Wanted: Undead or Alive

That Frog Is Staring At Me Again

I opened my eyes—hey, look at that! I have eyes!—and upchucked everything I'd eaten, maybe ever. When whatever was left of my guts settled down, I flopped on my butt, panting, and took in my surroundings. I sat on the edge of a wide, shallow brook that tripped along over smooth stones. A fat frog watched me from a tree branch fallen halfway into the water. On the other side of the brook, the trees thinned, and the earth sloped upward, turning rocky.

"No, no, no, no." I scrambled to my feet, wobbled on legs as sturdy as warm pudding, and plopped back down onto the soft moss. There, next to my left hand, a little yellow flower grew an inch or so taller than the moss.

"What the actual fuck?"

The only answer that came was the rustle of something quick moving through the foliage.

"Nick?"

I wasn't surprised when I got no reply. I could feel Nick when he was nearby. Strange that I'd never really realized that before, but at that moment, I didn't feel anything but alone. A quick search of my pockets revealed I had no phone, no wallet, no car keys. I scooted toward the edge of the stream, dipped a hand in the icy water, and washed my face. When I tried to stand again, my legs reluctantly agreed to support me. Nick said he'd grown up upstream from that place, so there must be something there.

I started walking.

The air smelled of damp green things and river water, which sounds more unpleasant than it actually is. A mosquito whined in my ear, and I batted it away.

While I walked, I tried to figure out what had happened. The witch had... what? Transported me? Why did she send me to Nick's forest, of all places? Was it even a real place? What if I was dead? Again? I tripped over my feet and barked my shin against a fallen log.

"Cripes!"

I lifted my pant leg to examine the damage. A thin trickle of blood oozed from the cut. Well, at least that probably meant I was still alive. It also meant that this was probably not a dream or, if it was, it was completely indistinguishable from reality. Which I suppose dreams are when you're in the middle of dreaming them but... oh good grief. I dropped the cuff of my pant leg and moved on.

For the next half hour, I plodded along, got hungry, worried about what happened to Moose, wondered if Nick would come looking for me. Around the time my feet began to protest the unusual amount of exercise, I came around a bend and found a village.

Or, at least, I found what was left of a village. Half a dozen ruined stone huts groaned beneath thick layers of vines. A tree sprouted right through the roof of one of them. A handful of wooden crosses worn thin and gray with age stood at odd angles, marking the graves of the people who'd lived here. I approached one and squatted down to brush away the layer of dust, and the wood gave way beneath my fingers.

A narrow dirt trail, baked hard in the sun, led away from the river.

I grew up here, Nick had said.

Maybe it had been a different village. But I didn't really believe that. Either Nick had grown up amongst the ruins of this ancient place, or he had grown up in a time when the ancient place was new.

I would have believed either story.

For lack of better options, not having the first idea of where I was, I followed the road. Another hour passed before I came to a single stone structure strongly resembling those I'd left behind, but obviously better cared for. Red clay tiles lay in neat rows across the roof. Bright flowers bloomed in window boxes, and a Volkswagen Beetle that was twice my age stood in the gravel driveway.

Before I'd worked up the nerve to go knock on the door, a man with a receding hairline and the most impressive mustache I'd ever seen in real life came tottering out of the door, leaning hard on a shining black cane. He called out to me and waved. "Ya. Poios eísai? Giatí eísai edó? Esy ti theleis?"