Staggering, reeling, and fighting the urge to vomit once again as thin tendrils snaked their way to the back of his throat he lurched through the saplings. Rough bark accosted him as he bounced off the larger trees. Vines lashed and slashed his ankles, angry at his clumsy footsteps.

“Not again, oy gevault, not again!”

Desperate fingers raked at the goo, only succeeding in displacing it enough for him to scratch his own face. His eyes refused to open, sealed in by the stinging, acidic mass. Breathing wasn’t so much an option as a far away dream. Cool moisture met his foot, seaping through rough hewn hiking boots with a welcome message of relief.

A half dozen sloshing footsteps and he dove in. The gel convulsed, and a hot pain contrasted the chilly pond’s November welcome. Arms pulled wildly through muck to drag him forward and down.

“I’d rather drown, rather die than…”

He couldn’t finish the thought, only utter a silent vow to sing praises for whatever end might come, be it release or death.