Mechanical Duck

“It’s a duck,” said Wiz through a mouthful of sandwich.

“I dunno,” replied Cran. “Looks a little large to me.”

“Quack,” said the thing floating in front of them.

“See?” said Wiz. “Isn’t that what ducks are supposed to do?”

Neither had actually seen a duck before.

Cran poked at the flotsam at the edge of the muddy puddle, the detritus of the long-abandoned site creating channels through which the water moved.

“Could be a pigeon,” he replied eventually, squinting at the thing. He’d once heard that pigeons live in cities.

“Pigeons don’t go ‘quack,’” said Wiz knowledgeably. She wasn’t too sure, to be honest. Maybe they did. But she remembered seeing a torn and stained page from a children’s book years ago, with “P for Pigeon” written across the top of it, and a crude picture of a gray bird underneath with the word “coo” attached with a fine line to its beak.

“Maybe it’s hungry,” said Cran, changing the subject. Wiz broke off a bit of her sandwich and tossed it at the thing.

It ignored it, letting out another plaintive “quack” as the crumbs sailed past.

“We should catch it,” said Cran. “Maybe it’s valuable.”

A few minutes later they had a makeshift net, cobbled together from old strips of wind-tattered plastic and splintered wood.

The thing in the water watched them passively as they took a few tentative steps into the puddle, then tossed the net over it.

This time the “quack” was lost in a muddy stream of bubbles.

When their catch was out of the water, Wiz and Cran removed it from the tangle of plastic and wood. It lay inert and surprisingly heavy in their hands.

Cran turned it over. Attached to its belly was a barely legible label, its edges beginning to fade and crack:

“Mechanical Duck, Surveillance model B. Next service: May 2047.”

“Told you it was a duck!” declared Wiz smugly.

Mystery solved, they went back to finishing their meager lunch before continuing on.