The smell was decidedly puce, in both regards. Though not an agreed upon color between the masses, I can say absolutely that the smell more than makes up for the discrepancies in the descriptions of hue. The first layer, ammonia with a hint of metallic fervor. Congealed, dried blood stains on fabric left behind by parasites. The second layer, an intense green. Not neon, nor lime, but somewhere in between the magnitude of chartreuse and the horror in the discovery of a rotten potato. Nestled in the far reaches of a cabinet, housed between the mold and mildew of a spill left to lie. Partially digested bodies in their own fermented, bubbling solution. It was not the cocktail I once envisioned after a long day’s walk on the marsh.
The stomach of the land now stretches far beyond what it used to. Originally, there was wildlife, an ecosystem. Protection from storm waters and the tides. A place to gather one’s thoughts as a crane glides from one craggy branch to another. The briny waters drifting sweetly in the air, damp on your lungs. Heavy with life.
A little musty.
Only death now. Or, a half-death. A quarter-of-a-death, in some cases, depending on degradation rates.
> “Lily, leave it.”
A bone sticks out of a misplaced, decaying digit now holed up in my dog’s mouth, sticking through her missing teeth. Tail wagging with furious pride, sullied by my request. She pushes her long tongue forward to dislodge the prize, reluctantly.
Picking it up, I threw it into the bog. The, once, brown dog's long body sits on taller legs, thankfully. The original breeding would have been a horrible choice. Imagining a low body dragging its belly across the sludge. Scraping through the infection that would open and never close, eating away at her from below.
> “You’re gross, you know that?”
>
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Lily itches in response. Throwing her head back to gnaw at her backside now covered in scales. Where hair once was, is now barely stubble and skin. Patches of overgrowth overtaking the tail like armor, gray and lifeless. Her coat was always so shiny; the color of fresh brownies with a caramel drizzle.
Taking a deep inhale into that memory, I instantly regret it. Coughing madly, moments turned to minutes of mucus and blood. Lily tilting her head in response. She seemed in good spirits, at least. I spat out what was left of the phlegm and wiped my mouth.
Snapping twice, I called her attention back to the task at hand. In my hand, actually. She trots over to me and licks it, lapping up the last of the coughing fit, looking up at me with earnest eyes. My own eyes begin to sting with tears in response. “You’re still so gross, girl. But I appreciate it.”
> “Smell this,” presenting her with a sock. “I fucking know, but what else do we have left of them? We gotta try, please.”
Side-eyeing my request, Lily obliges with her still working nose. After the first few strained inhales and exhales to warm up the engine, her olfactory system kicks into gear. She shoves her nose into the sock intently, rooting around in the fabrics to find something. A specific spot catches her focus. She stays there. My hand anxiously holds what feels like an artifact. I know that it’s only a sock. It cannot break. I wondered, however, if the scales would devour this too, in time.
> “Anything?” She looks at me. I know that look, direct and to the point, but sad. Likely feeling the rise of hope in my chest, my racing heart, my rattling bones. I’m sure she can feel that—disappointment, I suppose. “It’s okay, girl.”
>
> “We have to keep moving anyway, ‘ol boy is catching up.”
A snap and a motion forward sends her ahead as I glance behind. I can’t see him, but I can hear him. The muffled whine of a sliding foot, dragging along.
> “Okay!” The command sends Lily flying over the marshes, hopping like a bunny over the taller grasses. Her ears bounce up and down; up and down; up and down, until one remains up and open. Still.
“What is it?” I called. Binoculars fixed on her position.
Barking. She never barks.
> “Fuck.”