The voice is familiar, and the language even more so.
Mallew’s memories of his living days had long since decayed, faded and frayed at the edges, morphing together, becoming less and less specific, more and more a wild, blinding array of associations, half-remembered faces, and long-felt hurt, betrayal...
But even so, somewhere in there he still heard and knew every word, spoken in a tongue so natural to him that it flowed out effortlessly, water spattering with each word, his tone almost whistful, yet drenched in every corner by a pervasive, easily-heard exhaustion:
“Está bien, mamá: ya voy.”
Turning on his heels, shoes now slopped in mud and dragging more with him as he strode, he turned his attention once more to the sky and-
Dropped to the ground, the wet splat of the collision and the near total loss of movement once he hit the earth an indication that something had gone quite horribly wrong.
The only movement was a series of small, weak convulsions, and the only sound a series of low grunts, a sharp gasp following each.
Quickly, one of his cats was by his side, a few curious Deadbeats wandering out onto the patio, Mallew struggling, thoughts both rational an irrational rattling around in his mind.
Maybe he really had caught a cold, or, perhaps...
It was something worse.