The sirens tracked east. This might be the only chance he had.

The dry orchard grass gave way to a cool mix of spruce, alder, and fir. Branches poked at his face, cutting his cheeks. His chest heaved as saliva trickled down the knife blade between his lips. Cobwebs caressed and then clung to his forehead. The pungent odor of rotting wood and moist soil permeated everything. He crashed through brush so thick that he threw himself against it in order to pass. Thorns tore at his clothes, their barbs sinking home and then ripping out.

Thorn bushes are the least of your worries, Matthew, the little voice said. Keep moving west, old friend. The bog calls you.

Matt huffed and flailed through the jungle, the water jug a 400- pound weight in his hand, catching on every possible branch. There were no people trails leading into Twenty Mile Bog. But intermittent game trails crossed deadfalls and black pockets of stagnant water with unpredictable depths. Unlike the swamps down south, the water here was ice-cold and something to avoid unless you enjoyed hypothermia.

The fir and spruce gave way to dead trees that punctured the bog like giant silver toothpicks. The bog carried less light overall, and the whole of it retained a blue cast, as if the black water sucked away brightness. Even the sky was not the same.

Off in the distance, the sirens, now a whimper rather than a roar.

Move, Matthew, move! the little voice said.

He tripped over a fallen spruce, the water jug flying from his grasp. He spit out the knife before smacking into another dead tree. The petrified wood creaked like a rocking chair as his knee knocked into it. His other foot sunk into a hole filled with horizontal timber snags. He yanked his foot through the dead, gray branches, ripping them out of the hole. Something tickled his right ankle and he looked down at a northern widow spider. He swiped at it. The spider sensed his hand coming, reared up, and bit him on his index finger.

“Shit!” he shouted.

Hush, the little voice said.

Matt shook his hand, tossing the spider into the beaked sedge and alder.

A bright, red bump formed on his finger. Matt reached for the knife, now buried in the sedge. The blade was dirty from the soil and he wiped it along his pants before sliding it into his pocket, blade first. Then he examined his hand while pushing on the red bump. Northern widow spiders were considered dangerous, but only to those with pre-existing conditions. He didn’t want to mess with the odds, so he reached into his back pocket for the knife. Then he held out his finger and dug the knife tip into the wound. Blood trickled from the inflamed lump. Pinching the lump, he massaged out any venom, and then cleansed it with water. Satisfied, he drank from the jug, filling his belly with the Black.