The tent didn’t give out in one spot, but all over and all at once, like it was the subject of a coordinated attack. The tarp ceiling collapsed down on top of them and cold, muddy rainwater flowed in from all sides. Bob’s vision swam with a sea of wriggling grey text, his brain had exploded, he'd lost his marbles, no, they were system annotations, "Erdzüngler", all level one and two, but there were, there were, hundreds of them...

Bob gulped and toggled off the markers with a thought (didn't know he could do that). No reason reminding himself just how screwed they were. George on his left let out a bellow of fire and in the flickering red reflections Bob made out little black shapes in the water. Worm-sized, jet black and with mouthfuls of pointy teeth. Heavens save us.

Snakes, water, teeth, Bob... Bob’s mind made the connection just in time. He scrambled the mud cloak around his body, extending it all the way down to his feet, just as the surge of little snakes impacted his body. The mud cloak held firm. It was tougher than it looked. But he could feel them inside the cloak, gnawing and chewing at the mud, inching forward. It wasn’t a reassuring sensation.

“George, we've got to get out of here.” Another burst of fire; the water grew uncomfortably warm and Bob heard the hiss of evaporating steam. He threw what was left of the tent off them. The rain battered down.

This was bad, really bad. There were hundreds of the little serpents and Bob had only a couple more seconds before they bored right through his cloak and started on flesh. He had to get clear of this water. The water frothed and spat as the evil little snakes mobbed our two heroes. Bob’s body moved. He started off sprinting up the hill; “George, George, this way, up the hill, over here, over here boy,” Bob was screaming at the dog.

But George was struggling. His fire-breath didn’t work properly in the muddy water. The water drank away all the heat and evaporated off, pulling new snake-infested water into the empty space. He was still slaughtering the animals, but it was a drop in the bucket. He wouldn’t last.

“George, get out of there.”

Pop, the two corpses of the monsters they’d killed yesterday appeared. Good distraction. That dog really thought ahead. I told him those bodies would be useful.

A large number of snakes redirected their attention to the fresh meat. In the pale moonlight, Bob froze as he saw the corpses start to visibly shrink in size. Oh my god... Those snakes really didn’t hold back. Maybe they’ll get full and decide to leave George and him in peace. It’s nice to think nice thoughts. The world goes round on nice thoughts, doesn't it?

The corpses had helped some; they'd given Bob and George some breathing room, but they hadn't turned the tide. Not even close. There were too many snakes, far too many and George was in their midst; he was under attack from all sides; he was about to get overwhelmed. Bob had made better use of the distraction and managed to get clear of the pooled water. Only ten meters up the slope and he was out of the worst of it.

Bob looked back and understood now where the water had come from. All the night’s rainwater had drained down into their depression and pooled up there, dammed up against, against Bob's little, earthen wall. Why in heaven's name had Bob decided to camp at the bottom of a depression when he knew rain was coming? Bob ground his teeth together. Why in heaven's name had he decided to build a watertight wall blocking up the only channel for water drainage? Real big brain move that. Big fucking brain. Dammit, dammit, dammit all.

Ow! He was distracted from the bitter frustration of recognizing his own stupidity by a stinging pain in his lower abdomen. The first serpent had broken through the cloak. Time's up. Sharp teeth, soft flesh. Was this the end, boys? Was this the end? Think Bob think. And it came to him in a flash. In one inspired thought.

Bob swept the whole cloak off his body and threw it into the air, simultaneously stiffening the cloth so that the creatures were forcibly dragged away from Bob’s vitals. He caught the cloak with his mind and suspended it two feet in the air in front of him. Bob was stone faced. A smear of blood running down his chest. He looked cold, cold and angry. The snakes were wriggling, trying to shimmy their way out of the cloak and fall towards Bob.

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Bob concentrated. The cloak shimmered and reformed as a sphere of liquid mud and then, and then, Bob squeezed. He could feel the little bodies resist the pressure. Bob squeezed harder. He felt the moment when the first creature popped, then another, then another, then all of them. He felt the blood and guts seeping out and spilling into the cloak. He didn’t care. He didn’t even really notice. George was down there.

George was moaning softly. In the quiet of night, George’s voice tore at Bob’s heart. Bob looked down onto the battlefield. George turned left and right; he was battered by the waters; he was surrounded by those awful monsters. He was still fighting, desperately making for where Bob stood. Now and again, he’d spit out a breath of fire, but they were thin and weak and barely touched the water. He was running on fumes.

Even George wasn't invincible. Of course he wasn't invincible. George was only a dog. George was only three years old. What the hell had Bob been doing? He'd left George down there alone. Bob had to help him. He had to. Bob almost rushed down then and there. But what could Bob do? What could Bob do down there? Think Bob think.

Bob tapped open the system shop. Maybe he could buy something. A weapon. All the weapons are locked, you knew that Bob, think, think. He needed something that could scale. Killing the snakes one at a time would be too slow. There were too many of them. He wouldn’t make it in time. He snapped his fingers: lightning—those creatures were small, George could handle a shock that would kill or stun the snakes. Quick Bob. Quicker. He flowed through screens and searches and offerings and landed on: a car battery.

Would it work? Do I look like a mechanic? But anything was better than doing nothing. He'd roll it down the hill. It'd get short-circuited in the water. The snakes would be stunned. And George would run to safety. The battery wouldn't explode would it? He'd aim it away from the dog just in case. Bob clicked purchase. "System shop locked during combat." Dammit. Dammit. Bob glared at the dark sky overhead. "I’ll remember this," he spat out through clenched teeth.

George was doing his best. He was fighting the good fight. Bob couldn't believe how clever, how daring, how stubborn the dog was. He'd never seen George like this before. Bob could feel tears on his face.

George had started siphoning off large parts of the water into his storage space. The snakes were left behind, suddenly suspended several centimeters in the air. Gravity quickly reasserted itself and they’d all tumble down. But George would follow up by releasing the water and it would torrent out from him, knocking the animals back.

It was a good effort. A really good effort. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough. In the flashes of fire, Bob saw black dots on George’s golden fur and trickles of red. They’d get him. They’d get George. Good old George.

He'd lose George. This was the moment. This was the moment when he'd lose his friend. And all because he was weak. Because he hadn't tried harder. Because he'd been lazy and stupid and hadn't thought things through. Because he'd wanted to take it easy. And George had given up everything. He saved Bob time after time. He'd been there when Bob needed him. Whenever Bob needed him... And now, Bob looking down, he could do nothing, he was helpless. This was his fault. It was all his fault.

He'd lose George and he'd survive. He'd walk away and carry on living. He skulk around, hiding from the memories. He'd just "survive", like he always had, rolling from one day into the next, without ever really committing, drifting through life, simply continuing to exist.

George moaned again and Bob shuddered. The tears keep falling down. He couldn't blink them away fast enough. He sniffed and choked. He couldn't watch this. He couldn't stay here. If he was too weak to help, then let him leave this place, let him crawl away like the worm he was and never look back. Because Bob sure as hell wasn't strong to watch George die right in front of him. That would break him. That would break his heart.

"No." The word came out in a steely, cracked voice that Bob didn't know he had. "No." Again the voice came. "No, no, no!" Bob's tears dried up. His expression hardened. His vision cleared and sharpened. He looked down over the battlefield with despairing, angry eyes. "Let it break you then. Die here then. Because I won't go on without George."

Yes, yes, what was he thinking? He'd been about to walk away and leave George to die. He'd been about to do it. And why? Because it was easier. Because a lifetime of bad habits had taught him to follow the path of least resistance. But not today. Not today. Today Bob would choose the hard path, the painful one, the bloody one, dark and meaningless and mortal as it no doubt was. He'd choose it all the same. Let it break him. Let him die here. Let them die together. Let them all die.

"Death, death, death," the voice chanted, and the words carried, echoing off the water and the hillside. "Death, death, death," the voice came back, distorted and twisted.

Bob lowered the viscosity of his mantle and the dead shells all dropped out. He swept it back around himself and reformed it into a cloak. The hood came up and the tail billowed out in the night breeze. The mud reaper stood there on the hilltop and gazed down into the night. It was time for the mud magician to show his salt.

Bob had an idea. It was a stupid idea, like most good ideas. But Bob was steel and fire. He wouldn’t lose George. He’d pay any price. He’d bring down the sky over their heads. He'd drown them all in darkness.