The Swamps

The door opens onto a scene of grey-green organic dampness. It's late in the year in the swamps of Point Lookout- maybe November, maybe December, hard to say. The bombs threw the climate off something awful, mostly in the nuclear summer direction, and the plants don't really know when to stop growing versus when to just slow down.

There's a humming of bugs and a feeling of large things moving in the deeper, browner, more acidic waters off in the distance, but for now the ground is solid as Ellen observes, "I think this was Tobar's shack- the man who was doing those surgeries. When all of this is done I'm probably going to burn it to the ground, assuming it's not too damp to catch fire."