Chapter 18: Rapid Return
Dawn filtered through the broken windows of the mill's upper level, rousing Mike from a fitful sleep. Every inch of his body protested as he pushed himself upright. The makeshift bandages he'd fashioned from drafting paper had stuck to his wounds, dried blood cementing them to his skin. The acid burns from the mantis's caustic fluids had formed angry red welts across his arm and shoulder, sending fresh waves of pain with each movement.
"Perfect way to start the day," Mike muttered, carefully peeling back the edge of a bandage to check the wound beneath. The gash across his chest had clotted, but would reopen easily without proper care. The cut on his arm looked marginally better, though both injuries would benefit from actual medical attention—a luxury this world didn't seem inclined to provide.
The mantis corpse lay where it had fallen, now completely desiccated. Overnight, the creature's remains had contracted and hardened, its once-iridescent exoskeleton now a dull gray husk that resembled weathered stone more than biological material. The acidic fluid had neutralized, leaving only faint etching in the wooden floor where it had pooled.
Mike gathered his few possessions—the ancient hammer, the newly acquired Crafter's axe, his pack, and the technical diagrams he'd found in the supervisor's office. Each movement was a careful negotiation with pain, but determination drove him forward. The special wood still waited below, and with it, his path back to Crafter's Haven.
Descending the spiral staircase proved challenging. His injured leg threatened to buckle with each step, forcing him to use the railing for support. By the time he reached the main floor, sweat beaded on his forehead from the effort and pain.
"Water first," Mike decided, making his way to his pack and retrieving the waterskin.
The cool liquid revived him somewhat, washing away the metallic taste of blood and providing temporary relief to his parched throat. He rationed the drink carefully—there would be plenty of water available on the journey downstream, but no guarantee it would be accessible at every moment.
With his immediate thirst quenched, Mike turned his attention to the special wood. The partially cut timber still lay on the workbench where he'd abandoned it during the mantis attack. In the morning light, its spiral grain pattern seemed even more pronounced, catching the sunlight and redirecting it in mesmerizing whorls that shifted with viewing angle.
"Let's see what this axe can really do," Mike said, lifting the Crafter's tool.
Where his woodcutter's axe had shattered against the mantis's chitin, this weapon had cleaved through it like butter. Would it prove equally effective against the special wood that had resisted his previous attempts at cutting?
Positioning himself carefully to avoid aggravating his injuries, Mike brought the axe down on the timber with a controlled swing. The blue-metal blade bit into the wood with surprising ease, sinking deep into the grain without the jarring resistance he'd experienced with conventional tools. The symbols etched along the edge flickered briefly as it made contact, a soft resonance passing up the handle to his ring.
"Now we're talking," Mike said, a smile breaking through his grimace of pain.
With the Crafter's axe, what would have been hours of exhausting labor became manageable work. The special wood yielded to the tool as if recognizing a kindred creation, allowing Mike to cut, shape, and notch it according to his needs. By mid-morning, he had processed enough timber for both his immediate transportation needs and the Void Ripper trap components.
The next challenge was getting the materials to the water. Mike had selected a mix of long beams, shorter planks, and several specialized pieces based on the trap blueprint he'd memorized. Together, they represented a considerable weight and bulk—particularly challenging given his injured state.
"One load at a time," he reminded himself, selecting several of the smaller pieces to start with.
The mill's water channel provided the obvious route. If he could construct a simple raft and float the material down to the river, the current would do most of the work for him on the journey back to Crafter's Haven. The challenge would be keeping everything together and manageable by a single injured person.
Using shorter lengths of the special wood and some conventional timber he found in the mill's storage, Mike constructed a framework at the edge of the mill pond where the water wheel once operated. The Crafter's axe proved invaluable for this work as well, enabling precise notching and shaping that would have been impossible with his previous tools.
The platform took shape gradually—a rectangular base approximately eight feet by twelve feet, with raised sides to prevent the cargo from shifting. Cross-braces provided structural integrity, while a rudimentary steering mechanism at the rear would allow some directional control in the current.
"Not exactly a luxury cruise," Mike murmured as he secured the last cross-brace, "but it'll float."
By early afternoon, the raft was complete. Mike had incorporated several clever features inspired by his construction experience—lashing points for securing cargo, a slightly raised section at one end that would serve as a somewhat dry seating area, and a pole mount for navigating shallow sections.
The real challenge came in loading the processed special wood. Each piece had to be carefully carried or dragged from the mill to the water's edge, then positioned and secured on the raft. Under normal circumstances, the task would have been merely strenuous. With his injuries, it became an exercise in pain management and determination.
Mike established a rhythm—lift, drag, rest, repeat. Each journey from the mill to the raft left fresh blood seeping through his makeshift bandages, but he pressed on, driven by the knowledge that each completed trip brought him closer to departure.
The largest beams required particular ingenuity. Unable to lift them alone in his weakened state, Mike created a simple roller system using logs placed at intervals along the path. Even with this mechanical advantage, moving the heaviest pieces took everything he had, leaving him gasping and light-headed from the exertion.
The sun had begun its westward descent by the time the raft was fully loaded and secured. Mike stood at the water's edge, surveying his work with a mixture of pride and exhaustion. The special wood was arranged in neat bundles, lashed down with vines and rope salvaged from the mill. His pack, containing the few supplies he had left, was fastened near the raised seating area, within easy reach during the journey.
Mike took a moment to dress his wounds one final time before departure. The gash on his chest had reopened during the loading process, fresh blood staining the drafting paper bandages. He replaced them with the last clean strips, binding them as tightly as he dared. The acid burns he left exposed to the air, having found that covering them only intensified the pain.
With a long pole cut from a straight sapling, Mike pushed away from the edge of the mill pond, guiding the raft toward the narrow channel that would lead back to the main river. The craft rode lower in the water than he'd calculated—a concerning development that suggested he'd either misjudged the wood's weight or underestimated the buoyancy requirements.
"Too late to rebuild now," Mike muttered, using the pole to navigate through a narrow section where overhanging branches threatened to snag the cargo.
The channel widened as it approached the junction with the river, the current growing stronger as the gradient increased. Mike found himself working harder to maintain control, his injured body protesting the strain. By the time the raft emerged into the main river, he was soaked with sweat despite the cool afternoon air.
The river itself presented both blessing and challenge. The stronger current meant faster progress toward Crafter's Haven, but also demanded more attention to navigation. Rocks, submerged logs, and narrow sections all presented potential hazards that could damage the raft or dislodge its precious cargo.
Mike established a position at the rear of the craft, using the pole and rudimentary rudder to make course corrections as needed. The first hour passed in tense concentration, his focus entirely on maintaining the safest path downstream. Gradually, as he grew accustomed to the raft's handling characteristics, he settled into a rhythm—watching ahead for obstacles, making minor adjustments, occasionally using the pole to push away from danger.
The landscape slid by with hypnotic consistency—forest giants giving way to smaller trees as the river carried him back toward the more open terrain surrounding Crafter's Haven. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the water, creating patterns that sometimes made submerged hazards difficult to distinguish. More than once, Mike felt the raft scrape against underwater obstacles, the sound setting his teeth on edge as he envisioned his carefully cut timber being damaged or lost.
Several hours into the journey, the river widened into a section of relative calm. Mike took the opportunity to rest, setting aside the pole and allowing the current to carry the raft without guidance. His injuries throbbed in dull synchronization with his heartbeat, the earlier exertion having taken its toll. He drank from his waterskin and ate one of the few tuna fruits he had packed, the strange fish-sweet flavor oddly comforting after days of unfamiliar surroundings.
As twilight approached, Mike faced a difficult decision. Continuing downriver in darkness would be dangerous, potentially risking the entire cargo if the raft struck an unseen obstacle. But finding a suitable place to moor for the night presented its own challenges—the banks were often steep or tangled with vegetation, making secure stops difficult.
Fortune provided a solution as the light faded. The river curved around a gentle bend, revealing a small cove on the northern shore where the current naturally slowed. A gravel bar extended into the water, creating a natural landing point where the raft could be secured for the night.
Using the last of his strength, Mike guided the craft toward the gravel bar, jumping into the shallows to pull it firmly aground once close enough. The cold water shocked his system, momentarily numbing the pain of his injuries as he dragged the raft partially onto the shore, securing it to several sturdy trees with salvaged rope.
"Home sweet home," Mike sighed, collapsing onto the raised section of the raft.
Night fell quickly, the unfamiliar stars appearing in patterns he was gradually learning to recognize. The air grew colder, his damp clothes clinging uncomfortably to his skin. A fire would have been welcome, but Mike decided against it—the open position on the riverbank left him too exposed, and the light might attract unwanted attention from whatever predators haunted this region.
Instead, he wrapped himself in the tarp-like material from his pack, creating a barrier against the night chill. Sleep came in irregular bursts, his injuries and the hard surface of the raft conspiring against proper rest. Each time he drifted off, the slightest sound would bring him back to wakefulness, hand automatically reaching for the axe or hammer beside him.
Dawn arrived mercifully clear, with no sign of the rain that often plagued this region. Mike rose stiffly, his injured body protesting the night spent on the hard surface. After a meager breakfast of dried meat and water, he pushed the raft back into the current, resuming the journey downstream.
The second day on the river proved smoother than the first. Mike had developed a feel for the raft's handling, anticipating how it would respond to different current patterns and obstacles. His body, despite its injuries, had adapted to the rhythmic demands of poling and steering. By midday, he recognized landmarks that indicated he was drawing closer to Crafter's Haven—a distinctive hill formation to the south, the gradual widening of the valley, the transition to more open meadowland along the banks.
Late afternoon brought the first major challenge of the day—a section of rapids where the river narrowed between rocky outcroppings. From his upstream position, Mike studied the white water carefully, plotting the safest course through the hazard. The raft was too heavily laden to portage around the rapids, leaving him no choice but to navigate through them.
"Just like that time on the Colorado," Mike muttered, recalling a whitewater rafting trip years ago with fellow construction workers. The memory seemed to belong to another lifetime, another person entirely.
Taking a deep breath, Mike positioned himself at the stern, pole braced against the river bottom for one final push into the faster current. Once committed, there would be no turning back—the rapids would carry the raft through at their own pace, his control limited to minor adjustments with the rudder.
The raft entered the rapids with increasing speed, the current gripping it like a living thing. Water sprayed across the cargo as the craft bounced over the first wave, soaking Mike instantly. He gripped the rudder with white-knuckled determination, making rapid adjustments to avoid the worst of the submerged rocks visible as dark shadows beneath the churning surface.
Halfway through the rapids, disaster nearly struck. A hidden current pushed the raft sideways, driving it toward a jagged rock formation that would have torn the craft apart on impact. Mike threw his entire weight against the rudder, simultaneously jamming the pole against the riverbed in a desperate attempt to change course.
The raft responded sluggishly, its momentum fighting against his corrections. For one heart-stopping moment, it seemed certain to crash. Then, at the last possible second, the current shifted, carrying the craft past the rocks with mere inches to spare. The side scraped briefly against stone, the sound of splintering wood barely audible above the roar of the rapids.
"That was too close," Mike gasped as the raft emerged into calmer water beyond the rapids.
Inspection revealed minor damage—a portion of the raft's edge had been torn away, and one of the cargo lashings had loosened. Mike made repairs as best he could while keeping the craft moving downstream. The near-disaster served as a sobering reminder of how quickly this journey could end in failure.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon, Mike caught his first glimpse of familiar territory—the distinctive hill formation that overlooked Crafter's Haven from the west. He was close now, perhaps only an hour's journey from the point where the stream that ran through the Haven joined the main river.
That junction would present the final challenge. Once there, he would need to guide the raft into the smaller tributary and navigate upstream to reach a point where he could safely unload near Crafter's Haven. The current would be against him, likely requiring him to pole or drag the raft manually for the final stretch.
Twilight was deepening by the time Mike reached the junction. The stream that would lead to Crafter's Haven entered from the southwest, its current noticeably gentler than the main river. Maneuvering the heavily laden raft into this tributary proved more difficult than anticipated. The river's flow wanted to carry him past the junction, forcing Mike to pole aggressively against the current, his injuries screaming in protest.
Through sheer determination, he managed to guide the craft into the stream, immediately feeling the change as the gentler current allowed more control but required more effort to maintain forward progress. Here, the water was too shallow in places for the raft to float freely with its heavy cargo. Mike found himself repeatedly jumping into the stream to push and pull the craft over sandbars and shallows.
Night had fallen completely by the time he recognized the stretch of stream nearest to Crafter's Haven. His entire body trembled with exhaustion, the wounds on his chest and arm having reopened during the strenuous final push. But the goal was in sight—a widened section of bank where he could moor the raft and begin the process of unloading.
With the last of his strength, Mike guided the craft to shore, securing it firmly to several sturdy trees with the remaining rope. He allowed himself to collapse onto the bank, breathing heavily as he stared up at the unfamiliar stars. He had made it back with the special wood, accomplishing the first major step in his plan to construct the Void Ripper trap.
"One down," he whispered to the darkness, "two to go."
Morning revealed the final challenge—moving the timber from the raft to Crafter's Haven itself. The distance wasn't great, perhaps half a mile through relatively open terrain, but the process would be painstaking given the weight and size of the materials and Mike's injured condition.
After a brief meal of his dwindling supplies, Mike began the arduous task of unloading. The smaller pieces came first, carried individually and stacked at the edge of the clearing. The medium-sized timbers followed, dragged along paths Mike cleared through the underbrush. For the largest beams, he again employed the roller technique, though the uneven ground made this far more challenging than at the mill.
The sun climbed higher as Mike worked, sweat soaking through his clothes despite the cool morning air. His wounds throbbed constantly, fresh blood staining the makeshift bandages with each exertion. More than once, he was forced to stop, light-headed from pain and effort, waiting for the dizziness to pass before continuing.
Mid-afternoon found him struggling with the final and largest beam—a twelve-foot length of the special wood that would form the central support of the trap. Despite the rollers, moving it required more strength than Mike could easily muster in his weakened state. He resorted to a series of short, incremental movements, advancing the massive timber mere feet at a time, resting between efforts.
As the sun began its westward descent, Mike dragged the last piece of special wood into the clearing surrounding Crafter's Haven. The ancient ruins stood as he had left them, undisturbed during his absence. No sign of the Void Ripper or other threats was visible, though Mike remained vigilant as he approached his shelter.
The underground entrance was secure, the stone hatch exactly as he had left it. Mike felt a surge of relief as he descended the stairs, the familiar surroundings offering a sense of security he had lacked for days. The storage chambers remained undisturbed, his supplies intact. Most importantly, the circular room with the pedestals showed no signs of intrusion—the interface that had revealed the trap design was still accessible.
After securing the hatch behind him, Mike allowed himself to truly rest for the first time since leaving the mill. He collapsed onto the simple bed he'd constructed in the main chamber, his body finally surrendering to exhaustion now that the immediate mission was complete.
The special wood was secured, piled near the entrance to Crafter's Haven where it would be accessible when needed. The Crafter's axe had proven its worth both in battle and in working the unique material. And Mike had survived, despite injuries that would have incapacitated a normal human before his level advancements.
One resource acquired, two remaining. The crystal components would be next—a journey to the northwest, to a mine marked on the interface map. But that would have to wait. For now, recovery was the priority.
As consciousness faded, Mike's thoughts drifted to the trap design he had been shown. With the special wood now in his possession, he was one significant step closer to constructing a defense against the Void Ripper. One step closer to security in this strange world. One step closer to finding a way home.
His last waking thought was of Sarah and Jeremy—their faces clear in his mind as sleep finally claimed him. Whatever trials lay ahead, he would face them. Whatever materials he needed, he would find them. Whatever it took to return to his family, he would endure.
The first piece was in place. The journey continued.