Banks and Stone study the monitor in front of them. They watch the prairie grass bend like waves on the sea. Big blue sky above. Nothing else.

 

“You're up next?” asks Stone.

 

Banks glances at him and nods.

 

“What's your experience?” continues Stone. “What makes you think you can survive?”

 

Banks leans back in his chair and rubs his temples. He’s had this conversation already. They pulled the first five volunteers into the project together. Banks is number five, Stone is number six. At least this will be the last time.

 

“Peace Corps,” Banks says. “They sent me to a rural Bolivian community at ten thousand feet altitude. I ate a lot of guinea pig, learned to survive. I know my limits, and I know how to push them.”

 

Stone grunts. Banks doesn’t care, but he asks anyway. “You?”

 

“Marine Corps.” Stone spits the words out as if they explain everything.

 

“Well, all right,” Banks says to himself, thinking that Stone’s brevity probably means he never saw real action.

 

“Banks, get suited up. You’re on in five,” a voice says through Banks’ earpiece. He hesitates for a moment, then rises to collect the rest of his tactical gear - a helmet and firearm. He shoves the metal door open and steps outside.

 

The vast tallgrass prairie seems an unlikely location for the black shipping container. Why here? Banks wonders. He glances at the metal pole attached to the container that points like a finger to the west. He squints his eyes, but can’t see the portal. Everything looks normal.

 

The first reported disappearance occurred three years ago. A bison. Students from the local university were counting the bison population at the National Wildlife Refuge for their biology class. The first group of students counted fifty-seven, the second group counted fifty-six. The professor knew that there were fifty-seven, so she asked them to count again. Fifty-six.

 

The refuge biologist disappeared next. He left to collect feces samples in the same area and never returned. Then a few local police officers went missing during the search for the biologist’s body. That’s when they closed off the area and the government stepped in.

 

“Banks, walk toward the rod,” the voice says. He takes three calculated steps left. “That’s good. We have visual. Hold there.”

 

Banks takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. The four previous volunteers entered the portal and never returned. Volunteers just like him. Each with their own unique story, unique qualifications. Banks has no spouse, kids, or close relationships with his extended family. He loves being around people, but can also spend weeks alone in the wilderness honing his survival skills. He exhales slowly and opens his eyes, ready.

 

“Ten paces straight west. Good luck.”

 

Banks inflates his chest, stares straight ahead, and advances into the prairie. Unexpectedly, his eyelids droop and he slouches uncontrollably. He fights to remain conscious. His vision slowly clears as he regains control of his body.

 

He’s on a beach.

 

Banks dives behind a palm tree and surveys his surroundings. He estimates twenty people, all wearing shorts or swimsuits. They have colorful drinks in their hands with small paper umbrellas. A few are passing a ball back and forth, laughing. Others are talking cheerfully, with bursts of laughter erupting everywhere.

 

Not sensing immediate danger, Banks conducts a self-assessment. He, too, is wearing shorts and a short-sleeved button-up shirt with colorful macaws printed on it. His tactical gear, helmet, and gun are missing. The sand warms his bare feet.

 

“Hello, friend!” a man wearing banana yellow swim shorts says. “I’m Tony. I’m so glad to see you!”

 

Banks feels a sudden glow of happiness and unsuccessfully suppresses a smile. “I’m Banks,” he says. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Tony.”

 

Banks lets his guard down. When he shakes Tony’s hand, he feels a deep love for him.

 

“Let me show you around, Banks.” Tony hands Banks a drink and introduces him to three people. Somehow, Banks already knows the third person’s name, although he’s never seen her before. Tony makes a joke and everyone’s in stitches. Banks considers it the best joke he’s ever heard.

 

Banks breaks from the group after a few minutes to explore the beach. How did I get here? he thinks. He greets Kyle, Aaliyah, and Jamis, three people he’s never met before. They slap his back with enthusiasm and Banks calls back a retort that leaves them all giggling. Banks claps his hands in enjoyment and continues his stroll.

 

While waving to a woman riding a bison, a ten-foot alien walks up to him. Its head is large and gray, with deep eye sockets. Three scrawny fingers extend at the end of its lanky arms. Judging from the size of its torso, it hasn’t eaten for weeks. A long tail hovers over the alien’s right shoulder.

 

Banks experiences a jolt of amazement which is quickly subdued by a strong feeling of kinship to the alien. “Hello, friend!” he says.

 

The alien’s tail slices open Banks’ chest and its pudgy fingers rummage through his organs as if it were looking for a book on a shelf. Banks glances down at the blood soaking his legs. He tries to scream in response to the gruesome display but only manages a numbed apathy. The alien closes Banks’ chest up and leaves. “Thank you!” Banks says.

 

Banks joins a game of volleyball. After the third serve, he feels a hard grip on his shoulder and turns around.

 

“Stone!” he says. “Come play with us. We’re having so much fun.”

 

The former marine stands in front of Banks wearing only swim trunks. His muscular body is bulging, his face razor sharp. “Listen here, Banks,” Stone says sternly, pulling Banks close to him. “What’s with you? Have you forgotten?”

 

“Forgotten what?”

 

Stone smiles. “That I love volleyball!”