Nothing to do but follow the helmet’s instructions. Michael started walking in the direction the helmet had indicated, stumbling every now and again. The ground was a dull brown in colour, uneven, made entirely of rock, and covered in protrusions and ankle twisting depressions.

Michael stopped near one of the tree-like things. It was fifty or so feet tall, and now that he was closer, the details he could see made it even stranger. The trunk was made of blue-black tendrils that were covered in tiny holes. Some were as thick as his torso, some as thin as his little finger, and they all twisted and tangled together until their points burst out at the top to sway with the wind. On the tips of the tendrils were globes of bright blue light.

Knowing it might be a bad idea, but too curious not to, Michael placed a gloved hand on the tree. It felt a little squishy, like–

With a yell, Michael jumped back. The tendril he’d touched was moving. It seemed to recoil from his touch, and as it brushed against the others, they moved too. A shiver ran all the way up the tree. It shook the blue lights, and a sound halfway between a hiss and a whistle filled the air.

Michael stood very still, holding his breath.

The tree stopped moving. The sound faded.

Half a minute passed.

Michael let out his breath and relaxed slightly. If he was in danger, it didn’t seem like it was going to come from the tree.

He shook his head. None of this seemed real. Apparently in the 913 years he’d been asleep, the world – or this part of it – had completely transformed into an alien landscape.

He couldn’t even figure out what he was feeling; It was like he’d taken a step down a staircase, except that the next stair wasn’t there and he was floundering, looking for something to hold onto, but nothing was there. And at the same time, he didn’t care. It was a strange kind of resignation, but it was also more than that.

I’m probably in shock.

“So, uh . . . where do I go again?” The helmet responded immediately, a red dot appearing on the glass that shielded his face. He brought himself in line with the dot and started walking, the dot fading away seconds later.

Walking under the blue light of the trees across the rock landscape was the most surreal experience Michael had ever had. Every detail jumped out at him, every line and point sharp as a razor. His movements felt fluid, detached, like he was watching from behind someone else’s eyes.

A faint, mournful whistling noise permeated the air as the trees stirred under gusts of warm wind.

Every now and again Michael would think he’d caught movement out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned to look, nothing was there.

The auroras in the deep black sky swirled, their light outlining the tops of the massive mountains in bright purple.

Where is the sun? The thought was distant, and Michael payed it no further attention, swept up in the sheer otherness of this world he had once seen as lush and green and bright.

His footsteps, flat and muted, were the only sound other than the breeze and the whistling. Time passed indeterminately, a blur in the back of his mind. He used the helmet for directions when he remembered to, adjusting course several times.

It was only when a gurgling sound startled him from his trance that he realized he needed to eat.

After a quick search, he found a large spike of rock to sit against. He opened up his backpack and pulled out some canned meat. It was almost grey, but it didn’t smell bad. Unfortunately, he had no utensils to eat with, so he pulled off a glove to start eating . . . and stopped, staring at his right hand.

Didn’t that thing in the facility cut me? Where the cut should have been – right under his thumb – there was smooth, unbroken skin.

“You have been selected for genetic modification . . .” he recalled the voice in the elevator.

No, I just walked a long time. The cut was shallow, it could have healed by now. He knew that wasn’t true, but he didn’t want to think about it. There was enough strangeness around him already.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

He began to eat the meat with his fingers. It had only the slightest taste, but Michael was hungrier than he’d expected and it was almost gone much faster than he would have liked.

It was only when he reached in for the last bits at the bottom of the can that he saw movement. And this time, when he looked, there was something there.

It was a vague shadow among the tendrils of the tree beside him, blue light glinting from what might have been eyes.

Michael moved slowly, pulling his handgun from its holster at his belt.

The creature moved out of the tendrils and down the trunk. It was a sickly white-grey in colour, a sheen of slime over its skin shining in the light. It would have been about two feet tall and humanoid if it stood up, but it used its arms and hands for walking, a long thin tail swaying behind it. Large white eyes with tiny black pupils above a slit nose and wide mouth fixed on Michael as it moved towards him, caution evident in its movements.

Michael kept his gun trained on the creature. It looks kinda like a monkey. The thought brought many questions to mind. He brushed them all away and focused on the creature.

It came within five feet of him and stopped, resting on its haunches.

Michael stared. It stared back.

After a long silence, the monkey-thing lifted a glistening hand and pointed. Michael followed the line of its finger. It was pointing at the mostly eaten can of meat in his hand.

“You . . . want this?” It felt almost wrong to break the silence, his voice out of place in this environment.

The monkey-thing opened its mouth, revealing many tiny pointed teeth, and made a thin chirping noise, gesturing at the can again.

“Okay, sure,” Michael leaned toward it, keeping his gun pointed. He set the can down between him and the monkey-thing.

The monkey-thing sidled up to the can, taking it gently in its two hands before moving about fifteen feet away to eat beneath the cover of a tree.

Michael wasn’t expecting danger, but he kept an eye on his visitor as he put his things away. He got up, put on his backpack, but kept hold of his gun.

He got his helmet to show him where to go and started walking. After a few minutes, he started to feel like he was being watched. He turned and saw that the monkey-thing was following him.

It wasn’t the only one.

All around Michael, slipping like ghosts through the dark tendrils, were more of the monkeys.

Michael quickened his pace, but the monkeys were ahead of him and they closed off his way forward. Michael turned to the side and found his way blocked again.

The monkeys had him encircled. Eleven of them were on the ground, almost double that in the trees, all staring at him with flat, unblinking eyes.

Michael tried to control his breathing. They’re small, too thin to be strong. I could run through them if I needed too. Despite the thought, Michael stayed still. He didn’t know what these creatures were. It was too much of a risk to antagonize them.

The monkey with the can pointed at Michael’s backpack and made that chirping noise again.

All eleven monkeys on the ground advanced.

“Stay back!” Michael said, spinning, trying to keep all of the monkeys in sight at once.

They stopped ten feet away, shuffling in circles around him, tiny black pupils fixed on the backpack.

Michael kept spinning, his gun level with the monkeys heads.

Two of them leapt onto his back at once, teeth sinking into the straps of his backpack. Michael punched over his shoulder, hitting one of the monkeys in the face. It fell off him, stunned.

Two more monkeys leapt at him, one at his arm, the other taking the place of the fallen one. Michael grabbed at his back, but the monkey hanging onto his arm bit into his bicep and he missed his grab.

Another monkey crawled up his leg, while another jumped on his back. He flailed, throwing one monkey off just as another took its place. One of his backpack straps snapped, the weight shifting on his shoulders coupled with the monkeys all over him causing him to lose his balance and fall to the ground.

All eleven monkeys were on him now, and more were coming down from the trees. They were biting, kicking, covering him in clear slime. He pulled the trigger on his handgun wildly. Nothing happened. The safety was still on. He turned it off. The last strap on the backpack snapped. Michael pulled the trigger–

The gun went off right next to his face, a deafening crack, the monkey in front of him flying back as its head exploded with bright red liquid and chunks of grey matter.

Everything went still.

Then the monkeys were scattering, screaming as they disappeared into the trees.

Michael got up, ears ringing, taking short, fast breaths. He was bleeding from four bites, most of them hadn’t gotten through his camo suit. With a shaking hand, he reached over his shoulder for his backpack to get his first aid kit . . .

The monkeys had taken his backpack. All his food, ammo, several grenades, his rifle, and his first aid kit had been with it. He thought of going back to the facility, then dismissed the idea. The helmet had led him in many different directions and he didn’t remember the way back.

Suddenly exhausted, Michael slumped back to the ground.