Phil opened his eyes and knew, before he even glanced at his alarm clock, that he had overslept. “Dammit,” he mumbled as he threw off the covers and climbed out of bed. “I’m gonna get fired for sure this time.” In the back of his mind, he thought that was not really such a bad thing since he hated his job, but the lack of new funds coming in would severely impact his ability to maintain a decent beer supply. He knew he would have to do some big time groveling to fix this. Heading to the bathroom to get ready, he splashed some water on his face and then on his hair and combed it out, then threw on the same clothes from the day before which were conveniently lying on the bathroom floor. “You look like shit,” he told himself in the mirror before flipping off his reflection as he walked from the bathroom.

In the kitchen he opened the refrigerator, hoping against all odds that there would be something quick and edible he could grab for the drive to work. “Dammit,” he mumbled again when he realized there was not. Normally he was quite happy to see a fridge full of beer - not that mass-produced crap, but good quality craft beers, even a few home brews from members of his local brew club - but a little food to go along with it might be a good addition. His eyes landed on a Kentucky Breakfast Stout and briefly wondered if it would substitute for eggs and toast. “Dammit,” he said again as he slammed the fridge door closed. He heard the bottles rattle against each other and silently told himself not to do that again. He made a mental note to pick up some peanut butter, jelly and bread on his way home from work today, assuming he still had a job.

Hurriedly he slipped on his shoes, grabbed his wallet, keys and cell phone from the hall side table and opened the front door. Stepping out onto his porch he froze, staring at the world beyond his front door. Clearly something had gone wrong in the middle of the night. He didn’t remember drinking that much the night before, but apparently, he had slept through Armageddon and the end of time as mankind knew it. “This is not good,” he said out loud. Normally, the view from Phil’s front porch was typical suburbia America - one cookie-cutter house next to dozens of others all in a neat row, neighbors walking their dogs or mowing their yards and Mr. Dipshit across the street walking out to get the newspaper in his bath robe. Yes, he knew the old man’s real name was Johnson, but Dipshit seemed much more fitting ever since the old man had called the cops on his party three weeks ago. He probably didn’t even have anything on under that robe. Oh, good golly hell, Phil thought. The world is clearly coming to an end and now I have that mental image in my head to boot.

Today, however, the view Phil saw from his front doorstep was clearly not typical suburbia America. Instead of a neat row of houses across the street, one rickety wooden shack sat in the middle of a dry, barren lot. Goats, chickens and one skinny cow stood in pens nearby. A small barn, or the remnants of what use to be a barn, lay in ruins to one side, now just a big pile of rotted lumber. An old man dressed in tattered trousers and shirt hoed a small garden out front. Phil squinted. “Uh, Mr. Dip… er, um, Mr. Johnson?” Phil called out. “Is that you? What happened out here?” The old man looked up from his work, scrunched up his face, spat and went back to hoeing. Hmm, Phil thought. Seems like Mr. Dipshit alright.

Slowly turning, he looked back inside his house. “That is not good either,” he mumbled to himself. From where he stood, the inside of his house looked like a one-room rustic mining cabin. Turning back forward again, Phil walked down the front steps and out into his yard, or what used to be his yard. Now it was just dirt. Wondering why the trip down the steps seemed clumsy, he glanced down and found that the dress clothes he had donned for work were gone, replaced with baggy trousers of dark greens and greys tucked into soft leather boots. What appeared to be a robe, not a bath type robe, but rather a fancy knee-length robe of dark velvet, hung loosely over a beige shirt with fluffy sleeves. Phil patted himself to make sure what he was seeing was real and his right hand landed on a sword scabbard hanging from his belt. He felt a fleeting moment of security knowing he was armed before realizing the scabbard was empty. Turning to his left and then right, Phil looked up and down his street. Or rather, up and down where his street use to be. Only now, there was no street. To the left a dirt path wound its way off towards some woods a couple hundred yards away. To the right, the same path continued past a tall oak tree and disappeared toward foothills and mountains further off in the distance. Maybe fifty yards up the path sat a small row of connected wooden buildings, and then three more small rustic buildings just past that.

This is a dream, Phil thought. Ha, yes. That’s it. Got to be a freakin’ dream. No other explanation. Phil felt a wave of relief come over him. Now that I know this is a dream, I know that I am not late for work. The beer money still flows! Now, how do I wake up from this? He reached up and pinched his cheek. “Ouch,” he said out loud. That’s not supposed to hurt in a dream. Maybe I dreamed that it hurt. If that’s the case, what good is the pinch test? Ok, what else can I do? Phil thought for a minute trying to remember everything he knew about dreams. It was then that he realized he knew absolutely nothing about dreams. Except for the pinch test, but that theory was already shot to hell. Then he remembered something he had heard once about falling while dreaming. If you fell from a long way up you would wake before you hit the ground, right? Or was it that you would die if you did hit the ground? Dammit.

A few minutes later Phil had climbed to the top of the oak tree wondering if he was high enough for the dream-fall-test to work. “Ah the hell with it,” he said as he let go and plummeted to the ground. When he regained consciousness, Phil rolled onto his back wincing in pain. He looked at his left arm and immediately knew it was broken. Probably a couple of ribs too. In hindsight, that probably was not one of my better ideas, he thought. He stood up cautiously, left arm hanging useless by his side. Without thinking he made the motion of lifting a beer up to his mouth with his right arm, relieved that it still worked.

He glanced across the dirt path to where Mr. Dipshit stood and found the old man staring back, a completely dumbfounded look on his face. “I knew there was something wrong with you,” the old man said. Then he spat and went back to hoeing.

“Well,” Phil said. Deep subject for such a shallow mind, Phil’s mind thought back. “Dammit,” he said again. “Quit being an idiot. You’ve got to think and figure this out.” His arm hurt really bad, and he came to the conclusion that since he did not wake up or die from the fall, and he was feeling a lot of pain, maybe this was not a dream after all. With a sudden realization, he remembered his cell phone was in his pocket and took it out to call Don. Don was the last person he saw last night and knew that he had drunk just as many beers. He briefly thought about driving over to Don’s house but thought better of it based on two observations. One, his car was no longer parked in his driveway, most likely because he no longer had a driveway, or car - just a small dirt yard with two chickens pecking the ground. What the…, when did I get chickens? And two, the street he would normally drive on to Don’s house, which was normally just a mile down the road, in the direction of that forest, was now just a dirt footpath.

Phil glanced at his phone. No bars. “That sucks,” he said. Thinking his only option now was to walk to Don’s house, or at least walk in the direction of where Don’s house used to be, into that creepy-looking forest, Phil first decided he better do something about his arm. As he turned back toward his house, he noticed the outside of his house no longer looked like it should. Instead of the brick and painted clapboard siding and the neat shrubbery along the front, he now saw an old rickety shack. Granted, while it was not quite as rickety and run down as Mr. Dipshit’s place across the dirt path, which he found strangely comforting, it was still a hole-in-the-wall shack. Oddly he wondered what the neighborhood association would think when they saw it. One more thing to worry about!

Slowly he walked up to the front door and, realizing there was not a doorknob, lifted the wooden latch and pushed. He stared inside at the rustic interior for a minute to determine if it was safe to enter before taking a step forward. As he took that first step back inside his vision seemed to blur for just a second. When it cleared, the inside had changed to look just as Phil remembered it should, much to his relief and amazement. He took one step backwards so that he stood on the front step again and the rickety shack came back into view. He rushed in and slammed the door behind him. Leaning back against the door he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. After a moment he glanced down and was relieved to see that his clothing was back to normal as well. He then ran to the fridge, grabbed the first beer his hand landed on and shot-gunned it. Then he grabbed a second beer, pausing briefly to be a little more selective on this one, a nice hazy IPA, took a sip and sat down at the kitchen table. As his mind started to clear he happened to glance down at his phone. Four bars. What the hell?

Worried the bars might disappear again, Phil hurriedly tapped his contacts icon, located Don, who he had labeled as Beergod2, and dialed. It rang four times and went to voicemail:

Beep. You are lucky enough to have reached Donamo’s phone. If you have beer, leave a message. Otherwise hang up and don’t call back. Beep.

“Dammit,” Phil hung up and immediately re-dialed, knowing there was no chance in hell Don was even out of bed yet. This time it rang three times and Phil could hear someone mumbling. He heard what sounded like a drawer being opened, the phone being dropped in and then silence. “Shit. Don. DON!” Phil yelled into his phone. “Take your damn phone out of the drawer. It’s Phil. This is important.” Ten seconds go by. “Dammit Don! Pick up the phone.” Phil could hear the drawer open, and the phone being shuffled around, then Don’s voice, sounding like he just woke from a hundred-year sleep.

“Dammit, Phil. This better be important.”

“It is VERY important Don. Listen to me very carefully. I need you to get up and go look out your window. Tell me what you see.”

“Holy shit Phil, I can tell you what I would see without even getting up. My front yard with a big pile of dog shit courtesy of my neighbors’ dog.”

“Seriously Don, I’m not messing around here. Go look out your window now.” Phil heard a few choice curse words as the phone was set down hard.

A few seconds later Don was back. “Just like I said Phil, front yard and dog shit. Were you hoping for a freakin’ unicorn?”

“What?” Phil said incredulously, “I don’t understand.” Phil stood and walked to his own kitchen window, chugging down the last of the IPA. He took a deep breath and raised the window shade. A neat row of tidy houses curved out of view to the left and right. “Holy shit, I think I’ve gone off the deep end.” Phil lowered the phone to his side and walked back to the front door. Gingerly, with his good arm, he slowly opened the door. Everything looked normal. He stepped outside. Now everything was back to how it was earlier – fancy clothes, dirt path, oak tree and Mr. Dipshit’s shack. Mr. Dipshit looked up, spat, then went back to hoeing. Phil lifted the phone. “Don, you gotta go outside. Don’t fart around, go outside now. Don. Hello? Don?” It was then that Phil realized he no longer had a connection. He looked at the phone - no bars. “Dammit.” Phil quickly ran back inside, slammed the door and looked at his phone. Four bars. Ok, think this through dude. You are not insane. Phil quickly dialed Don back. Don answered on the third ring sounding again like he just woke up from a hundred-year sleep. “What the hell Don, did you actually go back to sleep that quick?”

“Dude, it’s like 9 o’clock in the freakin’ a.m.,” Don mumbled. “Why are you bugging me this early?”

“Seriously Don, you gotta wake up. Slap yourself on the face hard or something.” There was a pause and then Phil heard a solid ‘whack’ on the other end of the line. “Dang, Don, I was just kidding on that. But now that you are awake, go to your front door and open it.” Another pause where Phil could hear Don stumbling through his house.

“Ok, I’m at the front door, Phil. I’m reaching for the doorknob, Phil.” Don said each sentence in an exaggerated sarcastic tone, emphasizing Phil’s name each time. He was clearly not happy about being put through this exercise this early in the morning. “I’m turning the doorknob, Phil. I’m opening the door, Phil. I’m stepping outside, Phil.  I’m….”

“No, no, Don, don’t go out…” <click> “…side.” The call went dead. Phil stared at his phone. “Dammit, Don.” Phil waited a few seconds and dialed back. Busy signal. “Come on Don, hurry up and realize you aren’t talking to anyone and go back inside,” Phil mumbled. He waited a few more seconds and dialed again.

“Holy shit, Phil. What the hell?” Don exclaimed when he answered Phil’s call.

“Ha, I knew it. You see it too, right? Whatever you do, don’t go back outside or you will lose the sig…” <click> “…nal. Dammit.” A minute later, Phil had Don back on the line yet again. “Jeez, dude, don’t go back outside, there is no signal out there.”

“What the hell did we drink last night?” Don asked in a frantic voice. “I’m dreaming, right? Tell me I’m freakin’ dreaming.”

“Nope, not dreaming. Already been through that scenario and paid for it big time. Tell me what you saw.”

“A forest, Phil. I’m in the middle of a freakin’ forest. Where did my neighbors go? Where are their houses?”

“I don’t know,” Phil answered. “But clearly there is some weird shit going on. Open your door again but this time don’t go outside. I think our phones will work as long as you stay inside.”

Don opened his door again but stayed just inside the threshold. “What the hell! It looks normal now.”

“Ok, think man, think,” Phil mumbled half to himself. “Alright, Don, set your phone down inside and then step out and look around.”

“Good idea. Oh wait, hang on, I need to go put some clothes on first.”

“What the hell. You mean you’ve been standing there naked this whole time? It’s bad enough I have a mental picture of a naked Mr. Dipshit in my head. Now I have a naked Don dancing around in there too. Dammit.”

“Uh, Phil,” Don said in a confused voice. “Why are you imagining Mr. Dipshit naked? Are you two dating now?”

“Dammit Don, this is serious. Go get dressed and go outside.” Phil heard the phone get set down and what sounded like Don stumbling around through the house. A couple minutes later he was back.

“Ok, I’m ready. I’m putting the phone down and going out now.” A few seconds later Don was back, breathing heavy and sounding frantic again... “Trees, man. All I see are trees! Creepy-ass-looking trees. And it’s dark. It’s nine o’clock in the freakin’ morning and it’s dark out there. And my clothes! They’re back normal now but while I was out there, I was wearing leather pants, a tunic and a cape. I looked like something Tolkien cooked up.”

“Dude you were only out there five seconds. Go back out and look around.”

“Ok, hang on. Wait, what if there is something out there? What if I’m attacked? I’m in the middle of a freakin’ creepy-ass forest for Pete’s sake. Maybe there’s a witch out there who wants to cook and eat me.”

“Jeez, Don. Man-up will ya.”

“Alright, alright. I got this. I’m gonna put the phone on speaker.”

Phil heard the phone get set down again. Then he heard the sounds of the refrigerator door and a beer being opened. Ok, Phil thought. Can’t blame him for that. Already downed two myself.

“Going out now...” Don yelled back toward the phone in between gulps of beer. “Outside now…” Phil could tell that Don was several feet away from his phone. “Looking around…” Don’s voice was getting father away. “I… trees, Phil. Lots… freak… tr…” Phil could barely make out what was being said. “I see… and… I… the hell?” Phil clearly made out the last words as Don’s voice grew louder very quickly, followed by the door slamming shut. “Dammit Phil, there’s something out there. I told you there was going to be something out there.”

“What? What was it?” Phil asked in a nervous voice.

“I don’t know.” Don was breathing heavy. “I just saw something move in the shadows out in the trees.”

“Dammit, Don, you’re in a forest. Maybe it was just a deer.”

“A ten-foot deer? I don’t think so.” Don replied. “Crap man, what do I do?”

Phil thought for a moment, then grabbed another beer from the fridge. “Ok, Don. I’m coming to you. Stay there. Hopefully your house is still the same distance away as when the world was normal. I can see the forest from my front lawn, um, dirt area, so I will just follow the path in and hope it leads to your place. Did you happen to see a pathway leading in from my direction?”

“Yeah, yeah there was a path. But what are you going to do about that monster out there?”

“I seriously doubt that it’s a monster, Don. Come on, I mean, surely it’s not something that will hurt me, huh?” Phil said, starting to doubt himself.

“I don’t know,” Don replied. “But Phil?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t call me Shirley… and Phil?”

“Yeah?”

“Be sure to bring some beer. I’m running low.”

“Dammit Don, thanks for worrying more about the beer than me getting eaten by some monster.”

“Well,” Don said matter-of-factly. “You are the one that said it wasn’t a monster.”

“Whatever,” Phil said resignedly. “I’m going to pack up a few things and…”

“…don’t forget the beer…” Don interrupted.

“… and… dammit Don, yes, I will bring the beer…”

“…the good stuff, Phil, not any of that mass-produced crap.” Don interrupted again.

“Don, you know all I have is the good stuff.” Phil took a deep breath and let out a long sigh. “Anyway, I should be headed your way in about ten minutes, so expect me in about thirty. If I am not there in forty-five, come looking for me.”

“The hell you say. I’m not going out there by myself and get eaten by that monster.”

Another deep breath and long sigh. “I’ll bring two of those chocolate stouts you like so much.”

“Fine, I’ll come look for you.” Don said, grudgingly. “Just do your best to make it here so it doesn’t come down to that.”

“It’s at the top of my to-do list.” Phil said. “See you in a few.” Phil hung up and put his phone in his pocket. He snagged a towel from the bathroom, did his best to tie two corners together using his teeth and one good hand, looped it over his shoulder as a sling and lifted his broken left arm into it. Next, he paused to think of what he might need for the trip and find something he could carry it all in. Rummaging through a closet he found his old high school bookbag. Next stop was the refrigerator. The last two of his chocolate stouts went into the bag. He hated that because he remembered how difficult they were to score. A couple of those hazy IPAs went in next, then two hefeweizens. Well, that took up half the space in the bag. Priorities! A flashlight, extra batteries, four granola bars, two bags of potato chips and some habanero-spiced beef jerky took up the remaining space. That should just about cover any emergency that comes up, Phil thought. He downed the rest of the third beer, walked to the front door, opened it and stepped out. The old man across the path looked up, spat and went back to hoeing. Phil turned to lock the door before remembering there was no longer a doorknob and the wooden latch had no keyhole. “Guess I don’t need these anymore,” Phil said as he cracked the door back open and tossed his keys on the floor. Turning, he walked across his dirt patch of a front yard and turned onto the path headed toward the forest.

The old man looked up from his hoeing, sneered and barked a hoarse evil-sounding laugh. “Going into the forest, are ya? Nothin’ good in that forest, just evil, that much I can tell ya.” He then spat and went back to hoeing.

“What, what do you mean, Mr. Dip…, uh Johnson? What’s in the forest?” Phil was getting nervous again even though the three beers he had chugged in the last half hour were starting to help calm his nerves some.

“Nobody ‘round here named Dipuhjohnson,” the old man said, eyebrows lowering in a scowl. “Haggard’s the name. Evil things roam those woods, that much I can tell ya.”

“Yeah, you said that already,” Phil said. Haggard stared at Phil a few more seconds, as if waiting to see if Phil had anything else to say. He then scowled, spat and went back to hoeing his garden. “Well, that was a useless conversation,” Phil mumbled to himself. He then checked his watch and noted the time was 9:21 a.m. He turned and headed down the path toward the forest.