Fever Swamp Novels & Stories

I stride across the lawn, doing my best not to look over my shoulder toward the back of the garage. At the edge of the swamp, I pause, suddenly doubting my plan. It’s muddy. Like, really muddy. The treacherous ground gives the impression that the stagnant pools of water are much deeper than they appear. The smell of the mire is so thick in the soupy air that I can practically taste it. As I linger, the gnarled branches of the cypress trees beckon to me with twisted fingers, the leaves whispering amongst themselves. Swallowing back my trepidation, I take a step into the swamp.

Mwajuma hauled herself over the lip of the bark and collapsed onto a flat surface. She lay there, gasping, staring up at the bruised, violet sky visible through the breaks in the canopy above. But as her breathing slowed, she realized something was wrong. She wasn't lying on hard wood. The surface beneath her was soft, wet, and smelled powerfully of stagnant water and decaying vegetation. She pushed herself up on her good arm and looked around in the dim, neon-green glow of the jungle moss. She was in a swamp.

She turned toward it, emerald eyes wide with shock and fear. “Oh no” Simone hissed, slamming her foot on the gas. The tires screamed against asphalt as the Chevy lurched forward into the dark. The swamp was alive with the screams of the dying. Under the pale glow of the crescent moon, the water ran red—thick rivulets of blood flowing around the knotted roots of ancient cypress trees. Spanish moss dangled like torn funeral shrouds over the battlefield, swaying with each violent clash below. The stench of iron and decay was suffocating.

The climb back up the iron ladder was a brutal journey through a ghost world. Without the active power of the "Pulse" to maintain the environmental filters, the Iron Well felt exactly like what it truly was—a concrete tomb buried in a swamp. The sterile air was rapidly replaced by the heavy, humid scent of the New Jersey wilderness, the raw smell of cedar, mud, and vegetation rushing down the shaft.

“I’ll remember that.” For the first time, Andrea felt well enough to notice the swamp around them. Eager to take her mind off Mathin, she focused on the details of the swamp. Moss-hung ancient trees with huge aerial roots surrounded the marshy, bug-infested bog. They traveled about two feet off the ground, and their speed was such that she didn’t have time to study the local flora and fauna. The thing that made the biggest impression on her was the complete lack of civilization. They covered miles and didn’t see a single soul. “How far is it to your village?”

Bubbles squinted and giggled. Then, Alex found himself sinking deeper and deeper. It seemed like there was no bottom to this swamp. *** On the land above, once the people saw Alex jumping into the swamp with his daughter and disappearing underneath, they hesitated for a moment, unsure if they should chase after him. It was rumored that the water in the swamp was very poisonous, after all. There was once a huge battle with the Undead Clan that took place here, and it was unknown how many creatures and souls had been buried here.

Underneath a fallen tree, there was a stream with water streaming down it. I followed the stream and I ended up in a place wherein a body of water is constantly saturated or filled with water. The swamp, a place of life and death, retains a swath of trees in its standing waters all the way up to its multi-layered canopy. Pools form atop seasoned ground amid low-lying plants. A meadow is entranced by the saturated land. I adore its primordial nature's wildness, and I can readily appreciate the extension of its networks, which makes me wonder how far they spread.

We completed walking across the flat verdure terrain and was now treading across a deep brown brackish swamp area surrounded by bald cypress and willow trees. My feet are soaked up to my knees. Papyrus and cattail bushes as tall as our heads slapped against our skin as we pleated our path across the waterlogged ground. Even though I'm a warrior, I could have done without the stinky rotten egg stench that stuck up my nose from the swamp. The rogues around me briskly go through it as though they were used to it. Approximately three miles of the journey, the swamp waters got deeper. I mumbled curses that caused the rogues beside me to snicker. Only my mate kept me on good behavior. Otherwise, I

“I can’t stand this! My gut tells me he’s taken them into the swamp. Beta Alder, I’m requesting permission to scout the surrounding wetlands.” I have a feeling as to why the feral wound up in this town and it was no coincidence or random. Waycross Georgia is the gateway to the Okefenokee Swamp, just under seven hundred miles of wetlands for a wolf to get lost in. It is a good strategy, because logistically, it is hard terrain for a human search and rescue crew to navigate through. Stagnant, dark waters break up the patches of land, not to mention visibility, especially at night, would be a nightmare for the tuniculas. They don’t have our superior vision that allows us to see in the dark,

“Hey, we all have jobs. Why not give her one? I mean, if you don’t want her cleaning up after us, I can think of another job she could do on her hands and knees.” I ignore him and storm ahead, trying to erase the image he put in my brain. Being outside always calms me. I love where we live, though maybe not the mosquitoes and chiggers that bite the shit out of us. The land on the edge of the swamp is a magical place. I love the smell of the cypress trees, the wildflowers and herbs that grow around here, even the smell of the swamp itself. Humans think the swamp stinks, but unless you’re mucking around in it, stirring up the gasses and decaying matter, it’s got a scent all its own, like wild