Tom yelped in surprise, then choked as cold water gushed down his throat. His airway closed and knotted. A wild, animal panic flooded his veins. He began to thrash, not thinking now at all, terror sheeting a red blaze over his mind. He needed air—where was it? His mouth worked, opening and closing in convulsive, silent gasps as the muscles of his throat fought him, trying to keep his windpipe safe because the lizard part of his brain thought he was drowning. Then, grudgingly, his throat relaxed and he inhaled in a great shriek. He pulled in another breath and then another—and that was all he had time for.
The old hunter leapt onto his back, trying to clamber out of the water. “S-stop!” Tom spluttered, but the old guy was freaked. A split second later, Tom went completely under. The water burned. It was inky; no light at all. Above, on his shoulders, he could feel the old guy’s boots churning, struggling to gain a foothold. He kicked Tom in the forehead. Maybe, in air, Tom would’ve blacked out completely, but the water slowed the boot down. Still, the blow landed, solid enough to hurt. He clawed at the water, grabbing for the old guy’s legs, enough so he realized where the surface was.
His head shattered into thin air. The old guy was at him again, monkeying onto his back, his fingers spidering over Tom’s shoulders, knotting in his hair. His stringy arms latched around Tom’s neck in a stranglehold, and then he was dragging Tom down again. Tom couldn’t reach him, couldn’t break his hold, didn’t have the leverage. It was all Tom could do just to catch a breath as the weight of the old man crushed his throat. Not much time left. The more he fought, the less energy he had to keep afloat. His pulse pounded. Only one thing left to do, but he could feel his mind jabbering: Are you nuts, are you crazy, are you insane?
Against all reason and instinct, he let himself drop, straight down, slipping beneath the ice.
And pulled them both under.