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Fungisland Part 3

Entry 10

It has been some weeks since I’ve written. I thought I laid my supply of ink-mold in a safe place, yet it vanished perhaps creeping away under its own steam while laughing at me. I was forced to harvest several specimens of Bêche-de-mer to make this entry, hence the change in color.

Where to begin:

I began my raft-making process. While the jungle had tolerated my attempts to fell stipes for firewood, when I moved on to clear-cutting it struck back. A powerful mist of some unpleasant liquid stung and blinded me for hours. I was finally able to navigate my way to a freshet and wash my face with the aid of some nearby sponge-caps, only to find my rescuers to be my spore-riddled neighbors, gathering the caps and placing them within arm’s reach. The message is clear, I shall be a well-treated guest so long as I do not try to escape I reconcentrated my efforts in material-gathering, felling only one tree a day and using the ends for firewood, stashing the rest in a sheltered cove. I found a mold that produced a thick, oily salve that I used for waterproofing. Finally, I was forced to use some of my own scientific equipment for an anchor, for there was nothing so sturdy on the island. It took a passage of time too humiliating to tell to construct that raft. Perhaps one of the sailors might have been able to do so more quickly, but more than likely he would have fallen under the influence of the fungus before he could make use of it.

I remember the day I cast off, using a stipe to pole myself out to the reef. Once, I looked back to shore. The fungal people stood abreast and watched me silently from the beach. I kept my eyes to the horizon after that.

I was barely able to moor myself at the seabird’s rocks without crashing, but rather than safety they simply present another host of problems. The birds have long been hostile to any sign of fungi; they dive-bomb my deck if I drop my guard for a second. By gathering their eggs I might have enough for a month’s journey, but I have no means to bring fresh water with me and no compass to navigate by. I am simply choosing the method of my death at this point, and neither seems preferable.

The cinder cone glows at night. I fear an eruption.

Entry 11

This is not a happy update. I was able to rough it for a week offshore, then a storm blew up. Perhaps it is lucky I’ve survived. Perhaps it isn’t luck at all but the will of some malign presence. I give nothing over to chance now.

I washed up on the far shore of the island, after being beaten black and blue by the rocks. Thankfully I had already learned of a mold with curative properties and was able to tend my wounds. I made landfall in a small, barren cove with no way around to the jungle. I decided to attempt the cinder cone and made probably my most alarming yet in retrospect least surprising discovery upon setting foot on the surface.

The rock was soft.

The thing I have taken for a volcanic formation is another fungus, larger than anything else on the island! What’s more, I think it perhaps may be a genius loci, the one that compels the other fungi and fauna to do its bidding.

I was able to mount the monolith, even with my injuries, and upon summiting I found another shock: the “village” of the poor souls I call my neighbors. The indentation that would be the caldera in a volcano was instead a cottony nest of mycelia. As I watched, gatherers returned from the jungle and stood stationary as the mycelium grew up to cover their bodies. There they rested, or perhaps exchanged chemical information. I have resigned myself to never knowing. Among the gathered people I could spot several members of the crew I had been on speaking terms with. McKinnon. Bradley. Phillips, who had made a big to-do about giving me the lower berth owing to my seasickness. All once boorish examples of manhood. All mindless shells. What I feel is no victory. I feel a great gaping rift in my soul. Irrationally, the thought comes to me that my wish for solitude did this. I know logically that it can’t be true, yet…

I have found a ravine that bears small fruiting fungi and a trickle of fresh water. I have holed up here for the time being. I don’t know that I can trust anything set before me anymore, but it is either this or starvation.

I will not send the journal yet. I feel a great plan set in forward motion, but I have not seen all the cogs.

Entry 12

The fungal cone glows at night like a signal-fire. It wants more ships. It sends its blasted scouts to all corners of the compass, hoping to lure in more ships.

I see the crew of the Molly Haggard and hide from them. They are not men, they are corpse-puppets. I must remember the loss of their humanity for I ache to talk to something, anything sometimes.

My chest burns, every breath is a labor. It is almost time.

Entree numburrr 13

hurts to writ. focuss. i am finnees elmyr rutlend. i am mycolojist.

i am on top of mushroom. i can see ships in the distence. the fungus wanted it all along. the iceburg wasn’t tryng to escape. it was trying to bring us hear. every breath i took full of spores.

thout i was safe. food and water. woke up and myc mic fungus threads stuck me to the ground. peeple found me. fillips not fillips. pickd me up. brot me here.


it’s all the same. it’s all the fungus. i can feel my body dying as it replaces me. thinking geting hard. they brot me up to the top of the mountain. everyone here. spores make look like fire-signal smoke. they wave their hands. the ships turn. i don’t wave my hands but it’s hard. urge burns. i write this jurnal and then i throw it out to see. mayby find it in time.

it funny. all i ever think is i hate being with other, want alone with mushroom. and now with mushroom less alone than ever.

ships com goodby


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Fungisland Part 2

Entry 5

I have reached the far end of the island. It is far less welcoming than my home encampment, though this may just be due to the melancholy that dogs my steps. I have not yet laid eyes on my neighbors, though I suppose it is inevitable. For now I have been seeking out new varieties of fungi that aren’t present on my half. One slime mold I have named Felicitus atramenti, for its tannin-rich blood provided me with the ink in which I pen these words (my inkwell ran dry despite my thrifty efforts.) That there are animals present on this side of the island should be no surprise, for I have often heard the call of seabirds with no visible source. That they should be in some way burdened with infection should come as even lesser shock. One mighty specimen I have dubbed the webbed albatross, for mycelia coats it so. The bird’s eyes are blind and white, how they navigate I can only guess. I see them kiting higher and higher on air drafts like a hawk, gaining altitude enough that they can fly out to sea. They never make it to the horizon. I was unable to see the means of their extinction until I fashioned a clear jelly-like slime mold and a dry hollow stipe into a spyglass.

Far off shore there is a scattering of shoal, and on that shoal other seabirds nest. Once a webbed albatross crosses their threshold, the birds attack the intruder and send it into the sea. While I am overjoyed to find a potential source of food (the nutritious value of those eggs might well make the perilous journey worthwhile) I am alarmed at the scope of the island’s infection. I had heard of fungi affecting behavior, certainly, but only in already mindless insects. If the spores are strong enough to infect the braid of an avian, how does that bode for greater animals?

I must show more caution in what I eat and drink from now on.

Entry 6

I have found my neighbors. My worries of the fungal spores were too slight, it seems. For they have already found humanity.

I must wonder after the people on this island. What were they, Polynesian, Oceanian, some southern form of Esquimaux? Were they here before the fungi dominated? Alas, they put forth no answer.

The people infected by the fungi are covered with webs of mycelium. Like the birds, their eyes are sightless. They operate by touch, and by some internal compass they navigate the terrain. This place and all that live in it are like the clockwork wonders I saw in Munich as a boy, each piece appearing to operate independently while driven by the same infernal internal engine. I have made a grave miscalculation. I am leaving the far side of the island.

Entry 7

After stopping to gather enough atramenti to fill my inkwell several times over, I am home. In such a short time most of the markers of my presence had been absorbed into the jungle. My trunk remains untouched (thank god) and I yearned for a drop or two of manmade chemicals. I have doubts even a shipful of carbolic acid could clear this jungle, though.

I cannot banish the implications of the far side of the island from my mind. Everything in my home camp that brought me joy is recast in a sinister light. Perhaps it was only appealing to me in the first place because the fungus willed it so. No, Phineas. Down that path lies madness and despair.

Now that I am quit of it, I feel more comfortable describing the far end and its inhabitants. Whereas the “trees” near my base are like that of a small copse, the growth on the far end is outsize, with a canopy that blocks out the sunlight. All molds grow to a greater size in those environs; I found a slime mold that normally grew to six centimeters that I could barely span with both arms wide open. Also present in that jungle are membranes throttling the gaps between fungal trees which serve a purpose unclear to me. They dilate only to let the poor fungi-people pass.

My neighbors…I cannot imagine their passage a painless one, yet they look out at the world with placid faces. I cannot ascribe their facial features to any one ethnic group, and their skin is so powdered with spore-dust that skin tone is impossible to place. Perhaps they are not a native tribe but other castaways like myself, trapped here by the fungus I will not give myself over to idle speculation. I must weather these conditions and then when I have reached my apex, I will bind this journal in oilskins and set it adrift. Even if I do not live on, my knowledge will.

Entry 8

I found a slime mold that tastes like chocolate pudding the other day. While in my early days it might have brought me cheer, I am only sickened now. It was like a port Molly painting herself up in an approximation of your own mother’s face to entice you.

Whether I was always the subject of visits and only noticed now or that the fungus has been made aware of me I see the fungi-people on my side of the island with increasing frequency. They are completely silent, communicating in some nonverbal manner that leaves me out in the cold. No different than normal society, then. Their errands are as murky as their vision. Sometimes I see them move a fruiting mold a few feet, only to move it back a short time later. It is my pet theory that their actions are a cover, and they act only to observe me. I will begin caching the journal in a seaside cave, since the saltwater gives them pause.

Entry 9

It cannot be. Yet it is.

I have found the Bosun’s red cap. The crew are among the fungi-people.

I will begin constructing a raft. I must get off this island.

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Fungisland Part 1

Entry 1

The Molly Haggard has crashed, all hands down to the deep save for me. I, Phineas Elmer Rutland, am alive. More importantly, I am free. FREE. No more petty decrees to gather bird feathers and droppings, no more deckhands roughing up my scientific equipment, no more jabs about my sea-sickness, I AM FREE. I have destroyed the preceding journal pages as a symbol of my emancipation, so let me mark down a summary of how and when this came to be, lest I forget:

It was three days prior; the ship was on glass-calm waters when suddenly we hove to port (or starboard, I can never remember.) The ship was caught in a tumult as if a maelstrom was upon us, yet the sky and surrounding sea remained clear. I admit I remember little of this; the boat pitched and yawed so, I spent most of my time emptying the contents of my stomach overboard. I remember one confused soul screamed the dreaded “iceberg” but knew we were too close to the equator for such a thing to be.

I looked up and feared the man right: there was a large, white specter to the fore of the ship, nearly as tall as the mizzenmast. The crew flew into motion to turn us, all too late, when the looming white thing burst like a pig’s bladder. All that was left was a cloud of white dust and confusion among the men. This turned into chaos as those close to the dust cloud began choking and clawing at their faces. All the while we still churned in place, caught by some unseen menace.

I’ll remember the crack of the ship breaking as long as I live. Men fell into the sea without life-vest or buoy. I ran to grab the chest of my instruments. Thank god I waterproofed it by impregnating the wood with bitumen; the chest made a handy floating device when I fell through the burst hull. All night I could hear the other men calling each other, trying to keep within range. Folly, if you ask me. By lumping together, they probably damned themselves. I could have tried to share my floatation device and probably would have wound up back in the sea. But by excluding myself, I was saved. I was so comfortable I even dozed off, only to awake when the reef of this island jarred my chest.

I’ll admit to some trepidation when I made landfall. I had not grabbed any tack or fresh water, I had no idea the condition of my instruments, and I had a mild case of windburn. But all this melted away when I spotted a small brown protrusion at the end of the beach. I took it for some kind of root runner and tried to follow it back to the source, accidentally striking it with my foot in passing. The “root” sent up a brown cloud, and instantly I knew I was home.

I was not the captain’s first choice to man the ship’s science offices. He wanted to replicate the blasted Beagle’s tour of the tropics, wanted some jack-of-all trades with a chest of coarse hair who no doubt guzzled rum as he took specimens. Specializing in fungi was folly, he said. Well, here I am, whole and hale and surrounded by my area of expertise. Who is the fool, I ask?

Entry 2

It has been some weeks since I washed ashore. My early melancholy was tempered by the discovery of my first fungi, now I miss humanity less than I miss trough water in January. I have named that first specimen Phinea elmeri after myself, more of a sentimental gesture than anything. I have discovered dozens of fungi since then, and every day brings new specimens.

I have made steps to map out the island, though some areas remain impassable for the time being. The island is no coral atoll, as I thought when I first arrived, but a volcanic isle dominated by a cinder cone at the extreme end of the island. It has a source of fresh water, which I have yet to locate due to the nature of the jungle.

Ah, the jungle. If I could wax poetic for a moment, such a marvel has until now existed only in my dreams. What I took for tropical hardwood became the stipe of yet another fungal variety. Yes, my new home had mushrooms larger than anything recorded elsewhere. I must admit to hugging one in my fervor. The stipe gave off a slightly malty smell I found delightful. The “vines” that I’ve seen hanging from the canopy are simply above-ground mycelia, strong enough to be made into rope (a property I’ve used to my advantage in attempting more difficult areas)

I will not be so brash as to say all aspects of fungal life are so joyful. The fish that swim in the freshets are covered with a mold that makes them appear furred. While the mold makes them sluggish and easier to catch, it gives them a most unpleasant taste. I take my risks fishing off the reef, though I find more success prying bivalves from the rocks as the sea life prefers to give the island a healthy berth. I assume the fungi itself is stopped by the barrier of the seawater, hence why you don’t see giant mushrooms anywhere else.

Entry 3

Had some interesting run-ins with the local fungi in the preceding weeks. The first was a batch of what I took for ripe fruit on the sole plant on the island: a bush situated ⅓ the height of a seaside cliff. I thought the height and the surrounding stone gave it separation enough that it would be safe from fungal interference, forgetting of course that spores rise. I plucked the fruit while hanging from a woven mycelia cradle and performed the tests for vetting edibility. I found them not only edible, but quite alluring. After consuming three or so, I found my balance off and my temper uneven. What happened is something I have only been able to surmise after the fact: the ripe fruit were in fact infected by fungi that fermented the juices within the fruit. A benign enough lesson, with a steep cost the next morning (such a headache I have never had.) A regrettable loss, for although I enjoy the flesh of a roasted tree-stipe, I do miss the taste of fresh fruit(to say nothing of the dangers of scurvy.)

I observed a faction of the local fauna who makes use of the fungi as well as I do: a small violet octopus who reached out of the water to grasp a patch of mushrooms that hung over the water. They gave off not spore dust but an inky liquid that hit the water and quickly dissipated. Within moments the nearby shellfish yawned open, leaving a feast for the conniving cephalopod. How it avoids the effects of the liquid itself is a mystery, but one I have all the time in the world to solve.

It was near the seashore that I also found the solution to another mystery. There was a circular formation of globular fungi that abutted the shore. They did not burst but simply swelled larger and larger until the wind unseated them from the ground. I had the good luck to be there on an occasion when one flew out to sea: the bulb hit the seawater and swelled many times its size while remaining buoyant. Here, finally, was the “iceberg” that the crew so desperately fought to avoid. I suppose this is the manner which the fungus attempts to spread, yet it is stymied by the saltwater that hems it in at all quarters. No other island is close enough, I suppose. Then my thoughts turned to the wreck of the Molly Haggard, and whether its flotsam was impregnated with the spores.

….I do not know that I care for the notion.

Entry 4

I have found footprints. Blast! I only wanted for a single year alone in this place before humanity invaded. Why can’t a man be left to his own devices?!

They start at one of the freshets and lead inland. The jungle is impenetrable that way, not even fire will thin their fungal ranks.

I have made up my mind. I will form a canoe from a tree-stipe and go around seaways.


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Nuclear Tourism

Vasily had but one customer that day, a Prague tourist whose breath reeked of old meat. Vasily waited in the jeep while the other man checked his equipment. Like most tourists, he had brought too many gadgets. Vasily picked his teeth in the mirror.

They were parked at a side path, at a place where Dymtrus had snipped the barb wire two years before. Now Dymtrus rotted in a Minsk jail and Vasily waited for the Czech to finish taking iodide tablets.

The first leg of the journey carried them by a small apartment bloc, usually a photo opportunity for the more excitable tourists in love the with the images of abandoned toys and floors paved with fallen books. But the Czech indicated they should keep walking deeper into the zone, and so they did.

Security had been stepped up in recent years; at first Vasily thought the hoofbeats he heard to be the horseback patrol not scheduled for another hour. But then they found the elk.

The beast had its head lowered and it breathed hard. Its eyes were filmed-over white, and its nostrils pulsed dangerously. Before Vasily could call warning, it charged.

The elk butted him in the shoulder. Vasily dropped his geiger counter, clapping a hand to the injury. The other man let out a screech, flailing his arms and flapping his cap. The elk ignored it and steeled itself forward again. Vasily met it with an iron bar that he grabbed up from the ground. The first hit did not seem to have an effect, but at the second, the elk shook its head and took a few drunken steps. Vasily swung again, downing the beast. The elk dropped to its knees. Vasily caught hold of the Czech before he could dash off in any direction and pulled him along a side path.

They took rest on a bus bench.

Normally, tourists would insist on pacing through the amusement park and one of the primary schools, but though he was shaken, the other man kept insisting on seeing the plant. Vasily had stated several times up front that he would never go near the sarcophagus, that he could not find enough recompense for what trespassing would incur. The Czech remained staid: he had seen internet videos of the internal structure. He wanted to go. Vasily took him to a swimming pool to assuage him. While the other man snapped photos of beached floaters and fallen birds littering the tile, Vasily fiddled with the counter. The plastic face was smashed, and no matter how he adjusted the contacts, it would not beep.

They would visit the park next.

The skeleton of the Ferris wheel loomed over all, an easy landmark. Somehow they had wound up going too far south. Vasily could find the park using dead reckoning with the wheel, but he had no idea how to get back out undetected.

They passed by a stand of sunflowers. A gap in their bright smiled formed of black and crisped bodies. The Czech bent low to poke one with a mechanical pencil.

A low grunt came from behind the flowers.

Vasiliy hefted his flashlight, wishing he had not dropped the iron bar somewhere behind them. A great old boar nosed out from the stand of sunflowers, its face a gnarled mass of tumors. It had a single sow trailing behind it, white-eyed as the elk. The boar’s tusks were yellowed with age and very, very sharp.

The Czech drained of all color and shouted, “Bůh!”

He ran, and the boar ran after him. Vasiliy jumped and caught hold of a tree limb, bringing his legs up just as the sow sailed through the air beneath him. Her head impacted the trunk with a dull thud, the aftershock shaking Vasily from his perch. He landed awkwardly on the sow’s back. The pig emitted a rusty-nail squeal as her legs collapsed beneath her. Vasily heaved to his feet and was off and running before she could recover. Low branches whipped him in the face. He no longer heeded direction, getting picked up would be a welcome intrusion. Jail was preferable to this.

The trees cleared suddenly. Vasily halted, skidding so that his body would not pitch over whatever drop lay before him. He landed on his elbow with a crunch, the jolt sent a shock up to his teeth. Vasily rolled to his back, winded, cradling his arm.

Something crackled nearby.

Vasily jerked his head up to find the Czech, shoe off and nursing a bleeding blister.

The other man blinked owlishly. “I guess we go reactor after all?” He pointed.

The drop before them was a slope, and the slope terminated in a shore. They were beside one of the plant’s cooling lakes, and beyond that was the coffin bulk of the plant itself.

Vasily sat up, heart hammering. He had never been this close before. Though he knew it illogical, he found himself taking shallower breaths. He would have to shower when he got home, and burn his clothes. The geiger counter at his waist was smashed and lost. The Czech dug a fancier German model with a digital readout from his pack. Vasily fumbled with it. The background radiation was higher, but not fatal. They would have to move quickly, he told the tourist, and stay briefly as possible. The other man nodded, staring awestruck off at the plant. Together they hobbled along the perimeter of the lake.

The plant itself had been shut down completely in 2000. but where was the security? Where were the patrols? Vasily knew he and his jeep were not the only fringe operators in the zone of alienation.

The sarcophagus loomed over their future. Just looking at it raised the hairs on Vasily’s neck.

Vasily had no outset intention of getting anywhere near the plant, but curiosity drove precaution from his mind. Gates were open and empty, streets white and bare. The two men walked abreast, Vasily carried his flashlight in his uninjured hand, the tourist carrier the geiger counter.

The perimeter fence was topped with barbed wire. The gate hung open.

The Czech broke away, jogging lightly and waving for Vasily to follow. Vasily considered leaving him, but if he were picked up the man would probably blab Vasily’s name in an instant. He was stuck either way.

They headed not for a reactor, but one of the other buildings. The Czech excitedly overturned debris, snapping pictures with his phone. Vasily kept on lookout. Was there truly no one?

Before Vasily could stop him, the tourist darted through a half-open door. On following, Vasily found the man stopped dead.

They were in a lobby or reception room. The walls were piebald. Paper? No, Vasily could see the mottling on furniture too. A black mold. The walls were teeming with it.

The Czech had been snapping pictures, now he held the little screen up to his face, cursing softly. Vasily could see over his shoulder. The pictures were fuzzy and marred by yellow-orange bleed. The tourist shook the phone.

Vasily took a sudden breath, and then clapped his hand over his mouth. He must breath no more in this room. Something was wrong. It was too warm.

He tried to catch his charge’s arm, but the Czech wheeled forward and evaded his grasp.

The mold patch before them was as big as a classroom map. The Czech got a foot from it and prodded the surface with his pencil. There was a blue-white flash and a sudden rush of heat.

Vasily finally lost his nerve and ran out, shrieking. He could hear the Czech behind him, blundering into things, screaming. Vasily ran shouting, stripping off his clothes, to the coolant lake. He scrubbed ineffectually at his skin.

They did not let him talk to anyone. When Vasily had come into the hospital vomiting blood, he was immediately quarantined. Two days later, after his body had used the last of its blood cells, Vasily died insisting on what he had seen. They could not explain how he had taken a 1,000 rad dose outside of the reactor, nor could they explain the Czech tourist, found wandering cataractous and weak through the brush. The hospital turned his body over for study but refused to offer further facilities to the investigation. They had more patients to service and didn’t want a reputation.

And besides, the room where Vasily stayed had gained the most persistent black mildew…

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7 Bites of Lovecraft


The first thing that hits him is the smell. The stench of shit that somebody tried to cover up with a sugary-sweet votive candle. It makes his eyes sweat. He gags, “Jesus,” into his sleeve. Their quarry is, ironically, nowhere near the toilet. Poor bastard swelled ten times his size, and weighs as much as a basketball. The petroglyph’s cord punctures skin, lets out a swell of gas like an exclamation. He does throw up then.


Bodies kink and judder before him. Even without the lasers it would be surreal. His contact is fishing mushrooms from a plastic baggie, dealing to a bunch of suburb kids disguised as ravers. He lowers his balaclava and yells –side hall, men’s room—as if he could be heard over the beat. The contact has more than ears, though. Even when their deal is done, he’s not sure what he saw. The kids stand still as he leaves, mouths open like turkeys in the rain, breathing spores like smoke.


The antiquarian smiles and slops tea over the sides of a Wedgewood cup. It’s a good brew, smells of stiff poison. He’s almost sad he won’t get to drink it. There, the man’s finger points, there and there. There are books, yes, but then anything can be a book. He eyes the paperweight as Latin texts are thrust beneath his nose and fingers his watch. Sigils older than Rome creep under glass. Sometimes meaning transcends language.


Some thoughts spread like wildfire. Others like pox. He catches a little tune on the train to Providence and nearly loses himself to it. It’s everywhere right now. Such a catchy beat nobody notices the tribal rhythm beneath it, the hungry harmonies. He takes a pill to drown it out, but others aren’t so lucky. He disembarks to the news of a rash of sleeping sickness.


The worm that walks is a friendly fellow if you catch him in the right mood. He’s got a smooth pitch and a firm yet yielding handshake. He’s got a healthy following, a good portion of the middle United States leaves their homes to camp hungry and destitute on the road with him. His poison is the unadulterated truth, and leaches into everything.


Light glints from cases of Jasper and Calcite while the sign before him proclaims this limestone block to be the largest Crinoid specimen found in the basin. The odd eye-shaped marks along the stern apparently hadn’t disturbed the man who unearthed them, though presumably they hadn’t blinked as they do now. He walks out with a heavier coat and the theft is never solved.


The word apocalypse means “rending of the veil,” not the end of all things, he tells her, but she is in no mood to bandy semantics. Something immeasurably huge parts the distance and she screams with her whole body, a primal scream that recalls ancestors just beginning to walk upright. He finds her lovelier than anything then, and would give much to preserve this moment just like it is. The sky vomits a blind sun and his wish is granted.

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The Old Grey Man

Jolene first saw the man when her truck was idling at the drive-thru, foraging through the 99 cent menu. She watched the grey heap of him and chewed her lip as she contemplated miniature tacos. Even in the sticky July heat he seemed to be more cloth than man. He looked like he’d smell. She could tell it’d be a baked-on stink of too much living, plus something more unpleasant underneath. Maybe piss.

The speaker crackled to life, startling her from her thoughts.

“Wel—me to –et Taco, —at w—d y— li— t—day?”

She looked at the man. Then down at her money. She made a decision.

At the pay window, she pulled her extra burrito from the bag and slid over the seat, popping open the passenger side door.

“Here!” she called and scythed the burrito out over the parking lot. The old man, in a surprisingly deft move, caught it in one hand. His left.

She smiled and slid back into her seat. The counter boy, nonplussed, asked her cleavage whether she wanted special sauce.

He was always by the bus stop. That was the intel she gathered the next day. He never got on, didn’t join the city’s homeless population in recycling cans for fare. Sometimes he left the spot, late at night, probably to forage.

He was sitting in the shade of a liquid maple when she found him. Jolene casually threw her leg over a shopping cart and sat sidesaddle. If he noticed this, or anything ever, he gave no indication.

Long, sweaty minutes passed while Jolene got eaten up by flies. The flies didn’t seem to bother him, in fact they kept a good distance away. She realized that he did smell, completely different from the stench she’d anticipated, but just as strong. Like dry rot. She took a few swigs from her water bottle to fortify herself.

From the heap, a gloved hand snaked out, bearing a bent Styrofoam cup.

“Would you mind?” the homeless man said.

Jolene decided to call him Keith, after her sixth grade homeroom teacher. He didn’t know how old he was. He had lived in this area ever since he’d got out, though from where exactly, he would not say. He would not take off his gloves.

Jolene sat there for hours while sweat greased her skin and talked to the old man about the town, his life, the people he met. At no point did she ever see his skin. When she bid him farewell that day, she said, “See you tomorrow.”

And she did.

When she wasn’t out running errands, she sat and talked with the homeless man. Occasionally another bum would walk up, looking for her mercy, but these were isolated incidents. She found that none of the other homeless people liked to be around him for too long.

It was a week before he talked about himself.

“It started with my uncle,” he said, “he was my dad’s younger brother, used to live with us. University student.” He hocked and spat.  “He was always picking weird shit up. He’d fill up his little room at the end of the hall, till my dad would yell at him and empty it out again. Guess he was whatchacallit. Touched. Things were fine until he came in one day with this…growth on his hand. Looked like mold. Surprised he didn’t get it sooner, picking up shit like he did.”

Jolene nodded and watched, fascinated, as Keith scratched an invisible itch. The heat was in triple digits, even in the shade, but she saw no sign of dampness on his layers of cloth.

“’Course he never got it checked out, and by the time dad noticed it was too late. Hand damn near rotted off. My uncle died in a whatsit. Sanitarium. Nice name for the funny farm in those days, ‘course there wasn’t nothing funny bout ‘em in those days. I remember the day he had to go out and get his ashes. Thing was, the folks said they never cremated him…” the old man trailed off.

Jolene licked away the crumbs of today’s fishstick meal, studying him. The old man was prone to gesturing with his left hand while he spoke, but never the right. No one could tell her how he got around. He never rose from his heap.

“Anyway, I forget about it till about…’85? ’87? Spots start showing up on my peter. ‘Course, with my time in Da Nang, I think it’s just some kinda jungle rot. Doc gives me some steroid cream or somethin’. Doesn’t go away.”

Jolene noticed the position of the sun and left, promising more food tomorrow. The old man did not reply, did not move.

“It was on my back after a while, too,” he said the next day, after six hotdogs disappeared into the folds of cloth on his head. Thought Jolene strained, she catches no glimpse of a pink mouth.

“Washed with every damn kind of soap known to man, might as well have been sprinkling sugar on it, for all the good it did. Didn’t even think of my uncle, though him and me were pretty thick back in the day.” He stopped to hack at phlegm, a prolonged attack that went on for six minutes. She timed him. When he was done the cloth around his mouth was stained with wet.

Jolene didn’t know why she picked this time to ask it, only that all their interactions had been building up to this question.

She asked, “So why do you keep all covered up?”

The old man fell silent. His left hand flexed once and then stopped, as if even this simple motion taxed him.

His next statement was so quiet the passing cars nearly drowned it out.

“Goddamn doctors couldn’t tell me what the hell was wrong. I bore all their poking and prodding till ‘long about ’93, when I skedaddled out of one of those veteran hospitals. Laid low in case they looked for me. Then after a while I didn’t have any other choice.”

Jolene frowned. “What?”

“I don’t think there was ever anything they coulda done, but I think it spread faster once I got out. I remembered my uncle then, not that it did me any good. It just ate and ate. Got so I was as bad as Hamburger Sue down by the rails, don’t nobody want to give change to someone who looks like the ass end of a nightmare.”

“What’re you saying?”

“Every year I weigh a little less. I think the heat makes it spread faster, but I ain’t gotta choice. I used to be down by the soup kitchen until someone saw me one day. I keep thinkin’ someone will see me and call someone, but I guess I don’t have much of a reason to be scared anymore. Went to piss the other day and my fucking peter broke off. I just keep thinkin’ of my uncle, laying in that hospital bed, whatchacallit. Disintegrating. Terrible way to go.”

Jolene licked the sweat off her upper lip. “I think you’re fulla shit.”

Keith did not seem put off. In fact, he gave no indication of hearing her at all, continuing to speak in a flat cadence.

“Can’t even go down to the soup kitchen anymore, couldn’t take the soup anyway. Can’t move too much so I live off what I can reach from the dumpster.”

“I said,” Jolene pitched her voice louder, “you’re. Full. Of. Shit.”

“—ain’t got no one to help me, ain’t got nowhere to go, ain’t got nothing to do but sit here and—”

There was a powdery, crumbling sound, and then silence. The man seemed to settle.

Jolene realized she’d been squeezing a mustard packet, it had burst in her fingers. She dragged her hand on the seat of her jeans, staring at the heap.

“Mister,” she called. No response.

“Hey mister,” she said, scooting closer. Nothing.

“You alright?” she asked and picked up his knitted cap.

Of course, there was nothing underneath.

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Sapii pullum

From the diaries of Henri Smythe

From the diaries of Henri Smythe

Name: Tree Pig, the “Tasty” mushroom, Chef’s friend, countless others.

Latin: Sapii pullum

Habitat: prefers tropical hardwoods such as teak, mahogany and so forth.

Habits: has a nearly year-long growing season in most of its growing habitats.

Reproduction: drop spores like typical gilled mushroom, also fairly easy to propagate through mycelial division.

Edible? yes

Description: this mushroom has a wide geographical range, from mountainous climes in Malaysia to the bogs of Cambodia. It is hardy, growing from early spring to late fall, and is a healthy contributor towards decomposition of “nursery” trees in jungles across Southeast Asia. In many ways it is a typical wood-rot mushroom, and a popular addition to the dinner table for many foraging cultures.

The mushroom’s most remarkable attribute would be its taste. Its discoverer, Sir Neville Ratham, put it succinctly that “[the mushroom] replicates with perfect mien the stout rarity of human flesh.” This was confirmed by the head of a later Borneo expedition who added that it “possessed a gammy[sic] almost Cornish tang.” The bouquet has eventually been classified as originating somewhere in the Mekong delta, with a nutty aftertaste. It is popular in Haute cuisine when a substitute for “Long pork” is needed.

(see index for recipe suggestions)

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Lycoperdon pseudopolis

From the diaries of Henri Smythe

From the diaries of Henri Smythe

Name: “City” fungus

Latin: Lycoperdon pseudopolis

Habitat: widespread, though it prefers “waste” ground and vacant plots.

Habits: develops as mycelium underground over the course of centuries, once the sporocarp develops the fungus detaches itself from the ground, often taking large portions of the surrounding area with it.

Reproduction: unknown

Edible? chewy

Description: this literal genius loci may remain dormant underground for centuries as mycelium until triggered, whereupon a fruiting body will develop rapidly enough that a city appears “overnight.” The triggering event can be as devastating as a natural disaster or as seemingly benign as someone digging a well in the wrong spot, but once triggered growth is exponential. The largest sporocarp on record measured appr. 568  km² , but they vary widely in size from the “hamlet”(pseudopolis  pagus) to the “metropolis”(pseudopolis  urbanus) which possesses outgrowths that rival the Empire State Building. Oddly enough, while the mushroom has an uncanny resemblance to human structure no “live” presence has ever been detected on one.

The fungi will inevitably drift towards the sea as the end of its life cycle nears and it loses altitude, but there have been occasions where the biomass falls just short of its destination. Memorable occurrences include the defoliated suburb of New Brunswick and “the Minsk Incident.” No first-hand account of such a “fall” has ever been recovered.

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Morchella Senis

floating old man mushroom

Name: Floating “Old Man” Morel

Latin: Morchella Senis

Habitat: church foundations, caves, subway tunnels

Habits: floating appr. 1.5 meters off the ground, sporing when threatened, polite coughing

Reproduction: follows victims around for days, once the victims tires of pursuit and goes to rest, fungus floats above subject and sheds spores.

Edible? yes

Description: The Floating “Old Man” (or “Wise Man”) mushroom is a curious fungus with curious habits. Morchella Senis spends most of its life underground as mycelium. After approximately 90 years it fruits into a body with a rind 3 inches thick that, when cured and ground, makes fine treatment for scabies.

After a gestation period of 30 days the rind splits open to reveal the tender fruiting body, which will engage its hover mechanism to search for prey. In a method of selection unknown, it finds a human with reclusive habits and follows them. Often, these victims are homeless or transient in nature.  Once engaged in pursuit, the mushroom can go for days on end without dropping.

Once the victim inevitably drops from exhaustion, the mushroom with float above them and release spores, leading to a fatal respiratory infection. The purpose of this live “sowing” is unknown, but the result is clear: once the victim is buried (or wanders off to die) mycelium descend from the body and once again the cycle begins anew.

Once shed of its spores, the fruiting body will float aimlessly for days on end, now a dried-out husk, until captured or rained upon. Once reconstituted, it goes well with pasta and white wine and is said to be an excellent substitute for prosciutto antipasto.

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Cordyceps Suspiriae

When we caught up with Phillips, he was too far gone to do anything for. He was still talking, lips moving, but that didn’t mean anything. Some of those dogs were still walking when we got into town. Tony tried patting his arm, telling him it would be okay, and I cold-cocked him before he could make contact. Stupid shit. Lucky bastard was wearing gloves, otherwise I would’ve shot him and then put the torch to him.

You can’t explain shit like this to anyone who hasn’t seen it firsthand. Like when we found that farmer face up in front of the Laundromat, all swollen like a bag of popcorn in a microwave. We tried to lift him up and his arm separated from his body. Made a sound like ripping hair. I tried telling that to those uniformed shits they have back at the base, and they laughed. Sounded funny, I’ll admit. Didn’t stop me from beating their asses.

I have to scrub real careful around the stitches now. Two against one. Bastards had knives. Not fair not fair.

Just because you’re a soldier doesn’t mean you appreciate the reality. Town. Plague. Infection. They’re just words, words for something you can’t really envision, have to experience to even begin to see. Gas masks and E-suits over E-suits over E-suits.

Dowling died two weeks ago. I watched that punk from sunup to sundown, never once took off so much as a glove. They wrote it off to heart failure. Wonder what they did with the body.

There’s still a bruise on my ribcage from my fall on the steps. I’m okay. The one who turned back to help me, one of the raw dogs sent in to fish us out when we realized just how deep in the shit we’d gotten ourselves, he got the short end of the dick. I wonder if they told him going in to always have something between your skin and the miasma. I doubt they told any of them, they were wearing home-security epidemic getups, all taped seams and condom boots.

I told them I didn’t look back after I got up. I lied.

Ever kicked a puffball? That’s what his body did.

Even in the shower I cough phlegm like bullets. I tell the doctor it’s the cold weather, he gives me NyQuil and wags his finger. Fuck you very much. I want something to knock me out for a while. I want to sleep without dreams. In dreams I see Phillips and the farmer. In dreams I shoot the dog again, the first movement we saw in the town, and he splits right down the middle. His inside is all cloudy.

None of it made any sense. The labels on the bottles, the papers, nothing. I think we were wrong, looking for a cause. It’s here now, that’s what matters.

The water on the bathtub floor is pink. My lungs feel hairy. I’ve been spitting teeth for a few days now, been shitting liquid for a week. I’ll finish here and then I’ll climb up to the roof of my house.

I feel a yawn coming on.

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