by J.P Jackson
Marshland broke Taylor's monumental fall from the future. Every muscle, joint and sinew ached, and it felt like his fillings were white hot. A kaleidoscope motif formed a warping web over his eyes, and waving a hand in front of his face, he saw nothing but the intricate pattern.
Nausea followed. His guts heaved and he emptied the contents of his stomach over his legs.
Laying in a pool of his own vomit, Taylor was grateful for the cool breeze over his face. When sensation began to return to his limbs, he pushed blindly through shallow water, brushing passed tall weeds until he found a bed of coarse grass. Turning onto his back, the sun warmed his face and his parched lips pleaded for a drink. Soon, memories flitted through his mind, Lanza, Donald, Penelope and the time machine. An emotional smorgasbord of shock, despair and betrayal.
Taylor drifted to sleep at some point, waking to a cloud of mosquitoes biting his flesh and the sound of sloshing water. With only his ears to guide him, he tuned in on warbling of birds in flight, then a chilling crunch of grass nearby.
"Who is it?" he whimpered, his throat dry and hoarse. The instant the question left his lips, Taylor cried out as something snapped it's teeth into his right ankle. He jolted up, beating his fists into wet and leathery flesh. The monster's grip was too strong, and Taylor let out a shrill scream as it chomped down on his leg, dragging him into the water.
He gargled as the thing turned him over, rolling, twisting and toying with his body. He inhaled muddy water, gasping for air as he was inundated. Weak and close to drowning, Taylor was somehow released from the monster's jaws. He heard a primeval roar, and violent thrashing as he scurried back to dry land.
Sopping wet and on his belly, Taylor crawled from the sound of heavy footsteps squelching towards him. Suddenly, firm hands snatched his wrists and pulled him to another (or possibly the same) cushion of coarse grass; his mind meanwhile, sunk into delirium.
