The sun hung low in the sky, spilling its golden light through the dense canopy of the jungle. It shone between the ancient tree trunks and bathed the mossy rocks in an amber glow. Deep in the underbrush, Grant staggered forward, his legs weak and his breath laboured. His shirt clung to his body, drenched in sweat and streaked with grime. Hours had ed since his helicopter spiraled down to the ground. Grant had awoken in a heap of twisted metal and broken glass, somehow emerging alive, a miracle against all odds, but survival in the jungle was proving to be just as cruel.

Grant pushed through the vines, the humid air pressing against him like a smothering hug. The cries of unseen animals echoed around him, but his focus was maintained on the hope of finding rescue. His boots crushed the undergrowth with every step, but as he moved deeper, the ground became softer beneath his feet. Dazed and close to being in shock, he had hardly noticed it.

His foot sank unexpectedly, his stomach tightened with dread. Looking down, he saw his leg disappearing into what looked like mud, dark and thick. He tried to lift his foot, but the suction pulled him deeper. Panic set in as he realized he had stepped into quicksand.

But this was no regular pit of quicksand. Something devilish was hiding beneath the bottomless pit of murky muck. As Grant’s boots slipped deeper into the mud, a tangle of vines erupted from the pit. They coiled and wrapped around his legs, travelling up his sweaty body, and pulling him deeper into the mud.

Grant lunged forward, trying to pull himself free, but the motion only accelerated his descent. He fought the vines, trying to pull them off of him, but they had strength in numbers, they simply continued to wrap around him, making his struggle to fight them off damn near futile. The quicksand made a grotesque sucking sound as the vines accelerated his descent, pulling him deeper into the slimy sludge as if the earth itself was alive and intent on swallowing him whole.

Shlorp!

Schlick!

Splooge!

Each movement sent the wet, gritty substance climbing higher up his body.

“No, no, no,” he muttered, his voice cracking as he clawed at the ground around him. His hands found nothing but loose, muddy vegetation that tore away easily in his grip. The quicksand was relentless, dragging him downward inch by inch.

The jungle seemed to mock his struggle. Birds squawked somewhere in the distance, and the buzzing of insects filled the heavy air. Each sound felt magnified and pierced his ears, as if the world wanted to remind him of life continuing, indifferent to his fate in the murky pit of sticky quicksand.

Grant struggled harder, his breaths coming in short, sharp bursts. His arms flailed as the quicksand reached his waist. The thick mud clung to him, its cold, heavy embrace tightening with every frantic movement. The sounds of the pit grew wetter and louder.

Slop!

Schlurrp!

Shluck!

It was a grotesque symphony of his doom.

He forced himself to stop struggling, recalling something he'd once read about quicksand: movement made it worse. He tried to lean back, distributing his weight, but the pit was too soft, too yielding. His body tilted awkwardly, and the mud crept higher, now past his chest. The pressure of the much constructed his ribcage and snuffed his ability to completely expand his lungs, causing him to panic as the mud slurped him down even further.

"Help!" he screamed into the unforgiving jungle, his voice trembling. The jungle yielded no answer.

The quicksand reached his shoulders. His arms were pinned now, the weight of the muck making it impossible to move. His heart pounded as his chin touched the surface. He could smell the damp, earthy stench of decay emanating from the pit.

“Please,” he muttered, desperate and hoping for a miracle to save him at the last minute.

The mud climbed over his mouth, silencing him. He took in a mouthful of muck, hastily spitting it back out and causing bubbles to churn and splatter around his face. His wide, desperate eyes scanned the treetops, searching for some impossible saviour. Slowly, the world around him darkened as the quicksand claimed him entirely, the last sound being the wet, final schlurrrp! as the surface enveloped his face.

The jungle grew quiet. The birds ceased their calls, the insects silenced their hum, and the pit lay still, its victim consumed. The canopy swayed gently in the breeze, the only witness to Grant's muddy struggle.