Swallowed

The Marines went into the jungle to keep order. Days later, our camp stood empty. Gear untouched. No tracks. No blood.

It began with a routine trip outside the wire. The chopper’s blades beat hard over the green sea of Central America that swallowed the horizon.

I sat at the edge of the open door. In my early 20s, broad and cocky, my hair was short, sweat on my brow. My hands gripped my rifle, chest rig heavy with ammo.

“Five minutes,” the pilot yelled.

Captain John Harrow nodded and turned to the squad packed tight in the chopper. “Gear up. No picnic.”

Harrow, 36, had a tight jaw under stubble and gray eyes carrying too many fights.

“Scared of jungle rot, Captain?” I said. “I’ve hunted worse. We’re good.”

Harrow shot back, “Keep your mouth shut, Riggs. No bars here. No backup.” I grinned.

Corporal Sam Tate, 23, young but hard, was the medic. Pack strapped tight, brown eyes sharp. He watched the squad like a doctor.

Adjusting his helmet, dark hair damp, he said, “Save the talk for the ground, Riggs.”

I replied, “Always a charmer, Tate.”

Private Eddie Voss, 19, thin and pale, had brown hair matted under his helmet. His hands shook on his rifle sling.

“How long we staying?” he asked, voice cracked.

Harrow said, “Long enough. Eyes up, Voss. You’re not in Kansas.”

Private Luis Caldera, mid-20s, wiry, dark skin like burnt coffee, was born in Honduras and raised in the States. Spoke Spanish. Quiet by the door, dark eyes on the jungle, fingers on a cross tucked in his vest.

The chopper banked to a clearing by a dead village. Huts sagged under vines, roofs broken by time or shells.

It landed hard, and Harrow jumped out, boots sinking into the wet earth. “Form up. Check the perimeter.”

We moved fast, rifles ready. The air was thick, hot, wet. No birds sang. No bugs hummed while leaves rustled and water dripped from somewhere deep.

“Quiet,” Caldera said, looking at the trees.

“Too quiet,” Tate said, slinging his medic bag, eyes on the huts. “Where’s everyone?”

“Rebels,” I said, kicking a rusted machete in the dirt. “Or they ran.”

Harrow led us to a rise above the clearing. We pitched tents and built a small fire by dusk.

Voss fumbled with the last stake as I said, “Move out.”

Caldera knelt by the flames and muttered in Spanish, a prayer maybe. Night came quickly, the jungle eating the light.

Harrow stood watch, stiff against the fire’s glow. I leaned back, rifle close. The squad settled, rations out, voices low.

Caldera froze, head tilted. “You hear that?”

“What?” Voss asked, eyes big.

“A whisper,” Caldera said. “My name.”

Harrow listened. The wind moaned through the trees. It could be anything.

“Jungle tricks,” he said. “Rest. We move at dawn.”

I watched the dark, Caldera’s words sticking. A whisper here could be nothing. Or everything.

Dawn came gray, slow, mist curling like smoke. Harrow woke us sharp. “Up. Out.”

We ate fast—C-rats and instant coffee—and geared for a patrol five miles north to watch the truce line. The jungle closed in, green and thick.
I took point, my rifle low, steps sure.

“Tracks,” I said and crouched by mud. Prints human-sized, wrong, long toes, splayed, clawed gouges. “What walks like this?”

“Animal,” Tate said, looking over, hand on his pistol.

“No animal,” I said. “Not with thumbs.”

Voss stepped close, rifle shaking. “Thought I saw something last night. Tall. Fast.”

Harrow’s eyes narrowed. “Saw it or thought you did?”

“Don’t know,” Voss said, red-faced. “Too dark.”

“Nerves,” Harrow said, but he looked at the trees. “Let’s move.”

We pushed through vines and roots, sweat soaking us. Caldera lagged, eyes up.

“This place is wrong,” he said to Tate. “It watches.”

“You’re from here,” Tate said. “What’s it like?”

“Stories,” Caldera said. “Things that mimic. Takes.”

I cursed low, my boot in a puddle, muttering about rot and traps. Harrow kept us on track, the map wet in his hands. By noon, we looped back, unease growing.

Night fell heavy, the fire-spitting embers. Watching in pairs, Voss and Caldera first.

I lay half-awake when Voss’s voice cut through. “You hear that?”

Harrow grabbed his rifle and stepped out. Voss stood by the fire and pointed at the trees. Caldera was up, listening.

“What?” Harrow asked.

“Like me,” Voss said, voice shaking. “My laugh, but wrong.”

I came out, rifle up. “You’re cracking, kid.”

“I heard it,” Voss said. “Out there.”

Harrow raised a hand. The jungle went still. Then it came—a low chuckle, warped, Voss’s laugh from the chopper, stretched, circling from the dark.
“What the hell?” I said, hands tight on my weapon.

Caldera gripped his cross. “Not human,” he whispered.

“Animal,” Harrow said, voice steady. “Echoes.” It came again, closer, moving through the trees.

Tate stepped out, his calm breaking. “No animal mimics.”

“Rebels,” I said, scanning shadows.

“With Voss’s laugh?” Tate said, eyes sharp.

Harrow set extra watches—him and me, then Tate and Caldera. No one slept well.

Voss sat by the fire, muttering. Caldera watched the trees.

I heard it again in my head—not rebels, not animals. Something was out there, learning us.

By the second night, the fire was embers. Harrow set staggered shifts, two up, three down, rifles close.

Air thick with rot. Voss paced, boots scuffing, helmet crooked.

“Stop it,” Caldera said, low and firm, rifle on his lap, cross in his fingers. “You’re loud.”

Voss froze and gripped his rifle. “Sorry. That laugh. You heard it.”

Caldera nodded. “I did. Don’t know what.”

“You’re from here,” Voss said. “What stories?”

Caldera paused and touched the cross. “Things like men, but not. Mimic voices. Take shapes. Abuela called them ladrón de almas. Soul thieves. They take, not kill.”

Voss paled. “That’s out there?”

“We’re not alone,” Caldera said and stood, eyes on the dark.

No crickets. No frogs. Just branches creaking.

Then a scream, sharp, warped, Voss’s voice. “Help, Captain!”

Harrow was up with his rifle in hand. I spilled out with Tate, armed.

The fire cast shadows. The watch post was empty.

Voss’s rifle leaned on a log, polished by nervous hands. Caldera’s gear beside it—vest, ammo, cross coiled.

No blood. No tracks.

“What the hell?” I said, voice tight.

“They were here,” Tate said, low, kneeling by Voss’s rifle. “No one’s that quiet.”

Harrow’s gut twisted. “Spread out. Search. They didn’t walk off.”

The scream came again, faint, Voss’s voice gurgling, bouncing west to east.

“Captain,” Tate called–his flashlight on a scrap of Voss’s uniform in thorns, no tears, no blood.

I ran back, face hard. “Nothing north. No tracks. That’s not them.”

“It was Voss,” Tate said, calm breaking.

“Something,” I snapped.

Caldera’s voice came, soft, pleading. “John, help.” Then silence.

“Not him,” Tate whispered, light shaking.

Harrow’s mind raced—ambush, silent takedown. “Regroup,” he said. “Fire. Hold till dawn.”

We sat by the embers, eyes out. The jungle watched, alive. Voss and Caldera were gone.

Dawn crept in, gray, thin. Harrow, Tate, and I sat tight, backs to the fire pit, rifles ready.

Harrow’s hands tapped his rifle, stress showing. I crouched, anger burning.

Tate held his medic kit, breath short, eyes darting. “We need a plan,” he said.

Harrow replied, “Can’t stay.”

“Plan?” I spat. “Two gone, and you want a plan? Should’ve moved yesterday.”

“Panic kills,” Harrow said.

“You lost them,” I said and stood tall. “Put Voss and Caldera out there.”

Tate looked up. “Enough, Riggs. Blaming won’t fix it.”

“Won’t it?” I turned. “You’re supposed to lead.”

Harrow stood. “Take command or soldier.”

I backed off, cursing.

Tate rubbed his face. “Search again. Daylight might show.”

Harrow nodded, doubt heavy. “Perimeter, then west.”

We moved, jungle tight, vines on boots, leaves like fingers. A hum buzzed deep in our bones.

Caldera’s voice came soft. “Sam, help me.”

Tate froze, light shaking. “That’s him.”

“No,” Harrow said and grabbed him. “Move.”

The voice grew from the right. “John, please.” Then left.

I fired into the trees, shots swallowed.

“Stop,” Harrow said. “Wasting ammo.”

“It’s everywhere,” I said, breathing hard.

Tate stumbled. “What is it? Not rebels. Not animals.”

Harrow pointed. It stood in the mist—tall and thin, limbs bent wrong, skin like oil, yellow eyes unblinking. It jerked away, gone.

“Christ,” I whispered, aiming.

Harrow’s heart hit his ribs. “Fall back,” he said, hands steady. “Camp.”

We ran, jungle snapping behind us. Caldera’s voice taunted. “John, you can’t run.”

Then Voss’s laugh warped.

At camp, the radio hissed, whispers in the static.

“Base isn’t hearing,” Tate said, hands fumbling. “Jammed.”

“It took two, quiet,” I said, eyes hunted.

“My orders,” Harrow said. “Stay together.”

Tate strung tripwire, hands shaking but sure. I reloaded, jaw tight.

Harrow watched, jungle mocking us. It knew us—our voices and fears.

Midday sun barely broke the canopy. We sat sleepless, eyes hollow. Tripwire sagged, useless.

“We’re dead here,” I said. “It’s picking us off. Jeep’s five miles. Radio base. Out.”

“Five miles through that,” Tate said, nodding at the trees, hands on his kit. “No cover.”

“Open here, too,” I said and kicked a log.

Harrow wiped his face, fearing a second pulse. “Riggs is right. Jeep’s our shot. Fast. Riggs point, Tate center, me rear.”

We broke camp and took rifles, ammo, and radio. Jungle fought—vines grabbed, branches clawed.

I hacked, machete flashing, sap dark and thick. “Place is alive,” I said.

“Eyes up,” Harrow called, watching back.

Tate’s light danced. “It’s watching,” he said, low. “Knows we’re running.”

“Let it try,” I said, still slashing.

The ravine came, narrow, roots choking it. The jeep glinted ahead, half a mile off.

Then the ground shook—a pulse underfoot. “Feel that?” Harrow stopped, rifle up.

“Yeah,” I said, machete still.

A snap came left, bone breaking, close. Tate’s light caught a dark ooze on a branch, iridescent, stinking.

“Move,” Harrow said and pushed.

The ravine closed in, cold, breath fogging. I hacked, grunting. Tate faltered.

Voss’s voice came, warped. “Tom, don’t leave me,” gurgling.

I spun with my rifle up. “Not him.”

“Move,” Harrow said.

Caldera’s whisper followed. “Sam, help,” from above.

Tate dropped his light. “Can’t leave them,” he said, voice breaking.

A shadow darted—sinew, claws, fast, gone. Tate screamed, cut off.

His kit hit the mud, light rolling dead. He was gone.

“Tate!” I roared and fired wild.

“Stop,” Harrow said and grabbed me.

The ground growled, roots shaking. Harrow yelled as something pulled him into the ravine wall, boots digging, rifle falling. Then silence.

I ran, alone, jeep ahead. Voices swelled—Voss, Caldera, Tate, Harrow—a chorus chasing.

Claws scraped behind. I reached the jeep, hands shaking. Key in. Turned. Dead.

Voices screamed. “Tom, Tom.”

I hit the dash, anger burning. It stood in the mist—tall, bent, skin rippling, yellow eyes. Then gone. Ooze pulsed on the hood, alive. My curse died in my throat.

I stumbled from the jeep, dead, mocking me. The ravine stretched, wet, dark.

My rifle was heavy, and five miles from nowhere, it closed in. I was dead and knew it.

Jungle-pressed vines tight, thorns cutting. Air choked me.

Voss’s laugh came. “Tom, why?” like a faint memory.

I pushed into the ravine, ground pulsing, roots alive. The jungle air was cold, sour, and metallic.

Caldera’s voice pulled. “Tom, help me.”

I fought it but moved. A log lay ahead, claw marks fresh, oozing.

It crouched there—tall, sinewy, skin like oil, eyes yellow, unblinking. It hissed, sharp.

I fired, rounds splitting the log, sap spraying. It blurred—left, right, above, fast.

“Face me,” I yelled, throat raw.

The ground tilted, roots grabbed, and I fell, hitting a tree. The jungle was alive, branches cold, touching me. I ran, blind, flare gun out, fired. Red light arcing then died. No help.

It blocked me—taller, claws glinting. The voices came—Voss’s whimper, Caldera’s chant, Tate’s scream, Harrow’s call. “You failed.”

I fired my pistol—nine, eight, seven—missing. It lunged, claw on my leg, fire up my thigh.

I rolled, knife unsheathed, slashed the air, and hit the clearing. By the jeep, blood soaking me, pistol shaking, three shots.

Voices rang. “Tom, Tom, Tom.”

It stepped out, slow, eyes fixed. I fired—two, one, zero. I threw the pistol.

“Take me,” I yelled, up, fists clenched.

Silence hit, heavy. It stopped, head cocked, eyes burning.

The claw mark on the jeep oozed, pulsing. It melted back, shadows taking it.

The hum stayed, mocking. Voss’s laugh faded, then was gone.

I fell to my knees, dawn cold, gray. Jeep stood, a tombstone.

Jungle, twisting and wrapping me to the waist. Alone, alive, but not spared.

My body struggled helplessly to get free, and then I woke, sweat-soaked, sheets of a tangled mess knotted about my body. Still, my squad was gone.