That’s strange, Simon thought. I can’t move my leg.
The jungle was loud, humid, and darker than expected. They had only been hiking through for a few hours when they got separated. Simon squeezed his eyes together, mentally berating himself for thinking cell phones would suffice this far from civilization. He checked for a signal again, in vain, nearly planting himself face-first into the goopy dirt as he realized his other foot was stuck.
He gave one last attempt to wiggle himself out. His legs sank deeper, immobilizing his knees. I’ll have to chance it. The animals might kill me, but suffocating definitely will.
“John?” he called, his voice hoarse. It would have to be louder. “John?”
No response. Simon glanced down, his fingertips scraping the surface of the strange sludge. He still had his phone. 8% battery left. He opened his music app, smearing the brown muck across the screen. I can’t pick a song to save my life, he thought. Literally.
There it was. Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture—perfect. He scrubbed through, finding the part with the cannons, setting it to loop forever—or until the battery died, whichever came first. Cranking the volume up, he threw his phone as far as he could. Hopefully, John would hear the cannon shots and head in this direction.
Nothing to do now except listen to the music. He was stuck past his waist now, forced to hold his arms up lest they be swallowed too. Agonizing minutes passed, sinking ever deeper.
The music cut out. There goes the battery, Simon thought.
“Simon?”
His heart leapt. “John! Over here!”
An arm emerged from behind a bush, holding a phone with a cracked screen. “Leave it to you to play your classical anywhere, including a jungle where—” John finally made his way through the bush and saw Simon’s predicament. “Are you okay? Never mind, you’re clearly not.”
“Thank you for noticing,” replied Simon. “There’s a reason why you take the lead—you know everything.”
“Lucky for you, I know exactly what that is. If you don’t get out, you’re going to drown.”
Simon was almost to his chest now in the sandy goop, his penchant for sarcasm overruled by his instinct to survive. “How do I get out?”
John walked to the edge of the liquid holding a stick, but Simon was too far to reach. “Okay, I can’t pull you out. We should have packed a rope.”
Simon began to panic. “What do I do then?”
“Don’t worry. I know how to get out. You see, last summer I went swimming.”
“I can’t swim! And I know you can’t either.”
“Hey. I told you, I went swimming. I know what I’m doing now.”
“The problem is that I don’t.”
“Hey, no worries man. I’ll guide you. I’m going to teach you something called treading water.”
Simon was in up to his armpits now. “Okay, just hurry.”
“So you need to kick your legs like you’re on a bike, like this.” John mimed pumping his legs up and down. “And your arms need to scoop the surface of the water, like this.” He swept his arms parallel to the ground.
“I can barely move anything. This is nothing like water.” Simon dipped even lower. “Uh, not working.”
John looked a little nonplussed. “Uh, I think it’s like that. You’ll bob up and down a few times.”
“Are you sure this stuff behaves like water? I’m sinking a lot faster than before.”
“Obviously,” John scoffed. “It’s liquid, you’re sinking, what else do you want. Just trust me, I swim.”
“John, I’m sinking. My shoulders are under,” said Simon, tilting his chin up to keep his mouth above the surface.
“Kick harder! If you’re sinking, you aren’t going fast enough.”
Simon’s mouth was below the surface. Pure terror radiated from his eyes as John stared helplessly on.
“I…don’t understand,” John whispered to himself in denial. “I swim. I know what I’m talking about. How…”
A bubble rose to the surface of the quicksand and popped.