The boat drifted through a thick, viscous soup of grey, oily sludge that smelled like rotting eggs, wet socks, fermented cabbage, and bad decisions. It was an olfactory assault that burned the nostrils and settled heavily in the back of the throat.
The mist hung low and oppressive, a suffocating grey blanket that clung to Ren's exposed skin, leaving a film of cold, sticky dampness.
Every time Viper's wooden pole hit the water—shloop—a bubble of trapped methane rose to the surface and popped with a depressing bloop.
The trees here were twisted, skeletal things, their bark stripped away to reveal pale, grey wood that looked like bone. Their roots knuckled out of the water like arthritic fingers grasping for air, draped in Spanish moss that hung limp and grey like the hair of drowned ghosts.
But the worst part was the wildlife.
"That is not a mosquito," Ren whispered, staring in horror at a buzzing insect the size of a sparrow hovering near her ear. "That is a government drone."
