The Bog

I watch a little hummingbird. Its wings are quick—silvery—like water ripples. It hovers, black pin-eyes staring down at the red mush on the ground. I wait in anticipation. Hummingbirds don’t make much for meat. Better than nothing. If it’s alive and moving, it’s not poisoned; it’s safe to eat. I lick my chapped lips. Come on, dinner…

It darts away in the green mist. A displeased sound rises from my throat, and I burst from the leaves and sticks. Idiot. Idiot bird flying away to not be dinner. I wanted dinner…

A rasping sound—my hand is unscrewing the lid of my jelly jar. Red jelly. Raspberries. I squat next to the red mush on the ground and scoop a little back into the jar. The rest, I shove into my mouth. It’s tart and sweet. I swirl my tongue in its lump-liquidy form. Sweet. Tart. Seeds.

Rick gave it to me.

Rick is dead now.

I tromp back to my project—past the crumbling trees and withered black grass. I find the structure’s twisted metal form in the gloom of a large grove. It looks like a spider with too many legs and no body. A large spider with wires for veins and buttons for eyes.

I twist rusty screws into place and push faded buttons. I know I’m being watched from the trees. Let them watch. They get close enough, they’re dinner. If they touch the structure, they’re dinner. That jelly was grainy. I keep running my tongue over my teeth and sucking out the seeds.

What are you doing? The trees ask me.

Making a homing signal. I answer, carefully unrolling a page of drawings. I squint at the black lines and dots and arrows. Rick was a horrible drawer.

Who are you trying to signal?

Aliens.

Aliens? Why—

A crackling behind me and I twist my head. It’s strange, the alien. I thought it would look different. It’s all white, with wrinkles on its elbows and knees. A dark oval is embedded in its white face.

The alien gives a short wave with its thick paw. “Hello, can you understand me? Did you build this contraption?”

I readjust myself so I am sitting on the ground.

“Alien.”

The word is thick and ragged in my throat. It’s been long since I have spoken.

“Ah, so you do speak,” the alien says. Its voice is sharp with relief. “I was worried you might just be another dumb mutated mutt, but as soon as you started examining those papers, I knew there was some intelligence there.“ The alien clears its throat. “Tell me, do you think you could point me in the direction of the bog? My tracker stopped working about twenty minutes ago, and I’ve been wandering around here ever since.”

I stare. Aliens talk a lot. I point at it again. “Alien. Take me home.”

“Alien…? Oh, no, sorry.” The alien chuckles. “I suppose I might look like that, but I’m actually a… well, a fixer.”

I frown. I meant to summon an alien, not a fixer. Maybe Fixer could be dinner instead. I crouch low, and start a slow advance. Fixer moves several hasty steps backwards. It tucks a paw into the folds of its white skin and pulls out something. I stop and stare at the marvelous glittering strand. A fat shiny hangs at the bottom.

“You like the locket?” Fixer says. “It even has a heart at the end, look.”

I hold out a hand. “Give.”

Fixer pulls it back and I growl. “First, you don’t eat me. Second, you tell me where the bog is.”

I glare between the two. Then I stand.

“Can’t tell. Only show.”

We go to the bog. As we get closer, the ground becomes more brittle and littered with withered plants and ash. Acidic air burns my throat, and I stuff my shirt collar into my mouth.

Fixer grips its bulbous head, and air hisses out the sides. I am amused at its unsteady cobbering steps.

We get to the edge and I point at the bog.

“There is your bog.”

Nothing survives the bog. Ever creeping. Ever spreading. It is a living and snorting beast of destruction. Its green body radiates stench and kills anything nearby within minutes—a death breath. Bubbles and steam break its slimy surface. A beast—a beast always hungry.

I still remember the thin arms of my mother loosening themselves of me on the shore.

Too slow, my family hissed at me, as they crawled into the stretches of the night. Better the Bog has you than a beast.

But they hadn’t known. I laid there, waiting for the bog’s final breath—but I still breathed. Too long I waited before raising a cry in the darkness for them to come back. But they were gone.

The bog couldn’t kill me.

Rick found me soon after.

Fixer’s head swivels back and forth. “Ah!” it says, before quickly climbing to the left of the shoreline. I watch its clumsy progress, and see that it is going to Rick’s other project—another metal structure—more boxy than mine.

As Fixer examines the structure’s bits and ends, I stalk over.

“Give,” I say, shoving a hand under Fixer’s big head. Fixer jumps; its fear is pleasing to me.

“Yes, yes, how could I forget?” It raises the locket and carefully lowers it into my hand. I like the way the soft strands collapse in my palm; loose and crinkly at the same time. And shiny. I stroke the heart at the end, give Fixer a nod, then walk back the way I came.

Fixer stays there the next few days. I check in on it from time to time, when I am not looking for food. The bog’s breath doesn’t affect Fixer. It stays busy with walking around Rick’s structure—building it bigger and bigger with loud tools.

Fixer fixing Rick’s structure is impressive. Makes me jealous. I attack my own project with greater energy. I screw in more bits of metal, and wire more wires together.

Mine will be better.

On the fourth day of Fixer’s visit, I find a nest.

It had been clever work on my part: I’d put dabs of jelly all over different areas, and watched where the hummingbird swooped down to drink them. I tracked it to its tree—a large grey tree that’s tall. Too tall.

Dumb tall tree.

My fingers dig into its bark. I pull and grunt my way up. A heave—a growl—a heave—and I am straddling the first branch.

The nest is a sad scattering of twigs and ash. But as I crane my head, I see them—two glorious white spheres. Eggs.

My mouth is watering. I reach forward. How long has it been since I tasted the delicious golden nectar of bird eggs? A month? Two?

I lift them above my mouth. I am about to crack them open, when something else catches my eye.

The hummingbird. Its limp body is lying very very still on the branch. I hesitate, then reach out and touch it. Its feathers are soft. Like fur.

It is dead.

I stare at the hummingbird. Something stirs inside my chest, and I look down at the two eggs in my hand. The bog had gotten here too.

It’s a moment of silent thoughts before I tuck the two eggs into my sling and begin my descent.

When the sky begins ripening to a dark purple, I start a fire near Fixer’s work.

Fixer comes, walking wearily with those clumpy feet of its. I offer a bit of jelly. It looks at the dirt-covered jar and recoils.

“Where did you get that?”

“Rick.”

“Oh, Rick.” Fixer waves its hand. “His life vitals went off around here somewhere. I haven’t been able to locate the body. You haven’t found it, have you?”

I furrow a brow. “Rick is gone. Why would I want his body?”

Fixer laughs and shakes its head. “Yeah, can’t say I don’t agree with you there. It’s probably all contaminated and rotten now.”

In the fire’s flickering light, I pull out the eggs and examine them quietly. Shadows—bright and breezy—dance on the pearly spheres. I’m careful not to squeeze them too hard.

“By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Fixer says, “what’s that contraption you’re working on in the forest?”

“Homing signal. To summon aliens.”

“Aliens? Ha!” Fixer laughs. “You did know Rick! Got you into his conspiracy theories, did he?” Fixer laughs again. I don’t know if I like Fixer’s laugh. Rick’s laugh was thick and full of joy. Fixer’s is light and full of nothing.

“The aliens have a better place than here. No bog. That’s where I want to go.” I say.

To my surprise, Fixer doesn’t laugh. The dark sphere of its face ponders me. “Yeah, I guess I can see the appeal in that. Give me time, I’m trying to make the bog go away.”

I shrug.

The bog doesn’t go away.

I am sleeping when I hear the yelling. My head shoots up. Groggy. I rub my eyes and stumble to my feet. Check on the eggs. Unhatched. I put them in my sling—near my heart—then hurry to where I hear angry words.

I stop at the tree line and stare. The bog has stretched. It has stretched so far, it’s eating Fixer’s project. Fixer is dancing around the area, pulling at a rope around the structure. But it’s no use. Slowly, the bog bubbles forward. Metal becomes soft—then slick—then a shiny liquid on the surface. Soon, it is gone.

Fixer is next to me now, breathing hard. “Shit,” he says. “That was the last chance for this shit-land. Shit!”

“It’s gone.” I say, staring at the thick green liquid. “Gone like Rick.”

Fixer is still. Then it spins on me. “Rick? You know what happened to Rick?”

I point to the bog. “Slipped.”

Fixer doesn’t move. Then it slowly shakes its head. “No, Rick was careful. He wouldn’t have slipped.”

I point and circle the air. “Air. Ruins everything eventually. Even Rick.”

“No.” Fixer’s paws are shaking. “You killed him. You killed him for this!” Faster than I can breathe, Fixer reaches out and snatches my jelly from my sling. “You killed for this, didn’t you, you mangy mutated mutt! All you mutts are the same!”

I snarl and lunge for the jar. Fixer pushes me away. There’s a crack beneath my shirt. The eggs.

A moan that rapidly escalates into a scream rips from my throat.

Lunging. Biting. Scratching. Snarling.

Shreds of his white, tasteless skin come off with my teeth. Tougher than I was expecting. Horrible flavor. Fixer is shrieking, “Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me!” But I am not listening. Fixer will pay.

Fixer elbows me under my chin. It is a hard blow. I fall, stunned. Now Fixer is running away—skin flapping in bits and shreds.

“You’ll regret that!” Fixer shrieks. “You’ll regret it! This whole place is getting wiped! There’s nothing worth saving here!”

Fixer continues to run. I watch it disappear into the gloom. Then I stand. I feel for the eggs. Broken shell. Wet yolk. But as I feel more, something solid brushes my fingertips. Careful. Careful. Carefully, I pinch and pull it out. The other one. The other egg—fully intact. I stare at its smooth shell in awe.

It is still here.

It still wants to breathe.

I smile.

I tuck the egg back into my sling—then I am sprinting to my project.

Today is the day we will summon the aliens. We’re leaving this place—leaving the bog behind. The bog ruins everything. We’ll be free of the bog.

More wiring. More button pressing. More building. I crawl under the structure and pull out the egg. It’s in my palm—I stroke it and wait.

A light flickers in the sky.