Chapter 2: survival mode
The first gray light of dawn found Mike already alert, having barely slept through the night. Every unfamiliar forest sound had jolted him awake—chittering insects, the hoots of owl-like creatures, and occasional distant roars that made his skin crawl. He'd spent most of the dark hours huddled inside his hastily constructed lean-to, hammer in hand, listening and waiting.
"Time to move," he muttered to himself, stretching his stiff limbs.
His makeshift shelter had protected him through the night, but it wouldn't serve for long-term survival. Now that daylight was returning, he needed to find a more secure location and establish a proper base. Somewhere defensible, near water, with access to food.
Mike crawled out of the shelter, wincing as his muscles protested. The clearing around him looked different in daylight—smaller, less threatening, but no less alien. The trees weren't quite right, their bark patterns and leaf shapes unlike anything he recognized from Earth.
The forest was waking up, filling with sounds that should have been familiar but weren't quite—almost-birdsong, almost-insect buzzing, almost-squirrel chattering. Everything just slightly wrong, as if someone had tried to recreate Earth's woodland sounds from an imperfect description.
*Assess. Plan. Execute,* Mike reminded himself, falling back on his emergency training.
First priority: water. Humans could survive weeks without food but only days without water. Mike strained his ears, trying to filter through the alien forest noises for the telltale sound of running water. There—a faint babbling from downhill to the east. He shouldered his backpack and set off in that direction, moving carefully through the underbrush.
Twenty minutes of hiking brought him to a clear stream about twelve feet wide, flowing steadily over smooth stones. The water looked clean, and when Mike knelt to taste it, he found it cool and fresh with a slight mineral tang.
"Thank God for small mercies," he sighed, drinking deeply.
As he satisfied his thirst, a blue rectangle suddenly materialized before him, hovering just above the water's surface. Symbols scrolled and shifted within it, incomprehensible yet somehow suggesting meaning. One symbol pulsed repeatedly before the entire box vanished with a soft *ping*.
"Still no idea what you're trying to tell me," Mike said to the empty air.
With his immediate thirst quenched, Mike surveyed the area. The stream cut through the forest, creating a natural path. To his right, the bank sloped gently upward, covered in dense vegetation. To his left, the terrain was more interesting—a steep embankment rising to a rocky bluff about thirty feet high. Several large trees had grown at the base of this bluff, their roots partly exposed by erosion, creating a complex network of natural spaces.
Mike waded across the stream, the cold water soaking his work pants to mid-thigh. He examined the root system more closely. Three large trees grew in a rough triangle, their massive roots intertwining to create a partial enclosure about seven feet across. The bluff behind would serve as a natural back wall.
"This'll work," he decided. "Defensible position, water nearby, elevated enough to avoid flooding."
His builder's mind immediately began cataloging what he'd need: branches for walls and roof, vines for binding, leaves for waterproofing, moss for insulation and gap-filling. The labor would be substantial, but having a secure base was worth the effort.
Mike spent the morning gathering materials, sorting them by size and purpose just as he would organize supplies at a construction site. The rhythm of the work was familiar, almost comforting, giving his mind something concrete to focus on besides his impossible situation.
By midday, hunger began to gnaw at him. Mike paused in his construction to dig out the remaining half of his turkey sandwich from his backpack. The bread had gotten slightly squashed, but the sandwich was otherwise intact. He ate slowly, savoring each bite, aware that this might be his last taste of home for some time.
"Need to figure out the food situation soon," he reminded himself, washing down the last of the sandwich with a sip of now-cold coffee from his thermos.
After lunch, Mike returned to his construction project with renewed energy. Sweat soaked his t-shirt despite the mild temperature as he dug into the soft earth between the root enclosure to create a level floor, using the excavated soil to build up a berm around the exposed sides.
As he worked, another notification appeared—this one showing symbols arranged around what looked like a simplified house or shelter icon. The symbols seemed to flow and shift, never resolving into anything Mike could read, though they gave the impression of conveying specific information.
"Building skill or something?" Mike guessed, talking aloud to fill the silence. "At least someone's keeping score."
The afternoon passed in steady labor. Mike's hands, though calloused from years of construction work, developed fresh blisters as he wove branches between the larger roots to create walls. He improvised tools where needed—using sharp stones to cut vines, fashioning a crude digging implement from a flat rock lashed to a branch. Years of site management had taught him efficiency, how to maximize output while minimizing wasted energy.
By late afternoon, the basic structure was taking shape—a reinforced hollow between tree roots, partially dug into the embankment, with woven branch walls filling the gaps. The entrance was a narrow crawlspace that could be blocked from within by a movable section of branch-weave. It wasn't pretty, but it would provide protection from the elements and some security against predators.
Mike's stomach growled again, reminding him that the half sandwich hadn't been enough. The apple in his backpack called to him, but he decided to save it for tomorrow. Food would soon become a pressing concern. He eyed the stream, where occasional flashes suggested aquatic life, but had no way to catch fish without proper tools.
"Traps," he decided. "Need to set some basic traps."
Though Mike had never been a hunter, he understood mechanical principles and had watched enough survival shows to grasp the basics. Using techniques half-remembered from television and half-improvised, he fashioned three snare traps from flexible green branches, trigger mechanisms made from notched sticks, and nooses formed from tough vines. When triggered, the bent branch would snap upward, tightening the noose around whatever had disturbed it.
"Primitive but functional," he muttered, setting the first trap along what appeared to be a small game trail near the stream.
As he was positioning the second trap downstream, movement caught his eye. Something small and furry—rabbit-like, though with six legs instead of four—was drinking at the water's edge about thirty yards away. Mike froze, watching the creature. It was covered in reddish-brown fur, with a pair of small antennae-like protrusions from its head. Its six legs ended in what appeared to be tiny hooves rather than paws.
*Food*, his stomach reminded him urgently.
Moving with deliberate slowness, Mike readied his third trap, setting it closer to where he'd seen the six-legged rabbit. He anchored it carefully, ensuring the trigger was sensitive but not too delicate. With the traps set, he returned to continue work on his shelter.
The roof proved to be the most challenging component. Mike layered branches in a crosshatch pattern, weaving them together to create a framework that he covered with broad leaves. Over this, he packed a thin layer of soil and moss for insulation and camouflage. The result was surprisingly effective—waterproof enough to handle light rain and blending naturally with the surrounding vegetation.
By sunset, exhaustion weighed on Mike's shoulders, but satisfaction balanced it. He had shelter, access to water, and potential food sources identified. For his first full day in this strange world, he'd accomplished more than he might have expected.
Mike ducked inside the completed shelter, arranging his meager possessions. He'd created a small shelf from root sections to keep his phone and first aid kit dry, and fashioned a bed of sorts from the softest foliage he could find. The space was cramped but secure—far better than the exposed lean-to from the previous night.
Another notification appeared as he settled in—multiple boxes this time, with symbols that pulsed in patterns suggesting congratulation. A number appeared prominently: 5.
"Level five builder? Shelter level five? Who knows," Mike sighed, pulling out his phone to record the day's progress.
"Completed basic shelter construction. Set three snare traps for small game. Current status: shelter secure, water source confirmed, food situation pending. Battery at 41%—need to conserve power."
He paused, then added more quietly, "It's been about 24 hours since I arrived here. Still no idea where 'here' is, or how to get home. But I'm alive, and I'm going to stay that way until I figure this out."
The reality of his situation settled over him like a heavy blanket. Twenty-four hours ago, he'd been securing joists at the hospital construction site, thinking about Sarah's lasagna and Jeremy's weekend soccer game. Now he was huddled in a primitive shelter in an alien forest, hoping homemade traps might catch six-legged rabbits for food.
Mike closed his eyes, forcing himself to focus on practical matters. Tomorrow would bring new challenges—checking traps, improving defenses, exploring the surroundings more thoroughly, perhaps establishing a perimeter warning system. One day at a time was the only approach that made sense.
Sleep came in fitful bursts through the night, each unfamiliar sound snapping him back to alertness. During these wakeful periods, Mike found himself staring at the roof of his shelter, tracing the patterns of woven branches, reviewing construction techniques that might improve the structure. The familiar mental exercise was soothing, a connection to his real life and identity.
Sometime in the darkest hours, a distant roar echoed through the forest—similar to the sound the many-limbed monster had made, but farther away. Mike tensed, grip tightening on his hammer, but the sound wasn't repeated. Eventually, exhaustion overcame vigilance, and he fell into deeper sleep.
---
Dawn's first light found Mike already awake and anxious to check his traps. A growing hollowness in his stomach reminded him that the previous day's half sandwich had been insufficient. He crawled from his shelter, stretching to ease the stiffness from sleeping on the hard ground despite his bed of leaves.
The morning air carried a slight chill, mist rising from the stream as Mike made his way toward his first trap. As he approached, his spirits fell—the trap was undisturbed, its trigger still set and waiting. The second and third traps likewise showed no signs of activity.
"Great," Mike muttered, disappointment heavy in his voice. "Back to the drawing board."
He returned to his shelter, hunger gnawing more insistently now. The apple in his backpack was his only remaining food from home, and he eyed it with equal parts desire and reluctance. Better to save it for when he truly needed it, he decided.
Instead, Mike turned his attention to the surrounding vegetation. During his materials gathering the previous day, he'd noticed several plants bearing what appeared to be berries or fruits. Now, with hunger sharpening his focus, he began a more systematic examination of the forest's potential food sources.
Near the stream, clusters of bushes bore small, purple-black berries that resembled blueberries, though slightly larger and with a waxy coating. Another plant featured bright red fruits hanging in bunches, similar to cherry tomatoes but with a faint iridescent sheen.
"No idea what's safe," Mike said to himself, examining the purple berries more closely. They looked appealing, but he had no way of knowing if they were edible or poisonous.
The red fruits seemed more suspect given their unusual sheen, but the purple berries looked similar enough to Earth blueberries that Mike decided to risk a small taste. He plucked one, noting its firm texture and the way it released a deep purple juice when lightly squeezed.
"Here goes nothing," he said, placing the berry on his tongue.
The initial flavor was surprisingly pleasant—sweet with a hint of tartness, not unlike a blueberry but with a spicy aftertaste that tingled on his tongue. Encouraged, Mike swallowed the berry and waited several minutes, alert for any adverse reactions. When none came immediately, he cautiously ate three more.
With this small victory, Mike turned his attention to improving his shelter. The basic structure was sound, but several enhancements would make it more comfortable and secure. He spent the morning creating a small ventilation shaft above his sleeping area to allow smoke to escape if he needed an interior fire, and constructing a more substantial door that could be secured from inside with a simple wooden latch.
By midday, a growing uneasiness in his stomach made Mike pause in his work. The berries, initially seeming harmless, now churned uncomfortably in his gut. A wave of nausea washed over him, followed by a cramping sensation that doubled him over.
"Bad call," he gasped, stumbling toward the stream.
He barely made it to the water's edge before his body violently rejected the berries. After several minutes of miserable retching, the worst of the nausea passed, leaving Mike shaky and weaker than before, now battling both hunger and the aftereffects of his ill-advised experiment.
Rinsing his mouth with stream water, Mike returned to his shelter on unsteady legs. He collapsed onto his leaf bed, the apple from his backpack no longer optional but necessary. He ate it slowly, core and all, hoping the familiar food would settle his rebellious stomach.
"Lesson learned," he told himself grimly. "No more sampling the local cuisine without better testing."
The rest of the day passed in a haze of discomfort. Mike alternated between restless sleep and periods of alert misery, his body struggling to recover from the berry incident while also coping with increasing hunger. He drank frequently from the stream, knowing hydration was crucial, but by evening he felt noticeably weaker than the day before.
Mike checked his traps again before nightfall, hope warring with pessimism. All three remained untriggered, the carefully set nooses hanging empty. He adjusted each one slightly, hoping to increase their sensitivity, before returning to his shelter as darkness fell.
That night was worse than the previous ones. Hunger kept Mike awake despite his exhaustion, and his dreams, when sleep did come, were filled with images of food—Sarah's lasagna, backyard barbecues, the sandwich shop near the construction site where he grabbed lunch most workdays. Each time he woke, the reality of his empty stomach felt more cruel by comparison.
---
The third morning dawned gray and cool, a light drizzle falling through the forest canopy. Mike's leaf roof proved impressively waterproof, keeping the interior of his shelter dry despite the steady rain. Under different circumstances, he might have felt pride in his craftsmanship. Instead, the hollowness in his belly dominated his awareness.
"Day three," Mike said aloud, his voice sounding thin even to his own ears. "Need food today or I'm in serious trouble."
The rain complicated matters. Game would be less active, and the wet conditions would make fire-starting more difficult if he did manage to catch something. Still, checking the traps was his first priority.
Mike pulled on his still-damp work boots and crawled from the shelter, the drizzle immediately plastering his hair to his scalp. The forest looked different in the rain—greener, more primeval, mist curling between tree trunks in ghostly tendrils.
He made his way to the first trap, hope dimming with each squelching step. As expected, it remained untriggered. The second trap likewise showed no signs of activity. With growing desperation, Mike approached the third trap, the one he'd set near where he'd spotted the six-legged rabbit.
At first, he thought this one had failed too. Then he noticed the bent branch was no longer tensioned but standing upright. The trap had been triggered, but something had gone wrong. Drawing closer, Mike saw the problem—the noose had caught something, but the creature had been strong enough to break the vine and escape, leaving only a few tufts of reddish fur behind.
"Damn it!" Mike kicked a nearby stone in frustration, sending it skittering into the underbrush. The trap had worked as designed, but the materials had failed. The vine hadn't been strong enough to hold the struggling prey.
The setback hit harder because of his weakened state. Mike slumped down on a fallen log, rain soaking through his clothes as he considered his options. He could keep trying with the traps, using stronger materials. He could attempt to fashion a spear for fishing. He could search for different plants, testing tiny amounts to find something edible.
None seemed likely to yield quick results, and his body was already showing the effects of nearly two days without proper food. The coffee and half-sandwich he'd had the day before yesterday seemed a distant memory, the apple from yesterday hardly enough to keep his energy up.
Mike was contemplating sacrifice his spare shoelace to reinforce the snare when movement caught his peripheral vision. About twenty yards upstream, the surface of a calmer pool rippled as something disturbed the water from below. Fish, or whatever passed for fish in this world.
A new plan formed in Mike's mind. He'd seen a survival technique on television once—a simple fish trap made from a cone of woven branches placed in flowing water. Fish could swim in but would have difficulty finding their way out again.
With renewed purpose, Mike returned to his shelter and gathered his tools—the utility knife and several lengths of flexible green wood he'd been saving for construction. Working with meticulous care despite his hunger-weakened hands, he crafted a crude fish trap, weaving the branches into a cone about three feet long with a narrow opening at the pointed end.
"Please work," he muttered as he waded into the stream, positioning the trap in a narrower section where the current would naturally funnel potential catches into the device.
He secured it with stones, making sure the opening faced upstream and the wider end was partially blocked to prevent easy escape. With the trap set, all he could do was wait and hope.
To conserve energy, Mike returned to his shelter and lay down, listening to the rain patter against the leaf roof. His stomach had moved beyond growling to a hollow ache that made it difficult to concentrate. The lack of food was affecting his thinking now, causing his mind to drift and wander.
He thought of Sarah, wondering if she'd called the police yet. Surely she had. Would they suspect him of running off? Abandoning his family? Or would they treat it as a missing person case, searching the construction site for clues? The thought of her worry, of Jeremy's confusion, sent a fresh wave of determination through Mike. He had to survive. Had to find a way home.
The rain continued through the afternoon, sometimes slackening to a fine mist, other times intensifying to a driving downpour. Mike drifted in and out of a restless half-sleep, conserving what energy remained in his depleted body.
By evening, the rain finally stopped, the clouds parting to reveal patches of an unfamiliar sky turning orange and purple with sunset. Mike forced himself to his feet, fighting a wave of dizziness as he stood. He needed to check the fish trap, and beyond that, his regular snares. His body felt alarmingly weak after less than three days without food—a stark reminder of how quickly survival situations could deteriorate.
The stream had risen slightly from the day's rain, running faster and less clear than before. Mike waded in carefully, the cold water a shock against his skin. He reached his fish trap and found it partially dislodged by the stronger current, but still in place. Heart racing with anticipation, he lifted it from the water.
Three silvery creatures thrashed inside, each about six inches long. They resembled trout in their general shape, but with iridescent scales that shifted color as they moved and what appeared to be small secondary fins along their bellies. Whatever they were, they were substantial enough to provide a meal.
"Thank God," Mike breathed, cradling the trap carefully as he returned to shore.
Dispatching the fish-analogues was easier than he'd expected, their anatomy similar enough to Earth fish that the same techniques applied. With trembling hands, Mike cleaned them using his utility knife, the familiar motions coming back from childhood fishing trips with his father.
Getting a fire started proved challenging after the day's rain, but Mike's Zippo lighter eventually coaxed a flame from the driest tinder he could find beneath fallen logs. He fashioned a simple cooking spit from green branches and soon had the fish roasting over the modest flames.
The smell was maddening, intensifying his hunger to an almost painful degree. Mike forced himself to wait until the fish were properly cooked, knowing that raw fish in his weakened state could cause problems he couldn't afford.
When he finally deemed them done, he barely had the patience to let them cool before tearing into the first one. The flavor was different from Earth fish—sweeter, with a citrus-like undertone—but the tender white flesh was unmistakably fish-like and delicious to his starved palate.
As Mike ate, his body seeming to absorb the nutrients almost immediately, a soft *ping* sound came from nowhere and everywhere. A notification appeared before him, symbols flowing across its surface. Though still unintelligible, something about it seemed approving or congratulatory.
"Whatever that means," Mike mumbled around a mouthful of fish, "I'll take it."
He consumed all three fish-creatures, even the smallest portions he might normally have discarded. As strength gradually returned to his limbs, Mike realized just how dangerously weak he'd become. Another day without food might have compromised his ability to hunt or fish effectively, creating a downward spiral of increasing weakness and decreasing capability.
After eating, Mike checked his snare traps with renewed energy, though all three remained untriggered. He reset the broken one with stronger vines braided together, hoping the reinforced materials would hold if something was caught.
Returning to his shelter with a full stomach for the first time in days, Mike felt like a different person. The fish hadn't been a feast by any measure, but they had provided essential protein and energy when he needed it most. More importantly, he now had a reliable fishing technique that could provide sustainable food.
Before settling in for the night, Mike recorded another voice memo on his phone, now down to 38% battery:
"Day three. Successfully built a fish trap after the berry incident and snare failures. Caught three fish—not Earth fish, but close enough. The trap design works, which means consistent food if nothing else. No sign of that monster from the clearing, but I heard something similar last night, more distant. Still no idea where I am or how to get home, but I'm adapting."
He paused, then added, "Sarah, Jeremy, I'm not giving up. I'm figuring this place out, one day at a time. I'm coming home somehow."
That night, with a full stomach and a reliable food source identified, Mike slept more soundly than he had since arriving in this world. His dreams were still troubled by images of home and family, but they were no longer dominated by gnawing hunger and weakness.
---
A sharp *snap* in the pre-dawn darkness jolted Mike awake. The distinctive sound of one of his traps being triggered.
"Breakfast," he whispered, hope rising alongside the practical satisfaction of seeing his work pay off.
Despite his eagerness to check the trap, Mike forced himself to wait until first light. Moving through the unfamiliar forest in darkness was an unnecessary risk. As gray dawn filtered through the trees, he emerged from his shelter, hammer in hand, following the stream to where he'd set his traps.
The second trap had been triggered, its bent branch now standing upright. Something thrashed weakly at the end of the noose. As Mike approached, he saw it was indeed one of the six-legged rabbit creatures, caught around its midsection and hoisted partially off the ground.
The trap had worked exactly as designed, but now came the difficult part. The creature was still alive, making small distressed sounds that twisted something in Mike's chest. He'd never killed for food before, had never needed to. Even back in his youth when his father had taken him hunting, Mike had never managed to pull the trigger.
"I'm sorry," he told it quietly. "But I need to eat."
Using his utility knife, he dispatched the creature as quickly and humanely as he could. The act turned his stomach—necessity overriding squeamishness but not eliminating it entirely.
He carried his prize back to the shelter, where a small cooking fire became his next task. Starting it with his Zippo lighter was the one survival task that proved easier than in the movies. The flame caught quickly in the dry tinder Mike had gathered, and soon he had a small but effective cooking fire going.
Skinning and cleaning the creature proved messy and difficult with only a utility knife, but Mike managed well enough. The meat, when roasted over the fire on a green wood skewer, tasted surprisingly like chicken with a hint of something sweeter—strange but not unpleasant.
As he ate, more notifications appeared—complex strings of symbols that might have been conveying information about nutrition, health restoration, or status effects. All meaningless to Mike, though the food itself was satisfyingly real.
With his immediate hunger satisfied and a secure base established, Mike felt something he hadn't expected—a tiny spark of confidence. He was still lost in an impossible situation, still facing dangers he couldn't fully comprehend, still separated from everyone and everything he loved. But he was adapting. Surviving. Building.
The system, whatever it was, seemed to acknowledge his progress. Perhaps in time, he would begin to understand it. Perhaps it would lead him to answers about this world, about how he had come to be here—and most importantly, how he might find his way home.
For now, though, survival remained the priority. Mike checked his remaining traps, reset the triggered one, and returned to his shelter to continue improvements. One day at a time. One step after another. This was how buildings rose from empty lots back home, and this was how he would build his path forward here.
The forest continued its alien chorus around him, indifferent to his presence, while unseen in the undergrowth, yellow eyes watched and waited.