I march—we march the Mushroom street, by Akis Linardos

We know we’ve reached the right street by the Mushrooms squeezing from the sidewalks—a vaporous miasma surrounding spongy, yellow-nailed fingers like the gray hands of the dead seeking sunlight.

My beaked mask, ill-fitting, chafes my ears and glues to my sweaty cheeks, so I resettle it every three steps. Like the hand-me-downs Mama gave me—gave us, always tattered and too baggy for our thin bodies. I tuck my cowl closer, feeling exposed before the thick mist. Cowls and beak-masks would protect me and my brothers from the vapors, the Botanist said; ward us from paralytic fumes that seized Mama.

Mama lies somewhere in this limbo-road claimed by starving spores, heart forced to beat although her soul has lost control. But a soul, the Botanist says, stretches infinitely, and we will free it from the cage of supplanted flesh and bone.

Yellow mist swallows pavement and buildings at the reach of sight. In line, we follow the white cloak that floats over the Botanist, making him angel-like. We follow the Mushroom-shaped cowl he wears, bandages wrapped around his head to one towering fungus. He says it fools Them into thinking he’s Their own.

I’m last in line, one with the line like a mycorrhiza filament—because such unison fools the Mushroom we’re Their own. The cowl of the brother ahead reads ‘11’ in white thread. We all are numbers, root segments, and I am Eleven—no, I am Twelve, though I don't know where I end and Eleven begins. In the march, we are as one.

The back of my neck prickles. Something follows? I’m most exposed. I glimpse behind my back, craving to make sure the street curve from which we came is still there.

It’s not. A mirror of what’s in front, the street stretches on, also swallowed by mist.

The Botanist has warned us: Mushroom Street doesn’t want its secrets witnessed. Maybe it reshaped itself, shying away from my eyes. It’s my fault for looking, breaking formation—a curious coward.

Heart pummelling, I suck the aroma of lavender herbs enwrapped in the beak and I'm reminded of the tea Mama made me—made us when we were bedridden, clinging to life.

It’s how she met the Botanist, and like then he'll save us now. Me and my twelve brothers will get out with our Mama. Family again.

The Botanist taught us Mushroom Street existed before the City, and the Mushrooms had been there even longer. Since always.

What changed is now the Mushrooms grew hungry, and they charm the plague-starved citizens into this once-invisible avenue. The citizens devour fungal flesh, fragmenting the Mushrooms under grinding teeth. The Mushrooms want that. By entering human bodies, the Mushrooms are well, mushrooming across more space, expanding their network. The Mushrooms are devoured to devour—juicy meat but mostly souls. Because meat is finite, but a soul can stretch forever.

We trust the Botanist’s words. He conjured herbal concoctions to cure Papa of sickness. And after Papa’s condition worsened and his fingers grew yellow and dropped, the Botanist was a shoulder for Mama to cry on. We owe the Botanist everything for his protection.

I owe him to be honest about my craven sin of glimpsing what I wasn’t supposed to.

Mist reveals more mist, sour stench turns sickly sweet then sour again. I open my mouth to confess, but my tongue knots, fearing judgment. Words hold power and if Mushrooms hear, the street will claim me for peeking where I shouldn’t have.

The pavement pulsates beneath my feet, beating to the cadence of our march. Sense of time slips and the ‘11’ of the cowl ahead anchors my vision to a present that seems to stretch onward without exactly moving—much like Mushroom Street itself.

I’m not sure when my soul slipped from my body. The rhythm of our steps carried me forward, and slowly knocked me outside my skull. I’m no longer staring at the back of my brother, but at my own head. I know because it reads ‘12' in white thread.

When did Eleven become Twelve?

Body Twelve is like a puppet I control from the outside: I rub my hands, and feel the touch of palm against palm. The warmth of mist and the reek of The Mushrooms still enwraps me. In all but sight, this body’s senses are still mine. Like a mycorrhiza sharing a bond with a tree root.

Now that I’m detached and terrified, my tongue no longer knots. Even if I get chastised, I won’t have to look at the Botanist’s disappointed, judging eyes.

I speak, but cannot hear my voice. The brothers turn to look at me, and they all have my own eyes through beak-masks.

Memory stirs. Not my brothers—these are my reflections.

The Botanist limps toward me. The Mushroom-shaped cowl looms larger.

Memory stirs. Did I ever have brothers? I can’t picture their faces. No, it was just me, following the Botanist across Mushroom Street—my soul slipping from soul, slipping from soul, conjuring a series of cowled ghosts, curious cowards too ashamed to speak their truth.

Talons of dread claw my heart. I’m being devoured to feed a street that wants to mushroom into a city.

The Botanist passes by Twelve, and walks toward me—theghostme.

Relieved that he will save me, I find my voice: “The Mushroom multiplies my soul—”

“We’re almost there,” the Botanist whispers.

It’s true. The fog clears, and I see my own hands again. I was never detached from my body, was I? Some trick of the light. We’re almost there. Mama said trust the Botanist.

I march—we march onward, until the road skirts a curve. Now we know we have arrived in Mushroom Street.

We can tell because once we’re through the curve, mushrooms squeeze from the sidewalks—an aura of vaporous miasma surrounding spongy yellow-nailed fingers like hands of the dead seeking sunlight.

We’ll make it through and find our Mama. The Botanist and all thirteen of us.

Akis Linardos

Akis is a writer of bizarre things, a biomedical AI scientist, and maybe human. He’s also a Greek that hops across countries as his career and exploration urges demand. Find his fiction at Apex, Dread Machine, ApparitionLit, Heartlines, Gamut, and more at https://linktr.ee/akislinardos