Re: Jack and Louis: warzone - No. 4 - No.12
Jack had no time to consider the metaphysics of it all although he was erring on it being metaphysical in nature rather than a trick of the light or an unfortunate coloration of Louis himself. Particularly in the split-second before Jack plunged forward when the thing wearing Louis like a coat stopped him, with a calm protest he couldn't hear on Louis's lips no matter if it came from his throat.
Whatever in hell Louis had got himself caught up in, Jack was transfixed by the bobbing lights, the rattle of dog-chains and the snap-bark of the creatures as they strained forward eager to search.
Jack stared blankly into Louis's face when asked about boyhood pursuits, with challenge on lips and teeth and tongue: of course he'd bloody learned to hold his breath. As had Louis, given the school believed in cold water and cold mornings and long runs through muddy fields. It was a moment almost triumphant, proof whatever was pulling Louis's strings didn't know Louis but he'd his arm linked into Louis's and the men at the wall stared at them as if they'd looked for a penny and found gold instead.
And then the water. God, the water. Thick, rushing current that ran up his nose and down his neck, a tide that gushed dangerously in one direction and there was no point in pulling against it at all. A livid moment of surrealism: a tidal-wave into a building, this had to be a dream or some induced hallucination, but they swept out beyond the crest of the door-frame in a tangle of soaked-wet bodies and Jack spluttered, coughing up what felt like half the water alone.
Of course, they'd seconds to gather themselves. Jack stood with difficulty, and with distaste for the way wet denim clung to cool skin. The hunter, the one in the trees could not be seen. But ahead, the ground was carpeted blood-red.