It had been a minute or two since Dean woke up. He was now pretty sure this wasn't Glasgow. For one thing, it was hot. Taps aff hot... It was supposed to be December, a week or so before the new year, the last time he checked. Snow was predicted over the next few days. He enjoyed the snow, especially when it coincided with the winter festivities. Not Scotland, then. Probably not anywhere nearby either. His first guess was Australia.

  The last thing he could remember was that he was a rite mess. He’d just been laid off and arrived home to find his girlfriend, Sophie, in bed with his best friend, Rob. Naturally, he dropped everything to drink away what little he had in his savings. He vaguely remembered flashes of being booted from the last bar somewhere and stumbling his way to the bank of the Clyde near Kingston Bridge.

  He sobbed. The real ugly stuff. Snot and saliva everywhere. Usually, in stories like this, there would be a suspicious truck hurtling down a nearby street, only to veer wildly, or a mysterious figure falling into the river, just begging to be saved. Maybe there was. Maybe.

  Laying there, curled up with the worst hangover he had felt in, well, forever, he thought about how he ended up wherever the hell he was. No polis would let him into the airport, let alone a plane in whatever state he was in last night, but maybe someone nabbed him off a quiet street, stole one of his kidneys, and dumped him out in the Bush to cover their tracks, which would also explain why he was missing his phone and wallet, so that was his running theory for now.

  He also realized that he was given a new set of clothes, which was probably due to all the vomit and blood, maybe even urine. His kidnappers, or rescuers, whatever they were, must have stopped by a costume shop on their way, too, because he was dressed like a cowboy; they had even given him a knife. How considerate! He pulled the blade free of its sheath and marvelled at its intimidating profile. ‘Call that a knife?’ he muttered, swinging it above his head experimentally. He decided to name it ‘Sheila.’

  Having had enough of the dirt floor for now, Dean got up and put the knife away, examining his surroundings the best he could. He was pretty much blind without his glasses, so he was forced to lean in and squint at everything. He was in a cave with a wide mouth and an earthen roof. Judging by the light that cascaded into the cave, it was either early morning or late afternoon.

  His attention was drawn to the only thing of note in the whole cave, a small plant with wide, teal leaves that seemed to sparkle in the sun. As his entire focus was drawn into the plant, he reeled in pain. His head was absolutely killing him; he fell to his hands and knees with the pain, his nose bled, his eyes watered, and fell unconscious.

  He woke up sometime later, with the sun no longer flooding his shelter. Wiping the sticky, damp blood from his face, he sat up once more. Sure enough, he was still in some cave in the middle of nowhere, Australia. Remembering the plant that sat idly next to him, he was once more drawn to it. This time, instead of pain, Dean felt hunger writhe its way through his body.

  Dean had grown up going to the Scouts club. When he was too old for that, he would take trips with his dad, and then, as an adult, he’d go camping by himself. He’d been an avid woodsman, but for the last few years, he had been unable to find time for his hobby. This is to say Dean sort of knew what he was doing.

  He knew that he should perform a gradual toxicity test, in which he would start by touching the flesh of the potential food to his skin, wait, if nothing happens, try it again on your lips, then repeat until you’ve tortured yourself with food that, at this point, you are almost certain isn’t toxic. So it was a surprise to himself that, after taking great care to unearth the plant and see its rather remarkable roots, he stuck the whole thing in his mouth. ‘This will be fine,’ he had thought at the time, trusting his well-taught survival instincts.

  He was not fine. As soon as he chewed and swallowed the tremendous tuber, flashes of light and pain greeted him, unlike anything he had experienced so far in his life. It felt like his organs were attempting to escape through his pores. ‘You rite bampot,’ Dean thought the moment before he dropped like a rock, spasming and crying out with deep guttural sobs. That went on for what felt like an eternity before, in the last moment, right before his eyes rolled to the back of his head, he felt a sense of tranquillity and awareness. A bright flash lit his vision, and then nothing.

  Dean sat up from the rocky floor once again and was pleasantly surprised he wasn’t dead. He thought he had seen the light at the end of the tunnel. He must have been out for a while as his hangover was gone, as was any pain from eating the eight-point heavenly herb. ‘Eh? How’d I ken that?’

  He looked around the room again, adjusting his glasses. It was poking himself in the eye that reminded him he was not wearing glasses. He could just… see now, and he could see really well. Looking up, he could see that the dirt on the roof was slightly darker due to the moisture held. He could hear the drip, drip of water as it splashed into a pond above. That’s how the eight-point heavenly herb was watered; when it rained, the pond would flood, and water would spill out of its confines and into the tiny cracks of the roof. This was an awareness of his surroundings, which he did not realize was possible. He could also smell his sweat. No, this was not his sweat—but whose?

  *Crack*

  He froze before scrambling to the cave wall, his body filling with adrenaline. That was the sound of a nearby branch being snapped approximately 30 meters away, not a twig but a branch, meaning it was something big enough to be a threat. That was also something he just sort of knew. There was something odd about the fact he was so certain, but he did not care to follow that train of thought, given the circumstances.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Dean didn’t know if Australia had bears or wolves, but he was sure he could not take them in a fight, not without his own bloody demise. He was doubly sure he could not charm his way out of a hungry beast’s mouth. He pulled Sheila and crept along the wall before he peered out the wide entrance. As he peaked around the corner of the cave, Dean stared and retracted his previous belief. He was not in Australia.

  Dean looked slack-jawed at a crouching child, at least that was his initial, surprisingly logical, thought. ‘No, Dean, that is not a child,’ he thought to himself, uncertainty and wonder rising. ‘That is a goblin. A goblin with a fucking gun.’

  It was about 5 feet tall, grey in complexion, with long, matted hair tied in a scruffy series of knots; it was covered in tattoos and wore a shabby loin cloth, a rather nice wide-brimmed hat, and a too large leather pauldron. And it held a gun. It faced away, crouched over a bush, using the pistol to dig at it. The sight was baffling. Maybe there was a logical explanation for this? Maybe the eight-point heavenly herb had psychoactive properties, and they hadn’t worn off yet. That might explain his heightened senses, too, but not the lucidity and certainty he had about everything. Dean made to step back into the alcove to hide but lost his balance on a very inconveniently placed pebble and stumbled loudly, alerting the goblin to his presence.

  The goblin span towards him with a yelp, gesturing his gun wildly with little care for proper trigger discipline. It shouted at him incomprehensibly. Dean winced at the sudden lance of pain and light; he clutched his head and felt the warm trickle of blood trail onto his upper lip.

  “Oi! Oi! You! Don’t you move!” the creature yelled, suddenly speaking English. It shouted over its shoulder,” Oi! Gits yerself ‘ere! I gits us dindins!” turning back to Dean, it continued, “Gimmie that short and pointy! But don’t you even move a bit, or I’ll git you naarsty!”

  “Um, what?” Dean enquired very eloquently. The goblin looked confused for a second, halting his erratic firearm toting.

  “Fancy lad talks good! Give. Yer. Pointy.” The goblin barked, vaguely pointing at Sheila. It was gaining confidence, which only continued to grow as it realized it had the upper hand. It started jostling the revolver in Dean’s general direction, coming closer.

  This was too much to digest; no matter how hard he tried to organize his thoughts, despite his preternatural clarity, he was paralyzed with indecision. He knew he had to do something, but what? For the briefest moment, he saw everything in slow motion. It felt like his brain took a back seat as something else took over, something like Dean, but more. He could tell what was going to happen before it did. He could see how the goblin tensed its muscles in its neck and shoulder. He could see how it favoured one leg over the other. How, despite its braggadocious attitude, it was scared.

  “And give the big coat, too! Gets cold tits!” The goblin said again, gesturing emphatically, drawing Dean back from wherever his mind wandered to.

  Dean mumbled various swears while carefully, begrudgingly, dropping his knife and removing his new overcoat. It was a nice dark blue duster. He had always wanted one but thought he might look a bit daft. Now that he was wearing one, though, he felt chuffed.

  He felt it again. Like time had slowed, and he wasn’t in control. That other ‘Dean’ had taken over. He made eye contact with the goblin as he threw the large coat in its direction, shielding himself from view. The goblin fired, but the trajectory was wide, the loud bang echoing in the cave; at the same moment, Dean stepped down on his knife where it lay, causing it to flick up. In one fluid movement, he bent down to pick it up, rolling forward to close the distance, and launched it out. As the coat crumpled to the ground, the goblin did not have time to react before it felt the knife plunge directly into the soft meat of its neck. It fell back with wide eyes, gargling as it began suffocating on its own blood; Dean bolted forward. Keeping low, he picked up the dying goblin’s revolver. Holding it over the creature’s face, he pulled the trigger, skull and grey matter painting the ground. It twitched a few times before it stilled.

  A loud bang rang through the air, and a chunk of the cave wall behind Dean was turned to debris. He ducked prone and pulled the knife from the corpse before him, rolling sideways several times before taking a knee. The other target was there, about 100 meters out, amongst a coppice of dryland trees. Dean raised his new firearm and pulled the trigger; after a second, he pulled the trigger again. There was a scream, then it was cut short.

  As quickly as it came to him, the strange feeling left. He stood there, panting, as his ears rang and his brain recalibrated. He had just killed two living, sentient beings. They had talked to him, and he brutalized them, but worst of all he had felt nothing. The shivers came next as the adrenaline seeped away; his throat was dry, his ears still rang, and his head still hurt.

  He could’ve talked to them, they understood him, right? He could have tried to apply his customer service charm; everyone loved that. They might’ve taken him back to their home or tribe or whatever; maybe they’d have eaten him, but maybe they wouldn’t. He could learn about where he was and what was going on. No, that was probably as likely as the goblins keeping him alive. He would need to collect what he could here and make his own way out into the wild, doing what he could to survive. He’d need food, a new shelter, and water, too. Perhaps a fire to sterilize the water in the pond? He wouldn’t stay here; the bodies would attract carnivores. He would need to travel. Looking up, he could see the sun was just starting his descent so he would have a few hours of sunlight left before he’d be forced to stop.

  Breathing deep in an attempt to steady himself, Dean tried to stand.

  Instead, he threw up.