Alvis crouches on a branch overlooking the herd.
Bog ox.
Too many.
They crowd the low marsh below in numbers he's never seen this close to Two Creeks. Bodies press shoulder to shoulder. Calves huddle between adults. Even the bulls look restless.
He stopped counting days ago.
The swamp feels displaced.
Like something bigger moved in..
A gust moves through the reeds. The herd shifts as one.
Not grazing.
Waiting.
Alvis doesn't like it.
He drops from the branch and lands softly, already moving southwest. Two days to Three Rivers Lake. He needs cattails for Mrs. Trix, and he needs answers for himself.
The bog ox trail makes the journey easier. Wide. Flattened. Recently used.
Running, not migrating.
He doesn't let that thought sit long.
Night
He camps inside the hollow of a standing tree. Three chipmunks roast over coals. He strings bells low and tight around his perimeter.
The swamp is normal.
Crickets.
Frogs.
Distant splash.
He sleeps.
Midday — Three Rivers Lake
He smells it before he sees it.
Not rot. Not decay. Absence.
Three Rivers Lake is the largest body of water near Two Creeks. It should be loud. Gators sunning along banks. Tails sliding. Birds perched on armored backs.
Today—
Nothing.
The shoreline is empty. No mudbacks. Not even hatchlings near the reeds. Not even eyes breaking the surface.
Alvis doesn't step closer. He scans the far bank. Still nothing. His jaw tightens. He draws his bow without realizing he's doing it.
The swamp isn't silent. But it's wrong.
No fish breaking water. No bird calls. No insects buzzing near the surface. The lake looks like a sheet of dark metal.
Waiting.
Alvis backs into the tree line instead of forward. He moves parallel to the water, staying under cover.
Then he smells it. Blood. Old and metallic. He climbs.
Thirty feet up, he sees it. He doesn't want to look. He looks anyway. His mouth goes dry. Fifteen paces from shore lies a mudback gator.
Or what remains of one.
The lower half is gone. Not eaten clean. Removed.
The front legs splay outward. Jaw open. Eyes dull. Armor cracked.
Not pierced. Cracked.
Alvis moves out along the branch for a better angle.
Huge punctures mark the torso. The holes are large enough to swallow a man's forearm whole. The bones beneath the scales are crushed inward. Squeezed.
Not torn by claws. Compressed.
He scans the ground.
Grass flattened in a wide arc. A struggle.
Blood sprayed outward, then dragged.
And then—
He sees it. A slide trail. Massive. Wider than two mudbacks side by side. Ten feet across.
At least.
The earth gouged deep, vegetation smashed flat. It leads directly into the lake.
Alvis swallows.
There is only one creature whispered about that could do this.
Only one.
He hates the direction of that thought.
He descends from the tree slowly. Each step feels louder than it should.
He does not approach the water. He stops well short of the shoreline. He kneels. Studies the mud. The slide marks are fresh. Hours, maybe. He can feel his heartbeat in his fingertips.
This wasn't territorial. This wasn't scavenging. This was dominance. The lake no longer belongs to the gators.
Alvis inhales slowly.
"No," he mutters. "No."
He climbs again. Higher this time.
He nocks an arrow. He draws. He fires into the center of the lake.
The arrow arcs.
Drops.
Splashes.
It sinks.
He waits.
Ten breaths. Twenty. Nothing.
His shoulders ease—
Then—
A ripple. Small at first. Then larger. A subtle displacement beneath the surface.
Not thrashing. Not hunting. Something… adjusting.
A shape passes beneath the water. Too deep to see clearly. Too large to ignore.
It doesn't move like a gator. It doesn't move like anything he knows.
The lake bulges. Then smooths.
Still again.
Alvis does not breathe.
The ripple fades. The surface returns to glass.
But the birds do not resume. The fish do not jump. The gators do not return.
Because they are gone.
Alvis lowers his bow slowly.
His gut knows.
The bog ox weren't migrating. They were fleeing.
He stares at the water for a long time.
Then he climbs down.
He does not collect more cattails.
He does not finish his task.
He moves. Fast.
He doesn't run. Running makes noise.
But he does not stop.
Behind him, Three Rivers Lake sits perfectly calm.
Calm.
Patient.