wine, a series of coughs interrupting her attempt to respond. "Until Sunday," she managed, her voice strained with the effort of recovery, her eyes wide with a mix of surprise and confusion at the sudden shift in atmosphere.

My mind was already racing ahead, formulating a plan as I continued to move, driven by a sense of urgency that allowed no room for pause. "We're going to do a truck swap," I announced, the words barely keeping pace with my thoughts. The plan was clear in my mind, a necessary adjustment requiring precise timing and coordination.

"Move the truck onto the road for me, would you, Beatrix?" My request was directed toward Beatrix as I strode toward the front door, the strategy unfolding with each step. "I'm going to bring Gladys's truck back from Clivilius. You'll need to reverse your truck back into the driveway once I have left. Then I'll reverse mine in front." The instructions were detailed, leaving little room for misunderstanding, my voice carrying a sense of command that brooked no argument.

"The keys are still in the ignition," I called over my shoulder, already crossing the threshold, my mind a step ahead, visualising the movements necessary for the swap.

"Beatrix, you can't be serious," Gladys's voice trailed after me, tinged with disbelief, but I was already beyond the point of debate, my actions dictated by necessity.

Activating the Portal against the large back gate at the end of the driveway, I stepped through, the familiar disorientation of transition brief yet jarring. Emerging in Clivilius, I was immediately met with the challenge of the terrain. The cab of the truck welcomed me, a temporary sanctuary from the chaos of my thoughts. I pumped the accelerator, urging the vehicle forward over the soft ochre sand that sprawled like an unending sea before me.

As the truck rumbled slowly towards the Portal, a thread of tension wove through my thoughts, the hope that Beatrix was executing her part of the plan mingling with the awareness of the delicate timing required. Now, more than ever, precision was crucial. The risk of a collision loomed as a silent threat, an additional layer of complexity in a day already fraught with challenges.

"Reverse the front truck back a little," I instructed Beatrix, my voice carrying a calm authority that belied the underlying tension of the manoeuvre. I needed to ensure precision, aware that any miscalculation could result in unnecessary complications.

"Sure," Beatrix responded, her voice steady, reflecting a readiness to comply. I appreciated her promptness, a small yet significant reassurance in the midst of our carefully orchestrated operation.

Positioning myself at the rear of the truck, I became Beatrix's eyes, guiding her with clear, deliberate hand signals. The importance of each gesture was magnified, a silent language that conveyed more than words could in that moment. As Beatrix carefully reversed the truck, I remained vigilant, acutely aware of our surroundings and the potential prying eyes of neighbours.

Recalling Terry's penchant for nosiness, I made a mental note to ensure our actions remained unobserved. With a focused thought, I commanded the Portal to close, watching as the vibrant hues that marked its presence faded into nothingness. The gate, once an extraordinary passageway to another place, reassumed its guise as an ordinary fixture, blending seamlessly into the mundane backdrop of our world.

"So, you can move the Portal?" Gladys's voice reached me, tinged with a mix of curiosity and astonishment.

"Yeah," I confirmed, turning to face her. "As long as I activate it against a relatively flat surface, it appears that I can open it anywhere." The explanation was straightforward, yet the implications of such an ability were vast, offering a myriad of possibilities and challenges.

"That's so amazing," Gladys responded, her words slightly slurred by the wine. I observed her take another sip, the glass tilting in her grasp, a visual cue of her attempt to process the extraordinary amidst the ordinary.

As the vehicle ground to a halt, the mechanical sound of the engine ceasing seemed to echo in the stillness. I made my way to the back of the truck. With a sense of purpose, I flung open the doors, revealing the empty space that awaited the remaining cargo.

Gladys's voice, sharp and laced with incredulity, cut through the air. "What the hell are you doing, Luke?" Her tone, rising from the front step where she perched, was a mixture of confusion and annoyance.

"We need to move the remaining goods into this clean truck," I explained, my hand giving the truck's side a reassuring pat, as if to affirm its readiness for the task at hand.

Gladys's attempt to rise to her feet was a struggle, her body swaying as she clung to the handrail for support. I watched, a flicker of frustration passing through me, tempered by an understanding of her current state. My eyes rolled involuntarily. This was going to be a disaster, I thought, the realisation settling in with a weighty inevitability. Yet, the necessity of the task was undeniable.

I moved to the second truck and opened its back doors with a sense of urgency. "Okay, Beatrix, come help me move this stuff," I called out, my voice firm, trying to inject some efficiency into our impromptu operation. The cargo, just a few smallish boxes, seemed manageable, a small mercy in the grand scheme of things.

Gladys's voice, tinged with a mix of defiance and determination, floated towards us. "What about me?" she asked, her figure teetering on the edge of the front steps.

"Shit, Gladys. You can barely stand up," Beatrix pointed out, her observation sharp yet not without a note of worry.

"I can too," Gladys countered, her voice laced with a stubborn resolve. She released the handrail, venturing two slow, meticulous steps as a testament to her insistence, her movements a visual argument against Beatrix's assessment.

Watching her, a mix of admiration and concern stirred within me. Gladys's tenacity, even in less-than-ideal circumstances, was undeniable. Yet, the practical side of me knew that her involvement, given her state, risked more than it helped. The balance of wanting to include her against the pragmatic need for safety and efficiency was a delicate one, a microcosm of the broader challenges I faced.

Climbing into the back of the truck, a wave of repulsion hit me as the pungent stench of decay filled my nostrils. I pinched my nose, battling the urge to retch, giving myself a moment to acclimate to the gruesome reality inside. The sight of coagulated blood, a dark, viscous reminder of the violence that had transpired, made me tread cautiously, ensuring I avoided any direct contact with the tainted floor.

Gripping the first of the small boxes, I carefully navigated my way through the cramped space, every movement calculated to avoid the grisly remnants beneath my feet. "Here, Beatrix," I called out, extending the box toward her with a deliberate avoidance of the mucky scene.

Beatrix, her focus sharp, took the box from me, her eyes briefly meeting mine in a silent exchange of determination and unease. The tension was palpable, a tangible force that seemed to squeeze the very air around us.

"Gladys, come get this box," Beatrix's voice cut through the heaviness, her command sharp. "And for fuck's sake, hurry up!"

"Beatrix!" Gladys's response was a mix of shock and indignation, her voice cracking as she took the box, a flash of sibling dynamics playing out. Her movements were swift, betraying a hint of anger or perhaps frustration, as she complied with her sister's demand.

Beatrix's glare was a silent rebuke, her words, "Just put it in the other truck," carrying an undercurrent of tension that went beyond the immediate task at hand.

Together, in a flurry of coordinated effort, we transferred the remaining boxes, the time passing in a blur of activity. "I think that's all of them," I announced, a sense of relief mingling with the residual discomfort of the task. Jumping to the ground, I moved around the truck, pushing aside the intrusive silver birch branches, their presence an incongruous touch of natural beauty amidst the starkness of our current task.

The trees, lining the driveway like silent sentinels, seemed oblivious to the turmoil beneath them, their branches swaying gently as if to remind me of a world that continued despite the horrors I had just confronted.

Settling into the front seat, the passenger side door groaned open. Beatrix peered in with a blend of curiosity and concern, her presence filling the cab with an anticipatory tension.

"What are you looking for?" she inquired, her gaze fixed on me as I began a methodical search through the cab's nooks and crannies.

"The delivery manifest," I responded after a moment, my voice carrying a mix of determination and underlying frustration.

Beatrix's simple "Oh" hung in the air, a placeholder as I continued my search with growing urgency. The glove compartment yielded a small trove of items, each discarded onto the seat as they failed to be what I was desperately seeking: sunglasses, a box of Band-Aids, and several unused condoms—a random assortment that spoke to the truck's varied history.

"Shit," I muttered under my breath, a wave of disappointment washing over me as the reality set in—the manifest wasn't going to be found easily, if at all.

"What for?" Beatrix's voice cut through my mounting frustration.

Choosing to ignore her question, I persisted in my search, pulling out and rapidly scanning the last few papers from the compartment. Each was unfolded, skimmed for any sign of the vital document, and then discarded, my actions growing more haphazard with my rising sense of futility.

"Well?" Beatrix's probe was more insistent now, her interest piqued by my evident distress.

In a final gesture of resignation, I slammed the glove box shut, the sound echoing slightly in the confined space. Raising my gaze to meet Beatrix's, I found her face mere inches from mine, an unexpected proximity that momentarily bridged the gap between our individual isolations.

The moment caught me by surprise. "You and your sister are going on a road trip," I announced, managing a grin.

The levity of my grin faded as I absorbed the reluctance of Beatrix's reaction. Her gasp was like a cold splash of reality, her subsequent plea laden with a mix of dread and resignation. "Please don't make me take Gladys," she implored, her gaze momentarily drifting outside, perhaps seeking a momentary escape in the world beyond the truck's confines.

My expression mirrored the shift in our conversation's tone, the weight of our predicament settling firmly on my shoulders. "But we need that manifest," I insisted, the necessity of our mission casting a long shadow over any personal misgivings.

Gladys, perhaps sensing the tension, inserted herself into the dialogue, her head peeking through the doorway, her position an unintentional symbol of her intrusiveness. "But why?" she interjected, her voice a blend of curiosity and concern, her head resting against Beatrix's thigh in a gesture that spoke of a casual disregard for personal space.

"I took a moment to compose my thoughts, aware that the explanation needed to be clear and compelling. "The company is going to report the driver and the truck missing," I began, laying out the inevitability of our situation. "There's nothing we can do about that, but we can at least make it look like he went missing after he finished his deliveries. The police shouldn't have any reason to suspect us then." My words were deliberate, aimed at conveying the critical nature of our task without inciting panic.

Gladys absorbed this information with a slow nod, her "Oh, I see. Good call," a begrudging acknowledgment of the plan's necessity, even as her tone suggested she was only beginning to grasp the implications.

Turning back to Beatrix, I encountered her silent plea—a mouthed "No" paired with a gentle but firm shake of the head. Her silent communication was a clear expression of her reluctance, a non-verbal appeal that resonated with a poignant mix of desperation and resignation.

In that moment, confronted with Beatrix's silent entreaty and Gladys's begrudging acceptance, I felt the weight of leadership pressing down. We have no choice, I acknowledged internally, the realisation heavy with the burden of decisions made in the shadow of dire circumstances. I sighed, a deep exhalation that carried the weight of our collective fears and uncertainties.

With the manifest still missing and our options narrowing, a sense of inevitability settled over me. There was only one place left I could think to look, a final gambit in a situation fraught with risk and diminishing hope.

Exiting the cab, I stepped into the rear of the truck once more, my eyes immediately drawn to the grim scene that awaited. The body, an unnerving presence, lay amidst a congealing mixture of blood and vomit. The sight triggered a visceral reaction, a mix of revulsion and urgency, as I steeled myself for what needed to be done. “Beatrix,” I called out.

Her response was prompt, yet cautious, as she neared the back of the truck, her apprehension palpable. "Yeah," she replied, her tone wary.

"I need you to help me roll him," I stated, the request hanging heavily between us.

"Roll him!" Beatrix exclaimed, her voice laced with abstract horror. "Hell no. I ain't touching him." Her refusal was adamant, a line drawn firmly in the sand.

"Beatrix, please," I found myself pleading. "I need to check his back pockets." The necessity of the action was clear, yet the distaste and fear it evoked were equally potent.

Her resistance remained firm, her head shaking in a vigorous denial. "Uh uh," she declared, embodying a resolute refusal to engage with the macabre task.

At that moment, Gladys interjected, her presence and plea cutting through the tension. "Beatrix," she said, her voice tinged with desperation, causing both Beatrix and me to startle.

"What?" Beatrix responded, her tone sharp.

"Help him. I don't want to go to jail," Gladys implored, her words laced with fear, her concern for their legal predicament momentarily overshadowing the immediate horror.

With a roll of her eyes and a visible swallow of her discomfort, Beatrix acquiesced. "Fine," she muttered, her agreement grudging, conveyed through clenched teeth.

I suppressed a surge of frustration. The dynamics between the sisters, their bickering, and reluctance, were fraying my patience. Honestly, the two of them are doing my head in, I thought, a silent lament for the additional strain on an already tense situation.

Beatrix's reluctance was palpable, her body language screaming discomfort as she crouched beside me, her hand pressed firmly against her mouth, a barrier against the nausea-inducing reality before us. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, and the visual of the lifeless form only added to the weight of the task at hand.

Her head shook in a vehement refusal, her eyes wide with trepidation. Yet, the urgency of retrieving the manifest left no room for hesitation. "On three, I need you to grab onto his waist and pull him towards us," I instructed, my voice steady, trying to infuse a sense of calm into the charged atmosphere.

Beatrix's response was another frantic shake of the head, her dread palpable. "It just needs to be a few seconds. Just long enough for me to feel inside his pocket," I attempted to assuage her fears, though I knew the reassurance was as much for myself as for her.

The countdown felt surreal, the numbers echoing slightly in the enclosed space. "One. Two. Three. Roll!" The command was firm, a necessary push against the inertia of our dread.

As Beatrix reluctantly complied, her expression contorted into a grimace of disgust and fear. Her hands, though hesitant, found their grip on Joel's waist, pulling with an unexpected force that spoke more of her desire to conclude the ordeal than of any physical strength. Her squeal, a sharp, involuntary sound, filled the air as she lost her balance, her fall a chaotic cascade that drew Joel's body along in a grotesque dance of motion.

The body's movement was ungainly, the sound of it a visceral reminder of our grim actions. And then, with a final, sickening squelch, it came to rest against my feet, the wet, sticky contact sending a jolt of horror through me.

"Shit, Beatrix!" My exclamation was a burst of frustration and disgust, my own balance giving way as I toppled backward, the bed of the truck meeting my back with an unforgiving thud. The physical impact was nothing compared to the psychological toll of the moment, the reality of our situation crashing down with the same inevitable force as our intertwined falls.

In the chaos that ensued, Beatrix hastily moved away, distancing herself from the centre of the turmoil, while the sound of shattering glass marked another casualty of the moment—Gladys's grip loosening, her glass plummeting to meet the unforgiving concrete.

Gladys's panic escalated rapidly, her voice piercing the tense air with frantic screams of "Get it off me!" Her hands clawed at her face in a desperate attempt to rid herself of imagined or real remnants of the ordeal.

"Gladys! Shut up!" said Beatrix. "Someone will hear you."

"I think it's far too late for that, Beatrix," I remarked, the reality of our noise potentially attracting unwanted attention settling in. Yet, the immediate task at hand recaptured my focus.

"Get it off! Get it off!" Gladys continued, her distress unabated, her voice climbing in pitch and volume.

Beatrix, despite her own discomfort, took on the role of the calmer presence, attempting to mitigate her sister's hysteria with a practical response. She moved swiftly, her sleeve acting as an impromptu wipe, trying to soothe Gladys's agitation.

With Gladys somewhat pacified by Beatrix's efforts and the immediate panic subsiding, I turned my attention back to the grotesque task I had momentarily been distracted from. The body, now inadvertently positioned to reveal its back pockets, awaited my reluctant search.

I steeled myself and reached across, my hand delving into the right back pocket. The unmistakable feel of paper grazed my fingers, a small but significant discovery. Withdrawing the paper, I unfolded it with a mix of trepidation and urgency, eyes scanning for the confirmation we desperately needed."Is that it?" Beatrix inquired, her voice a mix of hope and exhaustion as she returned to my side, her earlier reticence overshadowed by the hope of our find.

"Yeah," I confirmed, a wave of relief washing over me. "We got it." The words were a release, a momentary lifting of the weight that had pressed down on me.

"Thank God," Beatrix echoed, her relief palpable, a shared sentiment that momentarily united us.

With a careful motion, I folded the manifest, its significance far outweighing its physical weight, and handed it over to Beatrix.

"Gladys, get your ass into the truck," Beatrix's voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding. I watched her jump down from the truck's back with a certain grace that belied the urgency of her tone. The manifest in her hand fluttered like a distressed bird, its pages rustling in the soft breeze that carried the scent of oil and metal.

"But... but... the glass," Gladys stammered. Her eyes, wide with concern, darted towards the shattered fragments that littered the ground like fallen stars. I could see the reflections of the sunlight dancing in the broken pieces, each shard a tiny prism casting its own light.

"Forget about the glass," I interjected, my voice firmer than I felt. I glanced at the scattered pieces, the remnants of a moment's hysteria. "I'll clean it up," I added, trying to inject a sense of calm into the chaos. Inwardly, I wrestled with a twinge of irritation at the delay, a subtle reminder of the ever-present pressure to keep moving, to stay ahead of the shadows we were trying to outrun.

"Come on, Gladys. We have to go," Beatrix urged, her impatience manifesting as she tugged at Gladys's arm. There was a tension in her movements, a coiled readiness that spoke of a life accustomed to swift decisions and swifter actions.

Gladys hesitated, torn between the instinct to flee and the pull of responsibility towards the mess she perceived as her own.

"Come on," Beatrix insisted, her voice gaining an edge of exasperation. She nudged her sister with her waist, a physical embodiment of her growing impatience. The interaction, so mundane in its sibling familiarity, was a reminder of the normality we all craved, a normality that seemed increasingly like a distant dream.

"I'll hold it," Gladys finally said, her decision made. She reached out, her hand trembling slightly, to snatch the paper from her sister.

"Wait!" The urgency in my voice halted their steps, an unexpected command that sliced through the tension-filled air. I could feel their eyes on me, heavy with a mix of curiosity and impatience.

"What now?" Gladys's voice carried a tinge of exasperation, her hand flapping the manifest like a flag of surrender to the chaos that seemed to perpetually surround us.

I hesitated, the weight of my request anchoring my feet to the ground. They're not going to like it, but I can't do it alone. The thought whirred in my mind, a silent confession of my own limitations.

"What do you need, Luke?" Beatrix's voice was a contradiction to her sister's, her calmness a soothing balm in the midst of our stormy predicament.

"We need to move the body," I admitted, the words tasting like ash in my mouth.

"Hell no!" Gladys's reaction was immediate, a visceral rejection that pierced the heavy air. Her voice, a sharp screech, was a clear indicator of her horror.

"I can't move it by myself," I pressed on, my voice steady, despite the turmoil churning inside me.

"Gladys," Beatrix interjected, her tone cool yet authoritative. "We're already involved now. We may as well keep going." Her words, though pragmatic, carried an undercurrent of unspoken solidarity.

I threw Beatrix a grateful smile, a silent acknowledgment of her support. In that brief exchange, a bond was reinforced, an unspoken agreement that, for better or worse, we were in this together.

"Are you going to take him through the Portal?" Beatrix's inquiry, laced with a blend of curiosity and concern, yanked me back from my swirling thoughts. Her eyes, always so penetrating, seemed to search for something more in my response, a hidden layer beneath the surface.

I shook my head, the motion firm yet filled with an unspoken heaviness.

"Why the hell not?" Gladys's voice cut through the heavy air, her frustration palpable. Her brows knitted together in a display of bafflement and annoyance, a visual echo of her abrasive inquiry.

"Then what?" Beatrix prodded, her gaze fixed on me, as if trying to decipher the tumultuous thoughts I struggled to contain.

A lump formed in my throat, a tangible symbol of the dread that had begun to seep into my veins. I gulped, the action more of a struggle than it should have been. "Jamie isn't ready for the news yet. We can keep the body in the shed at the back of the yard for now." The words felt like stones falling from my mouth, heavy with the implications they carried.

"And the truck?" Beatrix's practicality shone through, her mind always ticking ahead, plotting our next moves in this grim chess game we'd unwittingly become players in.

"I'll clean it out and bleach it while you are gone. Then I'll drive it through the Portal." My plan, laid out in a sequence of steps, sounded almost mundane.

"But, if you are taking it through the Portal, why bother cleaning it first?" Her question was valid, her logic unassailable, yet my answer was driven by a different kind of reasoning.

"I'd rather not raise any suspicions with Paul and Jamie," I explained, my voice low, infused with a resolve born of necessity rather than conviction. The idea of them stumbling upon any trace of our dismal burden was intolerable.

"Fair call," she conceded, her nod an acknowledgment of the unspoken code we were now bound by.

Once again, Beatrix and I climbed into the back of the truck, the metal cool and unyielding beneath my palms. "We need a blanket," I announced, the realisation hitting me with the force of a sudden gust. Without it, the task would become even more macabre, a trail of bloody horror left in our wake.

"Gladys," the deep male voice resonated through the air, a sudden intrusion that set my nerves on edge.

"Shit!" Beatrix's curse sliced through the moment, her voice a low hiss, reflecting a mixture of surprise and annoyance. Her eyes darted towards the source of the voice, her body tensing as if ready to spring into action.

I fixed my gaze on Gladys, my mind racing with questions and suspicions. Who the hell is this? The presence of another unknown variable at this critical juncture sent a surge of adrenaline through my veins, heightening my senses, preparing me for any potential threat.

"Gladys, everything okay here?" The man's voice, laced with a veneer of casual concern, did little to ease the tightening knot in my stomach. His words felt intrusive, probing, like the unwelcome beam of a flashlight in the darkness.

Gladys peeked her head around the corner of the truck, her voice suddenly brighter, falsely cheerful. "Cody!" she exclaimed, a hint of forced joviality in her tone.

"Who the fuck is Cody?" The question burst from me, a reflexive demand for clarity in the midst of mounting confusion. "Gladys," I whispered sharply, my voice a blend of warning and urgency, urging her to grasp the precariousness of our position.

Stepping fully into view, Gladys faced the man. "Yeah, everything is great here," she declared, her lie floating in the air, a fragile bubble of deceit.

"Get rid of him. Now!" I hissed, my whisper harsh, a command laced with desperation. The imperative to maintain control, to keep the situation contained, pressed down on me with an almost physical weight.

"Why don't we...?" Gladys's voice trailed off, her suggestion hanging incomplete, a tantalising thread of an idea left unexplored.

"Wait," Beatrix interjected, her whisper a sharp contrast to the tension that buzzed through the air.

Turning my head sharply, I glared at her, my expression laden with impatience and anxiety. "What?" I mouthed, the word silent yet laden with a demand for explanation, for a solution to the unfolding dilemma.

Beatrix's eyebrows knit together, her mind visibly churning with calculations and possibilities. "I think he may be able to help us," she ventured, her suggestion a gamble, a flicker of strategy in the uncertain game we found ourselves playing.

"Help us? How?” The repetition of her words was a reflex, my surprise evident in the slight widening of my eyes, the faint catch in my breath. The idea that this stranger, this unexpected element, could be an ally was as disorienting as it was unexpected.

"I think he is like you." Her words, softly spoken, carried a weight of implication, a hint at hidden depths and unspoken connections. The suggestion that Cody shared a commonality with me, a similarity that could be pivotal in our current crisis, sent a ripple of shock through me, leaving me momentarily breathless, teetering on the edge of a new and unforeseen reality.

"But shh," Beatrix hushed, her index finger pressed against her lips, a silent command that pierced the tension like a knife. Her eyes conveyed a seriousness that underscored her words. "I don't think Gladys knows yet."

The revelation sent a jolt through me. "But how does Gladys know him?" I pressed, my voice barely above a whisper, my mind wrestling with the layers of complexity unfolding before me. The situation was morphing into a labyrinth of personal connections and hidden truths, each revelation adding to the pounding headache that throbbed at my temples.

"They're dating," Beatrix disclosed, her voice steady, revealing a piece of the puzzle that seemed so out of place.

"Dating?" The word echoed in my mind as I repeated it aloud, a concept so mundane yet so utterly perplexing in the context. This is getting bizarre, I thought, a sense of surrealism washing over me as I shook my head, trying to dispel the confusion. Since when did Gladys date... anybody?

"Cody, wait!" Gladys's voice, insistent and tinged with a hint of desperation, cut through my spiralling thoughts.

"What the fuck!" Cody's exclamation, as he stepped into full view of the back of the truck, was laced with shock and disbelief.

I stared into Cody's wide, terrified eyes, finding in them a mirror of my own confusion and alarm. The connection, the recognition in his gaze, was unsettling, a silent acknowledgment of a shared predicament that neither of us fully understood.

"Who the fuck is that, Luke?" Cody asked.

Taken by surprise, I stammered, "Wait," my mind racing to process the unfolding events. "You know who I am?"

"Of course," Cody replied matter-of-factly, his calm demeanour contrasting sharply with the storm of emotions raging inside me. "We've been waiting for you."

His words, so simple yet laden with implication, sent my head spinning. "Waiting for me?" I echoed, my voice a mix of incredulity and dawning realisation. The world seemed to tilt, reality shifting under the weight of his statement, leaving me adrift in a sea of questions with no land in sight.

"What happened to him?" Cody's inquiry, dismissive of my confusion, echoed in the cramped space of the truck as he climbed aboard. His movements were deliberate, unhesitating, as if accustomed to confronting the unforeseen and the grotesque.

"Shit," the word slipped from me, a whisper of realisation. My eyes locked onto Cody's, a surge of recognition flooding through me. "You were in my dream." The revelation hung between us, a thread of the surreal weaving into the fabric of our crossing paths.

"Throat looks like it has been slit. Any idea who did this?" Cody's voice, stern and focused, cut through my daze, anchoring the conversation back to the grim scene before us. His gaze, intense and probing, sought answers in a situation where clarity seemed as elusive as shadows at dusk.

"You were in my dream," I repeated, the words soft yet laden with a weight of significance. As I looked up at Cody, the pieces of a puzzle I didn't remember assembling began to fall into place. "I recognise you now." The admission felt like a key turning in a lock, opening doors to memories and connections yet to be fully understood.

"We don't have time for this now, Luke," Cody insisted, his urgency a palpable force. "I need to know who he is and what happened. We don't have much time." His words, sharp and commanding, sliced through the haze of my bewilderment, a reminder of the pressing reality that demanded my attention.

My mouth felt dry, the words I sought evaporating before they could take shape.

"His name is Joel," Beatrix interjected. "He is Jamie's son."

"Is he...?" Cody's question trailed off, his nod towards me laden with unspoken implications, a query into my involvement, my guilt or innocence in the tragic tableau before us.

"No. I don't think so," Beatrix replied, her response a shield, deflecting suspicion and casting it back into the shadows from which it emerged.

"What happened?" Cody's question, repeated, hung in the air, a demand for truth in a situation riddled with unknowns.

Beatrix shrugged, her gesture a testament to the complexity of our circumstances, an acknowledgment of the myriad questions that remained unanswered, the threads of fate and choice that had woven us into this moment, leaving us entangled in a mystery as deep and as dark as the truck that contained us.

"I'm not sure," I managed to articulate, my voice emerging from a throat tight with tension. "He delivered a few tents here this morning." I paused, the memory surfacing like a spectre from the fog. "I took the opportunity to take them through the Portal while he was in the toilet. Then the boys accidentally ran through." The words felt surreal as they tumbled out, a recounting of events that seemed to belong to another world, another life.

"The boys?" Cody's inquiry, sharp and focused, cut through the heavy air.

"Dogs," Beatrix clarified.

"And did he see?" Cody pressed, his gaze intense, as if trying to piece together a puzzle with fragments scattered by the wind.

"Yeah," I nodded, the weight of the admission settling like lead in my stomach. "I'm pretty sure he did. And when I returned, I found him like this."

"Shit," Cody exhaled, his pacing back and forth a physical manifestation of the churn of thoughts and strategies, a predator caged by circumstance.

"Oh my God!" Gladys's exclamation pierced the tense atmosphere, her voice a blend of realisation and fear. "We've both seen the Portal too," she said, her hand gesturing between herself and Beatrix, drawing an invisible line that connected their fates. "Does that mean we are going to die too?”

Her question, laden with dread, hung in the air, a spectre of mortality that loomed over us, uninvited yet undeniable.

"Not today, Gladys. Not today," Cody's response was a blend of reassurance and grim determination, a promise laced with an unspoken acknowledgment of the perilous tightrope we walked.

Confusion swirled within me like a tempest, clouding my thoughts, tightening its grip around my reason. "I am really confused," I confessed, my hand instinctively rising to rub at my forehead, as if physical pressure could squeeze clarity from the chaos of my mind. "Who are you again? And how do you know me? Did you have a dream too?" The questions spilled out, a cascade of uncertainty seeking a foothold in the shifting sands of my brain. The connection to Cody, hinted at in fragments of dreams and disjointed memories, dangled before me like a key to a lock I wasn't sure I wanted to open, a path to answers that might unravel the very fabric of the world I thought that I was beginning to know.

"I think Gladys and I had better finish making those deliveries," Beatrix's voice cut through the tension, her decision like a lifeboat in a sea of uncertainty. "I'll call you later when we're done."

I nodded, the motion more reflexive than deliberate. Perhaps I can get Cody to talk more about what he knows and what's going on here if we get a moment alone, I mused, a flicker of hope igniting.

"Be careful. Both of you," Cody's voice, tinged with genuine concern, reached out to Beatrix and Gladys as they prepared to depart.

"We will," Beatrix assured, her hand firm on Gladys's back, pushing her gently towards the other truck.

As their chatter dwindled, I turned to Cody, the urgency in his expression unmistakable. "I think you are in imminent danger, Luke," he said, his gaze piercing, as if trying to communicate the peril of the situation beyond words.

"Was he killed because of me?" The question escaped my lips before I could rein it in, a manifestation of my deepest fears. "Because I let him see the Portal?" The vulnerability in my voice was palpable, a raw edge to the growing storm within me.

"No," Cody responded, his conviction a solid presence in the fluid uncertainty surrounding us. "I don't think it was your fault at all." His assurance, firm and unwavering, offered a momentary respite from the torrent of guilt and confusion.

I inhaled deeply, the air filling my lungs like a balm, Cody's words a lifeline pulling me back from the edge of despair. A wave of relief washed over me, tempering the turmoil inside.

"We need to get rid of the body. You should take him to Clivilius," Cody suggested.

"I can't. Jamie would kill me if he knew his son was dead because of me," I countered, the words heavy with the weight of potential consequences, a tangled web of relationships and responsibilities that bound us all in a delicate balance of trust and fear. The very thought of facing Jamie, of bearing the news of his son's fate, tightened a vice around my heart, a dread so potent it threatened to consume me.

"Luke!" Cody's voice snapped with urgency, his hands gripping my shoulders, grounding me back to the moment. "It's not your fault."

His assertion, firm and insistent, clashed with the storm of self-blame raging in my mind. My brow furrowed, the creases a map of my inner turmoil. "There has to be another way," I muttered, more to myself than to him, a plea for some path that would lead us away from this precipice.

"Hmm," Cody mused, his demeanour shifting as he entered a deep contemplation, a visible shift from the urgency of a moment ago.

I watched, almost in a trance, as the tall man paced, each step measured, each turn deliberate. His movements were a visual echo of his thought process, back and forth, seeking, searching for a solution. After his sixth turn, he halted abruptly, a statue amidst the darkness.

"There is," Cody declared, his voice imbued with a newfound confidence. "Get out of the truck," he instructed, his body language shifting to one of decisive action as he jumped down.

I hesitated for just a moment, then complied, following Cody's lead, stepping down from the truck, my movements mechanical, driven by a mix of trust and desperation.

"I need the keys," Cody extended his hand, his eyes locking with mine, a silent exchange of trust in the midst of uncertainty.

"Where are you taking him?" My question, tinged with a mix of fear and curiosity, fell into the space between us as I dropped the keys into Cody's open palm.

Without a word, Cody moved towards the gate, his actions methodical, deliberate. Then, with a fluid motion, he reached into his shirt and extracted a small, strange device that resembled a USB stick.

My breath caught in my throat. "A Portal Key," I whispered, awe mingling with a surge of hope as I watched Cody activate the device. A small ball of energy shot from the end, silent yet vibrant, striking the large gate. In an instant, the gate's surface erupted in a dance of radiant, recognisable colours, a spectacle that was both otherworldly and eerily familiar.

"I'm taking him to Clivilius," Cody announced, his voice carrying a weight of resolve that filled the space between us with a new hope of escape.

I stood there, momentarily frozen, my mind grappling with the implications. There's another device? How is that even possible? The existence of another Portal Key, another gateway, broadened the horizons of my understanding, hinting at depths and complexities I had yet to fathom.

With a sense of purpose etched into his movements, Cody jumped into the cab of the truck. The engine roared to life, a growl that seemed to resonate with the my rumbling nerves. He reversed the vehicle with a careful precision, guiding it towards the swirling colours of the gate. The truck, along with Cody and the lifeless form of Joel, moved steadily towards the portal, each inch forward marking a step further from the reality I knew.

The truck, its cargo, and Cody, they all disappeared into the wall of colour, vanishing into Clivilius. The finality of that moment, the truck crossing the threshold, left a palpable void in its wake.

Slowly, driven by a mix of dread and an insatiable need for understanding, I approached the radiant energy of the gate. My heart pounded, a frenetic drumbeat echoing the turmoil inside me. My mind raced, a whirlwind of questions, fears, and a burgeoning sense of wonder. What lay beyond? What truths awaited discovery through that vibrant, pulsating doorway?

Unsure of what all of this meant, yet compelled by an inner force I couldn't resist, I reached out. My hand, trembling with a cocktail of emotions, moved toward the colours. So close. The urge for answers, for clarity, was overwhelming. No. I need answers. The thought was a mantra, propelling me forward, inch by inch.

Then, abruptly, the gate went dark. The colours extinguished, leaving behind nothing but the common, unyielding surface of the gate. The sudden absence of light, the abrupt return to a dull reality, was like a cold shower, dousing the flames of my curiosity and leaving me shrouded in a chilling cloak of uncertainty and isolation.

There I stood, hand outstretched, reaching for a vanished mirage, engulfed by the silence of a world that had just grown infinitely larger and infinitely more mysterious.