He zigzagged for about forty yards, looking for anything that offered cover. None of the trees was wide enough. There were some mounds of dead wood and decayed vegetation but that wasn’t cover. You need something bulletproof he told himself as a slug thudded into one of the mushy mounds, went through, came out the other side and smashed into a tree. Some splinters from the tree hit him in the face and he came to a stop. Irritated, he cursed to himself.

Then he was running again. He ran another fifteen yards, but after that it was like trying to run through glue. Now you’re really in it, he thought. This is why it’s called the swamplands. It was up above his ankles. Moments later it was up past his knees. He kept moving ahead and it came up to his waist. Behind him the firing had stopped, and he decided they’d lost him in the increasing darkness.

Or it could be they’re reloading? he wondered. He stood in the moldy, gucky pool, thinking if he moved ahead he’d only sink in deeper. In the immediate area there were no trees, no bushes, nothing to hold onto. He looked around; about twenty feet ahead and slightly to the left something appeared to be solid and hard, glittering gray in the rain and darkness. He squinted and studied it, then headed toward it.

It was a rock, a very large rock, rising a good four feet above the surface of the pool. It’s high enough, he told himself. It’s also wide enough. It’s a barricade, all right. That is, if you can get there. You might go in over your head before you get there and remember this ain’t just water. You go down in this, you stay down.

Moving very slowly on a diagonal, going toward the rock, he felt the slimy glutinous ooze of the pool pulling him down. It was above his waist; it was coming up to his chest. He started to take another step forward, hesitated, took the step and went in deeper. Gauging the distance to the rock, he estimated it was at least twelve feet. He stood wondering what to do. He was holding the gun above his shoulder so it wouldn’t get wet. He looked at the gun and told himself that maybe now was the time to tighten up and force the issue. But you only got four bullets, he cautioned himself.

He stood with the gucky surface of the pool coming up higher on his chest. Some dead twigs floated past and flicked gently at his chin. The only sound was the splashing of the rain.

Then he heard the yell, “I see him—there he is.”

“Where?”

“There—right there.”

“Ain’t nothin’ there. Ain’t nothin’ movin’.”

“He can’t move. He’s stuck.”

“You sure it’s him? Maybe it’s—”

“It’s him, all right.”