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Strange Creatures by Kristine Kathryn Rusch Dan Retsler sat on the hull of a half-submerged boat, the mud thick around his thigh-high fishing waders. In his right hand, he held an industrial quality flashlight; in his left a pocket knife. He was filthy and wet and exhausted. Night was coming and there was still hours of work to do, buildings to search, items to move. He had managed to send the warning out early enough to evacuate most of the homes along the river, but the destruction was still heart- rending, the loss almost unimaginable. The trailers were the worst. The water had knocked them about like Tonka Toys, ripping them in half, crushing them, scattering them all over the low- lying valley as if they weighed little more than matchsticks. They were worth about that much now. He ran a hand through his hair, feeling the thick silt that seemed to have become a part of him. The foul stench of the mud
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