That’s how long it’s been since Michael went through.
He’d taken the bag. There were two, one green sixty-five litre rucksack and one shoulder bag. Michael’s had all the survival gear. The fishing gear, the rain covers, the bandages. All of the currency. We called it the live and go bag.
The other one, the shoulder bag. That was the die and go bag. It had the weaponry. Everything we’d collected over the years. Two pistols. Completely illegal, by the way, but we had them. Two rifles. Those we actually had permits for. I was the better shot with the rifle, but Michael could take out five tin cans in a row from twenty metres with the pistols. And ammunition out the wazoo.
That was just our thing. We were prepared for anything. Had been since the start. But this… This was all about the gate.
Four days ago, the gate had appeared in our room. An eight foot door in the wall. Cold flames bursting across it’s flat surface, iron bars sunk into the fiery facsimile of wood. No heat, just turbulence and fury under a thin veneer of ice.
It’s the last place you’d expect for any strange appearance, our shared flat above a chinese takeaway but would you believe it, we came back from The Undercroft after a few whiskies and there it was. Shining, shimmering, terrifying.
We had an argument. I said we had to tell someone. He said we should go through it. It got aggressive. I’d said some incredibly derogatory things about his mother and a duck, he’d told me to roll my opinion into a cylinder and insert it length ways.
Then twenty four hours later, there’d been a hole in the dust. Shaped rather a lot like a sixty-five litre rucksack that was full of food, fishing gear and rain covers.
So I’m sat here. Waiting for Michael. Or I could…
If I let myself think about this, I’ll chicken. I’ll just…
The die and go bag is in my hand already.
I’ve gone through. Into the unknown.It’s hot. It’s dusty. And the door is gone.
It’s time to find Michael.
The Idiot in Tin Foil