The error screens had disappeared when I told them to, no clicking needed. But in the bottom left corner of my vision—the wrong corner, in my opinion—a little red circle had been steadily blinking.

  I’d ignored it just as steadily, because it was so obviously the kind of hallucination that should be ignored.

  But now I tried to look directly at it.

  It was ridiculously annoying. Every time I moved my head, it moved with me. If I looked up, it floated up. Down, it drifted down. It was like trying to chase a speck on your sunglasses that wasn’t actually there, except it kept blinking.

  Ugh.

  You know what, besides random hallucinations and the occasional delusion, gets you diagnosed as crazy and put on heavy-duty meds?

  Talking to yourself.

  Okay, not all talking to yourself. Saying “I wonder where I left the keys” doesn’t raise eyebrows. But if it turns into a conversation? Like, “Why did you leave the car keys there? I didn’t. You’re the one who had them last. Don’t blame me, I told you to put them on the hook…”

  Nope, nope, and more nope. That kind of talk leads to concerned questions, ones like, “Who are you talking to?” and “Are you okay?”

  I was pretty sure giving verbal instructions to an imaginary computer in your head might belong to the latter category of talking to yourself.

  But what could I do? The imaginary computer in my head clearly knew more than I did and I had to access it somehow.

  With a sigh, I said, “Open notifications.”

  The words appeared before my eyes, white text scrolling on a blue background.

  I was automatically annoyed. Seriously, my imaginary interface looked like an ancient Microsoft Windows error screen? What was I, mentally trapped in 2002?

  **SYSTEM RESPONSE INITIALIZING...**

  **Welcome, Olivia.**

  > Environmental collapse threshold exceeded.

  > Planetary intervention protocol triggered.

  > Mana saturation level: 4.28% and rising.

  > Local biome stability: 36%

  > Individual viability: *Marginal.*

  Marginal.

  Lovely.

  That didn’t sound good.

  I suppose I should have been more worried about the whole environmental collapse thing, but… that wasn’t really a surprise. Anyone who’d been paying attention and actually believed in science knew we were in trouble.

  In Florida, it was the wildfires. How the hell do you have a wildfire in a swamp? Answer: a wet season, with a lot of growth, followed by drought. Historically, sure, that happened once in a while. It didn’t happen every single year.

  And the hurricanes, well, they were inevitable, of course. But in the fifty years between 1950 and 2000, there were nine major hurricanes. In the next twenty years, there were eleven. The math was not on our side.

  So, yeah, environmental collapse, not exactly a surprise.

  And I guess, when it came right down to it, my own marginal viability wasn’t much of a surprise either.

  Like everyone else in the world, I’d contemplated the zombie apocalypse once in a while, and I always figured I’d die fast.

  Not because I’d sit around waiting to get munched on, but because I wasn’t the survivalist type. I didn’t have some great stockpile of weapons. I wasn’t exercising until my lungs burned every day. And if I had a single bottle of water and it was a choice between me and a kid, I’d give it to the kid.

  Hell, to be honest, I’d probably make sure my dogs had water before I did.

  Like I said, not a survivalist.

  But there was no point in glooming about my own lack of viability. Right now, I had a dog and a kid—well, okay, a guy—depending on me. I needed to get it together if we were going to survive.

  Those first messages had scrolled like a command-line interface, but now the ridiculous blue screen of doom opened up, with white text centered in the middle of the blue. I assumed whatever was doing this—something in my brain?—was following my own expectations, but I wished it would join the 21st century.

  No sooner had I had the thought than the blue screen disappeared, and a text window opened up. It looked exactly like an iMessage pop-up.

  On autopilot, I reached for my back pocket to check my phone, just to compare. But it wasn’t there. It was probably still sitting on my front porch, playing music from my angry gardening playlist. Hopefully it was fine, and not being chewed on by something with fangs and attitude.

  I took a deep breath. Something about the, well, responsiveness of the interface was terrifying.

  My brain was shaping my hallucinations to my will. That was just… wrong. But freaking out wouldn’t help.

  One more breath. In for three, hold for three, out for three, hold for three. I did my square breathing a second time, then a third.

  Okay, nervous breakdown on hold.

  Messages, first.

  The first one read: Mana-crazed squirrel killed, 40 XP.

  I didn’t know what “mana-crazed” meant, but obviously I knew I’d killed a squirrel. A gigantic, hostile squirrel, so probably that’s what I should assume “mana-crazed” meant for future reference.

  The next message, still in iMessage format, read:

  Congratulations, Olivia! As one of the first humans to defend Earth from mana-induced fauna mutations, you’ve been awarded the title First Defender. With this title comes the opportunity to participate in a challenge scenario.

  Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  Challenge scenarios allow you to develop critical capabilities within a simulated environment. Performance metrics will determine post-scenario resource allocation.

  Um, no, thank you. No, thank you very much. I had no desire to participate in a “challenge scenario,” even without knowing what it was.

  Wait.

  We recognize that challenge scenarios may interfere with immediate survival efforts. If you would prefer to opt out, please respond within five minutes of message receipt.

  Yes, thank you, opting out sounded great. Except… um, that five minutes? Had it happened, like, an hour ago?

  Excellent! Congratulations on joining Challenge Scenario: Temperate Forest Biome, Difficulty Level 2 of 12. You have been temporarily re-located to a designated scenario zone.

  Okay, that explained the forest. Also, not okay. No! How did I opt out now?

  Scenario objectives include survival, threat identification and elimination, resource acquisition, system adaptation.

  This scenario includes live combat elements, evolving environmental conditions, and the opportunity to earn skill points, stat enhancements, and equipment..

  Participants: 24/24

  Duration: 72 hours (Temporal displacement protocol active.)

  No, no, more no.

  Shit.

  I buried my face in my hands.

  The stupid iMessage didn’t disappear. Closing your eyes doesn’t make something inside your mind go away. The message was still right there, hovering in front of my face, unchanged, even with my eyes closed.

  I’d had a chance to say no to this experience, whatever it was, and I hadn’t. Teach me to ignore my messages.

  A new window appeared in the corner of my vision. It looked almost like a fitness tracker, with two numbers updating in real time.

  The top one was a countdown, seconds dropping away, flowing into minutes. I had 71 hours and 23 minutes left. I figured that meant I’d been stuck in this forest for 37 minutes.

  It felt longer.

  The second number changed as I was looking at it. It had read 18/24. Then it changed to 17/24.

  What?

  Twenty-four what? Hours? I skimmed back up, rereading quickly, and froze when I hit the line I should have noticed the first time.

  Participants: 24/24

  Participants was now 17/24.

  Seven people gone in 37 minutes.

  Make that 38.

  I did a quick check on Jack Francis, but he was still breathing.

  I needed to remind myself to keep breathing, too. How were people dying so fast? What the hell was killing them?

  Humans tend to worry about the big predators—lions, tigers, and bears, oh my—but in reality, it’s the small stuff that usually gets us. Bacteria, viruses, parasites. Floridians might fear alligators, but death by gator is way less common than death by Vibrio vulnificus, your basic friendly flesh-eating bacteria.

  That said, the small stuff doesn’t kill quickly. Even in worst-case scenarios, it takes a while for your body to give up and your organs to quit working.

  Seven people in 38 minutes meant this scenario was averaging a death every five and a half minutes or so. There’s really only one species that kills humans that fast.

  Us.

  I looked at Jack Francis’s melted face.

  I was not going to look for the other human beings trapped in this forest with us. It felt like a very safe bet that at least one of the remaining seventeen thought they were playing battle royale.

  But hey, I should think positive: maybe people were just exiting the scenario somehow.

  I put my hand on Zelda’s neck. If I told this thing, this challenge scenario,to let me out, would it send Z home with me? Because obviously I wasn’t going anywhere without her.

  Her fur was soft under my fingers. Without lifting her head, she turned her muzzle and licked me, catching the underside of my wrist with her long tongue.

  I kept my gaze on the idiot boy next to me.

  I wanted to pick Z up and hold her in my arms while I tried all the options: quit, force-quit, escape, exit scenario. I was sure I could think of more if I kept trying.

  But if I did, the idiot boy would die. His chance of survival without me was zip. Zero. Nil.

  On the other hand, Riley and Bear were home alone. What about their chances of survival? I needed to get home to them, didn’t I? Except… well, barring an abolute horde of squirrels, maybe some with automatic rifles, they’d be just fine.

  Bear had survived months in the forest back when she was a puppy. Three days in the acres around the house would be nothing. And Riley knew how to shove the outside faucet handle on. I might come back to puddles, but they’d have fresh water.

  “Close notifications,” I said grimly. It looked like there was more to read, but I didn't want to see what it said. Was this thing in my head giving me credit for almost killing Jack? Did you get XP for burning people alive if they didn’t die? I didn’t want to know.

  I let the countdown clock stay up, though.

  Seventy-two hours. Well, seventy-one and change. We could survive that long without food, although that thought made my stomach growl as if prompted. But we’d need water. And ideally a way to boil it.

  Crying at the thought would be a very bad idea. No need to rush the death-by-dehydration.

  So, water, shelter—maybe even a place to hide from the probable deranged killers running around this so-called scenario with us? Then fire, then food.

  And if I was going all out with my planning, I needed more of that blue stuff for Jack.

  Actually, that probably belonged at the top of my list. I didn’t know how long he’d survive without it, but he’d be a lot more useful for the rest of our long-term survival plans if he wasn’t an unconscious heap on the ground.

  He outweighed me by a good fifty or sixty pounds, and I couldn’t possibly drag him to the convenient cave I hadn’t yet found without tools I didn’t yet have. Like a stretcher. Or a sledge. Or some kind of wagon or…

  My thoughts were starting to spiral around the sheer impossibility of my goals, so I gave Z one last stroke along her miraculously healed back and stood.

  Water. That was the first goal. Focus on that and everything else could come later.

  I picked up my shovel.

  Then I stood there for a second, feeling like an idiot.

  Where was I going?

  The forest was… forest. Tree trunks, green leaves, undergrowth, moss. The “challenge scenario” had dropped us into a small clearing. No obvious paths led out.

  And, honestly, it was a little too perfect. Dappled sunlight filtered through the leaves like some set designer had positioned the lighting just so, and the deep green of the moss looked like someone had added an intensity filter.

  It was quiet, too.

  Too quiet.

  No birds, no insects buzzing, no wind rustling the leaves. Not even the sound of squirrels, although that was probably all to the good.

  I turned in a slow circle, clutching my shovel and looking for a landmark. Something tall? Nope. Something different? Also nope.

  Great. I could add “getting hopelessly lost” to my list of potential problems.

  Water first, I reminded myself. Maybe we could make it the whole seventy-one remaining hours without a drink, but hour seventy would be pretty damn awful if I tried.

  I looked down at Zelda. She was watching me with alert brown eyes, head tilted. I could almost hear her saying, Where we going?

  Her “stay” was pretty solid in the right circumstances. If I was cooking and she was underfoot, I could tell her to go to her bed and she’d wait there until I released her. But here? In a strange place with weird smells? I could tell her to stay, but she’d follow me the second I disappeared from view.

  “Yeah, I know. You’re not letting me out of your sight,” I muttered.

  She wagged her tail, stood up and did a full-body stretch, forelegs, then back, then sat back down and waited expectantly.

  All right, she was coming with me. But if I ever hoped to get back to Jack, I was going to have to mark some kind of trail.

  I hefted my shovel, then stabbed it into the ground.

  Okay, I could do this. But I needed to move before I talked myself out of it.

  I picked a likely tree that was almost exactly like all the other likely trees, except that it had a knot in the bark at about eye level. I strode over to it, walking like I knew what I was doing, moved to the other side, and scooped out a single shovel load’s worth of dirt. I left it in a mound next to the tree.

  Zelda followed, tail wagging. She sniffed the hole and looked up at me expectantly.

  I shrugged at her. Yeah, digging holes was usually her thing, not mine. But how else was I going to mark my trail?

  I looked past our pile of dirt and picked out my next target. Another generic tree, no knot.

  I shoved through the undergrowth, eyeing the ground for poison ivy or thorns. When I reached my target tree, I looked back and tried to memorize this side of the clearing I’d just left. I could barely see the little pile of dirt.

  This was going to suck. Maybe I could leave a trail of discarded clothing, instead? It’d be a short trail, though. I had two gloves, plus the mask and hat I somehow still wore. After that I’d be stripping off clothing I actually needed.

  Or, I realized with something close to delight, I could use the shovel to mark the bark on the trees. Literally, blazing a trail. That’s what that was called, right?

  I walked around to the far side of my new tree and lifted the shovel to stab at the trunk, just as Zelda barked in warning, and something small and green with way too many teeth launched itself at my knees with a shriek.