Season Four

Episode Eleven: Crocodile Tears

By calUK

Part Two

“He's gone, Bobby. He's just, he took off after that damned thing and he's just gone.”

“Did'ja track him?”

Dean scowled, scrubbed a hand through his hair, dried mud flaking away. He bit back the growl that bubbled up his throat, forced it into a sigh instead as he turned around and put his back to the wall, shoulder brushing the splintered door frame. He squinted out at the morning sun across the parking lot.

“'Course I did, man. Nothing. I looked all freakin' night, I swear.”

“Alright, okay. You called your daddy?”

“Voice mail. I swear, it's like deja vu all over again.”

“Last I heard, he was out in Texas, but that was a week or so back.”

“Bobby, could you, uh...” he paused, gnawed at his lip for a moment. Didn't want to say it, but the silence at the end of every call was worse. “Could you call him? See if you can...”

“Sure, kid. Get some sleep, okay? If you've been out in that marsh all night, you'll be all but useless if you run into trouble when you get back out there. Your brother's gonna need you sharp.”

He didn't bother to tell the mechanic that he wouldn't be able to get to sleep, even if he wanted to.

“Yeah.”

The buzz of the disconnected call sounded harsh in his ear and Dean flinched, snapped the phone shut, leaning against the wall. Despite himself, he yawned, jaw cracking as he unlocked the door, rolled through it and stumbled to the small table, dumping the duffel bag from his shoulder onto it and letting it wobble behind him as he headed for the bathroom. He stopped inside the door, blinked at the bright yellow and green suite and blew out a long breath through gritted teeth as he shut the door behind him.

Dean reached into the shower, turned the faucets as far as they'd go and ignored his reflection in the mirror as he peeled off his clothes, dropped them in a heap in the corner and let the steam roll around him, chilling and warming at the same time. He breathed deep, let it fill his lungs, replacing the damp, rotten air of the marsh and stepped into the shower, the water turning to thick sludge as it sluiced the mud from his skin.

It was a weak, tepid flow at best, but as he sagged into the wall, let it beat down on the back of his neck, he thought it was the closest he'd been to heaven in months.

Drifting, he almost missed the low strains of Skynrd, “Well, I'm going down to the swamp, Gonna watch me a hound dog catch a 'coon , You know the hound dog make a music, On a summer night under a full moon ...” Swore at himself, remembered his brother huffing and rolling his eyes as he changed the ring tone and almost tripped out of the shower, stumbled, dripping for his jeans and tore his phone out of the pocket.

“Sam?”

“Dean? What's goin' on?”

“Dad.”

Told himself it wasn't disappointment that had him putting his back to the wall and sliding to the floor, sitting buck naked in a growing puddle of gritty water. He reached up with his free hand, snagged a towel from the rail above his head and draped it haphazardly across his lap.

“Bobby called me, filled me in. What the hell happened? Where's Sam?”

He couldn't help but flinch at the snap of anger in the rapid-fire questions, kept his tone even and steady through an effort of will that left him drained and shivering.

“I don't know. We were on recon out in the marsh, and he saw something. This... this light. It led him away, Dad.” Huddled on the bathroom floor, shivering, he could let himself say what he hadn't even let himself think until now. “They aren't supposed to exist. Just swamp gas or ball lightning, or rednecks getting drunk and seeing fireflies. They aren't supposed to be real.”

“A Will 'O the Wisp? You're sure?”

Was infinitely glad for the reluctant belief in his father's voice, still felt a shiver of fear edge beneath it as he recognized the bite to John's question.

“Yeah. It's gotta be.”

“Dean, you've got to find him, okay? You've got to find Sam.”

“I know, Dad. I will. Where are you?”

“You've got to find him now, Dean.”

“What's going on? Where are you, Dad?”

He sat up straighter, bleary gaze sharpening fast, head clearing of the draining fatigue.

“I can't tell you Dean, not yet. I would but... just find Sam, alright? You find him, and you keep each other safe.”

“Dad, what's wro - ” He gave it up when he realized he was talking to the dial tone again, pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it. “What the hell?” Weariness gone as if he'd slept for eight hours, Dean shoved to his feet, stepped back into the lukewarm spray and washed away the mud from his skin, scrubbing hard until his fingers wrinkled and the water ran cold. He climbed out shivering with chill and excess energy, rolled his shoulders as he dried himself, thin towel scratching across the flowering bruises on his side and he winced, skimmed careful fingers across the tender skin. Letting the towel drop to the floor, he stepped over it to the door and paused, one hand flat against the battered wood, the other tightening into a fist at the memory of that light, Sam pushing past him and leaving him behind.

“What the hell were you doing, Sam?”

Nothing answered his whisper except the faint hum of traffic on the road outside and he leaned into the door, let his head dip forward until his chin brushed his chest, trying not to get lost in the memories of too many empty rooms. He lifted the fist from his side, pressed it hard into his eyes until he saw sparks, shooting stars across the dark.

They looked too much like the firefly that had danced in the marsh, the light that had stolen his brother away and he swore again, pushed away from the door and hauled it open, striding to the table. Digging to the bottom of his duffel, he pulled out fresh clothes, yanked them on and blinked, then grinned at the handful of candy that scattered across the floor.

Snatching up the M&Ms, Dean chewed on them as he rummaged through his bag again, piling John's journal, his own Colt and a short, silver knife on the table. His stomach growled as he swallowed the last of the candy and he stopped, stood there for a moment before he realized he was waiting for his brother to chide him, to joke about 'bottomless pits' and 'walking garbage disposals' and 'gettin' a little thick around the waist there, dude.'

He smirked, lips twisting wryly as he paced to the tiny kitchenette in one corner, filled the coffee pot and drummed his fingers impatiently on the counter top, craving the rich, bitter jolt of caffeine.

“Will 'O the Wisp,” he murmured, turning to prop one hip against the counter, staring absently at his bag, squinting a little at the vague memories of something behind the light, some shadow he hadn't been able to make out as he sprinted after his brother. Behind him, the coffee pot clicked, steam curling over his shoulder again and he twisted around, poured the brew into a mug and sipped at it, mind fixed on the shadow he still wasn't sure he'd really seen. Frowning, he pulled out a chair, dropped into it and tugged the laptop out of his bag, slouched as he opened it and waited for it to boot up.

“What's European folklore doing in Wisconsin?” he breathed, blinked at the silence and started tapping at keys, a low buzz of adrenaline coursing behind the caffeine as he worked, itching with the need to be out in the marsh again, searching for the brother that was supposed to fill the empty space around him.

~~*~~

He wasn't sure, at first, if he was awake or not. Couldn't tell if his eyes were open or closed, if he was looking or just dreaming, not until panic flushed an unwelcome thought loose in the back of his mind.

What if I've gone blind?

Disoriented, Sam flailed out in the absolute dark, pure instinct over-riding caution. His hand smacked hard against a flat surface beside him and he flattened his fingers against it, bandage scraping loudly, tried to slow the frantic race of air across his lungs, only then recognizing the deep, dull ache in his head. He reached up with his free hand, winced as he probed gingerly at the knot on his temple and felt something, blood or mud maybe, flaking away under his touch. Digging his fingers into the surface, he blinked hard and slowly realized he was lying down, the surface at his side a wall of pressed dirt, damp and rough. Dragging himself up, he crawled around, put his back to it and stretched a hand tentatively out in front of his face. He couldn't see it, couldn't even make out an impression of shape or movement when he waggled his fingers, the dark so complete it felt like weight against his skin.

He listened to the pounding in his head, the rushed susurrus of his breathing echoing around him and he thought that the space he was in sounded small but when he stretched out his hand, as far as he could reach, there was nothing in front of him. He rolled to his knees, kept one arm behind him, fingertips pressed up against the rough, wet wall as he shuffled forward and still found nothing but emptiness.

“Crap.”

He jumped a little, his voice too loud in the dark, echoing again and he sank back against the wall, lifted his hand up and yelped when his fingers stabbed hard into a cold, unyielding ceiling, just inches above his head.

Smart, dude.

The voice in his head always sounded like Dean when he was in trouble. Sam huffed out a low chuckle, leaned back on his heels for a moment, wondered how he'd ended up trapped wherever he was. In the corner of his eye, a shape formed, blurred, drifting across his vision and he startled, cringed back before he recognized it as just the ghosts of synapses firing in his brain, trying to make sense of the dark.

Somehow, it wasn't particularly reassuring, not when the shape seemed to multiply, black-light orbs that kept fading in and out, wandering towards his face and he found himself throwing up a hand, fingers splayed out invisibly, breath rushing again, gasping as he shrank back into the wall, shaking.

Take it easy, Sammy. Slow it down.

He nodded to himself, forced his lungs to slow, to hold each gulp of air for a moment until the trembling in his limbs eased. “What now, huh?” he muttered, tired exasperation leaving him spent and he huddled against the damp earth, tipped his head until his brow rested against his hand, still flattened against the wall.

Come on. Figure it out, college boy.

Sam smirked, sighed and pushed upright again.

“Yeah. Okay.”

He dug at the wall beside him, carved a rough channel through the dirt from floor to ceiling, a marker, before he started shuffling forward on his knees, trailing his fingers along the wall, his other hand held out at eye-level. Sam counted under his breath, marking off time until he bumped into another wall, traced it into a corner. Pausing for a moment, he closed his eyes, frowned a little.

So? How far?

“Ten, twelve feet maybe?”

With his eyes shut, he could almost pretend his brother was there with him, the idea as comforting as it was unnerving and he was never, ever telling Dean that he took solace in his brother's imaginary presence.

Always knew you were a girl, Samantha.

“Shut up.” He grinned and set off along the next wall.

By the time his fingers dipped into the channel he'd dug as a marker, he was exhausted, nerves shot with the anticipation of waiting for monsters to jump out of the dark, or for the ceiling to suddenly cave in and bury him alive. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the photos Bobby had sent them, the victims who had died trying to claw their way out of cramped, damp prisons, or their remains, rotting in the dark with him.

He gagged, forced his stomach to calm, tried to find reassurance in the emptiness of the cave. There was nothing in there with him, no bodies, no monsters and he crouched by his marker, dug his fingers into it, grounded himself with the feel of dirt under his nails.

“Eight victims this year. More, in however long this thing's been taking people,” he muttered. “There should be something left.”

Maybe they're in another cave?

“Yeah, 'cause that's reassuring.”

At least they ain't in here with you, stinking the place up.

“Another cave means you could be down here too,” he whispered, after a long pause, no longer caring that he was answering his own thoughts. He shivered, swallowed hard, his throat dry. “That... thing, whatever it was, could've gotten you too, and I wouldn't even know.”

Shaking his head, the hunter squeezed his eyes shut against the helpless tears, frustration bearing down on him.

So what was it? Figure this out, Sammy. 'Cause if I am down here, you gotta get yourself out've this mess.

“I know. It was...” he trailed off, scowled as he tried to remember. “We were in the marsh, you were bitching about the mosquitoes. I was,” scared, he thought, couldn't bring himself to say it aloud, even with no one there to hear. I was so scared, that maybe we've done something we can't fix.

And then he'd looked up, he remembered, tried to meet his brother's eyes and couldn't help but be relieved when he caught sight of something dancing over Dean's shoulder, an excuse to derail the conversation he'd wished he'd never started, the older man's gaze had been as broken as his for days and he didn't need to hear the answer. He'd started running, knowing it was beyond stupid, just thoughtless reaction to the shattered, weary fear waiting for him if he looked too hard. He'd run and heard his brother's startled cry, felt Dean behind him and let himself get lost in the chase, in the adrenaline that hummed through his veins, tunneled his vision, narrowed it down to the path at his feet and the light, the spark that bobbed and weaved, danced with him, leading him on into the night until it had winked out, disappeared in between one breathless gasp and the next. He'd skidded to a halt, only realized then that Dean was gone, nowhere behind him as he spun around, searching for the light, for his brother and found himself in the middle of the marsh, the path he thought he'd been following just an animal track.

He'd yelled, cursed at the top of his voice, and only just seen it from the corner of his eye; a shape rushing towards him, void where it had been bright before. He'd had time to turn a fraction, throw up an arm when it slammed into him and he'd felt himself fall hard, seen the stars pinwheel overhead as he tumbled in the instant before he slipped into the dark.

Sam sighed, lifted one hand to probe ruefully at the bruise on his temple.

Never should've run off after it like that, Sam. What were you thinking?

“I know,” he growled, rolled his shoulders against the wall as he turned to put his back to it, sliding down to sit on the wet ground. He shuffled a little, squirming around until the dirt loosened and gave, formed a shallow depression, his body heat warming the earth faster than it would the stone he'd found on his tour. Neat, tidy slabs, mortared together, weathered and old but still recognizably constructed.

“Some sort of basement. Root cellar, or something smaller. A coal bunker, maybe?”

He'd grown so used to his brother's voice answering back in his head, that he missed it when Dean didn't answer this time.

“Wonder how long it's been here. Trapping people. Sticking them down in these cellars and then just waiting for them to die.”

Still nothing, and he gnawed at the inside of his cheek, loneliness twisting in his stomach. He sighed, rubbed at the lump on his temple, jaw tight. It itched, felt almost more like a burn than a bruise, even with the swelling and the deep, dull ache that seemed to reach inside his skull. Without his watch, he had no way of knowing how long he'd been unconscious, just too many years of cataloging injuries. “Couple hours,” he muttered, wanting to fill the dark again. “Maybe three.”

Too long either way and he rolled back to his knees, sudden claustrophobia prickling down his spine. Sam leaned up against the wall, rigid control keeping his breath level as he ducked his head down and started digging at the ceiling, earth showering into his hair. He squirmed as it trickled down his neck, wriggled his shoulders but kept clawing at the dirt, tried not to notice how his hands were shaking and told himself it was just the effort when that failed. Blood pounded in his head, hard behind the knot on his temple and he tasted damp air and soil in his throat. He choked out curses, didn't even notice when they slipped into prayers, “God, please, enough goddammit, please.” The dark was unrelenting, pressure crushing him down, squeezing him, leaving him adrift at the same time and he shuddered, felt heat sliding down his cheeks and gasped, collapsed into the wall, pushed all his breath into a cry, so hard his voice cracked and the echoes filled the dark.

“DEAN!”

~~*~~

His hands were shaking.

Dean balled them into fists, the hoodie he'd been about to stuff into his duffel balling tight inside his fingers. He squeezed it hard, until the tremors eased and he didn't feel like he was about to fall apart anymore. Cursing under his breath, the hunter dropped down to sit on the bed, his duffel rolling against his side as the mattress dipped under his weight and he reached over, jammed the hoodie inside. His knuckles rapped against the water bottles he'd packed and he let his fingers skim across the plastic, catch on the packets of power bars and freeze dried stew, jumbled with spare ammunition and cans of salt.

He sighed, scrubbed a hand through his hair and down his face, catching a long yawn in his fingers. Shifting on the edge of the bed, he stretched slowly, let his spine curl with a ripple of pops and cracks, loud in the evening quiet. The slow ache, bone deep, eased a little as he rubbed at the back of his neck for a moment, let his head drop low between his shoulders and stared at the carpet between his boots until his eyes burned and watered. Reaching out to the nightstand, still looking down, he fumbled around for a moment, let his fingers skate across the bone handle of a long knife, brush over the leather cover of the journal before they found smooth plastic and he grabbed his phone, flipped it open.

He scrolled down through names, stopped short on 'Dad', thumb hovering uncertainly over the keys.

'Dean, you've got to find him, okay? You've got to find Sam.'

His brows drew together, furrowed as he shifted, the bruise on his side twinging.

“What's goin' on, Dad?” he muttered, shook himself and flicked back through the list, tucking one boot up on the edge of the bed frame and picking absently at the mud crusting the leather as the phone rang tinnily in his ear. His jaw tightened when the call clicked over to voice mail.

“You know what to do.”

Dean rolled his eyes at the curt order.

“Man, you gotta change your message, Bobby. Ever heard of customer service?”

He laughed softly, tiredly and dropped his head into his hand, propping his elbow on his knee as he pinched the bridge of his nose, tried to knead away the ache building behind his eyes.

“Think I figured it out, Bobby. Thing's a damn Will-'O The Wisp. And yeah, I know they're not supposed to be real, but hell, up until a couple've years ago, I thought the same about vampires, and it's the only thing that fits. People disappearing out in the marsh, the light Sam and I saw. It's gotta be. I think he came over with the settlers, somehow. The stories, about the guy who tricked the devil, it's not just a legend. I think it's something real, something that happened to some poor sonofabitch, god knows how long ago. And now he's here, living in a freakin' Wisconsin marsh and takin' people. I don't get why, what he does with them, but I think I know how to find him. Only thing I don't got a clue on is how to stop him, but if he's got Sam, man, I can't wait for that. I'll just... I'll find them and get Sam out of there, and we'll go back later, once we can figure out a way to kill the bastard. There's lore about how to fight him, freakin' books of the stuff, maybe you can find something there? I don't know, Bobby, but I gotta get Sam back. I'll check in again 'round midni -”

The buzz of a disconnected call interrupted him and he pulled his phone down, stared at it. Muttered, “Thanks, I owe you,” under his breath and snapped it shut with a sigh, and then he just sat for a moment, let the burning urgency filter through him again, the drive he knew he'd need to keep going. Dropping his foot to the floor, he rolled forward, leaned out, snagged his jacket from the other bed and slipped the phone into a pocket. Standing, he turned back to the bed, rummaged through the duffel, checking the contents off against the list in his head, letting a running commentary whisper from his tongue, anything to fill the quiet.

“Don’t know where he's keeping you, Sammy, so I've got dry clothes, food. Hell, I even found that old space blanket in the trunk, you remember that thing? Man, I forgot we still had it. You used to carry it everywhere with you when we were kids, every time Dad sent us off on his training camps. I used to laugh at you for having it,” he mused, lips twitching as he pictured his brother, still awkward in his own skin, not yet grown into his height, stumbling along the trails behind him as they hiked into the mountains.

“Guess you were right though, huh? That thing saved our asses more than once.”

I just hope I don't need it to save your ass this time, he thought, couldn't bring himself to say it aloud, even to the empty room as he slung the bag onto his shoulder and walked to the door. He paused once, a quick glance raking across the room, one last check for anything he was missing and then he slipped out, boots ringing softly against concrete.

Dean winced as the car door ground open, the creak loud in the evening and he looked up, saw curtains in the motel office twitch. Movement flickered behind them and he plastered a vague smile on his face as he eased in behind the wheel, dumped the duffel in the foot well of the passenger seat and hitched the door closed behind him.

He leaned against the seat back for a moment, tipped his head back to gaze blankly at the roof lining. He didn't see it, watched his brother looking down, away, whispering; 'About the dimensions. About us.' The way Sam's eyes had flickered, just for a heartbeat as he looked up, reflecting moonlight, and something else he couldn't name. And then Sam was gone, pushing past him, sprinting away through the marsh instead, the light hovering just out of reach.

“That was damned stupid, Sam,” he growled, rolling forward in the seat again, fingers locking around the wheel. He could almost hear his brother huff in irritation, felt a grin tug at his lips but it withered as he looked over at the empty seat next to him. He stared at it for a long moment, swallowed down the memory of the photos Sam had shown him, the victims who'd died clawing at dirt, at the walls of whatever prison had held them.

Dean shivered, clung to the wheel. “Uh uh,” he breathed. “Not you, Sammy. No way. I'm comin' to get you, okay? If only so I can kick your ass for pulling crap like this.”

Blindly, he reached down, twisted the key and the engine snarled awake, roared as he pulled out onto the empty road. The sound rattled against his skin, comfort, familiarity and he settled in the seat, felt the twitching that had crawled under his skin for so many hours, ever since he'd turned his back on the marsh and the search for his brother that morning, fade into the background. Asphalt hummed under the tires as he swung the car through a turn, squinted at the sun that streamed through the windshield. He drummed his fingers on the wheel, the silence wearing, cloying, his mind circling back to those photos over and over again. His mouth dried when he blinked, saw the dark, cramped coffin close around him again, just as it had in Maryland and he flinched, snapped them open again to the blazing sunset and the empty car.

“Where's he keeping you, Sam? I looked all over that freakin' marsh last night.”

Three counties worth of cops couldn't find any of the vics until they turned up dead, Dean. You never stood a chance of finding me on your own.

He scowled at the murmur in his head, tried not to feel the way his stomach twisted at the fatalistic edge to it. It sounded like Sam, but he knew that kind of pessimism only came from his own mind, from the undercurrent of fear that kept dragging at him. He shrugged, rolled his neck until it cracked.

“Yeah, well I've got a plan this time. You're gonna hate it, but it's all I've got, Sammy.”

It didn't even seem strange to be talking to the seat anymore.

You're going to something stupid.

“Yeah, I guess I am. Found a whole load of accounts, people who got attacked by this thing because they drew its attention. Guess he doesn't like noise or something, but if I can find him, I can make him tell me where you are.”

And if he won't talk?

His lips thinned, pressed tight together.

“He'll tell me,” he growled as he turned into the same small parking lot they'd used the evening before. Dean barely even noticed the mosquitoes this time, climbing out of the car and slinging his bag over one shoulder, following the faint trail that led out into the marsh. When he found the smeared mud across the boardwalk that marked the spot where he'd dragged himself back onto the path, he crouched, slipped his Colt from his bag and tucked it into his waistband, pulled a short, sawed off shotgun out and hefted it as he stood, eying the dusk silently.

There was nothing, again. No light, no firefly in the distance and he sighed.

“Yeah, 'cause it could never be that easy,” he muttered. “Alright then. Hey!”

His sudden shout echoed out through the marsh, startled a brace of ducks into flight. He followed their squawking flight, shrugged.

“Hey! Right here, you bitch! You pissed at people for making too much noise? Spoiling your freakin' bloodsucker infested swamp? Well how's this for noise, huh?”

He shouted so loudly that his voice cracked, roughened, until he was rasping insults at the swarming insects, trudging deeper into the marsh as the sun slipped behind the horizon, left the wetlands dark, stars scattered across the sky and the black water. Without the sun, the air cooled, chilled his skin and Dean stopped at a junction in the narrow path he was following, tugged his jacket a little tighter, shifted his fingers around the smooth grip of the shotgun. He swallowed drily, dug into his bag for one of the water bottles he'd packed, hours before, and uncapped it. The liquid was cold, sliding down his rough throat and he drank long and deep, loosed a heavy sigh when he was done. He let his eyes slide almost shut, two sleepless nights and a day spent pouring over ancient texts and the laptop making them gritty.

He tucked the bottle back into his bag and crouched, knees popping loudly, to shift the packets of field rations, rubbing absently at the sharp ache they'd worn against his hip.

In the corner of his eye, something flickered. He tensed, tilted his head to the side and watched the firefly drift in lazy circles, skipping back a pace when he turned to it, stared hard at the soft, warm glow. One hand lifted, brushed across the shotgun and the light winked, blinked dark and light again, only steadying when he snatched his hand back away from the gun. He breathed slowly, tasted stagnant water and wet earth as he stood, eased forward a step, gaze pinned to the spark as it wavered in the air, an arm's length away.

“Where's my brother?” he whispered, wanted to shout at it, fingers itching for the touch of the Colt pressed against his spine, metal warmed by his skin. “You sonofabitch, where's my brother?” He took another step forward, mud loose under his boot, the spark sliding away from him, the distance between them unwavering. He stopped after a few paces, squinted into the light, almost sure he could see... something. Someone standing there in the dark, deepest behind the glow and his blood heated, pounded in his ears.

“You think this is some kind of twisted fun?” he growled, remembering the old man sitting before him, 'the best hunt is human.' He let his hand reach back, fingers curling around the grip. The sight on the muzzle scraped at his skin as he drew it, steadily bringing it up in front of him, pointing at the sky. “You hate noise, huh? Hate anything disturbing your damn marsh? That why you take them? What, you get your kicks out of watching them try and claw their way out of whatever freakin' hole you stick them in?”

He swallowed hard, shook away the image of his brother, lying battered and bloody on raw earth, long fingers torn. The light didn't move, hung motionless against the stars and his stomach flipped once, settled cold and hard.

“Well how's this for noise?” he asked, taking a long stride forward and pulling the trigger in the same motion, soaking up the recoil as it kicked into his hands. He grinned as the light shot backwards a few feet, stalked after it, firing into the air again. “You hate noise? Then come get me! I'm right here!”

It didn't, even when he threw one hand out to the side, open and inviting as he fired the rest of the clip into the sky, gunshots ripping the night apart. He snarled, ejected the spent clip, reached for another, slammed it into place even as he started running. The spark dipped away when he slowed long enough to sight on it and fire again, the bullet tearing through the reeds beyond and he snapped out a curse, then slid to a stop when the light just disappeared, winked out and left him blinking in the dark.

“What the...”

He turned, stared out into the marsh, panting a little. It was empty, again, just the stars above him and his fingers bleached around the grip of the gun.

“No, no no no, not again.”

He spun in place, peered desperately out along the raised path, back along his trail, his bootprints in the mud fading and he peeled one hand away from the Colt, raked it through his hair. “Dammit!” The curse echoed back at him, dying quickly as he stood there.

When it came, it came so fast he had barely enough time to throw up an arm against the light that was suddenly there, blinding him, searing heat against the side of his face. He cried out and flinched away, felt the air rush out of him when something crashed into his side, bruising force from shoulder to hip. It tossed him effortlessly back, clean off the ground and out over the edge of the small causeway. He twisted as he fell, pulled the trigger without even seeing what he was aiming for and then the ground slammed into him, shallow water geysering up against the sky. His head cracked into something hard and bright light detonated behind his eyes, dragged him down as it faded and the last thing he saw before the darkness swallowed him whole was a single, cold spark, drifting in front of him.

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