Amazonia

As a group, the team fled into the jungle. Nate stared around him, his ears pricked for any suspicious rustle. In the distance, he heard the babble of the small stream. He imagined the Indian villagers racing up the nearby footpath, unaware of the danger lurking so close, oblivious of the death that lay ahead.

Nate tromped after Frank and Kelly. A flicker of flame lit up the jungle ahead as Corporal Okamoto led the way. Few words were shared as the group scaled the gentle slope away from the river. All eyes watched the jungle around them.

After about twenty minutes of climbing, Waxman spoke to the soldier at his side. “Light the candle, Yamir.”

Nate turned. Samad Yamir swung around and faced the way they had come. He shouldered his M-16 and loosened a handheld device.

“Radio transmitter,” Carrera explained.

Yamir raised the device and pressed a button, triggering a red light to blink rapidly.

Nate frowned. “What is—?”

A soft boom sounded. A section of forest blew upward in a ball of fire. Flames shot high into the night sky and mushroomed through the surrounding forest.

Stunned, Nate stumbled back. Shouts of surprise arose from the other civilians. Nate watched the sphere of flames die away, collapsing in on itself, but leaving a good section of the forest burning. Through the hellish red glow, a scorched hole in the forest was evident, every tree stripped of leaf and branch. At least an acre. There was no sign of the shabano. Even the motion-sensor alarms had gone silent, fried by the explosion.

Nate was too dumbstruck to speak—but his eyes, furious, met Waxman’s gaze.

The captain waved them all on. “Keep moving.”

Carrera urged Nate forward. “Fail-safe method. Burning everything behind us.”

“What was that?” Kouwe asked.

“Napalm bomb,” the corporal explained dourly. “New jungle munition.”

“Why weren’t we told…at least warned?” Frank asked loudly, walking half backward.

Captain Waxman answered, marching and waving them on. “It was my call. My order. I wanted no arguments about it. Security is my priority.”

“Which I appreciate, captain,” Richard Zane called back from up ahead. “I, for one, commend your actions. Hopefully you’ve annihilated the venomous bunch.”

“That doesn’t appear to be the case,” Olin said with narrowed eyes. Their Russian teammate pointed to the stream, now visible due to the blaze. A section of the waterway on their side of the fires frothed with the leaping, racing bodies of thousands of small creatures. A roiling stampede climbed up the stream, like salmon spawning.

“Get moving!” Waxman yelled. “We need to reach higher ground!”

The pace of the party accelerated. They scrambled up the slope, less concerned with watching the forest than with speed. The creatures were flanking them off to the right.

Flashes of fire marked the point man ahead. “I’ve got water here!” Okamoto called.

The group converged toward him.

“Dear Lord,” Kelly said.

Fifty yards ahead, another stream cut across their path. It was only ten yards wide, but was dark and still. Beyond it, the land continued to rise toward the knoll, their destination.

“Is this the same stream?” Frank asked.

One of the Rangers, Jorgensen, pushed out of the forest. He had his night-vision glasses in his hand. “I’ve scouted down a ways. It’s an offshoot of the other stream. This one feeds into the other.”

“Fuck,” Waxman swore. “This place is a goddamn water maze.”

“We should cross while we still can,” Kouwe said. “The creatures will surely come this way soon.”

Waxman stared at the slowly flowing water with clear trepidation. He moved beside Okamoto. “I need some light.”

The Ranger fired his flamethrower across the waters. It did little to reveal what lay in the murky depths.

“Sir, I’ll go across first,” Okamoto volunteered. “See if it can be crossed safely.”

“Careful, son.”

“Always, sir.”

Taking a deep breath, Okamoto kissed a crucifix around his neck, then stepped into the water. He waded into it, his weapon held chest high. “Current’s sluggish,” he said softly, “but deep.” Halfway across, the waters had climbed to his waist.

“Hurry up,” Frank mumbled. He had a fist clenched to his belly.

Okamoto climbed to the far side and out of the water. He turned with a grin. “It appears to be safe.”

“For now,” Kouwe said. “We should hurry.”

“Let’s go!” Waxman ordered.

As a group, they splashed through the waters. Frank held Kelly’s hand. Nate helped Anna Fong. “I’m not a good swimmer,” Anna said to no one in particular.

The Rangers followed, guns held above their heads.

On the far side, the party climbed the steep slope. With wet boots and the mud still slick from the rains yesterday, trekking was treacherous. Their progress slowed. The tight group began to stretch apart.

Jorgensen appeared out of the gloom, night scope in hand. “Captain,” he said, “I’ve checked the other stream. The waters seem to have calmed. I don’t see any more of the creatures.”

“They’re out there,” Nate said. “They’re just not in a frenzy any longer.”

“Or maybe now that the fires have died down, they fled back to the main river channel,” Jorgensen offered hopefully.

Waxman frowned. “I don’t think we should count—”

A sharp cry interrupted the captain. Off to the left, a body slid down the slick, muddy slope. It was a Ranger. Eddie Jones. His limbs flailed as he tried to break his fall. “Fuck!” he screamed in frustration. He tried to grasp a bush, but its roots ripped out of the thin soil. Then he hit a bump in the slope, and went cartwheeling, his weapon flying from his fingers, and landed in the stream.

A pair of Rangers—Warczak and Graves—ran to his aid.

He popped out, coughing water and choking. “Goddamn it!” He clambered to the stream’s edge. “Fuck this jungle!” As he straightened his helmet, more colorful obscenities flowed. He climbed out of the stream.

“Smooth, Jones…very smooth,” Warczak said, running his flashlight up and down the man’s soaked form. “I’d give you a perfect ten in the jungle slalom.”

“Cram it up your ass,” Jones said, bending to finger a rope of sticky algae from his pant leg. “Ugh.”