Harry pressed onward, clutching his clover pouches close to his chest, their fragile seams bulging with dew and nectar. The late afternoon sun angled down across the garden, bathing the world in warm amber light. Shadows grew long, stretching across the soil like dark rivers between the towering grass-stalk "trees." His house, still distant, glowed faintly with golden reflection, a beacon he desperately fixed his eyes on.
Above him, the world was alive with motion. A butterfly drifted past, its wings beating slowly, each stroke like the sweep of a colorful sail. The downbeat sent a breeze that nearly toppled Harry, and he had to crouch to keep balance. Moments later, a honeybee hummed overhead, its body a streaking blur of yellow and black. The noise of its wings throbbed in Harry's chest like the drone of an engine. He stared up, half in awe, half in fear, as the insect vanished among the sunlit flowers.
But then the awe cracked.
Ahead, the soil dipped into a shallow depression where something pale and stiff lay sprawled. As Harry crept closer, the stench reached him first—a cloying, sweet rot that made him gag. He froze. It was the carcass of a lizard, its once-glossy scales dulled, one eye clouded over. Its body was bloated, already turning to leather under the sun. The sight alone unsettled him, but what came next made his skin crawl.
The corpse was alive with motion. Dozens of flies swarmed in and out of the gaping wounds, their bodies glinting green in the light. Harry watched in horrified silence as they landed, writhing, laying eggs into the gashes. From the torn flesh, pale larvae writhed—tiny, legless bodies squirming as they devoured the meat from within. The sound was faint but distinct: a soft, wet squelching.
Harry's stomach clenched. His skin prickled with goosebumps. This is nature too, he reminded himself, echoing his mother's calm voice from her biology lessons. But being so close, so small, he didn't feel like a detached observer. He felt like he had stumbled into something far too raw, too brutal, a reminder that life and death were only ever inches apart in this new world. Shivering, he forced himself to back away, his gaze darting nervously around him.
That's when he saw them.
Not far from the carcass, a line of movement caught his eye: ants. Dozens of them, black and glistening, marching in tight formation across the soil. Each one was nearly his own size—hulking, armored figures with bristled legs and twitching antennae. Their jaws clicked open and shut as they carried fragments of leaf and crumb.
Harry's breath hitched. His heart thundered in his chest. He ducked behind a pebble—though, at his scale, it was more like hiding behind a boulder. He pressed his back against the cool stone, forcing his breath quiet, watching the column of ants pass by.
For a moment, he thought he was safe.
Then one ant stopped. Its antennae quivered in the air, sweeping side to side. It paused, head angled toward the pebble where Harry crouched. The boy's eyes widened. No… please no…
The ant twitched again, then turned deliberately in his direction. Step by step, it marched toward him, its glossy body reflecting the waning light. Its antennae reached out, probing, as if they could already taste the nectar pouches strapped to Harry's side.
Terror flooded him. He pressed tighter against the stone, as if it could swallow him whole. But the ant kept coming. He could see it in agonizing detail now—the fine hairs along its shiny black carapace, the grinding mandibles that clicked like blades, the bulging eyes reflecting his tiny, trembling figure.
Harry knew he had to act. His hands scrabbled along the ground until they closed around a grain of sand—only now, it was as big as a baseball in his arms. With a grunt, he heaved it away from him. The grain tumbled noisily across the soil, striking with a dull thunk.
The ant froze, antennae flicking toward the sound. For a heartbeat, Harry dared to hope. Then he bolted.
His tiny legs pumped frantically, the world blurring as he dashed through the undergrowth. Behind him came the sharp, staccato sound of pursuit—the ant had turned back, mandibles spread, charging after him. Harry's heart felt like it might burst. He could hear the creature's legs striking the soil in quick, terrible rhythm.
The other ants noticed the commotion. Some broke from their line, their antennae quivering, drawn to the chase. Harry's blood ran cold. If they catch me, I'm done.
Desperation burned in his chest. The pouches on his shoulder jostled with each step, slowing him down. With a cry, he tore them free and hurled them behind him. The thin seams split, nectar spilling in sticky rivulets across the soil. The pursuing ant halted abruptly, antennae quivering as it lowered its head to the glistening sweetness. The others followed, swarming the spill like predators on a carcass.
Harry didn't wait. He scrambled up the stalk of a nearby plant, climbing higher and higher, not daring to look down. His hands shook. His lungs burned. At last, he reached a perch halfway up, clinging to the stem. Only then did he look back.
Below, the ants clustered around the spilled nectar, their mandibles dipping greedily. None of them looked up.
Harry collapsed against the stem, chest heaving, his body trembling with fear. He was alive—but only barely.
For the first time, he realized: in this world, he was prey.