Kick Tomwright lowered himself down over the cliff, and sloshed through the flooded woods toward the open water of the lake. A higglety-pigglety assortment of driftwood and washed-up trash clogged the stream’s main channel and formed a rough berm that blocked the waves on the open lake from penetrating the hushed stillness of the flooded woods. The ankle deep water, steeped a reddish brown, was stagnant and undisturbed beneath the dead and dying trees. The only sound apart from Kick’s labored breathing and the whining of mosquitoes was the squish, suck and splash of his boots as he made faltering progress toward the lake.
He felt horribly weak- as though his bones were made of marshmallows. His head was throbbing, and he was beginning to feel violently nauseous again. He was forced to stop every few steps to collect himself and find the will to continue on. He finally stumbled out onto a rocky strand between the flooded woods and the lake, and there he allowed himself to lie down.
The next thing he knew he was being roughly dragged into the bed of a pickup truck. Glancing around he immediately recognized the place as the Lavallee Landing, and standing next to the truck, he recognized the face of Janice Smith.
Then he faded to black.