"Hey Gregarious!" Evan yelled over his shoulder as he drove, guffawing as he tried to think of a reason to say my name. Again.

"Fuck, dude, it's just my name." I muttered, turning to watch the canyon scenery out the van window and regretting the moment of openness that had me sharing that tidbit.

My name is Greg. Well, unfortunately it is actually Gregarious... but I very rarely tell people that. And this is why.

"Gregarious, hah! And here I thought I thought about the Roman Empire a lot!" Evan hollered over the road noise with a chuckle.

"That's not even... what?" I spluttered.

I don't think he heard me because I got no response. He was probably coming up with another clever reason to use my name.

Yes, unfortunately my name really is Gregarious. A friendly game of truth or dare on a very long car ride brought that out.

No, I don't think it has any relation to Roman Emperors (I'm pretty sure that's what Evan was going for?), and no I don't know why that's my name. It's just what the birth certificate said.

I've always assumed my mom thought a name like Gregarious would make me just that... sociable, outgoing, friendly, all that bullshit from the dictionary.

It didn't. But I like to think she didn't intentionally bestow me with a lifetime of bullying.

That's an exaggeration, since I moved schools in the second grade, I've always just told people my name is Greg. Greg isn't one of those names where people typically ask

"Oh, Greg? What's that short for?" So it's never really come up. And on the rare occasion I share it myself, I'm prepared for the jokes that follow.

"Hey Evan!" I yelled from the back row of the van, "We'll see who's feeling 'Gregarious' when I kick your ass tomorrow!" I said with a grin.

That one didn't land. Evan is a notoriously bad loser (and also the #1 runner on the team), so I thought I was being clever and funny.

My 11-person audience in the 12-passenger van disagreed.

In the seat next to me, Brady started looking up the definition of "Gregarious" and eventually gave me a small pity laugh.

Once the excitement of the big "Gregarious" reveal was over and 'truth or dare' picked back up I was finally out of the hot seat.

I pulled my headphones back on and closed my eyes.

Tomorrow was the biggest race of the year for most of us. The NCAA Division 1 Mountain Regional Cross Country Championships. Or just "regionals".

Our team was good, but not a national-caliber team. Evan would likely qualify for Nationals as an individual, but for the rest of the team this was it.

The big show.

I was the only freshman on the varsity team. And a walk-on to boot. And I was ready.

And then the van fucking exploded.

I was launched into the canyon, ragdolling off rocks and shrubs, before my body finally wrapped around a huge pine tree and came to a stop.

I hung there like a twisted Christmas ornament, fighting to stay conscious. My vision was like looking through a sheet of muddy plastic, I couldn't inhale, and the gravel that used to be my bones was grinding inside my chest and limbs.

I knew I was dead.

We were somewhere in the canyons of Utah, probably hours from the nearest city, in November, and my body was a pile of mush dangling from a tree.

My scattered thoughts of how fucked I was were interrupted by a shuttering breath finally entering my lungs. Then another.

My vision slowly cleared until I could see the ground. I must've been 10 feet up, but it looked like a mile. And at the end of that mile I could see limbs. Not tree limbs, but a scattering of human arms and legs, like some twisted gifts under my twisted Christmas tree.

My breath was coming easier by that point, but then it caught in my lungs.

"What the fuck" I mouthed, hardly making a sound.

My thoughts were clearing now too.

What happened? Did Evan fall asleep at the wheel? Did we get hit by a semi-truck? Did we wander into a war zone? Is anyone else alive?

I slowly turned my head - shocked that my neck wasn't broken like the rest of me - until I could see the road.

What used to be an unmarked white 12-passenger van was now unidentifiable chunks of crumpled scrap metal and shattered glass strewn across the highway and surrounding landscape.

There were no vehicles in either direction for as far as I could see - which wasn't far on the winding canyon roads.

I'm fine with heights, but I couldn't bring myself to look down again. I squeezed my eyes shut as, with some effort, I lolled my head back until I could again see the scene of the crash, looking for anyone else that might be mostly in one piece.

I saw no one. Whole or... otherwise. No blood. Nothing. I let my eyes roam the landscape looking for a miracle, but the miracle would't meet my eyes.

Instead, it kicked me right in the balls.

"Oi! Ye droopy fucking shite!" It yelled.

Up until that point I had been certain I was paralyzed. Not a bit of feeling from the chest down. In that moment, I wished I was.

My balls leapt to my throat, my eyes rolled back, and my arms tried to reach for the offended party.

Unfortunately, the position of my arms was exactly half of the support keeping me in the tree.

I bounced precisely 4 times before landing in a perfect bellyflop with a wet thud. Yep, definitely not paralyzed. Felt every bit of that.

Before I could even finish my grunt of pain, the voice was right in my ear again.

"No time to be loungin' ye mangled fud! Th' beastie's not far. I'll nae be lug'n yer sorry arse" - and then it (he?) proceeded to do just that.

I got my first look as he grabbed me by the ankle and started dragging me at a run across the mountainside.

A fucking squirrel. A 12-inch tall squirrel - alternating his grip between my ankle and the tattered leg of my pant - was pulling my full body weight across the mountain.

"What the fuck?!" I yelled what seemed to be the only sentence I could utter since being forcefully ejected from a moving vehicle at mach 5... or like 80 miles per hour, whatever.

I could hold my head up now, so I wasn't bouncing it on every rock. I could feel the skin being re-flayed from my back as I was unceremoniously dragged, bounced, and rolled across the mountain.

I tried kicking my legs, but despite regaining feeling, the muscles still weren't responding.

The squirrelly bastard kept throwing dirty looks over his shoulder, as if I were the one forcing him to do this.

"What the fuck" I thought for the thousandth time in the last 5 minutes. Had it only been 5 minutes? Had I lost consciousness? I must've. Maybe I'm not even conscious now? With a wreck like that, nobody escapes without at least a little brain damage, right?

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

That's probably what this is. My severely concussed brain saw a squirrel just before I lost consciousness and then gifted my dreams of Olympic running prowess to this imaginary squirrel. That's where we're at.

That happy thought evaporated as my brief journey came to an end. My tour guide from hell abruptly halted, grabbed my left foot with both squirrelly hands, and whipped my body overhead and down like a sledgehammer.

When I didn't immediately crash into the ground, I was sure I had just been launched off a cliff. That thought was interrupted as my face made an aggressive first impression with the ground.

"Bloody hell" - is what I tried to say. Instead, it came out as an unfortunate moan muffled by a mouthful of dirt.

"Haud yer wheesht and park yer bum right there!"

I rolled over just in time to see my captor disappear over the boulder and out of sight. I was several feet down in what could almost be described as a cave. The area, roughly the size of a small bedroom, appeared to have been deliberately expanded from its original form.

Not a cave in the truest sense, but rather a curious, sheltered nook, cradled about ten feet below the mountain's surface, with the small "entrance" hidden behind a massive boulder.

The walls were a raw tapestry of dirt, tangled with the gnarled roots that snaked through like ancient veins. Rocks jutted out at odd angles, evidence of a recent, hasty hollowing.

After laying face up for a few minutes taking in the not-a-cave and waiting for another unexplainable and terrible thing to occur, I was shocked to realize I could move my legs again.

I pushed myself up against the nearest dirt wall and got my first good look at myself.

My sweats were shredded - nothing but tattered black string and a few Adidas logos. My barely-covered legs underneath were caked in dirt and dried blood, but otherwise looked mostly intact. I couldn't see or feel any serious injuries - which seemed impossible.

My windbreaker had been similarly destroyed - The once smooth surface now a patchwork of frayed threads and jagged tears, with the underlying material peeking through in places where the unwilling journey had been particularly unforgiving.

The once-vivid blue was dulled and stained with the earthy browns and grays of the mountain. What was left of it hung loosely around my shoulders. The sleeves were almost entirely gone, revealing my bloodied and bruised arms. Arms that just minutes before had been bent in all the wrong ways.

Before I could think much about that mystery, I was again interrupted by the somehow both deep and nasally voice that originated from my oversized-yet-tiny prison guard/savior.

"Awa' in ye go, pal!" Followed by another body meeting the dirt in the same face-first fashion I pioneered.

The suspiciously Scottish squirrel retreated without even coming into view this time, as the man wearing my same windbreaker continued to lay face-down in the dirt.

I was again surprised to find the energy to crawl towards my unidentified teammate. I rolled him over, finally noticing the short brown hair was actually red - just filled with dirt and dust, as I assumed mine must be.

"Luca?" I identified the unconscious man.

No response.

I found I was able to stand, and slowly dragged Luca to my wall - just in case super squirrel decided to sledgehammer another person into that same spot here shortly.

Luca was in a similar state to me - aside from the whole consciousness thing. Shredded clothes, dried blood, covered in dirt and grime, and also... not a single visible wound. No weirdly twisted limbs. Not even a split lip or missing tooth - I quickly felt around my mouth to confirm I too had all my teeth. Yep, all good there.

I stood again and walked to the boulder that hid our hidey hole. I reached up, gauging the distance between my fingertips and the top edge of the rock. I'm a lanky guy - a hair over six foot with a wingspan of 6'8 (yes, I measured at an orangutang exhibit at the zoo once), and I know the tips of my fingers are at almost exactly eight feet. Based on my highly scientific measurement, I could tell the top of the boulder was... really fucking high. Probably another 6 feet at least. The boulder rose about 2 feet above the surrounding dirt, so as long as the dirt wasn't too loose, maybe I could get enough purchase to drag myself out of here.

I wasn't super confident in nut-punch-Steve being a friendly character, as our relationship thus far consisted of:

1) nut punch

2) dragged across the mountain

3) thrown in the people hole

4) I'm pretty sure he was insulting me the whole time too

And despite a million unanswered questions - including how the fuck was I standing and walking after being ejected from a van, across a highway, into a tree, dragged by a talking Scottish(?) super squirrel (seriously, what the actual fuck) and thrown in a pit, my first priority was getting to safety. Nothing about this felt safe.

I was feeling really grateful for all those hours spent admiring parkour athletes on Youtube right now. I was pretty sure I could just get a running start and "run" up the boulder side, turn, and grab the dirt ledge - getting that extra vertical from a step or two on the wall.

I stepped to the far edge of the pit, and cast a glance at Luca. I didn't want to leave him here, but I wasn't even confident in my own ability to get out, let alone carrying his limp body. I'll go find help and bring them back here. If I could even find my way back here... that gave me an idea.

I riffled through Luca's pockets and was relieved to find his iPhone with a 40% charge. The screen was shattered, but it still worked. My iPhone was in a similar state, but at a nearly full charge thanks to the portable charger I brought on every road trip. I grabbed a loose rock and quickly dug a shallow hole. Just deep enough to set my iPhone in and cover it with dirt. Pretty sure if Steve is evil he would not take kindly to a trackable iPhone just sitting in his cave. Assuming squirrels understand iPhones... regardless, my plan was this: take Luca's phone, get down the mountain, make an emergency call with his phone, then log in to Find my iPhone on another device and lead the helper people back to Luca. Foolproof. Basically.

Anyways, I'll figure it out.

Step 1: Parkour.

I took a breath, got my four-step running start, and jumped.

"Holy Shit!" I yelled as I super gracefully splayed my arms around the top of the boulder in a desperate hug, looking for purchase.

I had jumped.. high. Like 10 feet high.

I pulled myself up and knelt on the rock, catching my breath. This day keeps getting weirder... but at least I'm alive.

I looked around the unfamiliar area, grabbing the biggest stick I could find - just in case there was an even less friendly super squirrel out there. Or if Steve tried to put me back in his hole. We were high above the road, which I couldn't even see through the trees. There was a sprawling sheer cliff face looming directly behind me, and in front of me a trail was starting to form from Steve's (yes, I'm sticking with Steve now) multiple trips to and from the pit dragging bodies. The underbrush showed signs of repeated violation, following an obvious path. That was definitely (probably) the way I came from, so there was only one option.

Step 2: Run.

I know how to run.

I took off down the partially visible trail, shedding any of the usual caution one might have with uncertain footing at high speeds. I covered ground like a force of nature - more wind than man. I could definitely beat Evan in a race right now. I rocketed down the not-a-path, big stick in hand, with a big goofy smile on my face. It just feels good to go fast.

After less than 60 seconds I had broken out of densest section of trees and could see the road far below again. The empty road... no cars, no police, not even the crumpled chunks of metal that had been our van.

And straight ahead... "what the shit?" I whisper-muttered to myself.

Less than 100 meters ahead, Steve - or another sentient super squirrel - was squaring up with... a woodpecker?

Not sure if I should stop or angle around the blooming brawl and keep running, the decision was made for me. Trip. At full speed. Down the mountain.

I'm a little unclear on the details of what happened next. With my squirrel-defense stick in hand, I began what was at least my fourth high-speed bellyflop of the day. It ended with me facedown in the dirt with my squirrel-defense stick becoming a woodpecker-offense stick. Ehm - yeah, I tripped and skewered a giant woodpecker right through the head.

LEVEL UP!

YOU HAVE REACHED LEVEL 1

YOU MAY NOW SELECT A CLASS