S.T. had all of a split-second to gulp air before he went over the side of the boat, arms windmilling. The pipe dropped into the bilge with a thunk. The cheap plastic seals on the flashlight held up. It glowed even as he went completely under, like those freaky candles in Tolkein. S.T. kept his mouth slammed shut, and blew air out. Skullhead had warned him about the water. It didn't smell like anything, but this place had an inside track on his nightmares. Talking about projectile vomiting might have been his downfall.

The bottle of antihistamines in his pocket wouldn't even make a dent if it was really contaminated. So he just wouldn't drink any of it. Not that Debbie hadn't known the same thing. At least he wasn't handcuffed.

Sangamon drifted for a second, looking up at what little light there was bouncing off the underside of the water/air interface. It took a lot of guts to not immediately fight for the surface. Or experience, which Sangamon definitely had. The black shape was the bottom of the boat, directly over his head. A big frog kick and a pull, and his head popped up just alongside Harvey, who was gaping like a fish at him. Yelling. Aww, maybe he did care. He didn't offer a hand, which was probably good, as pulling someone back in a boat was harder than it looked. Instead, he made shooing motions at both him and Scott.

Then he tossed the flashlight down to join the pipe. It flickered and died, water finally creeping in somewhere. Then he pulled himself up until his gut was even with his hands. Undignified, but effective. He could just pitch over and land in the bottom, splashing eau de dead guys all over everyone.