her words. She might even have added, Dumb ass, but he wasn't sure. I tried to warn you.
"Where are you?" he asked, using his gentlest, most reassuring tone as he eyed the lush green bushes circling him. The leaves here were thicker than any he'd ever encountered, barely moving in the gentle wind.
He didn't want to frighten the woman away. She'd tried to save him from the quicksand, so she obviously meant him no harm. God knew he needed all the help he could get right now.
There was no hint of person or clothing peeking from the shrubbery, still no rustle or snap to indicate movement.
"You can come out," he said. "I won't hurt you. You have my word."
Think for a moment, Gray. You don't hear me with your ears, but with your mind.
"How do you know my name?" he asked sharply. Then he blinked, shook his head, blinked again. The voice remained, echoing from each corridor of his brain. She was right. Her words were actually inside his mind.
How was that possible?
How the hell was that possible?
"I'm schizo." The statement burst from his mouth, too shocking and surreal to keep inside. "I've finally jumped over the ledge of sanity with thousand-pound weights tied to my ankles." He'd seen some weird shit in his lifetime, and it had finally caught up with him.
He should have known it would come in the form of a split personality. A sexy as hell female personality, at that. Her whisky-rich voice... he'd never heard anything quite so erotic.
Down, down he sank as the sand covering his calves with its gooey wetness. The scent of stagnant water and decaying - he wrinkled his nose. He did not want to guess what was decaying.
Insane or not, he hadn't survived two days and nights of torture to die by stinky sand. No matter what he had to do, he'd save his life - or rather, lives - from this mess.
God, this sucked.
Unwilling to lose a single supply, he tossed his GPS and machete to dry ground. Careful not to jostle too much or too quickly, he removed his backpack and tossed it beside the blade, wishing to God he'd brought a propel wire. But why would he have needed one for such a quick, easy job?
"Jude Quinlin, you lying sack of shit." He scowled for, what... the third time in as many hours? The expression well represented his views of Atlantis. Meanwhile, he continued to sink, slowly, slowly, the wet sand working its way past his knees, up his thighs. The thick liquid grains were cold, and his body temperature fell a couple degrees. His blood pressure was the only thing on the rise.
Amid the popping and gurgling of wet suction, he searched his surroundings again, this time looking for a lifeline. No branches, no vines were nearby. Only a large white rock, but it was too far away to reach with his hands.
Take off your shirt, the sensual, I-want-you-naked-and-in-my-bed voice said.
He snorted derisively. He was sinking toward death, and his new female personality wanted him to strip. Why wasn't he surprised?
"Want me to remove my pants, too?" he asked dryly. At least he'd picked a hot, nympho chick to be his mind-companion and not a nasally old man.
Idiot! she huffed, a blush dripping from her tone. Take off your shirt, clasp the opposite ends in your hands, and hook the material around the rock
His eyes widened as he studied the distance of the rock again. That might actually work. For the first time in days, he laughed with genuine amusement. He might be schizophrenic and teetering on the brink of total insanity, but he was also a freaking genius.
The woman - it was hard to continually think of such a distinctive, seemingly real voice as merely an extension of himself - sighed, why did the gods have to pick you?
Her dejection caused his smile to grow. "I could ask myself the same question, babe."
Reaching behind him, he gripped the neck of his shirt and tugged it over his head. With one end of the camouflage material in his left hand and the other in his right, he leaned forward and tossed the looped shirt at the rock. He missed.
He tried again and missed.
Okay, so he seriously needed to increase the hours he spent at target practice.
The sand now reached his waist. He continued to lean and toss until the shirt finally anchored solidly. He gave a hard jerk and stopped sinking.