Swamped

Six Months Earlier…

The shutter clicked before I opened my eyes.

A warm lens rested in my hand—Canon, full-frame, I think. The strap was tangled around my wrist like I’d been using it as a tether. My boots were soaked. Cold water pooled around my ankles.

I was in a marsh. Morning light poured over cattails and rising mist, but there was no sun. Just brightness from nowhere. I raised the camera again. No memory of setting the ISO, but it was perfect—400. Shutter speed 1/1600. Why so fast?

A bird screamed. Not chirped— screamed, like metal tearing in half.

I turned just in time to catch something moving through the reeds. Tall. Wrong. The camera fired three more times—automatic, like it knew what I needed.

I ran.

Brush cracked underfoot. A trailhead appeared that wasn’t there before. Wood sign, hand-carved: Reflection Loop. I didn’t remember hiking in. Or driving. Or sleeping.

The photos.

I checked the back of the camera. Five shots. All blank except one. It showed the marsh. But I wasn’t in it. I was above it. Looking down. From the sky. From a drone I don’t own anymore.

Behind me, the water rippled without wind.

A voice shouted my name. Not Markos. Not my name.

Click.

The camera took another shot.

I dropped it and ran.

Feet on gravel. Suddenly I was in a clearing. A fire ring. Picnic table. Backpack I didn’t recognize, full of batteries I’d never charged.

Someone was sitting on the bench. Smiling.

“Six months,” they said, “and you still don’t see it.”

I blinked.

Gone.

I turned. The camera lay on the ground, lens fogged over. I picked it up. Powered off. No images saved.