Over the edge
By Gumnut
9 Jun 2006
He struggled to the surface, gasping and gulping in air. A blurred image of Jaffa and jungle greens etched itself into his retinas, but was quickly replaced by more murk and lack of oxygen.
A yell did reach his ears, probably his name, but he barely heard it above the throb of his own pulse and the scream of the pain in his leg.
Jack O'Neill. Monster food.
He twisted, fighting the pull of the creature attached to his foot. Damnit! Light disappeared as he was yanked deeper into the murk and he was forced to grope in the dark, seeking out his attacker.
His lungs ached.
Fingertips scratched across scaly skin, cold as the water surrounding it. There! He dug in a grip with one hand and fished for his knife with his other.
It was getting darker, but this time it had nothing to do with light.
He struck out, the blade, made in the good ol' U. S. of A., picked up what little illumination there was and briefly flickered before impaling itself in slippery hide.
The grip on his ankle disappeared.
He exhaled stale bubbles and with his last, reached up towards salvation.
But if it weren't for strong Jaffa arms, he wouldn't have made it. As it was, the light faded as much as it brightened and he lost his hold on consciousness long before he reached air.
He was just lucky that his team never lost their hold on him.
-o-o-o-