The man moved through the murky water quietly, clutching a blood-stained screwdriver close to his chest, listening for any sign of his enemy. The mist was so thick that he could see nothing. There was no visibility here, but he knew the same must be true for his opponent as well.

When he heard what sounded like someone else in the water, he stopped to listen, trying to determine the exact direction. There was silence. However, he was sure of what he'd heard, and wasn't going to make the mistake of giving away his position. He calmed himself, and became prepared to stand there forever if necessary.

A "splash" sound made him turn his head slightly. Was that them? Another "splash" followed, except it was in a different direction. He turned again, angling his ear toward the source to listen.

A strange "tssssssssss" began coming from the first direction, and then the second. What the hell was it? He braced himself, screwdriver ready, knowing he'd have the advantage as long as he kept his position hidden.

And then it happened. The smell and taste of the mist changed. It became repulsive, almost toxic. This wasn't mist; it was some kind of smoke. Within this blindingly thick fog, there was no way to tell the difference between mist and smoke, at least not visually. He had no idea where it was coming from, how large of an area it covered, or which direction would get him out of it. One difference was immediately obvious though: he could not breathe.

He quickly ducked his head down below the water, and began swimming as fast as he could to find breathable air. He made sure that no part of his body touched the surface of the water, so that he wouldn't make any splashing sounds. This was a life-or-death situation, and he wouldn't be panicked into forgetting that so easily.

He swam until his chest ached, and his lungs burned, until the pain was no longer bearable and he'd almost blacked out. He slowly breached the surface, being sure not to make any noise, and stopped when his mouth was just above the surface of the water. At this point, he had no choice: he inhaled as deeply as his lungs would allow.

The distance he'd swam was apparently not far enough. His nostrils were assaulted by the taste of smoke, and the burning sensation only worsened after inhaling. He had gotten oxygen, yes; but there was too much smoke to stop what happened next. Despite his best efforts, he began to cough violently, choking on the thick fumes. Instantly, he heard the sounds of someone moving through the water again.

"Damn it," he thought to himself, "where the hell are they?"

The sounds became closer, and more rapid. He tried to stifle his coughing long enough to hear where his enemy was approaching from, but the loud hacking sounds coming from his body simply wouldn't allow it. He tried to keep the screwdriver ready as best he could, trembling slightly from the cold water and the imminent threat bearing down on him.

Of course, he knew he would die unless he could get to fresh air. In this environment, being unable to hide your presence was a guaranteed death sentence. Stifling one cough long enough to deeply inhale the smoke-infused mist, he dove under the water and tried desperately to swim away again.

This time, though, it was not meant to be. He felt two hands grab his ankle, yank him back, and then hold down both of his arms. Although he tried thrashing to free himself, it was only a few seconds before he could no longer contain the burning fumes in his lungs. He again began coughing, but this time there was only water waiting to rush in.

The sensation of drowning was painful and disorienting, unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. He could feel the water inside his lungs. He imagined this is what a slug felt like when it had salt poured on it. It seemed brutal, and unnatural, and completely unreal. There's no way this could be the end of his life, right?

Those were the last thoughts that crossed his mind, his lifeless body already drifting slowly across the surface of the marsh.