He vomits, on all fours and stomach heaving. Long, ropey strings of fluid slide from his mouth to the ground, wet and glistening. It is the color of infected phlegm, the smell powerful, overwhelming. His belly clenches again, and he vomits more of the greasy strands into the dirt.
They puddle before him, a gelatinous mass that slowly congeals into a single entity. He kneels over it, weak from the effort of puking and panting heavily, struggling to take in air again. Sweat falls from his face and forehead, the salty droplets landing on the yellow, stinking mass. He thinks that he has never felt so badly as this.
It pulses — once — a wet squick of sound, like an infant sucking on a pacifier, and stills.
He is breathing more normally now, still feeling shaky but gaining strength — and now the mass is pulsing again, faster than before, still making that god-awful sucking sound.
And then it leaps, sealing itself to his face, and he realizes he was wrong.
It is possible to feel much, much worse.
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