Chapter 3 (Joshua’s POV)

  T?minus 90?minutes

  The cottage felt like the cargo hold of a tramp steamer—boxes stacked to the joists, the air thick with the mingled odors of cosmoline, canvas, and vacuum?sealed oatmeal. My phone’s timer counted down in silent red digits on a plastic shelf: 1?h?29?m?37?s until the Gate’s metronome chimed open.

  I wiped my palms on my jeans and took one last inventory lap around the electric pull?cart that squatted in the center of the concrete floor. It was a Ranger?X Pro Utility Wagon—the same lithium?drive work mule landscapers use to haul sod on golf courses—rated for 1,500?pounds on eight?inch foam?filled tires. Tonight it carried 1,196?pounds if my bathroom scale and obsessive spreadsheet were to be believed. The deck bowed ever so slightly, but the motor still hummed at half load when I thumbed the throttle.

  Weapons & Ammunition

  Daniel Defense DDM4 V7 (5.56?×?45?mm) – rail slick with CLP

  15 magazines, 30?rounds each

  Benelli M4 Tactical (12?ga) – barrel sprayed with V?Guard rust inhibitor

  350 Federal LE132?00 buck shells (flats of 25)

  Glock 19 Gen?5 – appendix holster already on my belt

  10 magazines, 17?rounds each, subsonic HST

  Easton Carbon Aftermath 500 arrows – 4 dozen, fletched crimson for Anna

  Spare bowstrings, Hoyt limb bolts, wax, nocks

  Each rifle mag was stamped “AMMO, 5.56, LOT 22?193.” I’d color?coded tape bands—green for steel?core penetrator, tan for soft?point hunting loads—because nothing wrecks a Firefight faster than the wrong metallurgy meeting the wrong target.

  Food & Water

  1?pallet?/?45?cases of freeze?dried Mountain House (2,160 servings)

  12?×?5?gallon Food?Safe HDPE jugs – pre?chlorinated well water

  6?×?40?ounce peanut?butter jars stuffed into helmet bags for shock protection

  80?Mylar packets of Starbucks VIA – morale is an operational requirement

  Engineering & Defense

  200?ft razor ribbon (concertina coil, NATO grade)

  100?ft spool of ?″ galvanized chain, rated 4,900?lb tensile

  2 boxes Simpson Strong?Tie 8″ Timber?Lok screws (sound like dentist drills going through oak)

  40?lb Grip?Rite construction nails

  Makita 40?V cordless impact driver + two spare batteries

  Compact K?rcher solar pump (rated 6.6?gpm @ 75?ft) for the well—just in case my last install in Anna’s realm didn’t mirror over perfectly

  Medical & Hygiene

  3?case packs Israeli pressure dressings

  2 500?count canisters quik?clot impregnated gauze

  1,000 assorted tampons and pads (Anna’s “squeal?worthy” luxury, round 2)

  24?pack bar soap, 2?gallon jug of Dr?Bronner’s, a dozen bamboo toothbrushes

  Miscellany & Trade

  Four Pelican 1615 Air cases—stuffed with sterling flatware, a Tiffany cuff, and a handful of Krugerrands I’d found in Dad’s lockbox.

  One small velvet pouch: Van?Cleef Alhambra diamond pendant—the auction runner?up the house refused; figured Anna might want the sparkle, even if we wound up bartering it for something…though what they could offer that I didn’t already have was beyond me.

  Every item was logged in Google Sheets, screen?printed, then taped in a weatherproof sleeve to the cart’s cross?brace. The Data anaylist in my bones wouldn’t let me travel between universes without a manifest.

  Systems Check

  I keyed the wagon’s throttle. The brushless motor purred; LED charge bar glowed at 93?percent. At a max draw of 600?watts the battery would last roughly 18?km on pavement—half that over rubble—but the approach from the Bind?Point to the cottage lay just three miles of undead?pocked asphalt. Assuming no ferals snapped the drive belt, we’d be fine.

  Guns: safeties on, chambers clear.

  Arrow heads: snug.

  Solar pump: primed and pre?bled.

  Coffee: double?bagged against moisture.

  I exhaled. Everything that could be counted had been counted. Which left only the things that couldn’t: Anna tied to some anarchist stake, the Empire sniffing for pearls, the cosmic cashier salivating over my next ten?percent toll. I rubbed my sternum where the Gate’s invoice still felt branded under the skin.

  54?minutes.

  I’d polished the copper last night, chasing tarnish until the panels glowed like a forge seam. It looked less like a relic now, more like a biometric vault: fractal engravings of ruined skylines curled around the keyhole, each line catching light in tiny halos.

  Dad’s letter (now laminated) hung nearby: “Be kind; the other timeline is kinder than ours.” A mantra I tried to believe even as I hauled hollow?point ammunition across dimensions.

  The skeleton key felt warmer than the Early morning chill as I plucked it from its velvet sheath. Automatic as breathing, I checked that the silver safety wire was still wrapped around the bow: no accidentally dropping it, thank you.

  One more loop, Joshua.

  I circled the cart, palm?checking ratchet straps. The Glock rode at three?o’clock, war?hammer slung at four. My new composite?plate carrier pressed 22 pounds across my chest—claustrophobic but comforting. I slipped a sat?phone into an exterior pouch even though I knew satellites on that side were long dead; old habits.

  The timer chimed. 00:30:00.

  I inserted the key. The copper swallowed it with an organic warmth that still unsettled me—like sliding a finger into the mouth of a furnace that wanted to kiss back. Tumblers rolled, deep seismic knocks somewhere behind the door skin.

  Fractals bloomed. First a single ember at the key’s base, then branching filaments of molten geometry raced across the panels, tracing neon veins. The lights dimmed—as always, the Gate drank amperage like wine—and dust motes froze mid?air, suspended in amber glow.

  Cart power off, I reminded myself. Wouldn’t do to have stray current arcing when reality decided to unzip.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  I keyed the wagon’s kill?switch, engaged the mechanical brake, and positioned both hands on the titanium handlebar. The cart groaned as its load shifted—elastic straps creaked, the sound of a ship settling on its keel. I took a long breath, tasting metallic ozone, and leaned forward.

  The copper door dilated, edges dissolving into a spinning cyclone of polygons. Beyond: pure white fog, the antechamber between worlds. It always smelled faintly of sea spray and overheated circuit boards—sacramental and industrial in the same breath.

  Step. The basement floor vanished. My boots touched nothing, yet propulsion carried me forward. Fractal light crawled across my sleeves, digitizing cloth, flesh, then the cart frame in cascading slices. Weight evaporated; the 1,196?pound load felt lighter than a whisper. For half a heartbeat I was data without density, a ledger line in divine RAM.

  I emerged in the concrete Bind?Point chamber with the soft pop of collapsing vacuum. The cart re?materialized a split?second later, slamming onto the industrial floor with a clang that echoed off raw cement. My knees buckled from the sudden return of mass; I held the handlebar until the world stopped spinning.

  Fluorescent lamps buzzed overhead, and the wall?mounted LCD flared to life:

  pgsql

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  WELCOME, TRAVELER

  CARGO DECLARED: 1,196?lb

  GATE TOLL (10?% CURRENT MARKET): $151,320.00 USD

  PAYMENT RECEIVED — CASHIER’S CHECK #0029

  TRANSFER SUCCESSFUL ? BIND?POINT UPDATED

  I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Thanks to my pre?written check stuffed under the Pelican lid, the universe’s mafia had been satisfied automatically.

  Behind me the Gate irised shut, copper reforming like cooling magma. Silence reclaimed the chamber—except for my pulse roaring in my ears.

  Immediate After?Action

  Toggle Cart Power — battery read 92?%.

  Chamber Check — Glock hot, AR still clear; safeties on.

  Manifest Confirmation — quick scan: nothing lost, nothing fused.

  The LCD pinged again, smaller font:

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  INVENTORY AUDIT ENABLED

  VERBAL COMMAND: “List Cargo”

  SYSTEM CREDIT BALANCE: $48.10

  Forty?eight bucks? Cute. The Gate tipped like a valet.

  “List cargo, compressed,” I muttered.

  A holographic list scrolled—serial numbers, counts, masses—floating green in the dusty air. All there. Good. Before heading out I The Ranger?X’s motor whirred in patient idle while I stood beneath the LCD, sweat cooling to salt at the nape of my neck. Anna’s world sprawled only a copper door away, yet the nagging truth hummed louder than any battery fan: two days hadn’t been enough last cycle. I needed real time—time to hunt pearls at her side, maybe even actually get to know her.

  I drew a breath that tasted of concrete dust and ozone.

  “System, set return window to four weeks.”

  A soft chirp answered, followed by a pulse of green light that rippled across the monitor. Lettering rendered itself in the astringent glow:

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  ? DEPARTURE TIMER UPDATED

  NEXT GATE OPENING: 28 DAYS (EARTH STANDARD) ± 180 SECONDS

  COSMIC TOLL WILL BE RECALCULATED AT EXIT

  KILL‐COUNT MONITOR ACTIVE

  HAVE A PRODUCTIVE CYCLE, TRAVELER

  Twenty?eight days. The number thudded in my chest—equal parts reprieve and responsibility. Four weeks meant planting winter greens in raised beds inside the wall; it meant drills on the archery lane I’d promised to cut behind the cottage. Four weeks also meant surviving a full lunar cycle in a borough that wagged its undead tail harder every time the moon fattened.

  “Confirm,” I said, voice steadier than I felt.

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  DEPARTURE TIMER LOCKED

  The text winked out, leaving only the dim ready prompt and a reflection of my own face—helmet lamp haloing sweat?shined eyes that looked too awake to be sane. I thumbed my radio—even though it could only squawk between me and the cart’s onboard Bluetooth—and muttered, “All right, partner, four weeks to change a world.” I thumbed on some Slaughter to Prevail, ‘Viking blaring in my helmet.’

  The Ranger?X answered with a low electronic warble, the kind of sound firmware engineers bury in menus as an Easter egg. I chuckled despite myself, palmed the throttle, and guided the 1,196?pound leviathan toward the door.

  Behind me, the copper door settled back into pure metal, fractals gone, keyhole gleaming like a pupil that had finally decided to blink. It would stay blind for twenty?eight long days. Everything that mattered now waited on the ruined streets outside of my cottage: a short?sword?wielding woman with a loot?goblin grin and a city that still thought it could break her.

  “Let’s see you try,” I whispered, and rolled out into the wrecked light.

  I thumbed the cart throttle. The Ranger?X lurched forward, rubber treads hissing. I eased it to walking pace: 3.2?mph, quiet enough to hear my own breathing but quick enough to outrun a standard roamer shuffle.

  As I rolled out of the second copper door and into the cottage, the cart’s head?lamps painted the old wood of the cottafe. Mildew and cold stone gave way to the Cottage—smoke?tinged, metallic, the distant carrion scent of roamers—but under it all I caught a faint, improbable note: peppermint soap. Anna must have used some of the stash. That small domestic miracle buoyed me more than the 5.56 at my hip.

  Hang on, loot goblin. Reinforcements inbound.

  The cart and I entered the shattered world, electric motor whining like an anxious drone, fractal afterimages still dancing behind my eyes.

  And somewhere out there, in the ruin’s purple dawn, Anna fought to keep a promise. I intended to keep mine.