Thirty
The mud wrapped around Brice, like slow hands dragging him down. He shut his eyes, and clamped his lips tight, but the cloying smell still hit the back of his throat. He felt the ooze under his jacket, against his flesh.
He pushed his hands out, and when one broke the surface he forced his body round, pushing with his legs. The mud provided enough resistance, and when he felt rain pummelling the top of his head, he tilted his neck back and opened his mouth, gulping in air.
Brice coughed as he swallowed mud, and his stomach convulsed. He pushed with his arms and legs, forcing his head higher. The mud pulled him down, but he fought it. He kicked and grabbed, and then he found a branch, or a root. Something that remained firm in his hand, anyway.
Slowly he dragged himself from the
