“Death has no teeth. It swallows me whole. I am Jonah.” B . E. S.

Besh tucked his long whiskers below his vest and held his long white hair in one hand. He turned and found his conical hat. It was poorly made, but he loved it like an old friend. He jammed the hat atop his balding head, deciding, today, he would let it fall over the right ear. It was time to check the traps.

He stepped from his cozy cave into the sun and shielded his eyes. He looked at the scratched lines in the rock wall. It was the anniversary of Cosmo’s death. He would visit the grave. He took a stone and made a new scratch, adjusted the military vest, and took up his staff.

He had long since made peace with his predicament. In Cosmo’s final moment, he loosed a grenade that destroyed the alien portal they had come through. Besh was stuck. Most likely, he would die on the forgotten planet, but he did not mind. He was at peace.

Bracing himself against his crooked staff, Besh gazed out across the plain below. The sunlight glinted from the surface of the lake, and small, twisted trees grew around it. Yellow clouds passed overhead, dimming the sun temporarily. Besh looked at the aged skin on his hands. The radiation of the planet had aged him prematurely. He could feel it crawling in his veins like alien parasites. Some days, he itched. Some days, he tingled. Today was not so bad.

The lake was five miles from where he stood. It would not take long to walk there, collect the fish, and walk back. The grave was on the way. Still, the short day of the planet made him race through the daylight hours. He lightly touched the strap of his colorful bag for comfort. It had saved his life. He took a breath and started down the slope.

On reaching the bottom, Besh looked across the plain and then turned right. The fallen portal lay in two broad pieces near the base of the hill. He walked to the marker stone and kneeled to blow the orange dust from it. He pulled a weed near his knee and laid it across the mound of rocks.

“Well,” he said with a sigh, “it’s another year. Nothing new to report. I still hate you for what you did. You were supposed to be my friend.”

Besh turned his face from a sudden zephyr and gripped his staff. The wind blew dust back onto the marker stone. The rock mound was all but covered with sand. In another year, the rocks would not show. Besh took a handful of the shard-like sand.

“Look where you brought me,” said Besh. “I crossed the heavens to find my friend and apologize. What happened to you?”

Besh pulled the small bag of tobacco from under the sand and shook it off. He laid it atop the mound and struggled to his feet. He could think of nothing further to say.

“Well, daylight’s a-burning,” he said. Nothing new; he said the same thing every year.

The sun was halfway to the apex. He turned for the lake, and there it was the alien dog. It did not growl this time. It must have already fed. The muzzle was flat and strong. Hopefully, it had not pulled his game from the trap. Its eyes were bright and alert; its short coat was striped black and gray. The ears were broad and the mane was tangled. Besh took a step toward the dog. Lowering its head, the animal turned and scampered away.

Besh came to the lake. The fishy smell of the water was the only familiar thing on the alien planet. He stood in the reeds between a stunted tree and the water’s edge. He held his staff above his head and spoke to the lake.

“Oh, shiny waters, give me your fish.”

He stooped and took a rope in his hand. He pulled a reed basket from the lake. Ugly fish with bulging eyes and crooked teeth flopped helplessly. Besh counted six of them with a satisfied nod as he transferred them into his carry pouch. He kicked the basket back into the lake with a smile.

“Yep,” he said to himself. “Works every time.”

His other trap was in the dunes on the broad valley side of the lake. He walked through the stunted trees gathering bitter berries into his pockets. He saw his trap ahead in the high weeds. Beside it sat the dog. Besh stopped to consider the moment before easing forward. The animal in the trap was snared by a hind leg. Its neck had been crushed, but the animal had not been eaten.

Standing near the trap with a wary eye on the dog, Besh asked, “So, what’s the game?”

The dog was an outcast from its pack. Like Besh, it was no one and had nothing. Its sole purpose was to die alone. Besh stooped slowly and untied the animal, a cross between a rabbit and a cat. Besh had named them Cabbits.

“If you run at me,” said Besh to the dog, “I’ll hit you.”

Besh stood slowly and took a step back, hooking the small animal to a utility hook in the vest. He stared at the dog, and the dog stared back. When it suddenly came to its feet, Besh jumped back and readied his staff. The animal turned and trotted from the trees into the desert.

He watched it leave with a sigh of relief. Then, Besh noticed movement out beyond the dunes. A pod of three Vigers had entered the area. Vigers were striped and cat-like. They were both larger than the local dogs, and more vicious. Where the dogs were efficient pack predators, Vigers were super-predators.

Besh had seen a pod of three Vigers take down a pack of twelve dogs. He rightly feared them. He ducked quickly behind a tree. If Vigers were in the area, he would need to reinforce his cave entry. A double wall of stone and a slow-burning fire of oily reeds should dissuade them. Besh saw that the dog was now running headlong toward the Vigers, barking loudly. Without a pack, the dog stood no chance against the superior Vigers.

The Vigers noticed the dog and changed course. A Viger’s head was bald and red, like a vulture’s head and armor-plated with bony protrusions. The teeth were wicked. Inexplicable as the dog’s behavior was, this was the perfect opportunity to slip away unnoticed. Besh ducked behind another tree and turned his eyes to the coming confrontation between the outcast dog and the Viger pod.

“Thanks, little warrior,” said Besh.

His retreat was hasty. He made it up the hill without notice. He looked back through the evening gloom, but the desert was empty. Besh quickly set the fire, then erected his fortifications, leaving a small hole in the top corner of the wall for smoke to exit the cave. He settled to skin the Cabbit and clean the ugly fish.

“You are the ugliest fish ever,” said Besh to the fish.

He scraped the last of the scales away, rinsed the fish, and tossed it into the bucket. Folding the cloth with the scales into a small uneven lump, Besh threw it to the back of the cave. He stood, he stretched, he set the Cabbit skin to dry near the fire. The roasting Cabbit on the spit smelled savory.

“You must be lonely,” he said to himself, scratching.

“Why do you say that?” he asked in reply.

“It’s always the lonely ones that end up talking to fish,” he answered.

“You’re a figment without pigment,” said Besh. “You should just stay out of my head.”

Besh placed the fish around the fire, just close enough to cook slowly as the fire waned. He rinsed his hands and lined his buckets along the wall opposite from his bed of skins. He silently studied the pile of rocks, the hammer, and chisel. He considered the room he was working on.

“I always wanted an indoor toilet,” he said to himself.

“You’ll need to bore a hole in the wall,” said the figment.

“What do you know?” Besh asked in complaint.

“Actually,” answered the figment, “I know everything that you know. And then some.”

“Radiation shouldn’t brag,” said Besh.

“I’m more of a life form,” the figment answered casually.

Besh argued, “No. You’re more of a pain in the ass.”

“By the way,” asked the figment, “what did you think of the wild dog?”

“Wait,” replied Besh turning from the fire. “Don’t tell me you infected that poor animal too.”

“Infected is your word,” replied the figment.

Besh sat on his bed and grumped, “So, you infect a dog and kill it. Why would you do that?”

“To save you, of course.” There was a slight pause. “Don’t tell me you’re not grateful.”

“Well, yeah,” admitted Besh. “I'd rather be an old man than a new turd.”

Besh reached over to turn the spit. He watched the burning fat drip into the fire. He took a deep breath with his eyes closed. The smell of sizzling Cabbit was just that good.

“Besides,” said the figment. “The dog is alive. I only had him lead the Vigers away. He’ll be waiting for you in the morning. Think of him as a gift. You can name him Spot.”

Besh opened his eyes and answered himself. “If he’s outside in the morning, I’ll name him whatever the hell I want to name him.”

“Fine,” said the figment. “We still make a great team.”

“You’re a parasite,” Besh argued.

The parasite laughed. “My race is older than time itself. And now, I have the whiskers to prove it.”

Besh asked, “Is the dog really alive?”

The figment answered, “Spot sleeps just outside. You should save some meat for him.”

“I will,” answered Besh. “And his name is Warrior.”

Besh crouched before the fire. He pulled meat from the Cabbit and tossed it between his palms as it cooled.

“Whatever,” grumped the figment.

Besh tasted the Cabbit with a pleased nod. Insanity wasn’t so bad, he thought. At least, he had company.