Don't Call Me Dead

11. The Gentleman

"Shut up," I snap at Gia. Her screaming is freaking me out just as much as the presence of the man who's standing behind us. "Shut up already!"

She goes quiet at last, panting, staring first at me, then at him. I take a deep breath and try to assess the situation. We are both stuck in the mud—Gia up to her chest, I'm up to my thighs—and it sucks us deeper with every attempt to free ourselves. Given all that, the presence of the dirty, bearded stranger might not be such a bad thing. Whatever reason he has to be out here in the woods, we could deal with it later. Right now, we need help.

"Hello," I call, trying to look at him over my shoulder, the mud holding me so firmly I can't turn around. "Hello! Sir! Could you help us here?"

The man just keeps staring. He's dressed in strangely mismatched clothes—old blue jeans, a waterproof jacket, a pink tee shirt glimpsing from underneath it. His brimmed hat is clearly a couple of sizes too small for his large head. A sand-colored dirty beard covers the lower half of his face, making it hard to judge his age. He could be twenty and he could be forty. He looks like a tramp, for sure.

"Sir," I call again. "Do you hear me?"

He makes a vague movement with his head, as if acknowledging my words. Then he steps forward and looks at me more closely. He clearly knows where to put his feet, because when he stops just a step away from me, he's still on solid ground, while I'm stuck in the mud.

He bends down to bring his face to my level and examines me, his expression unreadable. Then he reaches out and takes my hat off.

"Oh," I say. "You want the hat? You can have the hat." For some reason, I slip into baby-talk, emphasizing each word, making pauses between them. The very fact that he's not reacting to our situation in a reasonable way shows that he's likely not quite okay in the head.

"Sir, can you speak? Can you answer me?"

He examines the hat, then reaches out and ruffles my hair.

"Sir?" I say.

"Yes," he says in a rusty voice. "I can."

That's a progress. "Good," I say, a bit too cheerfully. "You see, me and my friend here, we got stuck in the mud. Silly, right?" I force a giggle. "Can we get a hand? We'd really appreciate some help."

"A hand?" he says. "To get out?"

"Yes," I say. "Yes, exactly, to get out."

"So that you could bring the whole damn machine here and grind us to pieces?"

I gape at him, then at Gia, whose face mirrors my own bewilderment.

"Uhm...machine?" I say. "No, sir, we will not bring any machines here. We'll just go home."

"And tell them all about me? To the cops, to the government, and all the rest?" He gets up and steps back. "I know who you are, little spies. No help to spies, no." His eyes stop on me again. "Except that you... you do look like her." He frowns. Then, unexpectedly, a wide smile lights his face. "I'll show you. I'll show you!"

He turns around and walks away, moving in wide, confident strides. He surely knows this place well, for not once his feet slip into the mud. It's as if he's following some invisible trail through the swamp that keeps his feet dry and on solid ground.

"Sir!" I shout. "Sir, please, will you come back? Hello! You can show me later! Just help us out now!"

"Stop calling for him," Gia hisses. "He's nuts, can't you see? Let's get out before he comes back."

I look for the man, but he's already disappeared behind the trees. Perhaps Gia's right. This could be for the best.

I try to remember all I know about swamps. I put my backpack on the ground and try to lean on it to pull my feet out of the muddy trap, but it sinks, too. I grab for the dry area of dirt when the man was standing before, but there's nothing on it to grasp and use to pull myself out. There's a vacuum, I remember, a vacuum in the mud that holds us in. If I had a stick, I could use it to let some air in there. But I don't have a stick.

"Crap," says Gia.

I turn and find her up to her neck in the mud.

"What have you done?"

"Nothing." She looks at me with round eyes. "I tried to get out, but now I just stand still, and it sucks me in."

We pause, and I can clearly see the gradual descend of her neck into the mud. We stare at each other, clearly thinking the same thing: this can't be happening.

"Don't move," I say. "Don't move at all." I throw my backpack closer to her. "Put one hand on yours and the other on mine, maybe two bags will hold your weight."

She tries, but the bags start sinking when she puts her weight on them.

"Do something," she whispers before the mud covers her mouth, leaving her eyes to stare at me pleadingly.

"Help!" I shout at the top of my lungs. "Help! Someone! Anyone! Help!"

I keep screaming for what feels like ages, tears streaming down my face. This can't be happening. Not in real life. In horror books and movies, yes. But not to me. Not to Gia.

By the time the man appears, my voice is gone and there's no sign of Gia above the surface, apart from the two half-sunken backpacks.

"Help," I croak. "Help. There. She's right there." I point. "You can still pull her out. She may still be...alive."

He just waves at me dismissively, then crouches next to me and holds something to my eyes. At first, I can't quite see it through the tears. Then, I realize what it is. A DVD case, with a name of a movie and a picture of two women dancing on a stage, leaning coquettishly on two canes. I would have sold my soul for such a cane just a few minutes ago.

"See?" he says. "You look just like her." He ruffles my hair and smiles. "Gentlemen prefer blondes, you know?"

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