It was dark. Which was the only thing keeping Eric Ravensmith alive. That and the three feet of filthy swamp water covering his exhausted body.

He hugged the heavy flat rock to his chest to keep him from floating up to the surface. His cheeks were puffed out with stored air like a bullfrog's as he squirmed his shoulder blades deeper into the muddy creek bottom. Christ, it was cold. His teeth ached. His toes were already numb inside his soggy Nike running shoes. His fingers weren't much better. He tried to scratch his thigh where the thorns had shredded his pants and skin, but his icy fingers kept stabbing the wrong place. Finally he gave up and just waited.

Six feet away, the sloshing of heavy combat boots. There were eight men now, wading hip-deep through the icy water. All armed. All after him. Dirk Fallows's renegade soldiers.

"Hey, guys, hold it a minute," one of them called.

"Hold this, Greene," someone answered. Rough laughter.

The voices sifted down through the water to Eric as if having first passed through several thick doors. But he could still make out the words.

"He went through here. Right here. I saw him."

"Well, he ain't fucking here now, Greene."

"He was. Running with that damned crossbow of his. Right through here."

"Uh-huh. Sure."

"Fuck you, Dobbs."

Dobbs laughed. "Your mama beat you to it, sonny. She's comin' back tonight for sloppy seconds. Yum, yum."

"Shut your-"

"Let's just spray the whole creek with bullets," someone else suggested. "If he's here, that'll finish him."

"Yeah, right." Dobbs again, that cocky twang in his voice daring somebody, anybody, to disagree. "Then you can tell Fallows how you used up all his bullets. Man, he'd rather chew through your throat with his bare teeth than waste one fuckin' bullet."