Timothy’s neck and arms felt hot and scratchy as he pushed through the tall, brownish-green grass behind the outfield fences. Randy Parker had smacked a home run right over the fence and into the unkept fields beyond. He swung his mitt like a shield in front of him scaring up small insects and pieces of vegetation as he walked.

Timothy knew he would likely get in trouble. His mother had told him to be careful and not get burned. However, when his parents said he could go play ball at the park with his brother all caution had disappeared. The same way Randy’s home run ball apparently had.

His friends voices were growing distant and he doubted any of the others had come out to look.

They were probably eating jerky sticks and tossing pebbles while calling him a “goober” or a “dork”. At eleven, he was the youngest of the boys by far. Which meant he was the designated “run and fetch” boy and the butt of every lame joke or prank. Timothy didn’t care.

This was the first time in over a year that he and his older bother had been allowed to go outside. The first time any of the boys had been out. Mom had said there was a sickness and they all had to stay inside and away from other people. Dad had not even gone into Pineville to work.

He remembered that some people had been take by National Guard troops and others he had just not seen again. His dad said that some of the roads out of town had been blocked. Some nights he had heard his mother cry after he and his brother had gone to bed. Sometimes the electricity had not worked and the television, when it worked at all, was just boring public service announcements.

In the hot, blinding rays of the sun, however, this was nearly forgotten.

Timothy glanced back and could just make out the chain link fence of the ball field. He had walked a long way. Likely, he was further than even Randy could hit the ball. The grasses thinned out ahead just as he planted his sneaker in a wet, soggy patch of earth.

“Oh F–” he began as he stepped back and shook his shoe. He was at the creek. No way the ball had gone this far. He could smell the moist damp soil and he craned his neck forward to see. The water was just a foot or so in front of him. No more than a half a foot deep and stagnant. Patches of gray- green muck floated here and there. Underneath was a deep layer of warm muddy silt.

Timothy remembered this from playing there a couple of years before. While running after his brother he had stepped into the creek, loosing his shoe to the inoffensive looking mud. He had cried until his brother came back and got his shoe back. Then he had cried all the way home while his brother had made fun of him. His face burned at the recollection.

He was just about to turn and head back when he saw something gently waving back and forth in the mud about twenty or so feet ahead. He thought it was strange since there was no breeze and the water itself was unmoving. Timothy pushed through the reeds and grasses along the creek bank trying to stay on the dry patches.

Closer now, he could see it was covered in the muck of the creek bottom. Timothy could probably touch it if he knelt down and reached out. He turned back towards the ball field. He really should be getting back. If his brother had to come and get him he would get a “dead arm” for sure. He glanced back at the object in the creek, fully intending to turn back. It was then that the object twitched back and forth again, muddying the water with its movements. On impulse, Timothy tossed his mitt to the bed of wet grass and dirt in front of him and knelt down on it. He could smell the damp, decay of the creek bed as he slowly reached out towards the now still object. The mitt was sinking into the wet earth and slowly tipping him forward as his hand touched the top of it. His hand slid off the top and down the side dragging a layer of warm, soft muck with it.

Timothy leaned back on the mitt righting his position before wiping the mess off on the long grasses beside him. His brow furrowed when he looked back at the object. Where his hand had slipped was now a large swath of yellow and along the side where ridges. The object twitched again, but with more force than before.

“It’s a boot,” he said out loud. “a rain boot.”

The boot wiggled a few more times and then went still. By now the water all around it was dirty and cloudy. Maybe a fish or a frog was caught inside, he thought with glee. That would be cool.

Timothy leaned forward again and, reaching out, grasping the boot firmly in his right hand. He ignored the slick slime that gave way as he tried to drag the boot towards him. Something thudded against the inside of the boot vibrating his hand.

“Geez,” he muttered as sweat formed on his forehead. It seemed really stuck. Timothy leaned out a bit further and put his other hand on the boot. As he began to pull, a soft, wet sucking sound came up from the creek bed.. He looked under his arm. A branch had raised up from the muck and was laying on the water’s surface. As Timothy looked at it the muck covered limb wriggled, freeing five root like appendages. The boot in his hands kicked out releasing a burst decaying, rotted gas.

Timothy raised up to pull back, feeling the bile in his stomach rise. He heard the wet slap on his forearm and looked down to see the branch had slipped onto his arm and the roots had grasped him.

He choked back a cry and pulled back. The mitt shifted underneath him and he tipped forward landing face forward in the mud just to the right of the wiggling boot.

Timothy’s heart beat wildly as he tried to get up out of the muck of the creek bed. His left arm pushed down to the elbow before he found something solid. In a panic, he pushed up and felt the solid object shift beneath him. His chest and face cleared the mud and he drew a rasping breath. He gathered his knees as he felt the pressure increase on his right arm. Something moved below in the mire where his left hand was buried. Before he could react, Timothy felt something grasp his left hand.

Tears formed in his eyes and his breath was short and ragged. Not limbs and roots, his mind raced. Arms and fingers!

Timothy was suddenly wrenched forward by both arms. Caught off guard, he opened his mouth to scream but got a mouthful of the creek muck instead. He thrashed in the creek covering his shirt, head and pants in the sticky, organic mire. Shortly, the movement stopped and Timothy slowly sank into the creek bed’s cool embrace. The thin arm moved blindly across the surface of the water before sinking down on top of him.

A snake coiled out from the tall grass and slithered over the worn, light blue baseball glove lying in the damp grass at the edge of the creek. Flies hovered back and forth over the cloudy water while a bird chirped in the distance and the sun beat down down bright and indifferent from a clear blue sky.