Chapter 11 #3
The way he tested the bedding, the careful arrangement of the stones, the methodical selection of firewood—these weren't instincts.
These were skills. Knowledge passed down, demonstrated, practiced.
Somewhere in his past, before the fighting pits, before the trauma that stole his words and his memories, someone had shown him how to make a shelter. How to survive.
Which meant the memories were still there. Buried, maybe. Locked away behind walls of pain and fear. But not gone.
Not erased.
I pressed my hand against my mouth, fighting back the sudden sting of tears.
If he could remember this—if muscle memory and instinct could preserve these skills through everything he'd endured—then maybe other things could come back too.
Maybe the person he'd been wasn't lost forever.
Maybe, given time and safety and patience, pieces of him would resurface.
Parts of himself he thought were gone might still be fighting their way to the surface.
Watching him work with such practiced competence, I could see the ghost of that person. Still there. Still fighting to emerge.
When he finished the basic setup, he stood in the center of the cave and surveyed his work. His eyes found mine, and I saw the question there.
"It's perfect," I said softly. "You did an amazing job."
His expression shifted—something that might have been pride, or satisfaction, or maybe just relief.
He pointed at the cave's interior, then at himself, then at the forest beyond, back toward where we'd landed.
"The ship." Understanding dawned. "We should gather our supplies."
He nodded and held out his hand.
The clearing looked different in the afternoon light—the sun hung lower now, casting longer shadows that deepened the colors and softened everything's edges.
Enslak stayed close, his body angled slightly in front of mine, his eyes constantly scanning the tree line.
Every few steps, he'd pause and listen, his head tilting, his entire body going still as he assessed some sound or scent I couldn't detect.
That constant vigilance should have made me nervous. Instead, it made me feel safe.
The ship sat exactly where we'd left it, the hatch still open, the ramp extended. We climbed aboard and I started pulling out the supplies Binwee had packed.
Water containers—six of them, each holding maybe five gallons.
Food stores in sealed containers—dried meat, preserved fruits, something that looked like protein bars but tasted better.
Medical supplies in a compact kit—a small medi-unit, bandages, antiseptics, pain medication, the injector George had given me that I'd already sworn never to use.
Blankets—thermal ones that would keep us warm even on cool nights. A small toolkit.
Everything we'd need to survive for a month.
Enslak helped me carry it all, his massive arms handling loads that would've taken me three or four trips.
He moved with quiet efficiency, understanding without words what needed to be done.
When we'd emptied the cargo area of everything useful, I stood in the ship's doorway and stared at the empty space.
We were really staying here. On this alien planet, in that cave, with nothing but these supplies and each other. Thirty days. Maybe longer if I couldn't reach him.
I'd heard stories—read articles, watched documentaries, met victims and cops who'd been through things that defied description.
People who'd survived trauma, who'd been through hell and come out the other side.
Some healed in months. Others took years.
Some were still healing decades later, still working through it, still fighting battles no one else could see.
How long would it take Enslak?
He'd come out of sedation enraged—thrashing, snarling, eyes wild with something I couldn't reach. But then he'd seen me. Really seen me. And something shifted in his expression, the fury draining away like water through sand.
He'd been protective after that. He wasn't verbal—hadn't spoken since that single utterance of my name.
But he understood me. He was communicating.
Through gestures. Through the way he'd point at things and wait for my response.
Through how he'd tilt his head when I spoke, understanding, processing, thinking.
Whatever violence or madness had gripped him on the Bardaga, I couldn't imagine it now. Not from the Enslak standing beside me.
I knew without a doubt that he was still in there. Buried under layers of trauma and survival instinct, maybe. Struggling to surface through the damage the pits had done. But there. Present. Healing.
And I'd stay as long as it took for him to find his way back.
We made our way toward the cave, both of us loaded down with supplies.
The walk was slower this time, our pace dictated by the weight we carried.
Enslak never complained, never suggested we make multiple trips.
He just adjusted his grip and kept moving, supplies draped across his broad shoulders, his eyes still scanning for threats.
We'd gotten maybe fifty feet from the ship when something made me look back.
Maybe it was instinct. Maybe I just wanted one last look at the vessel that had brought us here—our only connection to the rest of the galaxy. Whatever the reason, I turned.
And froze.
Prints.
All around the ship. Pressed deep into the soft earth of the clearing. Paw prints. Large ones. Some bigger than my hand.
They hadn't been there before.
"Oh my God," I breathed, my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs. "Were those there when we landed?"
But I knew they weren't. I would've seen them. We would've noticed them when we first left the ship.
Which meant...
"They came while we were inside," I said, my voice shaking. "While we were gathering supplies. They were right outside."
I thought of all the predators I knew—velociraptors, deinonychus, the coordinated killers that moved in packs.
Then the mammals: lions and tigers and bears.
Wolves. Hyenas. All the Earth animals that hunted in numbers, that surrounded their prey, that used intelligence and cooperation to bring down things bigger than themselves.
A cold chill ran down my spine.
We weren't on Earth. This was an alien world, and I had no idea what kind of predators evolved here. What kind of teeth and claws and instincts they possessed.
And a pack of them—ten or more—had surrounded our ship while we were inside it, oblivious.
Enslak set down his load carefully and moved back toward the ship, gesturing for me to stay put. I watched as he circled the vessel, studying the ground, his movements deliberate and focused.
Some of the prints were enormous—easily twice the size of my hand.
Whatever made them had to be massive. Powerful.
Built for hunting. The claw marks alone told me everything I needed to know about how deadly they were.
These weren't the claws of a scavenger or an herbivore.
These were weapons, designed to catch, to hold, to kill.
I looked at the tree line, suddenly seeing it differently. Not beautiful. Not peaceful. Dangerous. Full of things that could tear us apart without breaking stride.
"We were so exposed," I said. "We didn't even know. We were just there. Loading supplies. And they were right here, watching us."
Enslak moved to stand beside me, his hand finding mine. When I looked up at him, his expression was calm. Not surprised. Not concerned.
He'd known.
"You knew there were predators here," I said. It wasn't a question.
He nodded and touched his nose. He'd scented them.
"That's why you were so careful choosing the cave." Understanding flooded through me. "You weren't just looking for comfort. You were looking for protection."
Another nod. He pointed at the tracks around the ship, then gestured toward our cave. Then he made a motion with his hands—something that took me a moment to interpret. Distance. Separation.
"They don't go near the cave," I said slowly. "These tracks are all around the ship, but they don't venture toward where we're staying."
He nodded, more emphatically this time. Then he pointed toward the cave and made a gesture I recognized—the narrow entrance. The defensible position. The clear sightlines he'd been so careful to secure.
"Thank you," I said, my voice thick. "For keeping us safe."
He touched my face, his fingers gentle against my cheek. His gaze was soft and warm, making me feel protected in a way I'd never experienced before.
I took one last look at the ship and the predator tracks surrounding it, then turned back toward the cave. "We should go. Before they come back."
When we finally reached the cave, relief hit me so hard it made me dizzy. We carried the supplies inside and began organizing our temporary home.
Enslak arranged the water containers along one wall—easily accessible but out of the way.
I unpacked the food stores, setting them on the flat stones he'd positioned for exactly this purpose.
The medical kit went near the bedding, close enough to reach quickly if needed.
I spread the blankets over the grass-like plants he'd gathered, creating a soft, warm sleeping area.
We worked in comfortable silence, moving around each other with surprising ease. He'd hand me something just as I reached for it. I'd step aside just as he moved to place another stone. Like a dance we'd practiced, even though this was our first time.
When everything was arranged—when our cave looked less like a hollow in the rock and more like a place where people actually lived—I stepped back and surveyed our work.
It was cozy. That was the word that came to mind. More than that, though—it felt safe. Protected. Enslak had made sure of it.
I looked at him, at this massive, scarred being who'd been treated like an animal for a century but still retained the instinct to protect, to provide, to care.