Chapter?21 (Shared POV)

  The key’s pulse inside my palm accelerated—an insistent, almost painful throb that told me the Gate would open again soon. A glance at my watch confirmed it: 47?minutes. After that, the door would either drag me home automatically or, if I missed the window, strand me here until the next cycle—whenever that might be.

  But Anna stood in front of me—alive, scarred, eyes bright with a defiance that made my chest ache. I had forty?seven minutes to explain a lifetime.

  I set the hammer aside and spoke in a rush.

  “Anna, the copper door is… a portal. It links this world to mine—modern New?York, no virus, no roamers. Every time I pass through, a system—like a video?game interface—charges me ten?percent of whatever I’m carrying. Cash, weapons, even the clothes on my back. If I can’t pay, I can’t return. The countdown you see on my face? That’s how long I have before the Gate yanks me back.”

  She blinked, absorbing. “So you’re commuting through hell on a timer.”

  “Exactly.”

  Anna

  The words sounded insane, but the shimmering copper surface behind him hummed with the same low vibration I’d felt beneath the outpost basement. Proof enough not to mention the whole fractal disapearence he had pulled.

  Joshua

  I felt heat flood my cheeks—gratitude mixed with shame. She’d risked her life for paper that would follow me through the door. “Thank you,” I managed. Then: “I’m leaving everything else here. The hammer, the guns, pearls, food—yours. Reinforce the windows, set noise traps on the yard. The roamers are thinner out here, but not gone.”

  She crossed her arms, studying me. “How long until you’re back?”

  “If nothing goes wrong? Twelve hours my time—one Gate cycle. I’ll aim for the same door.” I hesitated. “Lock from the inside. if anyone comes through That’ll be me.”

  Anna

  The plan was half?mad, but better than no plan. I nodded.

  00:47:12 — Inventory of Two Survivors

  Joshua

  The Gate’s silent metronome ticked at the base of my skull—forty?seven minutes, eleven seconds, ten. Each pulse tightened the copper threads lacing the skeleton key in my palm. I laid out my crumpled bills: wrinkled fifties stuck together with roamer gore, blood?flecked hundreds, a few limp twenties. “Eight?thousand, five?hundred forty?five dollars,” I muttered, forcing order onto the chaos of currency. “Enough to buy plywood and maybe a box of nails, but the ten?percent toll will shave it thin.”

  Anna

  I watched him smooth filthy money as though he were a bank teller instead of a half?starved man in a ruin. Strange to see old?world bills treated like treasure. From my pack I pulled rolls bound by shoelaces, rubber bands, even a strand of old dental floss. They hit the coffee?table with soft plaps, a waterfall of green. “Thirteen thousand,” I said. “Saved from roamer pockets, desk drawers, the back seats of minivans. Dead weight here—literal weight, if you’re lugging it on a bad leg.”

  He stared, gray eyes reflecting copper. “Twenty?one?five,” he breathed. “After the Gate’s ten?percent skim, nineteen?three. That’s… life?changing.”

  “For us,” I corrected. “Spend it on things that won’t rot. Things we can defend.”

  00:43:00 — Currency of Two Worlds

  The conversation unfurled like blueprints across the dusty room:

  Anna: “First priority: materials. Two?by?fours, plywood, rebar. Enough to board windows three layers deep.”

  Joshua: “I can fit thirty or forty pounds if I convert cash to gold chains. Pawn shops move fast; jewelry’s dense.”

  Anna: “Wire mesh for the lower windows. Nails by the bucket. Barbed wire spool if you find a farm supply.”

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  Joshua: “Got it. I’ll hit Canal Street—those places never ask questions.”

  Anna: “Medicine. Powdered antibiotics, iodine swabs, antiseptic cream. Not the cheap off?brand trash.”

  Joshua: “Pharmacy supply warehouses in Jersey—cash only, no ID. I can swing it.”

  Anna: “Bring tools: crowbar, bolt cutters, a real hammer.”

  Joshua: “Crowbar, bolt cutters, framing hammer—done. Anything personal?”

  Anna: “Soap. Coffee. And a new toothbrush.”

  Joshua:“Luxury package, coming up.”

  00:38:25 — The Mechanics of the Gate

  Then he did something that startled me: kicked off his boots, stripped the jacket, shirt, jeans—everything—until he stood in nothing but road?grimed skin and a pair of threadbare boxers. A constellation of bruises and healing cuts mapped his ribs.

  I busied myself stacking the pearls and weapons, pretending naked men were an everyday sight. “Hurry, city boy.”

  Copper light rippled over the cottage walls, bleeding into every crack of splintered molding as if the building itself were beginning to thaw. Outside, the sun had barely cleared the rooftops; inside, the air hummed with an energy that felt older than the city and sharper than the war?hammer resting on the floor.

  He lifted the skeleton key. Copper filaments crawled across its teeth, casting tiny sparks. “The system treats everything I carry as taxable cargo,” he explained. “Ten percent of the cash value disappears—gone—each transit. Clothing counts, weapons count, even a pen in my pocket. Lighter loads mean smaller tolls.”

  “So you cross naked.” I folded arms, pipe resting in the crook of my elbow. “You’re insane.”

  “Efficient,” he corrected, though a blush climbed his neck. “I’ll buy clothes on the other side for pennies at a thrift shop. Leave them there next trip.”

  “What about weight?” I asked. “Gold’s dense. Does the Gate care?”

  “It taxes value, not mass. Diamonds, bullion—high worth, low penalty after conversion back here.”

  I nodded, filing that away. The Gate was a cruel accountant, but at least its rules could be gamed.

  00:34:10 — The Disarmament

  “You’re trusting me with a lot of steel,” I said, breaking the silence.

  He met my gaze. “Trust is lighter than suspicion. And right now I need light.”

  The war?hammer’s head was dark with dried viscera. I hefted it: heavy, perfectly balanced. “I’ll put it to good use.”

  00:30:00 — Bandages and Blanket

  The cottage’s chill raised gooseflesh on his bare arms. I rummaged through my pack and produced a threadbare wool blanket, faded tartan. “Keep the gate fee small,” I said, “but not at the cost of hypothermia.” I draped it over his shoulders. He flinched—maybe from the intimacy, maybe from gratitude—then tucked it tighter.

  He wrapped the cash in a strip of clean cloth torn from an old pillowcase, bound it with dental floss, then tucked it beneath the blanket. The bundle looked obscene, like an organ removed from a body.

  00:27:15 — The Apology

  Words burst from him like a dam giving way. “Anna, the plaza—when I vanished—I didn’t choose it. The Gate triggered on its own. I tried to stay. I swear.”

  Memories of fractal light, the copper door swallowing him, the shock of being alone—anger and relief tangled in my throat. “You came back,” I managed. “That’s what matters. Don’t make me regret trusting you.”

  His eyes shone wetly in the candlelight. “I won’t.”

  00:24:00 — Logistics and Code

  We hammered out final details:

  If the cottage fell, I’d leave chalk arrows toward a new rendezvous point: the Ivy?covered house two blocks south.

  If he missed the return window, I’d ration supplies for seven days, then seek the scavenger outpost for help.

  “Seven days,” he repeated, committing it to memory. “I’ll be back before twelve hours, but… contingencies.”

  00:20:00 — The Door Breathes

  Copper lines on the door brightened, as if sensing its key. The hum deepened from a cat’s purr to a church organ. Candle flames leaned toward it, drawn by an unseen draft. The blanket around Joshua’s shoulders fluttered.

  He stepped backward until copper kissed the bare skin of his spine. Tiny sparks danced where door met flesh. “Time’s short,” he said. “Upgrade the barricades first. And boil water before you drink.”

  I raised the war?hammer in salute. “Bring my coffee.”

  A shaky laugh. “Strong, black, no apocalypse.”

  I swallowed. “Stay alive. I’ll bring back more than soap, I promise.”

  She smirked. “Bring coffee. And a crowbar.”

  “Deal.”

  00:18:07 — Transit

  He rotated the key. The door’s engravings ignited—skyscrapers blooming into molten lines, ruined streets glowing like lava veins. Light swallowed his feet, climbed his calves. He clutched the cash bundle to his chest; the blanket flared orange, then vanished molecule by molecule. For a heartbeat his face hovered—naked vulnerability framed by resolve—then the Gate consumed him. Copper shards spiraled inward, collapsing like a closing iris, and the room fell dark but for the sputtering candle.

  Silence hit like a concussion wave. The air smelled of ozone and old pennies.

  00:17:00 — Aftermath

  I exhaled, a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. Around me lay an arsenal: war?hammer, pistol, shotgun, sword. And on the floor, a single pearl—must have rolled from Joshua’s discarded pouch. I scooped it up, its faint warmth pulsing against my palm, a reminder of stats and strength.

  “Seven days,” I whispered to the empty room, then shook my head. No—twelve hours. He’d said twelve. I could endure twelve.

  I set the pearl beside the candle, picked up the hammer, and turned toward the nearest window. Outside, sunlight had fully breached the horizon, igniting dust motes like tiny comets. The world wanted in; my job was to keep it out.

  I planted my feet, hefted the hammer, and drove the first nail of our future into the cottage frame—wood splintering, hope ringing in every strike.