Split Camps

Please note: This story is a continuous, multi-chapter narrative. You can find the correct order in the right sidebar. All texts were originally written in German and translated into English using AI. I asked the AI to preserve the original stylistic flair wherever possible.   The day after the burial of the forest’s victims, the camp remained silent. It was as if everyone needed to think in solitude. Only a few gathered to speak about what had happened. The silence hung over the tents like an invisible bell—no one dared lift it, no one broke the spell. Even in the mess tent, barely a word was spoken.   Ebram fetched his breakfast himself, since none of his assistants made any move to think of him or bring him anything. After filling his plate and turning around, he had the distinct feeling that everyone was staring at him. That wasn’t quite true—but it wasn’t far off. Several eyes followed him as he left the tent. Outside, a shiver ran through him, followed by a wave of relief. He returned to his own tent quickly and decided to assign one of his assistants the important task of managing his meals. Nothing on earth would get him back into the mess tent at mealtime again.   The silence persisted throughout the day. None of the workers saw fit to resume their duties. Ebram sought out his assistants and asked them to join him in continuing the search around the area—but none were willing to go with him.   Eventually, equipped with his probe, he stood at the edge of camp—but managed only a few steps. Not because there was any barrier, but because the image of the man impaled mid-run forced itself into his mind’s eye. Suddenly, his legs refused to move. He was afraid. With a stiff smile, he squeezed his eyes shut and clenched one hand into a fist, trying to force himself forward—and did manage a few steps. But not many. His heart was racing, he could hear the blood pounding in his ears in rhythm with his pulse, and his hands were slick with sweat. He fought with himself internally; the dialogue played out visibly across his face. But fear won. After ten minutes of inner struggle, he stepped back twice, turned around, and reentered the seeming safety of camp.   By chance, he found himself near the stacked logs. He leaned against one, breathing heavily, and loosened his tie with trembling fingers. Once his breath had steadied, he looked again toward the forest’s edge—and struck the wood with his fist in frustration. The pain in his knuckles snapped him back to reality. He tucked the hand under his opposite arm and paced a little. Just briefly. Then he imagined how ridiculous he must have looked—and composed himself, scanning the area with a dignified expression. No one seemed to have witnessed the episode. Lucky. Head held high, he returned to his tent and decided to join the general inactivity. Tomorrow would be another day.     The next morning, life returned to the camp. Ebram peeked out of his tent and saw Bernard speaking with various people. Workers sat in trucks, armed with axes and saws—the work would resume today, and it seemed likely the camp could be moved deeper into the forest by tomorrow, or even tonight. A quick glance confirmed the assumption: some tents were being taken down, but to his surprise, two log cabins were being built. Puzzled, he stepped fully out of his tent and watched the carpenters with irritation. Shaking his head, he walked over to Bernard and waited impatiently for him to finish his conversation.   “Good morning, Ebram!” Bernard greeted him warmly—and Ebram was momentarily speechless. Being addressed by his first name was unfamiliar, and that gentle warmth completely disarmed him. He looked at the foreman and needed a moment before he could respond. Bernard’s smile widened; he seemed fully aware of its effect. Ebram felt swallowed, consumed—but not in a negative way. He was being seen. As a person. Not as an expedition leader. “Uh… good morning, Bernard,” he finally managed—and then stood there, utterly blank, having forgotten why he’d come.   His eyes searched the surroundings for a reason, his mind scrambling. “I… uh… wanted to…” His gaze landed on the construction site of the cabins—and relief washed over him. “…wanted to ask why permanent shelters are being built here? I thought we’d agreed to find the city!” Bernard stepped closer—not close enough to be intrusive, but near enough to speak quietly. “About a third of the workers want to stay here, Ebram.” The doctor opened his mouth to protest, but Bernard’s eyes and a subtle shake of the head made it clear he shouldn’t. Confused, Ebram closed his mouth again and gave him a questioning look. Bernard glanced around briefly—then gestured silently toward Ebram’s tent.       Ebram entered his tent with brisk steps; Bernard followed close behind. As soon as they were inside, Ebram threw up his hands in outrage. “More than a dozen workers want to strike? We should cut off their food…” He spun around to give his words weight—and found himself suddenly face-to-face with Bernard. The proximity startled him and broke his momentum. He looked up into the foreman’s face, which showed little enthusiasm, and stepped back. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to invade your space,” he said hoarsely. He swallowed hard—his throat was suddenly dry.   Bernard gave him time, watching him closely. When the silence grew heavy and Ebram still couldn’t find his voice, retreating instead to a glass of water, Bernard sighed softly. “Ebram—first of all, we’re on a first-name basis. And second: you can’t force anyone to come along. People are afraid. They feel safer here than in a city that might not even exist.” “The city does exist!” Ebram snapped, cutting in. Bernard stepped forward assertively. Ebram recoiled, but there wasn’t enough space. He held the glass between them like a shield. Bernard ignored it completely. “Again, Ebram: you can’t force them. That only leads to violence. And besides—is it really so bad to have a fallback point?” He leaned in slightly. Ebram arched backward, nearly losing his balance. Then Bernard stepped back and took a glass of water himself. “You need to stop seeing everything in the worst possible light.” He drank deeply while Ebram slowly regained his composure.   “Well… seen that way, a fortified fallback isn’t such a bad idea. But with fewer workers, we’ll make slower progress!” he argued. “True,” Bernard said. “But if a revolt breaks out here, we’ll have no workers at all.” He set down his glass.   Ebram didn’t dare set his own glass down and remained in the corner of the tent. Bernard walked to the entrance, turned once more, and smiled. “We’re moving tonight. Most of those coming with us are already setting up the new camp. So pack your things and have the tent taken down.” Then he was gone.   Ebram stared at the entrance for a few moments, then staggered to the table, set the glass down with a clink, and gasped for air—he hadn’t realized he’d been breathing so shallowly.   What had just happened? What kind of power was Bernard suddenly exerting over him? He dropped onto one of the stools and sat there for a while, lost in thought, staring into nothing.     When Ebram failed to reach any conclusion that made sense to him—having already ruled out several possibilities—he shelved the problem and turned to the task at hand. He packed his cases, summoned several assistants, had the tent dismantled, and ensured his belongings were safely stowed in one of the trucks. Afterward, he wandered through the camp until departure, trying to “see the positive”—which proved difficult. But at least he managed to greet people with a forced smile and refrained from scolding them with his usual stern gaze.   Near the kitchen tent, a hand suddenly grabbed his arm and dragged him inside. Ebram instinctively prepared to counter with a wrestling move—until he saw who had grabbed him: Abby. She immediately let go and pointed to a chair.   “Dr. Rolfo, you’ve been flitting around camp like a whore today. Bernard told me to check your head wound—but I can’t do that if you don’t come to me!” She sounded righteously indignant.   Reluctantly, he sat down and allowed Abby to examine the stitches. “Tell me, Abby—how is it that you and Mr. Hollwart seem to get along so well?” he asked formally. The young woman giggled softly. “Well, Mr. Hollwart and I have known each other for a while.” Ebram winced as a sharp pain flickered across his scalp while she gently probed the wound. “Are you from the same region?” Abby’s face suddenly appeared close to his. “Doctor—why do you care?” He flinched. “Just… curious?” Her face disappeared again. “No. We met in a bar. My father had hired Bernard, and when the project wrapped up, we all went out for drinks.” Ebram rolled his eyes but responded to what he considered a brazen lie with a polite smile. “A very interesting story, Miss Abby. Truly fascinating.”   After applying a few small bandages over the stitches, she released him back into the wild—with a firm reminder to return for a follow-up tomorrow. Ebram nodded politely and left the kitchen area at a brisk pace. That building held too many negative associations for him.   He spent the remaining time before departure at the edge of camp, observing the activity with a deliberately weighty expression. The hours passed slowly, but Ebram found them oddly entertaining. He compared the bustle to ants, scurrying back and forth with purpose. A vehicle drove straight toward him and stopped a few meters away—Bernard’s off-roader. Bernard himself sat behind the wheel.   “Care to ride with me, Ebram?” he asked, leaning sideways out the window.   They spoke little during the drive to the new camp. Ebram was itching to ask Bernard about Abby—but restrained himself. It irritated him that he couldn’t let the subject go. So he spent most of the ride staring out the window—and saw neither trees nor anything else.     Ebram’s tent was already set up at the new camp—which visibly pleased him. On previous occasions, his tent had always been among the last to be erected, and only because he’d explicitly instructed his assistants to do so. The off-roader stopped right at his tent entrance. Ebram got out and cast a brief glance back into the vehicle.   “Thanks for the ride—it was far more pleasant than the truck.” Bernard leaned over the passenger seat and replied with a grin: “My pleasure. Though I do hope you’ll be more talkative next time!” Ebram recoiled. The familiarity was almost too much—he scowled in irritation. Bernard noticed immediately. “But of course, you’re welcome to stay silent if that’s what you prefer.” He started the engine, ready to drive on.   Ebram instinctively stepped back, and the vehicle pulled away. He watched it go—and felt a pang of something. Something he couldn’t name.   Inside his tent, everything was already arranged—even his cases and the hammock in the adjoining room. Tomorrow, he decided, he would praise the assistant responsible. He got ready for the night, took his notebook from the lockable trunk—and then put it back. He had no desire to write, no strength to face what had happened. Instead, he reached for a book on the fundamentals of archaeology by Prof. Dr. Philipp Martin, lay down in the hammock, and began to read.   He must have fallen asleep—and woke to the sound of a faint groan. Confused, he turned to the side, only to realize he’d fallen out of the hammock again. The floor felt solid and cold. That snapped him fully awake. He looked around—but he was no longer in his tent. He was somewhere in the dark.   His fingers cautiously explored the ground: stone tiles. Some were broken. The slabs were large—at least sixty centimeters long and wide.   Again, the faint groan—from somewhere. He tilted his head, trying to locate the direction. After a few moments of silence, the sound came again—he jerked his head around. Nothing. So he stayed low and crawled toward it.   After a few minutes, he felt a worker’s boot—empty. He pushed it aside and continued. Then finally: something new. Something warm, damp, sticky. As he touched it, the groan of pain returned. He recoiled in shock and crawled several meters backward in fear.   “Hello?” he asked cautiously. “Who are you?”   A whimper. Then a faint, sluggishly spoken word—from a familiar voice: “Ebram?”   “Bernard?” He crawled forward again until he touched the sticky form once more—Bernard groaned in agony.   “Bernard—what happened?” He reached further, thought he felt toes—but the skin was slick and sticky.   “You… left… me…” Bernard gasped.   Ebram jolted awake—with a terrified cry.