The digestive juices near the sphincter were thick with thoroughly decomposed bodies and golden, bubbly, froth. A loud slurp accompanied each pulse. Willard had never felt more disgusted in his life. He thanked God he couldn't smell this mess, and then realized that whatever the stomach of the creature smelled like, it would only be worse deeper within its bowels.

Willard watched the undulating circular muscle and began to see a pattern. Three quick twitches, a large crushing squeeze, and then three more twitches. The process repeated consistently. A plan suddenly came together. The idea was simple, yet didn't seem to be his own. He simply saw what would happen and then realized it might work.

Screw where the idea came from, I'm getting the hell out of here.

After turning away from the deadly exit, Willard throttled the propulsion unit and sloshed away, careful not to collide with any carcasses. After moving fifty feet he turned back toward the palpitating flesh and saw a wall of rotten corpses blocking his path.

Willard pushed himself below the liquid and descended ten feet, well below the gassy corpses and foam. Despite being prepared for the sudden acceleration, his head jerked back when the propulsion unit rocketed forward. Rushing liquid surged past his suit. He reached his top speed in ten seconds and had nearly covered the distance to the exit. Arching his back, Willard aimed up, steaming forward at a forty-five degree angle. He watched the sphincter. He counted out the pulses as it continued the pattern.

One. Two Three.

One.

One. Two Three…

Five feet away, the muscle-filled flesh pounded down, crushing a rotted body and pulling nearby liquid through. Willard's body was jerked forward, covering the five feet in a second. Before his face careened into the chamber wall, the sphincter snapped open again. Willard shot through and felt a quick rush just behind his feet as the squeezing process continued.

Relief at being out of the second stomach turned out to be short lived. He found himself in a sewer-sized tube that was covered in sticky mucus and undulating phalanges. A river of thick sludge oozed forward, working its way toward the inevitable exit. Pushing his rising revulsion down into the depths of his psyche, Willard crawled forward on his hands and knees.

The way was lit by his headlamp, but the further he traveled, the tighter his surroundings became. The digested flesh around him was still milky white, but it was growing more compact with every few feet. The tunnel soon closed in and his back slid against the ceiling, scraping off phalanges as he went. A sudden rise in what Willard now knew was feces, blocked the majority of the intestinal track.