The sun hung low over Los Angeles, casting a burnt-orange glow across the sprawl of the city. Shadows stretched long across the grounds of the La Brea Tar Pits, where Nate zipped up his field bag, the lingering scent of asphalt heavy in the dry evening air.

Nate had spent the better part of the day cataloging microfossils—tiny remnants of ancient life trapped in the tar’s sticky grasp thousands of years ago. The pits, a timeless snare, had swallowed creatures far larger than himself: dire wolves, mammoths, and even saber-toothed cats. He often wondered if they had felt the same quiet before the end—this eerie calm that now settled over the park as the last of the tourists lingered near the exits.

He should have left an hour ago, Nate scolded himself as he thought of just how horrible traffic was going to be on his commute back home.

Hoisting his bag over his shoulder, Nate stopped to wipe away the sweat that had began pooling on his forehead. He made his way toward the main path, cutting close to one of the older pits, its surface was a swirling mirror of black and amber under the fading light. The tar bubbled lazily, thick globules rising and bursting with soft, viscous *pops*. The air smelled of earth and crude oil—a pungent, ancient breath from deep within the crust of the earth.

Distracted by sting of sweat in his eyes—Nate stepped too close. His boot met what felt like solid ground but instantly gave way with a sickening slurp.

“Shit!” He muttered under his breath, squinting at the ground below him. Everything was blurry as his burning eyes welled up with tears. Nate used his shirt to wipe his eyes and dry up the tears.

As his eyes slowly began to regain focus on the world around him, the tar crept up his ankles. It was warm—invitingly so—seeping into his boot and clamping down with surprising strength. He yanked hard, but the tar resisted, each pull accompanied by a deep, wet suctioning sound, as though the pit itself disapproved of his escape attempt.

He tried again, this time using his field bag as leverage, but his other foot slipped, sinking into the sticky pool. The tar behaved in a strange manner, as though it were a living thing—dense, almost gelatinous, but with an oily sheen that caught the last rays of sunlight, forming rivers of iridescent blues and purples across its black surface.

“Hey! Anyone still here?!” Nate’s voice cracked with panic, but the park was silent save for the soft, rhythmic *glub-glub* of the bubbling tar.

It was up to his knees now. Every movement sent ripples across the surface, the bubbles growing faster, louder, like the pit was waking up, aware of his predicament.

His arms trembled as he clawed at the edge, but the tar clung to him, gluing his fingers together, slowly and relentlessly like warm molasses it swirled around his descending body, caking his skin in a thick layer of sticky goop. The tar oozed up his thighs, tugging at his weight, the surface growing glossy and flat again as though erasing his presence.

In the near distance, Nate noticed a vine hanging lazily from a tree branch above him. He stretched a tar-slicked arm, fingers grazing it before his body dipped deeper, the blackness now licking at his chest. The tar’s surface bubbled furiously, thick gurgles echoing around him, like the pit itself was laughing at his futile attempt to pull himself free.

With a final lunge, he grasped the vine. His grip was weak—slick—but he pulled hard. The tar fought back, a deep, guttural *blorp* vibrating through Nate’s body as though the pit was unwilling to let go.

*snap*

The vine broke, falling into the pit in front of him.

He sank to his chin, the tar curling over his neck, hot against his throat. His last breath came out in a panicked gasp before the blackness swallowed him whole.

Finally, the pit of inky black tar pulled him under. It enveloped his face and slurped as it overtook him. Leaving behind a rippled surface where bubbles erupted and popped before slowly dimming out.