Bury the Secret in Toxic Water

Martin stood at the jagged lip of Poplar's Quarry, his jaw so tight it felt like the bone might crack. The heat was a physical weight, a 104-degree blanket that refused to let him breathe. His lungs felt thin, pulling in air that tasted like hot dust and the metallic tang of the stagnant water below. He didn't move. He couldn't. His feet were locked onto the sun-baked limestone, eyes fixed on the surface of the lake. It wasn't the blue he remembered from his childhood. It wasn't even the murky green of a typical pond. It was a bruised, sickly purple-red. The algae had taken over, a massive bloom triggered by the record-breaking heatwave and the decades of industrial runoff that had leaked into the basin. It looked like the earth was hemorrhaging.

His thumb traced the edge of his phone in his pocket, a nervous, repetitive motion. Tapping. Waiting. The digital native’s instinct was to check a map, a weather app, or a group chat, but there was no signal out here. There was only the sound of cicadas—a high-pitched, electric scream that seemed to vibrate inside his skull. He checked his watch. 4:15 PM. They were late. Or maybe he was just early because he couldn't stand being in his air-conditioned car for another second, listening to the engine idle and thinking about what was under that red sludge. His breath was shallow. Every time he inhaled, he felt the sharp pinch of anxiety in his chest, a knot that hadn't untied in twenty years.

A car door slammed in the distance, the sound echoing off the rock walls like a gunshot. Martin flinched. He watched a cloud of white dust rise from the dirt path as a black SUV pulled up. Then another. The group was here. He felt a sudden, violent urge to run, to scramble down the back side of the ridge and disappear into the scrub brush. But his legs wouldn't obey. He was anchored by the weight of the secret. He watched Clarissa step out of the first car, her movements stiff and deliberate. She hadn't left town, not once. She was the one who had kept the vigil, the one who sent the encrypted messages that had pulled them all back to this graveyard.

Clarissa looked up and saw him. She didn't wave. She didn't smile. She just stood there, her dark hair pulled back in a tight bun that looked painful. Behind her, Shawn emerged from the driver’s side of the SUV. He was wearing his tan deputy uniform, the fabric straining against his shoulders. The sight of the holster on his hip made Martin’s stomach turn. Shawn was the law now, which was the ultimate irony given why they were all standing here. Finally, the second car door opened, and Ben practically tumbled out. Even from this distance, Martin could see the tremor in Ben’s hands. Ben was a wreck, a walking nervous breakdown held together by caffeine and whatever pills he was currently popping to keep the ghosts away.

They approached the ledge in silence, the crunch of gravel under their boots the only rhythm in the dead air. Nobody spoke until they were all standing in a jagged line, staring down at the red water. The silence was theatrical, a heavy, performative dread that hung over them like a stage curtain. Martin felt the sweat trickling down the back of his neck, a cold contrast to the burning sun. He wiped his palms on his jeans, but they were immediately damp again. The atmosphere was the snap point. One wrong word, one accidental touch, and the whole fragile structure of their lives would shatter.

"The optics of this situation are remarkably poor," Clarissa said, her voice cutting through the cicada hum. She didn't look at them; she kept her eyes on the water. "One might say the planet itself has decided to provide a visual metaphor for our collective lack of integrity." Her tone was formal, almost detached, as if she were narrating a documentary about her own downfall. She adjusted her glasses, her fingers steady, a stark contrast to Ben, who was currently chewing on his thumbnail until it bled.

"Shut up, Clarissa," Shawn muttered. He shifted his weight, his hand resting habitually on the grip of his pistol. "We aren't here for a lecture on metaphors. We're here because the water level is down fifteen feet. The town is talking about the bloom, and the EPA is sending a team out here on Monday to test the toxicity. We have precisely four hours of daylight to ensure that their findings do not include human remains." He looked at Martin, his eyes hard and cynical. "Martin, you’ve been staring at it the longest. Tell me you don't see anything."

Martin swallowed hard, the movement painful in his dry throat. "The water is too thick to see anything clearly. But the shore... the shore has receded so far that the old pier is fully exposed. And that tree branch near the center. The one Larry..." He stopped. He couldn't say the name without his voice cracking. He cleared his throat and tried again. "The snag is visible now. There’s something caught in the roots. Something large."

Ben let out a small, whimpering sound. "We should have stayed away. We should have let it happen. If it comes up, it comes up. I can't do this. I’ve been clean for six months, and this... this is a trigger. My heart is literally doing one hundred and twenty beats per minute right now." He held out his hand to show the shaking, but no one looked. They were all focused on the snag in the middle of the red lake. The heat seemed to intensify, the sun a white-hot eye watching them from the center of the sky. The smell was starting to rise now—not just the sulfur of the algae, but something deeper. Something organic and ancient.

"Your sobriety is a personal narrative that holds zero currency in this environment, Ben," Clarissa said, her voice dripping with a cold, theatrical disdain. "We are bonded by a singular event of extreme negligence. If you wish to maintain your current lifestyle of mediocre stability, you will assist us in the erasure of our youthful indiscretions." She turned to Shawn. "Do you have the equipment? Or did you bring the badge hoping it would act as a magical ward against the inevitable?"

Shawn glared at her, his jaw muscle pulsing. "I have the rope and the cinder blocks in the trunk. We use the old rowboat near the equipment shed. If it still floats. If not, we wade." He looked down at the red sludge. "God, it looks like soup. I don't want that stuff on my skin." He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "Martin, you’re with me. Ben, you stay on the shore and keep a lookout. Clarissa, you... just keep your mouth shut for once."

"A charming request," Clarissa replied, her eyes narrowing. "However, I believe my presence is required to ensure that your 'wading' doesn't turn into a second drowning. We've already established that this group lacks the necessary coordination to handle a crisis without adult supervision." She started walking toward the path that led down to the water’s edge, her movements crisp and efficient. She didn't wait for them. She knew they would follow. They were tethered to her, and to each other, by a rope of silence that was finally beginning to fray in the summer heat.

Stagnant Water

The descent to the water’s edge was a slow crawl through a furnace. The limestone path was bleached white, reflecting the sun back into their eyes until the world looked like a low-exposure photograph. Martin felt the grit of the dust in his teeth. Every step sent a jolt of pain through his knees, a reminder that he wasn't twenty anymore. He looked at Shawn’s back, watching the sweat soak through the tan uniform, turning it a dark, muddy brown. They reached the equipment shed, a rotted wooden structure that looked like it was being eaten by the surrounding vines. The smell here was worse—a concentrated blast of stagnant mud and something sickly sweet, like overripe fruit left to rot in the sun.

"The rowboat is still here," Shawn said, kicking the side of a rusted aluminum hull that lay overturned in the weeds. A swarm of black flies erupted from the shade beneath it, buzzing angrily around their heads. Shawn swatted at them, his movements frantic. "Help me flip this thing. Carefully. I don't want a hole in the bottom."

Martin grabbed the edge of the boat. The metal was so hot it stung his fingertips. He pulled, his muscles screaming, and with a loud, metallic groan, the boat flipped over. It was filled with dead leaves and the desiccated remains of several frogs. Martin felt a wave of nausea wash over him. He looked at Ben, who was standing ten feet back, hugging himself and rocking slightly on his heels. Ben’s eyes were wide, darting toward the woods every few seconds. He looked like a hunted animal.

"Ben, get the rope," Shawn barked. "And the blocks. They're in the back of the SUV. Move!"

Ben jumped as if he’d been hit with a cattle prod. "Right. The rope. Cinder blocks. I'm on it. I'm moving. See? I'm moving." He scrambled back up the path, his boots slipping on the loose rocks. Martin watched him go, feeling a strange mix of pity and loathing. They were all broken, just in different ways. Ben’s cracks were just more visible.

Clarissa stood at the very edge of the red water, the toes of her expensive leather flats inches away from the sludge. "It is truly fascinating," she mused, her voice carrying across the quiet basin. "The Planktothrix rubescens. Typically found in deep, cold lakes, yet here it is, thriving in our little toxic bathtub. It creates a microcystin toxin that can cause liver failure in minutes if ingested. It’s a literal sea of poison. How poetic that we must enter it to save ourselves."

"You really can't help yourself, can you?" Martin said, wiping sweat from his eyes. "You have to turn everything into a performance. Larry is out there, Clarissa. He’s been out there for twenty years. This isn't a poem. It's a body."

Clarissa turned to him, her expression blank. "And what is a body but a vessel for a narrative, Martin? Larry was a narrative of failure. We are the narrative of survival. The two are currently intersecting in a way that requires physical labor. If my 'performance' bothers you, I suggest you focus on the task of rowing."

Shawn returned with Ben, carrying two heavy cinder blocks. He dropped them into the boat with a loud thud that made Martin jump. "Alright. Boat’s in. Martin, you’re on the oars. I’ll handle the snag. Ben, if you see anyone—and I mean anyone—you whistle. The trail is supposed to be closed for the heat, but there’s always some idiot kid who thinks the rules don't apply to them."

They pushed the boat into the water. It didn't splash so much as it slid into the thick, red muck. The algae was so dense it felt like rowing through wet cement. Martin pulled on the oars, the wood creaking in the oarlocks. With every stroke, the red liquid swirled, revealing a darker, blacker depth beneath the surface. The heat on the water was even more intense, the sun reflecting off the red surface like a heat lamp. Martin’s vision blurred. He felt the pulse in his neck thumping against his collar. He looked at Shawn, who was staring straight ahead at the snag.

"The Summer of '06," Shawn whispered, his voice low and raspy. "Remember how the water felt then? It was cold. Even in August, this place was the only spot in the county where you could actually cool off. We used to jump from the high ledge. Larry was the first one in every time."

"Larry was a reckless individual with a penchant for high-risk behavior," Clarissa said from the back of the boat. She had insisted on coming along, sitting in the stern like a funeral director. "His death was a statistical inevitability. Our error was not in the event itself, but in the subsequent management of the information."

"We left him," Martin said, his voice flat. "We didn't 'manage information.' We watched him go under after the fight, we saw him hit his head on the snag, and we walked away because we were high and scared of losing our scholarships. Let’s at least be honest about the crime while we’re committing the cover-up."

"The 'crime' is a matter of perspective," Clarissa countered. "Would the world be a better place if four productive members of society had been incarcerated for the accidental death of a high school dropout? I think not. We traded one life for four. It was a utilitarian success."

"Tell that to his mother," Shawn said, his voice Tightening. "She died thinking he ran away to the city. I had to file the missing persons report myself three years ago when I made sergeant. I had to look her in the eye and lie, Clarissa. You didn't do that. I did."

"And you did it excellently," Clarissa replied. "Which is why you are currently wearing that uniform. Your capacity for deception is your greatest professional asset."

Shawn looked like he wanted to throw her overboard, but he kept his eyes on the snag. They were close now. The branch was a gnarled, blackened limb reaching out of the red water. And there, caught in the crook of the wood, was a shape. It was wrapped in something—remnants of a red hoodie, now bleached a sickening grey by years of subversion and chemicals. It didn't look like a person anymore. It looked like a bundle of wet sticks and old rags. But the shape was unmistakable. The water had dropped enough to show the curve of a skull, the bone stained a dull, rust-red by the algae.

Martin stopped rowing. The boat drifted slowly toward the snag. The smell hit them fully now—a thick, cloying stench of decay that seemed to coat the inside of Martin’s mouth. He gagged, leaning over the side. The water was so close. He could see the individual filaments of the algae, tiny red threads dancing in the wake of the boat. They looked like nerves. The whole lake felt like a living, breathing organism, and they were a virus inside it.

"Is that... is that him?" Shawn asked, his voice shaking for the first time. He reached out a gloved hand toward the snag, but pulled it back as if the wood were hot. "Jesus. He’s right there."

"Proceed with the weighting," Clarissa commanded. Her theatricality had vanished, replaced by a sharp, clinical urgency. "The sun is descending. We do not have the luxury of a sentimental pause. Attach the blocks and push the snag into the deeper channel."

Martin looked at the skull. The eye sockets were filled with red sludge, making it look like the thing was crying blood. He felt a sudden, sharp pain in his head, a migraine blooming behind his eyes. The cicadas were so loud now they sounded like a choir of screaming voices. He grabbed the cinder block, the weight of it nearly pulling him out of the boat. He felt the snap point approaching. His breath was coming in short, jagged gasps. He looked at Shawn, and for a second, Shawn didn't look like a cop. He looked like the nineteen-year-old boy who had stood on the shore and watched his friend drown, his face frozen in a mask of pure, unadulterated terror.

Low Water Marks

The weight of the cinder block was a physical manifestation of the last twenty years. Martin held it against his chest, the rough concrete scratching his shirt. The boat rocked as Shawn leaned over the edge, trying to loop the rope around the submerged trunk. The snag was stubborn, rooted deep in the silt of the quarry floor. Every time Shawn pulled, the bloated grey shape of the remains shifted, the movement unnervingly lifelike. The skull bobbed in the red water, the jaw hanging open in a silent, eternal scream.

"I can't get it to catch," Shawn hissed, his face turning a dark shade of purple. The heat was relentless, the sun now a bruised orange as it began to sink toward the horizon. "The wood is too slick. The algae... it’s like grease."

"Efficiency, Shawn," Clarissa snapped. She was gripping the sides of the boat, her knuckles white. "The aesthetic of this failure is becoming unbearable. Use the winch hook if you have to."

"I don't have a winch, Clarissa! I have a rope and a prayer!" Shawn yelled back. The sound of his voice echoed off the rock walls, startling a flock of crows from the trees above. They circled overhead, their black shapes stark against the orange sky, cawing in a discordant rhythm.

As Shawn struggled, Martin’s mind slipped. The heat was a catalyst for memory. He wasn't in the boat anymore; he was back in 2006. The air had been just as hot then, but the water was a clear, inviting blue. They had been drinking cheap beer and smoking whatever Ben had brought in his backpack. Larry was on the high ledge, his chest puffed out, daring them to jump.

"Watch this, you cowards!" Larry had shouted. He was laughing, the kind of wild, infectious laugh that made you feel like you were part of something important. Then the argument had started. Something stupid. Something about a girl, or money, or the way Larry was looking at Shawn’s sister. The details were gone, lost to the haze of the drugs, but the violence was still vivid. The sound of the first punch. The way Larry’s head had snapped back. The look of surprise on his face as he stumbled backward, his feet losing their grip on the slippery rock.

He didn't scream. He just fell. A long, silent drop into the water. And when he didn't come up, they had waited. They had stood on the edge, their hearts hammering in their chests, waiting for his head to break the surface. But the snag had been there, waiting. Larry had hit it on the way down, the wood piercing his chest, pinning him beneath the surface. They had seen the bubbles. They had seen the water turn red. And then, they had looked at each other. The silence of that moment was the loudest thing Martin had ever heard. It was the silence of a pact being formed.

"Martin! Grab the other side!" Shawn’s voice snapped him back to the present.

Martin blinked, his eyes stinging with sweat. Shawn had managed to loop the rope around the remains. The grey bundle was now lashed to the cinder blocks. "On three," Shawn said. "We push it off the snag and into the channel. One. Two..."

"Wait!"

A high-pitched whistle pierced the air from the shore. Martin turned his head so fast he felt his neck pop. Ben was standing on the bank, jumping up and down, his arms waving frantically. He pointed toward the trail that led down from the parking lot. A small figure was moving down the path—a kid on a mountain bike, wearing a bright neon-yellow jersey that stood out like a flare against the grey rocks.

"Dammit," Shawn cursed. He let go of the rope, and the boat lurched. "Ben, handle it! Get him out of here!"

They watched from the water as the kid approached. He couldn't have been more than twelve or thirteen. He stopped his bike near Ben, looking at the man who was clearly having a mental breakdown in the middle of a toxic waste site. The kid looked out at the boat, his hand shielding his eyes from the setting sun.

"The optics are deteriorating rapidly," Clarissa whispered. Her voice was steady, but her eyes were wide with a predatory intensity. "If that child sees what is attached to those ropes, our narrative is concluded."

"He’s just a kid," Martin said, his voice trembling. "He’s just looking at the red water."

"He is a witness," Clarissa corrected. "And witnesses are variables we cannot afford."

On the shore, Ben was talking to the kid. Martin couldn't hear what was being said, but Ben’s gestures were jerky and aggressive. The kid looked uncomfortable, shifting his weight on the pedals of his bike. He pointed toward the boat, his mouth moving in a question. Ben stepped closer to him, his hand reaching out to grab the kid’s handlebars. The kid flinched back, his front wheel wobbling.

"Ben is going to blow it," Shawn said, his hand moving toward his holster again. "He’s going to scare the kid, and then we’ll have the parents and the whole department down here."

"Then intervene, Officer," Clarissa said. "Use your authority to remove the obstacle."

Shawn stood up in the boat, nearly capsizing it. "Hey!" he yelled toward the shore. "Kid! This area is restricted! EPA business! Get that bike back up the hill now!"

Th kid looked up at the sound of the command. He saw the uniform, saw the badge gleaming in the low light. For a second, he looked ready to obey. But then his eyes drifted down to the water, to the boat, and to the grey, skeletal shape that was partially pulled out of the water by the tension of Shawn’s rope. The kid’s face went pale. He didn't move. He just stared.

"He sees it," Martin whispered. "He sees Larry."

"Ben! Get him!" Shawn screamed.

Ben lunged. It wasn't a graceful movement; it was the desperate scramble of a man trying to catch a falling glass. He grabbed the kid’s shoulder, pulling him off the bike. The bike clattered to the rocks, the wheels spinning uselessly. The kid started to scream, a sharp, piercing sound that cut through the thick air like a razor. Ben put his hand over the kid’s mouth, his own face a mask of terror. They tumbled to the ground, a confused mess of neon yellow and Ben’s frantic limbs.

"This is an escalation we did not plan for," Clarissa said, her voice now a low, theatrical hum. "But perhaps it is a necessary one. The earth is vomiting, Martin. Did you really think it would stop at the bones?"

Martin felt the boat drift. The rope was still taut, the remains of Larry snagged between the boat and the tree. The red algae seemed to glow in the deepening twilight, a vibrant, bioluminescent crimson that pulsed with a slow, rhythmic light. The water didn't look like water anymore. It looked like a vast, open wound.

"We have to go back," Martin said, his voice sounding far away. "We have to help the kid."

"We have to finish the task," Clarissa countered. "The kid is Ben’s responsibility. Our responsibility is the anchor. Push, Shawn. Push it into the deep."

Shawn looked from the struggle on the shore to the body in the water. His face was twisted in an expression of pure, animalistic conflict. He was a cop. He was a killer. He was a coward. He let out a gutteral roar and shoved the cinder block over the side.

The weight hit the water with a heavy gloop. The rope snapped tight. The snag groaned, the old wood finally giving way under the sudden force. The remains of Larry were pulled downward, disappearing into the red sludge with a sickening, slurping sound. For a moment, the water bubbled, a series of large, foul-smelling gasps escaping from the mud below. Then, the surface smoothed over, leaving only a swirling vortex of red algae.

On the shore, the screaming had stopped. Martin looked over and saw Ben sitting on top of the kid, his hands pressed firmly over the boy’s throat. The kid’s legs were kicking weakly, his neon-yellow jersey stained with the white dust of the quarry. Ben was crying, his shoulders heaving, but he didn't let go.

"Ben, stop!" Martin tried to yell, but his voice was a ghost. The heat had finally broken his mind. He looked down into the water where Larry had disappeared. He didn't see bubbles anymore. He saw a face. Larry’s face, not skeletal, but as it had been in 2006. Larry was smiling. His lips moved, and though Martin couldn't hear the words, he felt them in the marrow of his bones.

"Welcome back," the voice whispered in the static of his brain. "I’ve been so lonely in the red."

A Glow in the Sludge

The sun dipped below the horizon, leaving the quarry in a state of deep, bruised twilight. The temperature didn't drop; the heat simply became more oppressive, a thick, humid weight that felt like being buried alive. Martin sat in the center of the boat, his hands still gripping the oars, though he had no strength left to pull them. The rowboat drifted aimlessly in the center of the red lake. The water around them began to change. The bioluminescence of the algae, triggered by the agitation of the water and the setting of the sun, began to emit a soft, pulsing light. It wasn't beautiful. It was the color of a neon warning sign, a predatory glow that illuminated the boat from below.

"The task is complete," Clarissa said. She was standing now, balancing herself with a grace that felt entirely alien in this setting. She looked toward the shore, where Ben was still hunched over the motionless form of the kid. "The variable has been neutralized. We should return to the bank and assist Benjamin with the final arrangements."

"Arrangements?" Shawn asked. He was slumped in the bow, his head in his hands. "Clarissa, he just killed a kid. Ben just killed a kid in front of us."

"Correction: Ben protected the collective interest," Clarissa replied. Her voice was formal, theatrical, as if she were delivering a monologue to an empty theater. "The child was an existential threat to our continued freedom. While the loss of life is regrettable from a purely empathetic standpoint, the logical outcome is the same as it was twenty years ago. We protect the structure. We preserve the narrative."

"You're insane," Martin whispered. He looked at her, seeing the glow of the red water reflected in her glasses. She didn't look human. She looked like a projection of their own guilt. "We're all insane. Look at this place. Look at the water. It’s not just algae, Clarissa. Can't you hear it?"

"Hear what, Martin? The sound of your own collapsing psyche?" she mocked.

"The voice," Martin said. He leaned over the edge of the boat, staring into the pulsing red light. "Larry is talking. He’s happy we’re here. He says the water is warm. He says he’s been waiting for the level to drop so he could reach out and touch us."

"Shut up!" Shawn screamed, standing up and drawing his pistol. He pointed it at the water, his hand shaking so violently the barrel traced erratic circles in the air. "There is no voice! There is no Larry! He’s at the bottom with fifty pounds of concrete on his chest! I saw him go down!"

"Did you?" Martin asked. He felt a strange, calm detachment. The snap point had passed. He was on the other side of it now. "Or did you just see what you wanted to see? The water is a mirror, Shawn. It shows you what you’ve hidden. And right now, it’s showing me everything."

On the shore, Ben stood up. He left the kid lying in the dust and walked toward the water’s edge. His gait was strange—lumbering and stiff, like his joints were frozen. He reached the red sludge and didn't stop. He walked right into it. The algae swirled around his knees, then his waist.

"Ben! Get out of there!" Shawn yelled, but he didn't lower the gun.

Ben didn't answer. He turned to look at the boat. In the red glow, his face was a void. "He says it’s okay," Ben called out, his voice hollow and echoing. "He says the red is just a blanket. He says he’s not mad about the fight. He just wants to show us what’s at the bottom."

"Benjamin, return to the shore immediately," Clarissa commanded, her voice finally cracking. The theatricality was failing her. "This behavior is not productive. We have a car to clean. We have a story to coordinate."

"The story is over, Clarissa," Ben said. He smiled, and his teeth looked black in the twilight. "The earth is done swallowing. It’s time to vomit."

Suddenly, the water around the boat began to churn. It wasn't a wave; it was a slow, massive upheaval from the depths. The red light intensified until it was blinding, a searing crimson that felt like it was burning Martin’s retinas. He heard the sound then—a wet, tearing noise, like a heavy weight being pulled through mud. The boat tilted sharply.

"Something’s under us!" Shawn yelled. He fired his gun into the water—once, twice, three times. The muzzle flashes were orange bursts against the red glow. The bullets did nothing. The water just swallowed them.

Clarissa snapped. The composure she had maintained for two decades shattered in a single, shrill scream. She lunged at Ben, who was now chest-deep in the water near the boat. "You ruined it!" she shrieked, her fingers clawing at the air. "We were safe! We were fine! You had to be the weak link! You all deserve to rot in the red just like he did!"

She tried to push Martin out of the way to get to the shore, her movements frantic and mindless. Martin felt her hands on his shoulders, felt the heat of her breath on his face. He didn't fight her. He just watched as the water rose up to meet them.

A massive, blackened limb—too long to be human, too flexible to be wood—breached the surface of the lake. It wrapped around the hull of the boat with a sickening, wet thud. The aluminum groaned, the metal buckling under the pressure. Then another limb appeared, and another. They weren't arms. They were roots, gnarled and ancient, coated in the thick, pulsing red algae.

"Larry?" Shawn whispered, dropping the gun. The pistol hit the floor of the boat with a hollow clang.

The boat was pulled downward. The red water poured over the gunwales, hot and smelling of copper and ancient rot. Martin felt the liquid hit his skin, and it didn't feel like water. It felt like blood. It felt like a homecoming. He looked at Clarissa, who was still screaming, her face submerged as the boat sank. He looked at Shawn, who was staring at the sky with a look of profound realization.

As the water closed over his head, Martin didn't struggle. He opened his eyes. In the bioluminescent depths, he saw them. Not just Larry, but dozens of shapes, all wrapped in the red filaments of the algae. The quarry wasn't a graveyard for one secret. It was a collection. The town had been dumping its sins here for a century, and the heat had finally brought the fever to a head.

He felt a hand wrap around his ankle. It was cold, a shocking contrast to the boiling surface. He was pulled deeper, into the black silt where the light didn't reach. The last thing he saw was the surface of the lake, a shimmering, predatory red eye that watched the world above, waiting for the next summer to arrive.