It had been an hour or two since Dean woke up. This was not Dalmarnock. And he was pretty sure this wasn''t Glasgow. For one thing, it was hot. Taps aff hot... at least it was at first. 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 remembered he’d just been laid off, arrived home to find his then girlfriend, Sophie, in bed with his best mate, Rob. Naturally, he was a rite mess. He dropped everything, and went 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. Normally, 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.
But how did he end up here? He knew no self-respecting polis would let him near the airport, let alone board a plane in that state. Perhaps he was kidnapped and had his not so vital organs and belongings taken. At least that would explain why he was missing his phone and his clothes, and why he woke up with a crackin'' headache. But it wouldn''t explain why he was wearing someone else''s clothes. Coming to his senses, he looked around, then down at himself, and then back around. He realized he was dressed a bit weird, but that was not a concern to him right now.
He was in a rocky alcove, almost a cave but not quite. The morning sun stretched down, casting him in shade. He could hear running water but could not see any signs of a creak or brook from where he sat. Dean knew that if he was dumped in the middle of nowhere in an unknown land (possibly Australia) he would need shelter, clean water, and food. He could do without a fire for the time being. The alcove would do for immediate shelter, but water would become a problem, and food. He sat still, trying his hardest to listen for the direction of the water source, but he knew his hearing wasn''t great, nor was his eyesight. Panic suddenly shot through him, and he jumped to his feet. “My glasses! Where are my glasses?!” he screamed internally. He patted himself down, finding a pair of circular rimmed glasses in his shirt pocket. These were not his glasses, but he tried them anyway. They were not in his prescription, and everything was blurry. He put them away. He also found a belt sheath with a big ‘fuck-off’ looking blade in it. “Call that a knife?” He mused to himself as he unsheathed it for the first time. He was much more certain he was in Australia.
Now equipped with specs that didn''t work and some form of protection, he took a proper gander around. There was still no sign of the water source, but in the centre of the clearing was a strange plant, and Dean found himself strangely drawn to it. He crouched down and examined it. It had teal coloured, effervescent leaves and small crystalline flower buds that did not seem to bloom. The sensation that drew him in begged him to unearth the exotic plant. With his knife in hand (which he was tempted to name Sheila) he gently dug out the roots of the unique fern-thing. He was incredibly disappointed. It looked a bit like ginger but much smaller, more gnarled and spindly. Real naff looking. He was contemplating re-planting the thing when his stomach began to rumble.
In his youth, Dean had been an avid boy-scout. Even much later in his late teens and early adulthood, Dean enjoyed going out into the wilds to set up camp, picking seasonal plants, and fishing. So, it was out of character when he popped the whole thing in his mouth with a shrug and ate it. Dean was familiar with the whole “toxin testing” methodology where you start by rubbing the food into your skin and wait an absolute age and then, should there be no adverse effects, gradually take more steps to test its safety. It was compulsive, impatient, and he was being a rite dolly, but he had a gut feeling it would be fine.
His stomach cramped almost immediately after he swallowed, and his head began to swim. "You bampot.." he cursed to himself as he fell to his knees, convulsing in pain. He could hardly breathe - it felt like his insides were trying to claw their way out from his pores. He was sweating profusely. It was a black tar-like substance that oozed from his pores. Was this thing a psychoactive? He could feel his heart speed up, faster than he was sure it had ever beat. He swore he could hear his hair growing. He blacked out.
After an indeterminate amount of time, Dean woke up from his turbulent state, sprawled out on the blackened floor. His lips felt parched and he was hungry. Wait. Was he hungry? Not really, a wee bit peckish maybe. He realized his headache was gone, as was any of the pain he felt from ingesting the root. The 8-point Heavenly herb. How did he suddenly know what it was? Sitting up, he rolled forward and kicked down, causing him to bound upright. Landing deftly on his feet, he realized there was a stream above him on the surface of the rocky formation that bore the alcove. He knew all that somehow. He knew in the rainy season, the little pond would occasionally overflow and would drain down into the cave from a small crevice in the roof, landing perfectly at the base of the plant. That’s how the 8-point Heavenly root could survive. He could see the change in the colour of the dirt of the crevice where it held tight to the remaining moisture from the last rainfall. A sharp pain lanced through Dean’s head, followed by an equally bright flash of light. Shaking his head, Dean recovered. There was no light, no pain. What was going on? Dean went to adjust his glasses to get a better look around, but realized he put them back in his pocket. He could see just fine. Nae, he could see perfectly. 20/20 vision, or maybe even 20/10 which he didn''t even realize was possible for normal people. Was the 8-point Heavenly herb responsible? As the neurons in his brain began to fire on all cylinders and comprehension started to dawn on him, he froze, pulled abruptly from his introspection.
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
*Crack*
That was the sound of a nearby branch being snapped, approximately 30 yards away. He had a compulsion to investigate. Dean didn’t know if Australia had bears or wolves, but he was sure he could not take them in a fight. Doubly sure he could not talk his way out of a hungry beast’s mouth. He pulled his knife and crept towards the open side of the cave with his back pressed against the wall. As he peeked round the corner of cave wall, his heart pumping, Dean stared and retracted his previous belief. He was not in Australia.
Before Dean stood a child. At least that is what his initial, surprisingly logical, thought told him. No, Dean, that is not a child. He thought to himself, fear and wonder rising. That is a goblin. A goblin with a fucking gun.
<hr>
The goblin was a about 5ft tall, grey in complexion, with wispy hair tied in a kind of top knot. It was covered in tattoos, and wore shabby leather pants and shoulder straps. And it held a gun. It faced away, crouched over a bush and used its gun to dig into the dirt of a nearby shrub. The entire sight was baffling. Maybe there was a logical explanation for this? Maybe he was still under the psychoactive properties of the 8-Point heavenly root? Dean made to step back into the alcove but lost his balance on a very inconveniently placed pebble and stumbled, alerting the goblin to his presence.
The goblin spun to face him with a yelp, gesturing his gun wildly with little care for proper trigger discipline. Now he had a better look at the thing, Dean noted it looked like an absolute bawbag. Its face was all scrunched up, a bit like a hairless pug, but with a less of a dog muzzle and more of a pig''s snout, or that of a bat. It shouted at him incomprehensibly. Dean winced at another sudden bright flash and pain behind his eyes. This was just like before.
“Oi! Oi! I got a big boy!" the creature yelled over its shoulder, suddenly speaking English. "You! Don’t you move! Gimmie the short and pointy! Any munching you got! But don’t you move a bit or I’ll git you nasty!”
“Um, wha?” Dean enquired, very eloquently. The goblin looked confused for a second, halting his erratic toting of the firearm.
“Give. The. Pointy. And. Your. Munchings,” the goblin barked slightly exasperated. It was gaining confidence, its excitement evident as it realized it had the upper hand. It started jostling the revolver in Dean’s general direction again, coming closer. Dean’s mind was blank yet somehow racing at the same time. There was so much to digest, but no matter how hard he tried to collect his thoughts he found it impossible. He had to do something, but nothing was coming to his mind. Maybe he could surprise the goblin once it got close? Or throw the knife hoping it would at the very least startle the creature. For the briefest moment, time seemed to slow and he saw it all. The tension in the Goblins shoulders, the way it slightly favoured one leg, the subtle way it tried to look around for anything or anyone else of interest. He could visualize his plan of attack. The numerous openings the goblin left. He knew exactly how much force he would need to apply to break bones or puncture flesh.
“And give the big coat too! Gets cold tits!” The goblin said again, gesturing emphatically, drawing Dean from his thoughts.
“Gallus wee shite, yoos” Dean mumbled under his breath while carefully and begrudgingly removing his overcoat after dropping the knife. It was a nice 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 saw it again, right now. Time had once more slowed, and the future overlayed the present. An instinct he didn’t know he had began to take over. He threw the opened duster at the goblin, blinding its view. In its panic it fired, the trajectory wide. He kicked down at Sheila, the knife, from where he had dropped it, and it arced up. He swiftly kicked out, propelling the knife forward with immense force, plunging deep in the creature’s vital point. Darting forward he snatched the gun, cocked the hammer and fired into the convulsing body. Without a second thought, Dean rolled, narrowly avoiding a shot to his head as a section of the wall behind received a spray of buckshot, sending dust everywhere. He turned and without truly looking, he fired two more rounds into the near distance. A coppice of dryland trees. There was a crack followed by a short scream, followed by silence. Dean stood and as quickly as it came to him, the strange feeling left. He had just killed someone. He looked down at the gore that remained of the goblin. There was more blood than he had ever seen, and he stared for a while longer without realizing. He felt bile surge in his throat. He had killed someone. Why was his first instinct to fight? He''d never thought of himself as a violent person; he even hated those ultra realistic gore-porn movies that his classmates from high school seemed to love. He had killed someone. He was scared. Now it was over he felt so scared, so fragile. He was alone and he had just killed someone. He was panicking. He had to focus. He took a deep breath in an attempt to center himself. What mattered was that he was still alive. He was alive and in another world.
Dean threw up.