Forbidden River. Brynn Kelly

Something big and fleshy, and very dead. A pig? She swiveled, checking the leaves on the taller trees. The breeze had turned west. Please, please, please let it be a pig. She unzipped her jacket and pulled her T-shirt over her nose and mouth, her legs working robotically, nerves bringing her focus and hearing into high relief.

      She shoved through the scrub, branches scratching her hands and slapping her face. The low drone of blowflies, a lot of them. Her cheeks prickled. After a few minutes, she saw it, a flash of orange on the ground. Not a pig. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She pushed into a small clearing beside a boulder, her heart thumping.

      Yep, a body. Curled up, sheltered under the overhang of the rock like it was hiding—that’s why she hadn’t spotted it from the air. The jacket. She remembered that jacket. Orange, with blue stripes. The Danish guy. Fuck it to hell.