Report #1 - October 3, 2003

Green patch appeared at the northern edge of Mill Creek today. Dr. Chen's orders: document the expansion rate, do not interact, report daily. The green stuff looks like algae mixed with coral. It covers everything it touches—trees, rocks, the old fence line. Growth rate so far: approximately 3 meters per day. I've had worse mornings. The beer here is terrible.

Report #7 - October 9, 2003

Green patch reached the old logging road. It's moving south. The fence at the edge of the abandoned lot is covered. The wood has turned into something that looks like coral but feels warm. I checked with my geiger counter. Nothing. Radiation is normal. Temperature is normal. The green stuff is just... growing. I drank three beers tonight. The silence in this monitoring station is louder than I remember.

Report #14 - October 16, 2003

Green patch consumed the gas station on Main Street. And the post office. And Tony's fried dough shop—the only decent food within twenty miles. Red Martinez came by today. Old fisherman. He says he saw the green stuff first, back in September, washing up on the shore of the creek like sea foam. He thinks it's from the glaciers. The glaciers are melting faster this year. Makes sense, I guess. Everything else in this valley is falling apart. The green stuff just falls apart slower.

Report #23 - October 25, 2003

Green patch is at the edge of town now. Houses are being covered. Not destroyed—covered. Like the green stuff is wrapping them in a blanket. Dr. Chen's report came back today. She wrote "INSUFFICIENT DATA" on my last submission. I told her the data was sufficient. The green stuff is spreading. People are leaving. There is nothing left. She wrote back: "Try to find something constructive to report." I don't know what constructive looks like when the world is ending slowly. I had two beers.

Report #31 - November 2, 2003

The green stuff entered my kitchen tonight. I was making coffee and heard a sound like leaves rustling. I looked down and the green patch was creeping up from the crack under the back door. I tried to wipe it away with a paper towel. The paper towel turned green. The green stuff moved slower inside the station—maybe 1 meter per day instead of 3. Walls seem to slow it down. Not stop. Slow. I had four beers.

Report #37 - November 8, 2003

I found something interesting. The green stuff preserves things. Books wrapped in green leave the text as impressions on the surface—like Braille made by algae. Photographs wrapped in green leave faint outlines of faces. The green stuff is recording everything it touches, not on purpose, just because that's what it does. It's a nano-algal colony with a memory function. Simple self-replicating structures that happen to leave traces. I wrote this in the report. Dr. Chen didn't reply.

Report #44 - November 15, 2003

Green patch reached the school. The children haven't been there in three weeks. The building is wrapped in green, like a cocoon. It doesn't look dead. It looks... preserved. Like the green stuff is keeping the school safe inside itself. I don't know why I'm thinking about my ex-wife. Don't know why I'm thinking about Vietnam. Don't know why I'm drinking more. The green stuff is at the monitoring station door now. It's not aggressive. It's not friendly. It's just there.

Report #52 - November 23, 2003

The green stuff is in the bedroom. I'm writing this from the desk in the main room. The beer is almost gone. I can hear the green stuff moving outside. It sounds like rain, but there's no rain. Red Martinez called on the radio yesterday. He's in Seattle now. "Can't stay," he said. "Can't breathe the air here anymore." I told him I couldn't breathe the air anywhere anymore. He hung up. I had three beers.

Report #58 - November 29, 2003

Green patch covered the radio tower. Can't receive signals anymore. Can't send reports. Dr. Chen won't be getting any more data. Good. She didn't want constructive anyway. The green stuff is on the windows now. I can see it through the glass—tiny green filaments, each one thinner than a hair, reaching inward. They're beautiful, in a way. Like frost but alive. I had two beers. One left.

Report #65 - December 5, 2003

The green stuff is inside the station. It's on the ceiling. It's on the walls. It's on the floor around my chair. It hasn't touched me. I don't think it knows I'm here. I'm just furniture, like the desk and the chair and the beer bottles. I opened the last beer. It was warm. I drank it anyway. The green stuff is growing over the window. I won't be able to see outside soon. That's fine. I didn't like the view anyway.

Report #73 - December 10, 2003

Today the green patch reached my desk.

I am Dave Kowalski. I am forty-five years old. I have been a war correspondent, a drunk, a divorced man, and a United Nations ecological monitor. I have written reports about things that mattered and things that didn't. Today I wrote this sentence: "Today, the green patch reached my desk."

Then I closed the notebook. I finished the beer. I sat in the chair and watched the green stuff cover the last of the window.

Outside, the forest was gone. In its place was something green and warm and patient, growing slowly, covering everything, preserving everything, forgetting everything.

Inside, I sat in the chair and waited for nothing in particular.

The green patch covered the desk. It covered the notebook. It covered the empty beer bottle.

It did not cover me. Not yet.

I don't know if it will. I don't know if it cares.

I am the last observer. And the observed is endless.