SCENARIO A:
A big goddamn stick. That'll do for starters. And if there's one thing you have in surplus at the moment, it's sticks. You scout around... aha, and here's the lucky winner: a hefty fallen branch, as thick as your forearm and splintered at one end where it'd broken off the tree.
Grabbing it, you retreat back to the far side of the log and sit yourself down next to Sara, and you get out your good ol' knife.
"Wood carving? Weird time to be picking up a new hobby," she remarks, trying to hide the shake in her voice. That's your girl, putting on a brave front even though she's scared. It does tug at the ol' heartstrings, even a tough and miserable old heart like yours.
"Yeah, well, I'm not going anywhere, so I figured I'd try a lil' somethin' new. Turns out you can teach an old dog new tricks," you jest back.
She snorts. "Gonna carve a flamethrower?"
"Oh ye of little faith!" you chide grandiosely.
You pick a spot a third of the way down from the splintered end and set to work. Sara watches, quiet.
When you put the knife away, what you have is a big goddamn stick with a long, tapering point at what had been the broken end. It's no shovel, but it'll have to do.
You hop off the log and pace around the half-circle, picking out an angle of attack. And that's what this is, and no mistake about it. This is an attack, straightforward and head-on. Just how you like it.
Shucking your jacket, you toss it over onto the log. Sara makes an appreciative noise and you waggle a finger at her with theatrical sternness.
"Now now, you keep your mind outta the gutters while I'm trying to save your bacon, missy," you chide loftily. She chortles and rolls her eyes.
She's stuck at an angle to the log, her left side facing away from it, so that's where you start. And you damn well do get started. Hefting the stick, you drive the point into the dirt at a shallow angle, jabbing it into the soft soil just outside the goo puddle's edge. You pull the stick back and strike again, and again, and again, and again goddamn it. You shift your aim a little to either side on each strike, widening your range of attack. The point jabs further into the soil every time- and there it is, the goo at the edge of the puddle oozing back as the dirt beneath it gets broken apart and heaved up by your improvised shovel.
See, this is dirt. The attack in Chinatown had been on concrete. This is dirt, and dirt ain't no damn concrete. It's soft, it can be broken apart and churned up, and you do exactly that. Jab the stick at an angle into the dirt under the goo, over and over till the dirt's good and churned up, break it up, heave it up and to the side. Over and over, till all you can see is the dirt and all you can feel is the stick in your hands. You don't even pause to shake your sweat-soaked hair out of your eyes. The damp strands sticking to your face are just more background noise.
Berserker, that was the moniker Anthony had given you and your team back in Fitchburg. The old Viking warriors that went into a frenzied state which made them maniacs in battle. And this is no firefight, nothing to kill, but the frenetic and feverish energy pumping through your blood feels the same. Fish-heads think they can trap your lady in a goo puddle? No way in hell.
Sara's voice snaps you out of it at some point. "Well, at least I get a free show while I'm stuck here," she remarks lightly.
You look up, momentarily disoriented, and realize that at some point you'd paused just long enough to yank your shirt over your head and chuck it away someplace; you hadn't seen or cared where it went.
Scoffing, you quip back, "Yeah, yeah, keep your panties on, sugar. Next time I'll get stuck in the nasty-ass alien goo, and you can dig me out with your shirt off."
"And here I never would've guessed you were the romantic type," she says dryly.
You chuckle at that. "Oh, I'm just full of surprises."
Stepping back, you look at what you've gotten done; you've carved and hacked a shallow rut through the goo puddle, just wide enough for both your feet, hefting aside the dirt and the goo along with it and turning the churned-up soil over it. And look at that: here you are already, nearly finished.
Home stretch. This is gonna be the tricky part: getting at the soil under the goo Sara's stuck in, because you'll never forgive yourself if your aim is off and you stab her instead.
This time, instead of breaking up the dirt, you focus on jabbing the stick at a single point below her shins, aiming to get the pointed end as far under her as you can manage. You have the stick at a perpendicular angle to her lower legs; if you work at it, you can get the end of the stick under both her legs, and when you push down on your end, the business end will push her up. Leverage, and not the kind that was useful in prison.
As you work she shifts in place, wincing.
"You all right, sweetheart?" you ask gruffly.
"Right now? I think the biggest danger I'm in is a leg cramp," she says, mustering a chuckle.
"Well hey, it's Chinatown, maybe the spa's open and you can get a massage when we get back."
"Sure, yeah, and we can pick up some takeout for dinner. Got a hankering for lo mein."
"Sure thing."
You take a step back and assess, leaning on the stick. Yeah... time to give this a shot.
"All right, honey, I want you to twist around and put your hands on the log, as best you can, got it?" you tell her.
She nods and twists at the waist, setting her hands on the log and looking back at you curiously. "Where are you going with this?"
"When I give you the word, I want you to push yourself up, all right? Real hard, Sara, as hard as you can. Remember you said you wanted to go to the Keys?" She nods again. "Yeah? Well, do it like you're hoisting yourself outta the pool to go grab another Mai-Tai, all right? Hoist yourself up and swing that pretty ass onto the log."
Well, it gets you a snort and an eye-roll, which means at least she's not worrying at the moment.
With one last jab, you lodge the stick in the dirt below her shins and lightly press down on the end of it, testing. Yep. You're ready to go for it.
You square up your footing, getting a good grip on the stick. "Now!"
Sara pushes down hard on the log, and you press down hard on the stick, and the goo under her shins and the dirt underneath it are heaved upward.
Sara lets out a giddy, breathless laugh. "Baby, it's working!"
You laugh too, loud and wild. "Goddamn right it is!"
She lifts herself up onto the log, but the goo on the other side of her keeps coming. It's not splitting off.
She yanks her legs sideways. "I'm still stuck!"
You holler in frustration and stomp into the cleared space Sara has left behind, stabbing and hacking at the soil.
"Pull, keep pulling!" you tell Sara. She sets her jaw and tries to swing her legs up over the log, and you keep stabbing away at the dirt, and a wide swath of goo from her legs to the other edge of the puddle comes along with her.
She's free. Glued to a massive, trailing glob of dirt and slime from the knees down like some joke of a mermaid, but free all the same. You stagger back, leaning on the stick and panting hard. Sara gapes down at the sticky mass on her lower legs, then up at you. She laughs shakily.
"How d'you like my new fashion trend?" she asks.
"You're the belle of the ball," you tell her. "Now c'mon, we're not done just yet!"
Clambering over the log, you get behind her and wrap your arms under hers and around her chest, walking backwards as fast as you can, dragging her out of the clearing and into the sunlight, where your ebbing adrenaline gives up the ghost and you promptly plop down on the ground with Sara between your knees, and you flop backwards.
"Oh my God, look!"
You jerk your head up and prop yourself up on one elbow to see around her. The goo is already turning to steam in the sunlight, leaving behind nothing but damp, sticky dirt.
"Kiss... my ass... fish-heads," you pant, and then you flop back down again with a groan. Damn, you are gonna be sore tomorrow.
Sara sprawls out next to you, wincing. "Oof, yep, there go the pins and needles. Ooh."
You grab her hand tightly, trying not to think about what could've happened if you'd left her alone.
"We better end this war tout suite, or I'm gonna get too old for this shit," you grumble.