Sam forced himself to his feet, dragging the corpse away from where the guts had spilled, retching at the smell. He doubted he would eat it, but he didn't want to contaminate the meat if he did. Fire had quickly become his top priority. With the light fading, he needed to be able to see to complete his shelter.

  He did a quick survey of the area, knife in hand in case the bushes produced any more rats. He chose a spot next to the pond where the base of the fallen tree created a natural dirt wall, with a stone outcropping on one side. It formed a sort of natural den, with the roots and rock providing plenty of cover.

  It wasn't perfect, but it would only require moderate modifications to provide him with shelter if it rained. He assumed it rained, given the overall health of the forest, but he realized he had no idea. For all he knew, an underground water supply could sustain the whole thing.

  He sat and stared down at the pile of needles he had gathered, alongside the bundles of small twigs and sticks. The needles looked familiar, but the colours were all wrong, with dashes of red, blue and purple mixed among the green.

  This should be freaking me out. Why isn't this freaking me the fuck out?

  He rubbed dirt between his fingers; it felt normal enough. Was it possible he was still on Earth? He’d assumed he'd been transported to some sort of other dimension, but was it possible he was just in some remote forest?

  No. He recalled the flash of blue light the creature had given off right before it had charged. That wasn't normal, that was…magic? He was having trouble reconciling that. All his adult life had been devoted to the study of the observable world. Suddenly, he was faced with the very real evidence that everything he thought he knew was wrong. Not just wrong but woefully incomplete.

  He shifted, somehow feeling as though gravity itself wasn't quite right. Not Earth, then, this was someplace else. The too-yellow sun was the nail in the coffin. Whatever that portal was, it had somehow transported him to another planet…possibly a different galaxy. Which meant that if they could get him here, then they could get him back.

  The text he’d received had said there were rewards for winning, for climbing all the way to the top of Mt. Olympos. He still had no idea what that actually entailed, but if that’s what he needed to do—then he’d do it.

  He felt a flutter of warmth in his chest at the thought. Yes. If there is a chance to get home, I’m going to find it. If I have to kill more rats, so be it. The decision seemed to steady something inside him. He was here, wherever here was. It was as real as anything else, so he’d treat it that way. He’d gather intel, make a plan, and figure out how to get home.

  He nodded to himself and withdrew the rock from his pouch. A few sharp strikes from the back of his knife confirmed his theory as sparks rained down on the pile of resin-covered needles. They caught almost instantly, and he layered on small sticks, and finally, larger branches. He sat with his back against the dirt wall and enjoyed the warmth given off by the small flame.

  He’d need to gather more firewood, but at least he has some protection from the local wildlife. He recalled reading that most predators avoided fires. Still, it was best to be prepared. He spent the next twenty minutes gathering firewood, stopping occasionally to drink from the pond. The water helped keep the hunger at bay, but he knew he’d be pissing like a racehorse if he kept it up.

  That made him wonder what would happen when he eventually found something to eat. The plants were mainly devoid of leaves. What would he do when he needed to take a shit?

  That's a problem for future me, he thought to himself, throwing more branches on the pile.

  He started ranging farther afield and glimpsed light reflecting off of similar ponds to his own. That at least meant he'd be able to wash himself. His nose had finally adjusted to the smell of rat blood, but he still wanted to give his hands and clothes a proper cleaning.

  Once his woodpile was large enough, he started working on phase two of his plan. While putting a roof on the shelter was certainly important, an idea occurred to him as he broke a long branch off a dead standing pine. If he needed a weapon, why not use humanity’s first?

  The branch in question was about four feet long and almost perfectly straight. He had to knock off a few small twigs with his knife, but most of the branch was smooth. What bark remained was easy to peel off as he got to work shaving the tip into a sharp point. If there were more creatures like the rat, they'd likely be closer to the ground; the spear would give him much-needed reach and another option besides his knife.

  While he finished his weapon, the final rays of sunlight finally dissipated. Something about it was still off to him, twilight lasting much longer than it should have. He’d figure it out when he got out of the forest and could get a proper look at the sun.

  He stood and readied himself to head out for more wood—this time for the shelter. Spear in hand, he felt more confident walking out into the dark. The light from his fire reached a fair distance, and there were a few promising trees he had his eye on.

  Not five feet from the fire, he heard a twig snap.

  He froze, eyes straining to make out the source of the sound. It had come from directly in front of him: something was moving.

  He took slow steps backward, makeshift spear held at the ready. He backed up beside the fire and booted the coals against the stone outcropping, throwing on a few larger pieces of wood for good measure. The fire roared to life, creating an undulating wall of flame. With his back against the dirt, there was only one way forward, a narrow path between the roots.

  He stood, weapon poised, senses seeking out the movement his instincts told him was just beyond the fire. The night seemed to close in around him, and whatever stars or moon this planet had provided almost no light. He squinted and realized the fire had one significant disadvantage—he couldn't see.

  Everything beyond the flame eroded into nothing. He blinked, trying to shock his eyes, but it was useless. His night vision was gone.

  His heart began to pound as he heard more twigs snap. Squeaks and hisses began to sound in the night, spreading out in front of him. They appeared then, five rats creeping at the edge of the firelight. They were smaller than the one he’d killed earlier, with splotches of white fur interspersed among the black. Their beady eyes were the same, though, reflecting the light, floating silver orbs out in the blackness.

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  They aren't afraid of the fire, he realized, berating himself. They were drawn to it. Fire meant life, meant people. He understood the reason they weren't afraid of making noise in these woods, weren't afraid of drawing predators.

  They were the predators.

  He set his shoulders, baring his teeth. He was afraid, but not as much as he thought he’d be. He’d tried avoiding it before, looking away, pushing it down the road. Fear, anxiety, they'd always been with him in some way. School, work, deadlines, tests. All things that would hurt, but wouldn't kill him. If he failed, he had a safety net; he could always try again, get a new job or retake a course. For the first time in his life he was taking a test he couldn't afford to fail.

  Some twisted part of him found it exhilarating. Though it was probably just the adrenaline, pumping from a portion of his brain he realized he'd never actually used; something dark, something primal. The drive that had goaded humans out of their caves and urged them to hunt creatures ten times their size. Fight or flight.

  Tonight he fought.

  The first rat dove at him from just beyond the fire, shrieking as it lunged. He was ready. He planted his feet, eyes locked on the flying mass of fur.

  He thrust with his spear.

  And missed.

  It dove under the shaft, landing on his upper thigh, fangs sinking into the flesh. He screamed, and his voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. He pried off the rat with the haft of the spear, blood spurting from the wound. The rat flailed on the ground, and he stabbed it, his voice tearing in his throat as he felt the spear embed itself in the earth, skewering the beast. It thrashed a few times and went still.

  The other rats let out a chorus of low growls and began advancing, skirting around the fire, looking for an opening. The heat of the flames washed over him, making him sweat.

  Could I set my spear on fire? No. That's stupid. Why would I burn my weapon? He kicked some of the coals at the nearest rat instead, grinning as it scrambled away shrieking, embers catching in its fur.

  The next two dove in quick succession. He batted the first one out of the way and caught the second one with his boot, knocking it into the fire. The first tried to recover, but he managed to bash it across the back, stunning it. He kept beating it, using the spear as a club. At some point, he heard a sharp crack as the rat’s spine broke.

  The two remaining beasts eyed him wearily, the injured one limping from its burns. Their eyes seemed to glow in the dark, and Sam steadied himself, weary, waiting for that impossible burst of speed.

  They stared at each other for what felt like minutes, their small forms staying just outside of the glow of the fire. Sam’s nose twinged, the acrid smell of burning fur making him cough. The rat he’d kicked into the fire had been quickly engulfed, sending up a cloud of dark smoke.

  This seemed to enrage the remaining rats, who finally broke cover and charged at him, squeals piercing the night. This time, he successfully caught one on the end of his spear, but the other managed to jump on his leg, sinking its teeth into his shin just above his boot. He yelled and dropped the spear, trying to pry it off.

  The rational part of his brain knew he should draw his knife and stab it, but the animal part of it could feel it digging into him, could feel the weight of it dragging him down.

  He panicked, smashing its head with his hands, trying desperately to tear it free. It loosened its grip, and Sam stumbled, its claws ripping his flesh as it dove towards his face. He fell backwards, hitting his head on a root, disoriented as he tried to shield his face with his hands. He felt the beast’s mouth close on his left pinky finger, and time seemed to stand still.

  Crunch

  He could hear the cartilage tear as the rat bit the finger clean off. His eyes flashed white with pain, and he almost lost consciousness, his whole body flooding with a sickening flush. His vision was reduced to a single throbbing point as he managed to grab the rat around the throat and pushed it down into the searing coals.

  Their cries competed as they echoed through the forest—equal parts anger and pain. The rat writhed as it burned, the fire scorching Sam’s hand and forearm, but he didn't care. This fucking rat was dead. He didn't care what it took to kill it, as all the emotions he’d pushed down since awakening in the woods boiled over.

  The anger at being thrown into this world, of being pulled away from his life, his friends, his parents. Of not being able to tell them he hadn’t chosen to leave, hadn’t run away. All of it condensed into a red-hot rage as he ground the rat's skull into the glowing coals, its brain sizzling as it leaked out of its ears.

  He let go, staring down at the unrecognizable corpse, blood flowing into the flames from his stump. He stood tall, breathing heavily, but somehow feeling good. He’d faced down the hunters in the dark, and he’d lived. He felt invigorated; the cold night air seemed to dance on his skin, a vibrant contrast to the warmth of the fire. He drank it in, and it was almost as if energy was being pumped into his body, tingling motes that wove along his back and down his spine.

  The moment quickly passed, and he looked down at his arm, the shock of seeing his maimed finger a contrast to the elation he'd just been feeling. That couldn't be his hand, could it? He flexed it, and blood hissed as it rained down on the coals.

  At some point during the fight, his knife had fallen into the fire, and he reached down to pull it out. The handle was covered in ash but otherwise undamaged. The blade itself glowed a soft red, and in a moment of calculated insanity, he pressed the knife against his ragged stump, cauterizing the wound.

  He tried to scream as pain tore up his arm, but no sound came out. The veins on his forehead throbbed, neck muscles straining as his body rebelled. He held it until he couldn't any longer, dropping the knife in the dirt.

  The wound was an angry red, but it no longer pumped blood—the flesh crusted and charred. Sam went to take a step, but his legs gave out, the wounds on each of them still losing a frightening amount of blood. He cut a ragged strip from the bottom of his tunic and used it to make a rough bandage. The pain was starting to creep in now—the initial shock had kept most of it at bay. Both legs were in bad shape, between the puncture wounds and lacerations from the rats’ claws. He could stand if he had to, but he wouldn't be running anywhere anytime soon.

  The corpses in the fire were really starting to sizzle now, and his stomach instinctively responded to the smell of charred meat. He should have found it revolting, but the animal part of him revelled in it.

  As the adrenaline started fading, the reality of the situation began to set in. He was alone in the woods, in another dimension, surrounded by the corpses of monster rats, corpses he had made. The moment of elation after the last rat died had shocked him; was this really who he was? Before tonight, he’d never even been in a fist fight. The closest he’d come to violence was karate lessons or wrestling in high school gym class.

  No, as he sat there in the dirt, the revulsion at what he’d done began to crystallize. One of the corpses was still twitching, his spear embedded in its gut. He pulled the stick free and used it to knock the other rats out of the fire, the smell of burnt fur making his eyes water. He stared at the last body, his stomach twisting at the thought of food. Could he really do it? Could he eat a burnt rat?

  He sat there for a long time, the pain from his wounds preventing him from getting comfortable. The fire began to burn low, and his woodpile had been scattered in the fight. Cold started to creep in, light from the moon or stars casting the forest in a dim, monotone grey.

  Sam had just begun to doze when he heard a noise. His eyes snapped open, and he sat bolt upright, knife in hand. The forest appeared still, but something in the back of his mind screamed danger as he scanned the surrounding woods. His eyes strained, searching for the source of the sound; the last embers of the fire provided scant illumination.

  Then he saw it. The outline of a hunched figure crouching between the trees. The branches above it shifted in the breeze, the dim light illuminating a set of glowing, predator eyes.

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