The enraged beast swung its skeletal paw in a wide upward arc, rending a knotted branch from the Aezock tree. Splinters of bark rained down on its broad head, sticking to exposed patches of weeping tissue and tar encrusted fur. Peric rattled with the tree, then climbed higher until the limbs would no longer support his weight.

He cursed his luck. No sooner had he sent his own beast out hunting, than a Tarlo appeared. After ransacking his campsite, it had chased him up a tree, holding him captive from daybreak until the morning mists had evaporated. It showed no signs of tiring either. With each wild swing, its frenzied howl gained volume, and its scythe-like talons carved deeper rivets into the tree’s trunk.

For the hundredth time, he blasted the ebony whistle hanging from the chain around his neck. Though it produced no sound to his own ears, any Fyth in the vicinity should be able to hear it. Only one Fyth inhabited this miserable planet, but she was enough, assuming she ever showed up.

The Tarlo slammed it’s side against the tree, eliciting a series of low pops, roots separating from their earthly moorings. The tree swayed, then tilted as the beast leaned into it. One more hit like that, and —

Out of nowhere, an enormous hand descended upon the beast, catching its massive head and muffling its dreadful howl. It clawed at the hand, opening wounds that bled dark green. A face appeared too — Onia. Her vapid expression blocked his view, and her dull eyes bored into him.

“What are you waiting for?”

She blinked twice, the catlike corners of her mouth pointing down.

“Kill it!”

Bones crunched and the howling ceased. Onia’s dumb face retreated. The Tarlo’s body hung limp from fingers that grasped its head like an organic stress ball.

“Release it and get me down.”

She dropped the beast’s mangled head and lifted her hand — her tar speckled, blood drenched, utterly disgusting hand.

“Your. Other. Hand.”

She obeyed, and he stepped onto a clean palm. Clean for a Fyth. Though soiled with dirt and sap, it at least hadn’t been used to slaughter a Tarlo recently.

She lowered him right beside the foul beast, then sat cross legged in the clearing, licking her filthy appendage. He retrieved his axe from a nearby stump and examined the task before him. The cervical vertebra had been separated, pushed through the front of the creature’s throat by Onia’s fingers, but the misshapen head remained attached. One dead eye hung from its socket by purple vessels, accusing him, promising revenge in some future life.

He hacked at the Tarlo’s thick neck, chopping through sinew, muscle, and tendon. The eye swung like a pendulum, bouncing on an exposed bone that jutted through the beast’s nose. Eventually, the head toppled to the ground with a thump, spilling dark fluid from its mouth and eye socket.

After selecting a location furthest from the discharged brain matter, he leaned against the beast’s fur and heaved. The head didn’t budge. With some difficulty, he disengaged. Tendrils of sticky tar connected his skin to the fur.

“Fuuuuuck!”

He stumbled back, dripping sweat in the cool mid afternoon air.

“Get rid of it!” He pointed to the head.

Onia’s arm barrelled past like a land frigate, displacing air as it passed. Wind slapped his drenched hair against his cheeks. When he opened his eyes, the head was gone, a pool of viscous blood the only reminder of it’s presence. Perhaps not the only reminder. He removed his t-shirt and it stuck to his mid-length hair, pulling strands along with it.

“Tongue.”

He hopped onto her hand and waited until she lifted him to her open mouth. He stuck his arm in, up to his shoulder, and winced as her oral muscle slid against his skin, an alternating texture, like that of sandpaper and slime. After several seconds, her tongue extended and lapped at the sticky side of his face and hair.

“Enough!” He fell back against her fingers, then righted himself. Though clean, he now reeked of Aezock sap, a pungent aroma reminiscent of Earth’s pine trees. Even after drying himself with dangling locks of her coarse hair, the stench remained.

He stomped his boot against her palm and glared at her. “Show harvest.”

Seconds later, her other hand appeared, bearing a satchel the size of a commercial dumpster. She’d already opened the top and held it lower in elevation, giving him a clear view of the contents. He leaned over and rifled through the assortment of fruits, vegetables, and useless debris. At the bottom, a solitary rock rested, not much larger than himself.

He turned toward her. “You think you did well?”

Her lips parted for a moment, then pressed together.

“Answer me. Did you do good?”

She spoke softly. “No.”

“And?” he asked.

She swallowed. “P— punish Onia.”

“Which punishment?”

Green tinged water piled up at the corners of her purple eyes. “Whip.”

“Where?”

“Arm.” She glanced at arm supporting the hand on which he stood. It had already healed from the lashings he’d delivered yesterday. Scar tissue would make it less painful for her, and he’d be forced to exert himself.

“You ignored the whistle.” He grit his teeth so hard his jaw popped. “I almost died. Do you think it’s fair — to pick — your arm?”

She blinked rapidly, causing the pool at the corner of her left eye to overflow. “F — face.”

“That’s better. Turn your head and bring me closer.”

Although her hand shook, she obeyed, exposing the left side of her face within easy reach. He unhooked the gyro whip from his belt holster, and let it dangle on her wrist. With each passing second, the trembling of her palm grew more pronounced.

“One.” He cracked the whip against her cheekbone, inscribing a deep, diagonal slash.

“Two.” She blinked and the whip connected with her eyelid. Her eye remained shut, quivering.

“Three.” He raked the serrated tip against her jawline.

“Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten!” Crisscrossed patterns erupted across her cheek, one spanning all the way back to her ear. Emerald blood streamed from lacerations like cheese through a grater. Overall, she’d gotten off easy. The whip’s charge had depleted by the seventh strike, the last few inflicting mere welts instead of jagged cuts.

“Done.” he said through heaving breaths. Her hand steadied, and her bloodied eye crept open, though not beyond a squint.

“Put me down and make a fire.”

After depositing Peric and the satchel on the ground, she snapped a dead Aezock at its base and drew it from her fist like a sword from a sheath. Branches rained down, filling their makeshift fire pit. She pounded the naked trunk into the oversized kindling and twisted it back and forth with both hands.

After a full minute, she lifted the tree and tossed a pile of dry leaves into the pit’s smouldering core. She exhaled oxygen and the leaves burst into flames, sizzling as sweat and blood dripped from her chin.

In the meantime, Peric had managed to hack a section of untainted meat from the Tarlo’s hind leg and impale it on a metal spit. He motioned for Onia. She lowered her head and opened her mouth. He inserted the spit and let her tongue purify the meat, stripping the fetid skin and fur. When she finished, she leaned away and puked amber bile. Steam arose from the area as leaves and grass dissolved.

“Disgusting.” He balanced the spit on two Y-shaped branches that sandwiched the pit. “Are you trying to ruin my appetite?”

She shook her head and wiped her chin. Then, she nibbled the top of the tree she’d used to start the fire.

“Not that one.” He snapped the useless whip against her calloused foot, eliciting barely a twitch. “Go wash your face. Just your face. If you come back soaking wet like last time, you’ll go without food.”

She nodded, dropped the log, and rose to her feet. At her full height, she blocked the setting sun, casting a deep shadow over the campsite. The ground trembled as she walked toward the lake, so much so, he wondered why he hadn’t felt her approach earlier. Then again, a ravenous Tarlo tended to distract, especially when bent on devouring its prey.

By the time she’d returned, he’d eaten his fill of the roasted morsel and stored the remainder in a salt lined pouch. It had been days since he’d tasted meat and, unexpectedly, the feast had improved his mood — so much so his eyes had drifted shut as he reclined on his knapsack.

A low rumble interrupted his repose. His eyes fluttered open and adjusted to the dim light of dusk. Onia stood motionless, a tanned statue of living flesh, glistening streams of water cascading down her scantily clad body. Her hair had grown too long over the months, past her shoulder blades, and it absorbed water like a sponge.

“Worthless pig,” he muttered. He got to his feet and walked to the edge of the clearing. The Oubleaf tree there towered over him, rising nearly as tall as Onia herself. He tapped on it’s trunk, and she wasted no time. Leaves showered his head as she ripped limbs from high above.

He walked between her feet and paused, attention drawn to her left ankle. A colony of Lobaufeed leeches had taken residence there. They pulsed dark green, the color of her blood.

He picked them off, one by one, stomping on them until they burst. Her raw skin, the spots where the leeches had been, cast off a mild luminescence, a sign of her body digesting the plant matter she so ravenously consumed. Who knew how many of these palm-sized parasites clung to her body. Yet another chore for him to endure.

He’d save it for the morning.

Peric awoke under a canopy of warm skin. Sunlight peeked through slits in Onia’s fingers. Gripping the area between her thumb and forefinger, he shoved but her hand was as immovable as the Tarlo’s head, if not moreso.

He dug the pocketknife from his jeans, opened it, and jammed the blade into her lower palm with as much force as he could muster given the awkward angle. It probably wasn’t enough to fully penetrate her epidermis, but —

The surface underneath his knapsack shifted and the hands lifted away. Freezing mist assaulted his body, seeping into his heavy clothing like ice water. The morning had become increasingly frigid, and the afternoon less and less hot. If they didn’t repair the ship soon, he’d freeze to death. Not a bad way to go, considering the alternative — a lifetime stuck on an empty planet with no one to keep him company.

He stretched, popping his back in several places. After rolling up his knapsack, he unhooked his whip and cracked it several times against the skin on which he stood, not far from where he’d whipped her yesterday morning. Her abdomen tensed reflexively, but he didn’t lose his footing. The disciplinary exercise helped warm his bones.

With his whip now depowered, this hardly counted as punishment. He clambered atop her left breast, not easy considering its immense size, and looked down upon her restful face. Annoyingly, it had already healed from the empowered lashings he’d delivered last night, the only visible scar being a particularly deep one he’d scored on her cheekbone. Even that would disappear by tomorrow. She healed fast, but normally not this fast. He glanced to the clearing edge and discovered why.

She’d devoured the entire Oubleaf tree in a single sitting. It would be the equivalent of him eating another human in a single meal. Her gluttony, like most of her attributes, disgusted him.

“At night, leave me where I lie. Understood?”

She hesitated, then nodded slowly.

“Say it. Repeat my instruction.”

“Leave Peric...alone...sleeping.”

“If you touch me again when I’m asleep, you’ll be punished. Understood?”

She nodded. “Punish Onia.”

Dumb animals like her couldn’t be trusted to obey simple commands that spanned days. She’d likely forget within an hour. Still, he had to try something. The thought of her touching him while he slept was revolting.

“Do you have any more leeches?”

She scrunched her eyebrows quizzically. “L — leech.”

“Do you have…” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Forget it. Just get undressed.”

He hopped off and waited for her to remove the tattered shift covering her body. It plummeted to the ground in a heap, expelling mist from where it landed like dry ice in a pool. She stood there in the frosty air, arms at here sides, awaiting his next command. It might as well be a warm California day to her. Not that he needed a reminder of his birthplace.

“On your stomach.”

She lay prostrate on the ground, the big toe of her left foot landing smack in the center of the extinguished fire pit. She moved it, but not without dragging a trail of ash beyond the pit’s rocky border. She was nothing if not clumsy. A wonder she’d never stepped on him or worse.

He started at her feet, kicking half frozen leeches from her skin as he encountered them, ensuring they ruptured before hitting the ground. He hopped from calf to calf, thigh to thigh, making a game of it. Frost melted in a radius surrounding his location, her skin anticipating his movements before he did. Though normally cold-blooded, Fyths warmed in response to certain stimuli, the most potent being human proximity. It was one of many characteristics making them the ‘perfect human complement’, or as he preferred to say, the anti-human.

He reached her butt and paused. Before he could decide whether or not to skip the area, her hands appeared, parting the her generous cheeks and giving him a clear view inside.

Leeches. Not a lot, but enough that he’d have to get his hands dirty.

With one foot on each thigh, he leaned into the valley and plucked the bloodsuckers from her skin, crushing them in his hands before tossing away. He had no idea how she’d acquired so many in this area. There must’ve been at least eight.

After removing his coat, he took a deep breath and drove his arm into her anal opening. Her sphincter collapsed around his upper bicep like a bungee cord. He’d been raised on a farm. Being shoulder deep in cow ass happened more often than he could count. But this was only his second such experience with a Fyth, one he’d rather not repeat anytime soon.

He felt no lumps along the rectal wall, and withdrew his arm — slowly — but not for lack of trying. Her inner muscles contracted each time he moved, stilling him before he could withdraw further. Eventually, he freed his appendage along with a healthy dose of excrement. Though frequently odorless, today it smelled of pumpkin innards. He gagged and added the vegetable to a mental list of foods he’d never eat again.

Had his father still been alive, he’d berate Peric for his childishness. Entire civilizations subsisted on diets comprised primarily of kale, the unfortunate name given to Fyth manure. Supposedly, it contained all the ingredients necessary to support healthy human life. Some even lauded the taste, comparing it to tofu in both flavor and consistency. Countless recipes existed, everything from kale soup to kale ice cream. Nevertheless, he couldn’t get his head around the thought of eating an animal’s shit. Literally. No matter how many vitamins and minerals it contained. He’d starve before the substance ever touched his lips.

He inspected her vagina as quickly as possible, inserting his arm and removing it before lubrication could accumulate. It wasn’t wise to loiter in the area. Like humans, Fyths couldn’t always control their instincts. Many simply didn’t understand the concept of arousal, meaning things could escalate fast. Even his cursory probe, as brief as it was, caused her body to quake, her pelvis to grind against the ground.

He made his way back to her ankles, waited for her reflexive shuddering to subside, then boarded her calves once more. By the time he’d mounted her butt (no longer being held apart), the entire upper half of her body steamed with melted frost.

It wasn’t the first time he’d questioned the genetic engineers who designed Fyth physiology. Why include a libido in a creature with no male counterpart? It seemed like torture. Then again, if he didn’t get off this planet, he’d suffer the same fate. A sexless existence or, even worse, an existence without companionship whatsoever.

He trekked down the small of her back all the way to her shoulder blades, where straight hair carpeted the surface like layers of green silk. He encountered no leeches along the way. Perhaps whatever bog she’d waded in hadn’t risen past her hips. Still, he sifted through the back of her scalp just in case, stopping only after she loosed a giggle. She knew how much he hated her laughter.

He jumped off, commanded her to roll over, and repeated the preening on her front side. Again, no leeches above her waist, except for one on the inside of her left ear. After plucking it out, he returned to her face and checked her nostrils. Her lips curved upwards at the corners as he stuck his hand in each opening. Nothing except soft wisps of hair. Not even boogers, though he’d heard Fyths didn’t produce mucus in quite the same way humans did.

Standing on her neck, he tapped on her lips. Her mouth opened wide and he leaned into the tree scented canyon. He traced around her gum line, under her tongue, and the roof of her mouth, checking for anything out of the ordinary. At her lower right molar, he paused. An irregular shape jutted from the area where gum met tooth. He tugged and it shifted, but remained in place.

“Owwwmmmm.” Her mouth closed briefly around his stomach as she verbalized pain.

With effort, he pushed himself out of the orifice and unhooked the elemental harvester from his belt. He switched the pistol-like device to illumination mode.

“You’ve got something stuck in your mouth. I’m going to get rid of it.”

She nodded and reopened her mouth. He leaned over and shone the light on the object.

What the fuck?

It looked like the top of a railroad spike. And that meant iron! The primary element he needed to repair the ships circuitry. He’d spent months searching for traces of the metal, and here it was, sitting in the maw of his Fyth.

He gripped the head of the spike and shifted it back and forth. Rust flaked off as it brushed against enamel. Onia’s mewling echoed, mingling with the abrasive sound of metal on bone. At one point her teeth clamped around his midsection. Though she’d never intentionally slice him in half, it wouldn’t take much, just a reflexive chomp gone a bit too far. Still, he couldn’t give up now. Just a few more —

The spike gushed free from its fleshy prison, and his head hit the roof of her mouth. She squealed and jerked, sending him sliding toward her throat. He caught the edges of her tongue, losing both the harvester and the spike in the process. The objects tumbled down her esophagus, causing her to swallow, over and over again. Her tongue slammed him into her palate, and copious amounts of saliva washed past his head.

Before he could get his bearings, he found himself falling, then laying on his back in the grass with Onia retching directly on top of him. Orange bile poured down, cooking the grass, leaves, and sticks. Portions of his clothing (shoelaces, hemp straps, etc.) sizzled and evaporated. When she finally stopped, he smelled like battery acid and probably looked like a slimed member of the ghostbusters.

“S — sorry.” Green blood drooled from the corner of her mouth and pooled beside his head.

He sat up, wiped puke from his face, and asked, “You’re sorry?”

She nodded, licking the blood on her lips. She seemed uncertain of whether she should sit or lay down, so she rested on her side, elbow to the ground.

He stood and cracked his neck. There was no sign of the spike or the harvester. Either would’ve been easy to spot in the now barren circle of earth.

“Why are you sorry?” His hand went to his whip.

She chewed on her lip. “P — punish Onia.”

“Yes. Punish Onia. But why? Tell me why.”

“P ” — a muscle in her cheek twitched — “Punish.”

“Start a fire.”

He undressed while she worked on the fire. Though viscous, Fyth bile dried like water leaving virtually no trace of its presence, save for an amber tinge. He toweled off and slipped into a different set of clothing, dirty but dry. By the time he finished, she had the fire roaring and had even arranged his soaked clothing on the nearby clothesline.

He approached where she sat cross legged, naked and shivering. She shook not from the cold, but from anticipation.

“Which punishment?”

“Whip,” she said.

“Axe or fire. Pick one.”

“W — Whip.”

“Ok. You’ll get both.”

She made a sound like ‘mowhh’ but her lips didn’t part.

“Ten seconds.” He pointed to the fire.

After a long pause, she stuck her left hand into the fire. Not over the fire, not near it, but into it. Lips shut, she released a muffled wail as the aroma of scorched flesh filled the air. The skin on her fingers blackened then bubbled, her fluids boiling from the inside.

He rarely used the fire punishment, not because it took longer to heal, but because of the sound she made. She tried to stifle it, as she knew it would result in extra discipline, but it escaped from her gut — a pitiful whimper that stung somewhere deep in his chest.

“Ten.”

She withdrew her hand to her lap and cradled it. Ashen stumps hardly recognizable as fingers curled upward. They smoked as tears descended like a funeral pyre smouldering in the rain. With her eyes shut and body rigid, she looked like a monk in deep meditation, clutching a pile of burnt incense.

He hefted the double bladed axe from its resting place and marched over. “Hand.”

She lowered her uninjured hand to the ground.

“The other one.”

Her mouth opened and a shrill sob poured forth like one he’d never heard. She obeyed of course, exposing her charred appendage palm up, but her wailing only escalated. He raised the axe above his head, hesitated, then dropped it to the ground.

“SHUT UP!” He crouched and clasped his hands over his ears.

The torturous whimper reminded him of all the shit that had caused him to leave Earth in the first place. It reminded him of the things he’d done, of the reason why his family was dead, of every murderous notion inside his heart, a heart many times blacker than the hand before him. It reminded him of who he was, and who he’d never become.

“Shut up. Shut up. Shut up...” He chanted.

And finally, she did.

“Here.” Peric pointed to an expanse of grass well away from his campsite. “Let it go.”

He’d never given Onia a command like this before. He’d never needed to. So long as she handled her business in private (and she always did), he didn’t give a flying fuck where she did it. That was, until she ingested the two most valuable objects in his possession.

Unfortunately, his command didn’t resonate with her. She stooped, inspected the area where he pointed, but made no attempt to do her thing — whatever that looked like. She’d eaten two massive Oubleaf trees over the course of the morning, each nearly as large as the one from last night. From the little he knew of Fyth digestion, she should be able to produce something soon. It was just a matter of when and where, two variables he intended to eliminate.

“Use. The. Bathroom.” He squatted, pantomiming. “Take. A. Dump.”

Her mouth formed an O shape. “But, Tomas say no. Tomas say — ”

“I don’t care what Tomas say.”

He’d never met her previous owner. Apparently, the man had abandoned Onia along with his farm. Relatives took over the farm but didn’t want to maintain another Fyth, so Peric got a discount. That all went down just a few days before he stole the terrestrial jumpship which got them stuck on this abominable planet.

The planet, Skorix 073, had enabled him to escape the law and feed Onia, but aside from that, it had no redeeming qualities. Due to its elliptical orbit around a distant red dwarf, the ship’s computer estimated ‘Winter’, when it finally arrived, would last a full Earth year and make Antarctica look like a balmy paradise. He planned on returning to Earth before then, even if it meant prison time. He simply couldn’t handle the frigid loneliness of this planet, let alone survive it.

“Who’s your owner?” he asked.

“Peric is Onia’s owner,” she said.

“Forget the commands Tomas gave you. You obey me and only me. Understood?”

She nodded. “Obey Peric.”

“Good. Now take a dump.”

“D — dump.” Still naked from the morning, she squatted over the indicated area. Her eyebrows drew together slightly, but nothing else happened. He turned around. He’d never known any animal, Fyth included, to need privacy, but maybe she did. Regardless, it wasn’t exactly something he wanted to witness anyway. Nothing about this —

A jet of green liquid shot past, grazing his right shoulder. Cool droplets sprayed against the side of his face and clothes.

“Stop!” He ducked down and to the left. Once free of the torrent, he turned to find her in a state of concentration, eyes shut and face relaxed. Three fingers on her left hand, fully healed from the fire punishment, pressed into the flesh just above her vagina.

He sidestepped further away from the growing puddle and waited for her to finish. It had to be a full minute at least, her stream only slowing to a trickle at the very end.

“You did that on purpose.”

Still squatting, she asked, “Onia do bad?”

“Yes. No. Onia do good.”

“Onia do good,” she said, a tentative smile creeping across her face.

He rarely praised her, but he couldn’t get the wail out of his mind. It had been the main reason he’d allowed her to gorge this morning. He figured if he could eliminate the pain he’d caused her and heal her fingers, his own torment would diminish. It hadn’t worked. She’d healed of course, but the echoes of her suffering still ricocheted in his skull.

He’d made up his mind. For the rest of today and tomorrow, no matter what she did, he wouldn’t punish her. If he went a full day without beating her, the pain his head would go away. He knew that much about himself — it would go away.

“Now,” he said before she could rise. “Take a dump. Take a shit. Whatever you call it.”

“S — shit.”

“Yes. Shit. Do a shit.” He sounded ridiculous. He probably looked ridiculous too — a grown man standing in front of an eighty foot Fyth, commanding her to take a shit. Even here on Skorix 073, a desolate planet in a nearly uninhabited galaxy, he sensed the ridicule of his father.

He paced back and forth between the stretched shadows cast by her bent knees. Occasionally, he’d glance up to find her watching with a look of perplexity.

“Poop!” He clapped his hands together once. “Do a poop.”

“Poop,” she said. “Onia poop here?”

“Yes. Onia poop there.”

“Ok.” Her eyes squeezed shut. Her face adopted the concentration look again, but this time more intense. He turned around even though, clearly, she had no need or desire for privacy.

Turning away had been a mistake last time, but only because he’d misjudged the distance of her stream. Judgement didn’t play a role in the current situation. If shit rained down on his head, he’d know for certain she’d done it intentionally. It would be enough for him to break his temporary vow of leniency.

He winced at the sound of a watery plopping, like wet mattresses dropped from a roof. He’d seen cows and horses shit numerous times, but the bodily functions of a Fyth were not intended to be witnessed. Whether it was their sheer size or their human characteristics, he didn’t know, but he couldn’t deny the unease.

When the sound finally ceased, he turned to find her squatting in the other direction, finger poking overlapped logs of lime manure.

“Stop!” He ran over to the pile and shooed her hand away. The smell caught him by surprise. Not because of its pungency, but the lack thereof. Aside from the faintest hint of pumpkin, he detected no odor whatsoever. Still, he dared not fill his lungs beyond half capacity, fearing he’d be overwhelmed by stench at any moment.

After a minute passed and the inevitable failed to happen, he allowed himself to breathe normally. It really didn’t smell like anything. Either that, or his nose had adjusted to the scent.

“Poop.” Her finger descended once more, stopping just before contact with it.

“Yes. Poop.”

“Onia do good?”

“Yes. Onia do good.”

A deep thump shook the ground. He looked over his shoulder to see her rolling on her back in the grass, knees bent to her chest. She rolled over the area where she’d peed, entirely unphased. He’d never seen her behave this way before. Then again, he’d never praised her twice in the same day before. For that matter, he’d never praised her twice in the same month.

Reminding himself that she wasn’t the only one now covered in pee, he smelled the moist arm of his coat. Like the dung, he detected no odor. And like the dung, he’d heard of communities consuming the stuff. They called it brine and lauded it as a lifesaving commodity, capable of making virtually any landscape habitable by providing a fresh source of ‘water’. He’d never tasted it and he never would, but at least it lessened his disgust at being sprayed by it.

And it lessened his disgust at what he’d have to do next.

He removed his coat. Only a couple hours of semi warmth remained before dusk heralded the return of mistchill, so he’d have to get this over with fast. He rolled up his sleeves, inhaled deeply, and plunged his arm into the waist high pile of shit.

He jerked his arm free, eliciting a squelch from the hole he’d made. Then, he gagged. He hadn’t expected the texture. It was somewhere between Jello and warm butter, even though it looked cool and watery on the outside. Kale — he had to call it that. Otherwise he’d never be able to get through the experience.

Onia rolled near to him, her inquisitive face eclipsing his left peripheral view. What did an animal think when one dug through their shit? He didn’t know, nor did he want to know.

After taking another deep breath, he reinserted his arm and cut deep furrows along the length of the first log. There were four altogether, each over fifteen feet in length and each fatter than his Uncle Ray, a round man who’d won Nebsook’s pie eating contest the last three years straight. Blueberry pie. Perfect fucking time to think of pie.

By the time he’d explored three stools and the outer edges of the fourth, the neck of his shirt had become coated in kale. Unfortunately, he couldn’t reach deep enough into the center of the mound, the area where the logs overlapped. So he stripped, then waded buck naked into the cool muck. He knelt and sifted through it, keeping his head just above the surface. Finally, when he was about ready to dive into it, his foot impacted something hard.

Balancing it atop his toes, he lifted until he could grab it and bring it to the surface. It was the railroad spike! He wiped away the gelatinous kale and stared at it — half his ticket off this planet was in the palm of his hand.

Now to find the other half.

He waded around and even dove in a few times. In spite of his earlier resolution, he couldn’t help but taste the substance. It tasted like nothing. The closest analog would be water or perhaps boiled egg whites. He dared not savor any of it in his mouth, fearing that closer inspection by his taste buds would reveal some hidden flavor, perhaps a vile unexpected aftertaste. It wasn’t a risk worth taking.

By the time he emerged, the mists had arrived and the chill, compounded by his dampness, soaked into his bones. He tossed the spike onto his clothing pile.

“Lake.”

He hopped on Onia’s hand and they traveled to the nearby lake. She released him at the edge and he dove in. His breath froze in his lungs and a shock traveled the length of his body. It was all he could do to duck his head under the freezing water and rinse his hair and body once. He crawled out and collapsed in her hand, shivering uncontrollably.

“F — fire.”

She layered her other hand on top of him and her skin warmed like a tanning bed. He pulled his dangling arm underneath the fleshy enclosure, along with his exposed right foot. Sensing his need, her hands adjusted to cover all of his body. For the first time in months, he let himself relax completely, feeling an invisible burden slide from his muscles.

She moved. He could tell by the whump of her footsteps, but that was about it. His heated confinement didn’t jolt in the slightest. It might’ve been the cadence of her gait or the way his body seemed to melt into her skin, but his exhaustion won some battle with his mind. A battle he cared not to fight.

So he slept.

Peric awoke in the same position as yesterday, underneath Onia’s hands. This time however, he lay directly on her stomach — no knapsack between his skin and hers. No clothing either. He stuck his hand between a slit in her fingers, then jerked it back into the warmth. He wouldn’t punish her today, not because of the oath he’d made with himself, but because it was utterly frigid out there. He wasn’t sure when she’d awaken, but he had no immediate desire to leave his confinement.

Her abdominal skin. Thin hairs between his fingers. Where his hand traveled, her heat increased. The minor influx of cold air couldn’t overpower her radiant heat. The only problem was his arousal. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had morning wood, but he definitely had a bad case this morning. And with the way her hand pressed down on him, he couldn’t touch or even adjust himself.

He pushed against her palm. He might as well have attempted to bench press a car. He twisted his body left and right, then something happened. Her hands shifted an inch and he flipped onto his front, his penis sandwiched upward between his body and hers.

He couldn’t think straight. He hadn’t masturbated in weeks and the skin on skin sensations overwhelmed his mind. His body started humping on it’s own, entirely out of his control. Maddeningly, he couldn’t touch himself, not in the tightness of his confines, but he was so close. Her smooth skin rubbed against his like hot breath, setting his entire body aflame. His thoughts wandered to recent events, specifically, the leech hunt. Her mouth, her butt, her v —

“Ahhhhh.” He came, shooting load after load between his stomach and hers. But as the afterglow set in, so did the guilt.

“What the fuck.”

Beastiality was illegal on his home planet. Sure, it wasn’t like he fucked Onia directly. Would that even be possible? But thoughts of her had filled his mind at the moment of his climax. What the fuck had happened to him? She’d have no idea what he’d done. Neither would anyone else. But why the hell did he do it?

Then again, why not? He was human and he hadn’t been with a woman in five months. Seven if he included his time on Earth. If anything, it was amazing he’d managed to go so long without doing something like this.

Like this...

His mind screamed at him — she was an animal, not a human. He just had sex with an animal.

Fuck it. He’d add it to the long list of fucked up things he’d done in life. He couldn’t hope to atone for them all, let alone any single one. He’d just have to live with it and keep moving. If he never returned to Earth, none of it would matter anyway.

An hour or two later, Onia awakened. The mistchill had receded, so when she lifted her hands, he didn’t freeze to death. He peeled himself off her upper abdomen. Though sticky, his shameful emission had dried, at least to the point where she wouldn’t be able to detect it. Hell, she wouldn’t know what it was even if he did it on her face. Not that he needed another lewd image to add to his collection.

“Punish Onia?” she asked.

“No.” Here he was, standing naked on her stomach after everything he’d done, and she feared punishment. She’d warmed him, kept him from certain hypothermia. Yet, she thought he’d punish her for it. Just as he’d done yesterday.

“Onia do good,” he said.

“Onia do good.” Her expression relaxed.

He jumped off and dressed himself in items from the clothesline, still warm from their proximity to the dying fire. How had she managed to light it without awakening him?

He turned around to watch her rise. Though not brawny by human standards, the sheer size of her limbs commanded respect. Outlines of toned muscle became visible when she exerted force to move. He’d forgotten how many tonnes she weighed. Was it a hundred and fifty? Whatever it was, it was enough to sink the clearing (where she spent most of her resting time) a good two or three feet below the surrounding land. She had to be unbelievably strong to support that amount of weight. After all, she’d snapped a Tarlo’s neck without so much as a hint of strain.

He had to stop looking at her. “Get dressed.”

She obeyed and they went about their morning routine. He ate Tarlo leftovers combined with fruits he hadn’t bothered naming yet. She devoured a medium sized Aezock tree, one near the edge of the clearing. The clearing itself had been full of trees when they’d arrived at the campsite last month. Needless to say, it’s diameter expanded daily. Soon they’d move to a new site because he didn’t allow her to eat in private. She might not stop, and that would be bad for both of them.

***

He spent the next three days wading through kale in what had become known as the designated pooping area. Onia carried him there when she was ready to ‘release’ and even helped him search, pancaking the substance with her hand so it rose merely to his knees. She showed no aversion to her own excrement. None whatsoever. She might as well have been playing in a fresh pile of snow.

Snow wasn’t a bad analogy considering the oldest pile of dung had all but ‘melted’ away, leaving no trace of it’s existence. Kale wasn’t intended to be stored. Even in the freezing nighttime conditions, it steadily disappeared. Whether it was absorbed into the ground or evaporated into the air he didn’t know.

On the evening of the third day, he sat in front of her crossed legs, waiting for the Tarlo soup to boil. His position between her body and the fire had become one of his favorite, a refuge from the elements. It gave space to think.

He hadn’t punished her since the fire incident, nor had he wanted to. He hadn’t thought of her sexually again either, in spite of sleeping on her stomach every night. Whatever had possessed him on that morning had vanished. He saw her not as a mate, not as chattel, but perhaps something in between. Something he had yet to define.

A rhythmic rustling sound caught his attention. He turned to find Onia casually rubbing her shift, specifically the area between her parted legs. The thin material glistened in the flickering firelight.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

She stopped rubbing but her hand remained in place. “Onia feel good.”

He knew exactly what she was doing, and he should tell her to stop. But why? Just so he could feel like a saint or suppress his own lustful desires? Screw that. If she wanted to masturbate, he wouldn’t stand in her way.

“Tomas say no when Onia touch,” she said.

“Forget Tomas.”

“Onia do good?” she asked.

How the fuck was he supposed to respond to that?

“Onia can do what Onia wants with her body,” he said after some consideration.

Her brow wrinkled. “Onia do good?”

He sighed. “Onia do good.”

Her face lit up and she resumed her lower massage, hand moving in slow circles. He watched for a while, aroused but not enough to risk getting wet at night. For her part, she seemed content with the circular caress. She’d probably never been taught anything about her own body. Did they even have sex ed for Fyths? Come to think of it, how did they reproduce anyway?

As he dined, the rustling sound transformed from slick to squishy. He shut it out, concentrating instead on the hot food. They’d have to hunt again soon, as the remains of the Tarlo had begun to spoil. It shouldn’t take too long to find —

A particularly loud squish and a muffled moan. Then, a dry finger from her free hand hung in front of him, blocking his view of the fire.

“Peric touch Onia.”

He hesitated, then reached up and grabbed the tip of her finger. Another moan, this one significantly louder followed by a squelch, and her finger shook in the air. It hooked around his upper body and scooted him backwards until he became trapped between her finger and her ankle. Intermittent vibrations traveled from the surrounding flesh and into his body. It must’ve continued for a half a minute.

“Ok.” He pushed against the entrapping digit, causing it to withdraw. “Bedtime.”

Promptly, she lay down and lifted him onto her stomach, covering his body with her hands as had become their custom. Her breathing seemed particularly relaxed, her warmth a degree or two higher than usual. She’d likely experienced an orgasm, something he didn’t even know was possible for a Fyth, and she’d done it with his help. He’d used her for masturbation and she’d done the same to him. In a weird way, it alleviated some of his guilt.

“Onia like Peric.” Her voice rumbled through her upper abdomen. He both felt it and heard it.

And he slept well that night.

***

Peric tied one end of the forty foot rope around his ankle, and the other around Onia’s forefinger. She sat watching him, eyebrows furrowed inquisitively.

“Raise your arm slowly.”

She lifted her arm higher and higher while he sat on the ground. Eventually his right leg rose into the air, and she stopped.

“Keep going until I’m off the ground.”

She extended her arm higher until he dangled upside down, naked, his fingertips touching the leaves. It wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t painful either. For the short amount of time he intended to use the technique, it shouldn’t be a problem.

“Ok. Back down now.”

She lowered her arm a bit too quickly and he ducked and rolled to prevent a painful impact. He then stepped onto her hand and commanded her to bring him to her mouth. It was the same mouth as always, relatively thin lips pressed together in a straight line, but today they seemed a bit more formidable.

“Open up.”

She obeyed and he peered inside. Immaculate teeth reflected the afternoon’s light and a pinkish tongue retracted. Eating wood on a regular basis must have some hygienic properties as he’d never seen her brush. Not that they made Fyth toothbrushes.

“Here’s what’s going to happen. You listening?”

“Yes.”

“You’re going to swallow me. Then, after I blow my whistle, you’ll pull me out. Understand?”

“Onia eat Peric?” She chewed on her tongue.

“No. Don’t eat Peric. Swallow Peric.”

“Onia s — swallow Peric.”

“Yup. Then pull Peric out when you hear the whistle.”

“Pull Peric after w — wisssel.”

He gave her a thumbs up. He couldn’t count the number of things that could go wrong, but he had no other choice. Without the harvester, he had no way of extracting the iron and using it to rebuild the delicate circuitry. It was time for risks. Besides, he’d never known a Fyth to intentionally harm a human, even when commanded. Something hardwired in their DNA. So, he’d probably be ok. Worst case, she’d puke him up.

“Now open up. When I reach the back of your throat, try to swallow me.”

She opened her mouth. He pressed a button on his watch, then crawled head first into the pine scented cubby hole. Her tongue squished under his hands like a moss covered water bed, and her exhalations got warmer and muggier with each second. After ducking under her uvula, he dove, pulling his legs in along with him. When she swallowed, his feet passed the border of her lips.

Then she gagged.

Her upper esophagus squeezed his shoulders and liquid seeped into his nose. He pushed off her bottom teeth with his feet, surging forward another couple inches, but she gagged again, this time reversing his progress.

A third time and bile splashed his face, resulting in a fit of coughing, both on her part and his. The world spun. Before he could push again, he found himself halfway out, his feet on her palm. He backed out the rest of the way and sat there, catching his breath, hair dripping orange goo.

“Sorry,” she said, drooling from the corners of her lips.

“It’s ok.” At least she didn’t say ‘punish Onia’. He’d finally broken her of the habit. He had no intention of punishing her again and he’d rather she not mention the word. It only caused memories to resurface when heard it.

Besides, he wasn’t out of ideas yet.

The next day, after an early lunch, they began the trip back to the crash point. Since Onia walked at over forty miles per hour, Peric estimated it would take about two hours. Nevertheless, he dressed warmly, wearing his jacket under his heavy coat. The window of time when he could endure nakedness had become slim, perhaps an hour of peak daylight, so timing was critical.

As customary, he perched on her shoulder with strands of her hair wrapped around his arms for balance. The slight bump of her clavicle made a decent footrest and her neck a reasonable space heater, especially given the insulating properties of her thick mane. He’d seen owners ride in the cleavage of their Fyth, but it wasn’t common. Furthermore, it wasn’t possible without some form of support, something more substantial than the remnants of a nightgown.

Aside from sitting on top of her head, a more dangerous and colder location, he couldn’t beat the view. Clusters of trees — Aezock, Oubleaf, and even larger varieties he hadn’t yet identified — spread out in the valley below. One species, an odd palm-like tree with branches only at the top, dwarfed even Onia, rising on thick trunks two or three times her height. He’d heard of Fyths depleting the resources of a planet and then starving to death. She’d never have to worry about that here, not in a thousand years.

Animals scurried about, darting away from her footsteps. They were small game, mostly hoppaws and bellyrollers. The former resembled a cross between a rabbit and a squirrel: they ran on four legs, occasionally vaulting into the air, propelled upward by a hidden fifth appendage extending from their torso. The latter also had four legs, but ran sideways, picking up speed until their furry bodies puffed out sending them rolling in the same direction. Neither tasted particularly good, unlike the bearish Tarlo, which looked sickly but actually tasted quite delicious when cooked.

After bypassing the deepest part of the valley, they ascended what he referred to as crash mountain. He never claimed to be the most original when it came to naming things. They’d crash landed there, hence the name.

As the softer plains transformed into packed tundra, the grasses gave way to shrubs and the vibrations from Onia’s footsteps intensified. He could see the ship now, only a quarter mile in the distance. It didn’t look like any spaceship he’d ever read about as a kid — more like a metallic flower, only eight feet tall from its cylindrical base to its petal-like top. In fact, it didn’t even venture into space. The name of its design, a terrestrial jumpship, described its purpose: to jump from one planet to another, skipping over everything in between.

Jumping to an unexplored planet such as this one had been like playing a game of Russian roulette. Aside from the coordinates of the planet itself, the ship’s computer lacked sufficient data to ensure a safe voyage: terrain details, elevations, topography, etc. As a result, he materialized a hundred feet in the air. Had Onia failed to catch him, he would’ve certainly died from the impact. She herself had been partially buried along with the cargo, but she’d luckily been able to free herself.

The ship itself had sustained damage from the impact, damage which they were working to repair, but it still spun like a top, a slow rotation powered by its nuclear core. The elemental harvester had indicated iron as the missing component, so once he reclaimed the harvester from Onia’s stomach, they’d be all set.

“Here.” He tugged on her hair as they came alongside the ship. It rose higher than her ankle, but not by much. He boarded her hand and waited to be lowered. After disembarking, he stepped under the ship’s flanged canopy and it stopped rotating.

The summary screen flashed to life.

Passengers: 2

Cargo: 0

Power: 99%

Status: Signal relay damaged.

No change from last time. Part of him hoped the ship, given enough time, would magically repair itself. Clearly that wasn’t going to happen.

He turned his attention to the four buried containers, less than ten feet from the ship. Metal cross bars secured the round tops, the only portion of the barrels still visible. He swiped the dust covering one to reveal a yellow black sticker: Caution Radioactive.

“Dig these out, but be careful,” he said.

She dropped to her knees and slammed her fingers into the ground like a back hoe. Shrubs and soil flew away, forming piles on either side of her legs. When given simple commands with clear objectives, she worked quickly, this being no exception.

Then, she hit the permafrost. Her nails scraped against the rocklike material. She clawed rapidly, but made little headway. Half of each container remained stuck as if melded with the solid ground.

“Stop.”

She paused, her right hand hovering in midair. Though never particularly long, her fingernails had whittled away to mere protrusions, caked in dirt and green blood. He wiped off grime and winced at the raw stump underneath. If he hadn’t stopped her, she’d reduce her fingertips to bones and likely wouldn’t stop even then.

“See if you can loosen one of the containers and pull it out.”

Like the crane machine at an arcade, she gripped a container and pulled upward. To her, a single container was the size of a soda can. It’s weight provided no obstacle whatsoever. However it remained fused to the mountain, not even wobbling as she attempted to shift it from side to side.

“Hold on. There’s gotta be an easier way to do this.”

“Jump,” she said.

“What?” She usually didn’t have suggestions. And by usually, he meant never.

“Jump.” She raised both hands palm up, twice.

“Yes. Jumpship is broken.”

“No. Jump.” She stood and stomped lightly with one foot, causing the ground to shake.

“Oh. Shit. Ok.” It wasn’t a bad idea. He mentally kicked himself for not thinking of it. “Let’s move the ship first.”

Onia carried both the ship and Peric to a location half a mile away. After setting them down, the ship resumed its neverending rotation, and she returned to the digsite. Once there, she positioned herself, raised her right foot and slammed the heel into the ground.

The shockwave could be felt from where he stood, like a small earthquake.

She repeated the action a few times and bent to check on the containers. Each time she raised back up, empty handed and stomped again. Finally, she motioned with her hands, signaling something. Then, she jumped straight up. She landed, heels first. He’d never seen her jump before, and now he knew why.

BOOM!

The ground cracked in several places under his feet.

Soil sloughed off and avalanched down the mountainside, carrying him with it. His head surfaced for a moment to see her running his direction, before plunging back into the rocky dirt. He tumbled like a ragdoll in a cement mixer, blue sky replaced by brown earth over and over again. Cold dirt filled his mouth and nostrils, making suffocation a real possibility, assuming the descent didn't kill him first.

And then it stopped. Onia plucked him from the deadly spin cycle and brought him to her chest, cradling him. He coughed up a mouthful of clay and pebbles, leaning against her right breast for support.

“Onia do bad. Onia do bad.” She intoned like a broken record.

“No.” He coughed the word. “Onia do good.” He settled back against her fingers, shaking filth from his hair and beard. “Onia do good.”

“Peric hurt,” she sounded about ready to cry.

“Peric is fine. Just a little shaken up.” He patted her muddy palm. “Now let’s head back and see what we’ve got.”

She licked the sides of his face several times, clearing the majority of the dirt from this skin, then walked back toward the containers. The ship itself hadn’t moved. It simply hovered where she’d left it, though a bit lower down than before.

The ground surrounding the container looked like someone had detonated TNT underneath the surface. The barrel crates were still buried, but the permafrost spider webbed like a windshield struck by a brick. After she set him down, he kicked a few triangular blocks of earth away, amazed by the destructive power of the feet that had loosened them. She sat knees up and wiped her eyes which had green stains at the corners.

“Alright. Have you ever had Rouean before?”

She shook her head. Her upper teeth chewed on her bottom lip which had turned downward.

“Well, you’ll probably like it.” He tapped on the nearest barrel. “Go ahead. Give it a try.”

Her face scrunched, eyebrows drawing together. “Onia not hungry.”

She’d spent all morning eating at his request, tree after tree, until her eyes glowed purple. Had it been dark, he could’ve used her eyes as dim flashlights. She must’ve eaten three or four times her body weight over the course of the morning, a lot even for a Fyth.

“I know you’re not. But we have to make you evolve. It’s the only way you’ll be able to swallow me. The only way we’ll ever get off this planet. Understand?”

She chewed on her lip, eyes flicking between him and the container. “Onia not understand.”

He sighed and touched her thigh, noticing how it warmed considerably. “Just drink. And don’t stop until you grow. Got it?”

She hesitated. “Ok Peric.”

She lifted the first container from its rocky surroundings like a cold beer from an ice chest. When she brought the end near her mouth, it opened with a hiss of steam. She smelled it for several seconds, then licked her lips and poured the metallic green substance into her mouth.

The effects were significant and immediate. Her hands healed and the purple glow in her eyes intensified. Her skin changed from tan to pale green and deepened in color with each gulp. Upon finishing, she inhaled sharply and slapped her hand against her stomach, then released a half sigh, half moan.

“Feel good.” Her free hand went straight for her breast and squeezed. Unsatisfied, she tore the shift from her body like wet tissue and resumed her needy caress. Her usual pine odor changed into something sweeter, onion-like.

Peric stepped back. He’d never seen a Fyth grow. He’d only seen evolved Fyths in documentaries. They weren’t permitted on most planets, including Earth, and could lead to serious fines for the owner. They were simply too big to be useful for anything but the largest jobs, and their maintenance costs were astronomical. Their metabolism alone required eight times the nutrition of a normal Fyth.

She reached for another container, then gulped it down, not even pausing to breathe. She fell back on her elbows. Her stomach bulged, then flexed. An eight pack erupted. Veins across her body glowed neon green under her skin. They pulsed faintly, starting from her stomach and radiating outward to the capillaries in her fingers and toes.

“I think that’s enough,” he said, continuing his backward retreat.

She rolled over onto one elbow, eyes half lidded and shining like twin lighthouses. They weren’t aimed at him but at the remaining containers. She grabbed another and lifted it shakily to her mouth. As she drank it, her stomach expanded again. She tossed the barrel and got onto all fours, her back arched, her head pointed upward like a wolf preparing to howl.

Her abdomen contracted and veiny muscles emerged with striated definition, threatening to burst from her skin. The ground sizzled as heavy drops of brilliant liquid dripped from her vagina and nipples, boring holes into the rock. Her arms and legs widened along with the rest of her body, stretching to accommodate the increased musculature. As the seconds ticked, she continued to enlarge, knees and hands sinking into the earth.

Her head snapped to the side like a reptile, eyes casting a purple light on the remaining barrell.

“Onia. That’s enough. Stop!”

She bit her lip and swallowed. Her voice came out lower, more guttural. “Can’t stop. Need more.”

“Onia!”

She removed the final container and rose to her feet, slowly. Her leg muscles formed, twisting and overlapping each other like nested snakes as she applied her considerable weight to them. She tipped the container back and downed it in a single gulp, then crushed the reinforced metal in her expanding hand.

With her face pointed straight up, she moaned. Then screamed. So loud Peric had to cover his ears. So bright, he had to squint. The scream faded as did the brightness. She stood there, green as an Aezock leaf, rippling with oversized muscle.

She giggled and something happened to her butt. Or rather, above her butt. A tail extended, its furry tip pointing downward. As it descended, she ascended. Her musculature diminished but her size multiplied, as did the goofy smile spreading across her face.

Her ascension continued, toes dipping into the holes left by the containers, heels pressing further outward against the hard ground. When it finally stopped, she looked normal again. Skin tan instead of green, toned instead of muscled. But her tail remained, traveling all the way to the ground and then some.

And of course her size. She had to be twice as tall and proportionately larger in all areas. Had her shift remained intact, he doubted it would fit her leg now, much less her entire body.

“Onia feel good.” Her voice carried with it a certain weight, as if she were some minor deity speaking from a place of power, like Olympus. Her tail swished and coiled on the ground, conjuring a cyclone of dust in its wake.

Peric released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Onia. Can you hear me?”

“Onia hear Peric.” She curled her tail around her waist and sat in her favorite cross legged pose. He covered his eyes to avoid the clouds of dust produced by her movement.

“Are you OK?”

“Onia feel good.” She tilted her head to the side and scratched her cheek. “Bigger.”

“Yeh.” He mumbled. “A lot bigger.” The word big didn’t quite describe her. At this angle, he couldn’t even see her face properly, half hidden as it was behind her expansive chest. He touched the back of her foot, marveling at how the tiny hairs had become more visible, the pores themselves nearly large enough to insert a finger.

Her hand landed behind him with a soft whump. He boarded by first stepping on her pinkie, a finger as tall as himself and many times stronger. Instead of a recliner chair, her open hand had become like two queen size mattresses, laid end to end. He balanced on the cushy surface as she elevated him to face level.

“Onia eat Peric now.” The way she said it, he couldn’t tell if it was a question or a statement. Regardless, he’d definitely fit down her throat now. She’d be able to swallow him as easily as he might swallow a baby carrot or a couple large pills.

The sun had only just begun its descent, so if he acted quickly, the day’s warmth would be at its peak. “Yes. Onia swallow Peric. Then pull me out.”

She nodded slowly. “Onia not chew Peric.”

He stripped down to his birthday suit and tied the lengthened rope around her forefinger. She had to curl it for him to reach the last digit. He attached the other end to his ankle, like last time, then hopped a few times to shake off the chill. Her eyes, each five times the size of his entire head, followed his movements with curiosity.

Conveniently, his digital watch doubled as a flashlight, a lantern of sorts. The time on its display, 3:02 AM, made no sense. He’d never found a way to calibrate it against the planet’s rotation, especially considering the rate at which daylight had been diminishing recently. But its illumination capabilities came in handy.

He pressed a button on its side, coating his wrist in a mustard yellow glow, then crawled into the five foot opening of her mouth. It had transformed from a cubby hole into a small cave, her tongue easily capable of supporting his entire body laid flat and then some. He inhaled. An earthy, coppery smell mixed with her normal scent, probably the remnants of Rouean. Though radioactive, her saliva somehow neutralized the substance, making it safe for herself and other living organisms.

His right hand gripped the corner of her rear molar and his knees dipped into the pliable texture of her tongue. He held his wristwatch over the chasm of her throat and looked down. Wavy ridges encircled the esophagus, in and out, like a covered playground slide with ringed bumps. Mucus lined muscle rippled with each breath she took. He couldn’t see where it ended; his light didn’t illuminate that far down. But she had a stomach, and he intended to pay it a visit.

Steeling himself for the ride, he pushed off with his knees and dove into her throat. Her esophagus constricted around him, and for a moment, he felt it would reject him like list time. Then, it loosened and he slid down several feet before stopping again. Gusts of air swept past his feet as her windpipe opened and closed.

Liquid streamed down all sides of him and he dropped. While in freefall, his mind raced. What was he doing? This wasn’t a good idea. Surely there had to be an easier way. What if I break my neck?

His hands and elbows splashed into something spongy and slimy. He rode the sloped, erratic surface downward. Fyth acid splattered against his face and body, stinging his eyes like a chlorinated pool. When he finally came to a stop, he spat a mouthful of liquid that tasted like pennies and blinked.

He stood on the slippery surface and shined his light around. The shallow pool of bile reached his knees, pumpkin orange and releasing wisps of steam. The temperature of the liquid was lukewarm, a couple of degrees warmer than the moist atmosphere itself. In spite of the humidity, he found it surprisingly easy to breath, as if the concentration of oxygen were higher. It made sense considering the nature of Fyth respiration. They inhaled oxygen and exhaled carbon dioxide, or something like that. It made things like starting fires easier.

And harboring humans inside their body.

The thought repulsed him, but here he was, standing literally inside the stomach of Onia. He checked his rope, ensuring it was still intact and leading upward. Satisfied, he began his exploration.

In spite of her size, her stomach wasn’t exactly a spacious area. The ‘ceiling’ sloped upward from about six feet to fifteen, depending on where he stood. He could walk a few feet in either direction before the room curved, like a lopsided U. A maze of glistening folds lined everything. Any of them could be hiding something, like his harvester.

Systematically, he started at the entrance, climbing as high as he could toward the esophagus. He ran his hand between the folds, burying his arm past his elbow. As he worked his way down, his light flickered and he thought back to when he’d last charged it. It had been a week ago, maybe, before the discovery of the railroad spike. Regardless, it would certainly last long enough for him to finish the job.

By the time he reached the bottom of her stomach, half an hour had passed. He hadn’t anticipated there being so many corrugations in the lining. He also hadn’t stumbled upon anything other than a few rocks, some larger than his fist.

The grooves at the base of her stomach proved difficult because of the bile layer, and because she appeared to be ticklish there. As he ran his hand through them, barely keeping his head above bile, her stomach jolted as if being poked from outside. The disturbance forced him to re-trace his search a couple times, resulting in more random jolts.

It was at this point his light flickered out. Whether it was due to the seepage of bile or the low battery, he didn’t know. But when he pressed the button, nothing happened. No light. No display. Just pitch blackness.

Blind, he continued the search, feeling his way along the upward slope leading to the small intestine. When he reached the end, he had to hunch over, the canal narrowing to a point where he couldn’t stand. He pressed against a section of smooth tissue surrounding a valve. It responded by opening enough for him to slide his hand inside, and then his entire arm.

On the other side, he felt something hard, distinctly different than the stomach lining. It appeared to be stuck in a groove of some sort. He pulled hard, leaning back into the tug while his legs pressed against the opposite side of the sphincter. It came free, whatever it was, and he pulled it through the opening.

It wasn’t the harvester. But it wasn’t a rock either. Though hard like a rock, it had three large holes surrounded by a dome shape on one end and jagged edges on the other. One of the jagged pieces fell into his hand. It was the same size and shape as a tooth.

Fuck. It was a tooth.

He held a human skull in his hands. He was certain of it.

Why the hell would Onia have a skull in her stomach? Fyth didn’t eat humans. And while her bile didn’t taste particularly good, it couldn’t digest him. Could it? He’d never heard of such a thing.

Then again, he’d also never heard much about Tomas, except for his mysterious disappearance. Why would a man abandon his farm, a farm that by all accounts had been quite profitable? Why would his family sell Onia to him at such a steep discount?

He blew the whistle.

And waited.

***

He’d lost track of how many hours had passed since he’d first blown the whistle. Since the rope around his ankle had snapped. Since he’d been swallowed alive by his own property.

He couldn’t blow it anymore. He simply lacked the energy. His adrenaline had been running too high for too long, and all he wanted now was sleep.

Maybe he’d dream.

Maybe he’d die.

He deserved to die, consumed by the acid that he bathed in. It would likely be a painful death, but a fitting end to his life. He’d join Tomas. Another skeleton hidden in the nooks and crannies of Onia’s digestive system. A passive expression of the vengeance she deserved.

***

It had been more than hours, more than days. He’d learned to back himself into the smaller canal to avoid the sporadic downpour of masticated foliage. The bile rose when this happened, but not enough to drown him. She never filled her stomach and the plant material dissolved quickly, usually within a minute or two. Had her stomach been normal sized, prior to her evolution, he could see the area becoming fatally claustrophobic.

His throat was beyond parched, his mouth unable to produce enough saliva for him to swallow. He’d heard of suicide by starvation, but never by thirst. Now he understood why. His body wouldn’t allow it.

He licked the lining of her stomach, but the mucus-like substance proved impossible to swallow, especially without the ability to generate spit. What other options were there? None, except for… Desperate, he dipped a hand into the viscous bile and drank. It tasted like metallic lemon juice, but in an odd way, it soothed his dry throat.

After taking several sips from his palm, he lowered his lips into the solution and sucked, gulping down as much as he could. He didn’t care if it burned holes in his stomach, it seemed to be quenching his thirst and that was all that mattered.

After filling himself, drowsiness overcame him and he slept.

***

A plopping sound awoke him. It differed from the rain of foliage because no sizzling sound followed.

He crawled forward and stuck his hands into the material, identifying it as kale. Why had she eaten kale? He’d never seen her do such a thing. He doubted she’d even be able to digest it.

He shoveled it into his mouth like a starving man, which he was. It tasted like buttered lobster, his favorite food. The mind had a funny way of making even tasteless things delicious when faced with starvation.

He ate until he could eat no more.

***

One might wonder about the logistics of surviving in the stomach of a Fyth. He measured time by the length of his beard. It had grown considerably, the tip reaching to his chest.

Occasionally, at first, fruits would fall from above. He could eat them if he managed to catch some before they touched the bile. However, lately, the fruits were either frozen solid or nonexistent.

Once every third day, his supply of kale arrived. By then, the old kale had all but disintegrated. Maybe she digested it. Maybe not. Regardless, he’d be dead if it weren’t for the constant supply.

Unquestionably, she digested his own bowel and bladder movements. Bile sizzled whenever he peed or pooped. It had disgusted him at first, but when he considered the alternatives, he figured it was for the best. Just as he survived on kale, Fyth had been designed to survive on human refuse, the most potent of which was Rouean, essentially nuclear waste. Due to scale, a Fyth needed other sources of sustenance than a single human, hence the vegetarian flexibility of their metabolism.

***

What did one do when stuck in neverending darkness? Two possible answers: one went insane or exercised.

Each ‘day’ started when he awoke. He’d jog an elliptical path in the swampy area until his legs ached. Then he’d scale the wall leading to the esophagus using only his arms. Up and down until his arms ached.

Then he’d do situps and pushups, hundreds of each until his entire body refused to repeat the movements. At that point, the bile sizzled as sweat dripped from his hair and face. The atmosphere cooled considerably, as if it sensed his exertion, then warmed back to normal after he’d had time to cool down.

By repeating this workout every day, he grew stronger. More importantly, he exhausted himself to the point where eating and sleeping dominated his thoughts. Any free time before he slept would be spent imagining fantastical scenarios in his head, like what he’d do if he got his first true spaceship. The planets he’d visit. The discoveries he’d make.

He knew, even with his regimine, his sanity wouldn’t last forever. But maybe, one day, he’d be free again. It was the key ingredient for sanity.

Hope.

***

No wissel, but Onia pull string anyway.

No Peric.

He must want to stay in tummy like Tomas.

Funny humans, asking for tummy.

***

Peric warm, spread through her body.

She keep Peric warm too.

She let him out when day warm up.

Play with new tail.

***

Day not warm up.

It ok. Onia feed Peric.

Poop not taste like tree but Peric eat it.

She flatten some and eat some.

She notice something shiny and save it.

***

Colder now. Every day colder.

Peric sleeping in tummy. So warm.

Tomas got cold, but Peric warm.

Ice melt from tummy when Peric sleep.

***

Onia miss Peric.

Hoppy animals run from Onia.

White everywhere.

Tail not fun anymore.

Onia miss Peric.

***

Snow melting.

Lake cracking under feet.

Breath not frozen.

Peric come soon.