Chapter 1: Portal Day

  Mike Reeves wiped the sweat from his brow and checked his watch: 5:47 PM. Thirteen minutes until official quitting time, but the rest of the crew had already packed up and headed out. Not that he blamed them—Friday traffic was a beast, and they'd made good progress on the new medical center's framework today. "Just gotta secure these last few joists, and we're golden," he muttered to himself, adjusting his tool belt with a practiced motion. The weight of his hammer, tape measure, and assorted tools hung comfortably against his hip, as familiar as an old friend. At forty-two, Mike had been in construction for over two decades. Starting as a laborer, he'd worked his way up to foreman through sweat, sore muscles, and an almost preternatural understanding of how things fit together. His crew respected him because he never asked them to do anything he wouldn't do himself—which is why he was here, alone, making sure everything was properly secured before the weekend. The setting sun cast long shadows across the skeletal structure of what would eventually become the east wing of St. Mary's Hospital. The site was eerily quiet now, with just the occasional distant honk of rush hour traffic and the whisper of an early autumn breeze through the exposed beams.

  Mike reached into his back pocket for a lag bolt, then paused. Something felt... off. The air seemed to thicken, carrying a static charge that made the hair on his arms stand up. His ears popped as if he'd suddenly changed altitude. "What the hell?" he muttered, turning slowly. Twenty feet away, hovering about four feet off the plywood subflooring, a distortion rippled in the air. It reminded Mike of heat waves rising from sun-baked asphalt, except these waves twisted in on themselves like a whirlpool. The rational part of his brain—the part that understood load-bearing walls and tensile strength and how many nails per square foot were needed for hurricane code—tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Gas leak? Hallucination? Some kind of weird weather phenomenon? Whatever explanation his mind was reaching for dissolved as the distortion expanded, the center darkening to a deep indigo that seemed to pull at him, not just visually but physically. The hammer in his hand began to tremble, straining toward the anomaly. "Oh my god," Mike breathed, taking an instinctive step backward. His boot heel caught on a coil of electrical wire, throwing him off balance. That stumble saved him from being hit by a sudden pulse of energy that shot from the vortex, scorching the plywood where he'd been standing a moment before. The discharge made the anomaly grow, expanding outward until it was the size of a garage door.

  Mike scrambled to his feet, but before he could run, the pull intensified. His tool belt yanked painfully against his waist, the metal components straining toward the vortex like iron filings to a magnet. The backpack he'd left by the support column—containing his lunch cooler, thermos, and the paperback he read during breaks—slid across the floor and disappeared into the swirling darkness. "No, no, NO!" Mike planted his feet and grabbed onto a steel support beam, his knuckles white with effort. The vortex's pull increased, howling now like a wind tunnel. Dust and debris spiraled past him. His grip began to slip. The steel was too smooth, his palms too sweaty. "This can't be happening. This isn't real. Sarah and Jeremy are waiting for me at home. This can't—"

  His fingers lost their purchase, and Mike Reeves, twenty-three-year veteran of the construction industry, was yanked off his feet and into the impossible.

  Falling.

  Tumbling.

  A sensation like being stretched and compressed simultaneously.

  Colors that had no place in nature, sounds that might have been screams or might have been music.

  Then, impact.

  Mike hit the ground hard enough to drive the air from his lungs, rolling awkwardly due to the uneven weight of his tool belt. Dirt and grass filled his mouth as he gasped for breath, his diaphragm spasming. His ears rang with a high-pitched whine, and his vision swam with dancing black spots. Gradually, his senses returned. The first thing he noticed was the air—clean, fragrant with unfamiliar flowers and rich soil. Nothing like the dust and concrete smell of the construction site. The second thing was the light—softer, golden, filtering through leaves above. "...absolutely certain the coordinates were correct!" The voice—cultured, musical, and distinctly annoyed—came from somewhere nearby. Mike froze, still prone on the ground. "Your certainty means little when we've been waiting for three days, Elf." This voice was deeper, rougher, with an accent Mike couldn't place. "The Summoner promised reinforcements by yesterday's dawn." "The celestial alignment affects the portal's precision. You know this, Dwarf." Mike raised his head slowly, blinking to clear his vision. He found himself at the edge of a small clearing in what appeared to be a dense forest. About thirty feet away stood three figures engaged in tense conversation. One was tall and slender, with pointed ears visible through long silver-blond hair: the owner of the musical voice. Beside this figure, barely reaching the first one's shoulder, stood a stocky, broad-shouldered individual with an intricately braided beard: clearly the owner of the gruff voice.

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  The third figure stood slightly apart, wrapped in a dark hooded cloak that concealed most of their features. Something about their stillness made Mike's skin crawl. It was like something from one of his son's fantasy games—the ones Jeremy was always trying to get him to play during his weekend visits. The thought of Jeremy and Sarah sent a spike of panic through him. If this was real—and the throbbing pain in his shoulder where he'd landed suggested it was—then his wife and son would be waiting at home for him, growing increasingly worried as the hours passed with no call, no explanation for his absence. A metallic *ping* sound drew his attention. Floating in front of him, just at eye level, was a semi-transparent blue rectangle containing symbols he didn't recognize. The text—if it was text—seemed to shimmer and rearrange itself as he focused on it, never quite resolving into anything legible. The hooded figure's head snapped toward Mike, the sudden movement drawing the attention of the other two. "What is that?" the bearded one—the dwarf?—asked, squinting in Mike's direction. "Not what," the tall one responded, taking a step forward. "Who."

  Mike pushed himself to his feet, wincing at the various complaints from his body. His tool belt seemed intact, though his tape measure was missing. The backpack he'd seen sucked into the vortex was somehow on his shoulders again. "Look, I don't know what's going on here," Mike began, raising his hands in what he hoped was a universal gesture of non-aggression. "But there's been some kind of mistake. I need to get back to—" The hooded figure moved with startling speed, raising both hands toward the sky. The air around them darkened, and Mike felt a pressure building, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks. "Summoner, what are you doing?" the tall one—the elf?—demanded, spinning toward the hooded figure. "This is not the protocol!" The hooded figure's response was not in any language Mike recognized. The words slithered through the air, leaving an oily feeling in his mind. The pressure intensified until Mike's ears popped painfully. The ground between them split open. From the fissure emerged something that defied easy description—a mass of writhing limbs, too many and too oddly jointed to be natural. Chitinous plates covered portions of its bulk, while other parts glistened wetly in the fading light. Multiple eyes blinked independently across what might have been its head, and a mouth lined with needlelike teeth opened in a silent scream.

  The dwarf reacted first, pulling an axe from his belt with practiced ease. "Betrayal!" he roared, charging toward the hooded figure. He never made it. One of the creature's limbs lashed out with impossible speed, impaling him through the chest. The dwarf's expression registered shock, then pain, then nothing as the light left his eyes. The elf was already moving, graceful even in panic, hands weaving complex patterns in the air. Light gathered around their fingertips, coalescing into what appeared to be arrows of pure energy. "Run!" the elf shouted, glancing toward Mike. "It's a Void Ripper! Run while—" The creature surged forward, multiple limbs striking simultaneously. The elf managed to dodge the first few, loosing several arrows that sank into the monster's hide with little apparent effect. But there were too many appendages moving too quickly. One caught the elf across the midsection, another around the throat.

  Mike stood frozen in horror as the creature lifted the struggling elf high into the air. Their eyes met for one terrible moment—the elf's filled with pain and a strange resignation—before the monster's limbs pulled in opposite directions. The sound was one Mike knew he would never forget. The hooded figure turned toward Mike, face still hidden in shadow. There was a moment of stillness—a silent assessment—before they backed away rapidly. The monster, still holding the broken remains of the elf, turned its many eyes toward Mike. "Oh shit," Mike whispered, instinct finally breaking through his paralysis.

  He ran.

  Behind him, something shrieked—a sound like metal tearing, amplified a hundredfold. The ground shook with heavy impacts. The monster was following. Mike crashed through the underbrush, branches whipping his face, roots threatening to trip him with every step. He had no plan beyond *away*—away from the clearing, away from the creature, away from the impossible reality he'd been thrust into. More translucent boxes appeared in his vision as he ran, the symbols shifting and rearranging. He batted at them reflexively, but his hand passed through them like they were holograms. His foot caught on an exposed root, sending him sprawling. Pain shot through his knee, but the sound of splintering trees behind him provided all the motivation he needed to scramble back to his feet. Ahead, the forest thinned. Mike pushed himself harder, lungs burning, the weight of his tool belt and backpack threatening his balance with every stride. He burst from the treeline into another clearing, this one sloping downward to a rocky stream about fifty yards ahead. No time to rest. No time to think. The crashing behind him was getting closer. Mike half-ran, half-slid down the slope, loose stones shifting treacherously beneath his work boots. He splashed into the stream, gasping at the shocking cold of the water, then scrambled up the opposite bank.

  Only when he'd put another hundred yards between himself and the stream did he dare to glance back. The treeline was empty. No sign of pursuit. Mike collapsed against a boulder, gulping air into his starved lungs. His hands trembled as he reached for his phone, tucked securely in its shock-resistant case on his belt. The screen lit up at his touch—no signal, of course, but at least it worked. "What the actual fuck," he wheezed, his voice cracking with strain and disbelief. Another blue rectangle materialized before him, symbols shifting. Mike stared at it helplessly, unable to decipher its meaning. "I can't read that," he told it, feeling ridiculous for addressing a floating hologram. "I don't understand what you want." The rectangle *pinged* again, then faded. Alone in an impossible world, with night falling and the memory of torn bodies fresh in his mind, Mike Reeves did the only thing that made sense to him.

  He started planning how to build a shelter.