Chapter 4

The world tilted. Caleb gripped the frame of the SUV, his knuckles white against the metal as a dizzy spell washed over him. The silence of the clearing was heavy, broken only by the ragged sound of his own breathing. He forced his eyes to focus, scanning the interior of the car until they landed on a small green box tucked under the passenger seat. He reached for it, his fingers fumbling with the latch of the first aid kit. With the plastic box tucked under his arm, he turned toward the camper. The door hung ajar, swinging slightly on its hinges with a rhythmic, metallic creak. "Chloe?" he croaked. No answer. He limped across the grass, each step sending a jolt of lightning up his left leg. He hauled himself up the camper's steps and scanned the interior. It was a wreck of tossed cushions and spilled supplies, but it was empty. No Chloe, no sign of the others. There were no monsters lurking in the shadows of the kitchenette, just the eerie stillness of a space that should have been full of laughter. Caleb kicked the door shut. The click of the latch felt like a temporary shield against the madness outside. He didn't lock it—he wasn't sure if his hands could manage the deadbolt—and instead slumped onto the padded sofa. The adrenaline was failing him now, replaced by a cold, numbing ache. He looked down at himself and felt a surge of nausea. His clothes were no longer fabric; they were a stiff, dark crust of dried gore and fresh saturation. He began to peel the shirt away from his skin. The fabric groaned as it tore free from the scabs forming on his waist. He gritted his teeth, stripping down until he could see the damage. The gash on his waist was the worst—a long, jagged canyon of meat that wept crimson every time he moved. On his left thigh, three parallel furrows marked where claws had raked deep. His right calf bore a single, deep puncture. He opened the green box. His hands shook as he pulled out a bottle of bottled water and a plastic container of medical alcohol. "Okay," he whispered. "Okay, Caleb. Just clean it." He tipped the water over the waist wound first to clear the grit. The cooling sensation was a brief mercy before he uncapped the alcohol. He hesitated for a second, staring at the clear liquid, then tipped the bottle. The scream died in his throat, replaced by a strangled gasp. It felt like a branding iron had been pressed into his side. His vision went white at the edges, his muscles seizing as the chemicals scorched the raw nerves. He slumped against the back of the sofa, his chest heaving, waiting for the fire to dull to a roar. Once the waist was wrapped in thick layers of gauze and medical tape, he moved to his legs. The three gashes on his thigh were cleaner, but the alcohol still made his vision swim. By the time he reached the wound on his calf, his movements were sluggish. His coordination was slipping. The simple act of winding a bandage around his leg felt like trying to solve a complex puzzle while underwater. He didn't make it back to the SUV. He barely made it to the small bed at the rear of the camper. He collapsed onto the mattress, the first aid kit spilling its remaining contents onto the floor. The last thing he saw before his eyes drifted shut was the red glow of the distant pillar through the window, pulsing like a heartbeat. Caleb woke to the sound of a fly buzzing against the glass. He stayed still for a long moment, testing his body. The sharp, jagged agony in his side had settled into a dull, heavy throb. He felt stronger, less like a glass statue ready to shatter. He sat up slowly, his bandages holding firm, though they were stained with yellowish fluid and old blood. The suns—both of them—were shining brightly through the camper window. The light was harsh, revealing the layer of dust that had settled over everything. He looked at his wrist, but his watch had stopped. He moved to the front of the camper and checked the digital clock on the microwave. It was dark. He walked to the fridge and pulled the handle. It opened with a wet, sticky sound. The interior was warm. A heavy, sweet scent of decay wafted out, hitting him in the face. "Great," he muttered. He looked at the calendar on the wall, then at the small battery-operated clock Chloe had kept by the sink. He stared at the date, then at the time, trying to do the math through the fog in his brain. He had been out for three whole days. The realization sat heavy in his gut. Three days of silence. Three days of those two suns circling the sky. Hunger eventually overrode the smell. He poked through the warming contents of the fridge, finding a package of sausages. They were starting to turn, the edges slightly grey, and the bread in the cupboard was beginning to harden. He didn't care. He ate the sausages cold, shoving them into his mouth alongside dry chunks of bread, barely chewing before swallowing. As he ate, his gaze drifted to the small table where he had left his phone. He picked it up. The screen was a spiderweb of shattered glass, and the casing was twisted at an impossible angle. It was a hunk of dead plastic and silicon. He remembered the camper had an emergency radio-phone installed by the dash—a rugged, hard-wired unit meant for back-country trekking where towers didn't reach. He limped to the driver's seat and lifted the receiver. "Hello? Is anyone on this frequency? This is Caleb Vance. I'm at the North Ridge campsite. Does anyone copy?" Static. A flat, indifferent hiss filled the cabin. He switched channels, clicking through every band the device could reach. He tried the emergency distress channel, the local ranger band, even the civilian frequencies. Nothing. Not even a distant fragment of a voice or the hum of a broadcast. The silence on the radio was more terrifying than the monsters in the woods. It meant the towers weren't just down; it meant there was nothing left to broadcast. He hung up the receiver and stared out the windshield at the red pillar. "Welcome to the multiverse," he mumbled. The words felt heavy and ridiculous. Multiverse. The robotic voice from the darkness had spoken about integration, about Terra being merged, about levels and systems. It sounded like the plot of a bad sci-fi flick or a video game, but the scars on his waist were real. The two suns were real. He stood up, testing his weight. He felt different. Despite the injuries, there was a strange fluidity to his movements. When he had fought that creature, he had moved faster than he ever had in his life. He had swung that axe with a strength that should have been impossible for someone who spent most of his time behind a desk. It was a power-up. There was no other way to describe it. The system—whatever it was—had changed him. It had given him the tools to survive the "integration," but it hadn't asked for his permission. It had simply rewritten the laws of his world and left him to bleed out in the dirt. He thought of his parents in the city. He thought of the narrow streets of his hometown, the local diner, the quiet library. If the topography of the planet had been "readjusted," were those places even there anymore? Were they being hunted by the same shadow-creatures that had torn through his camp? He couldn't stay here. The camper was a tomb, and the food was rotting. Chloe and the others were gone—either dead or scattered—and he was standing in the middle of a world that no longer recognized him as its master. He needed to get home. He needed to find his family and see if anything of his old life remained, or if the red pillar in the distance was all that was left of the horizon. Caleb turned away from the window and began to pull a sturdy hiking pack from the overhead storage. He didn't know how far he had to go, but he wasn't going to wait here for whatever the system decided to send next. ════════════════════════════════════════