The jungle was different today.
Alex Morgan sensed it from the moment he opened his eyes. The damp soil beneath his body, the breath of fog hovering in the leaves—it all felt heavier. Denser. As if the very air was holding a secret.
He lay still for a moment beneath his crude shelter of vines and branches, listening to the silence. Not even the usual buzz of insects greeted him. The birds were gone. The monkeys had fled. A stillness that wasn't natural choked the forest.
Something was watching.
He pulled himself up carefully, wincing as his sore muscles protested. The scratches on his shoulder from the jaguar still stung, and his clothes were damp with sweat and the jungle's endless humidity.
Alex had made it through another night. But he didn't feel victorious.
He felt like prey.
He moved slowly that morning, machete in one hand, bag over his shoulder, every step measured. The forest didn't want him here. That much was clear. But what choice did he have?
As he moved through the underbrush, he passed claw marks on tree trunks, bent saplings, disturbed soil. The signs were subtle but unmistakable: something large had moved through here. Recently.
He paused beside a small tree, spotting broken branches above—about ten feet high. Too high for a boar. Too organized for a cat.
Then he heard it.
A low grunt. Close.
Alex dropped low, peering through a curtain of vines. In the clearing ahead were several creatures—baboons and capuchins—moving together, not randomly, but in formation. They weren't alone.
One of them held something in its arms.
A plastic food bag.
His food.
A spark of frustration burned in Alex's gut. He'd spent hours securing that last bundle of supplies. A handful of protein scraps, a few berries, and the last remnants of squirrel meat he'd roasted the night before.
Now it was gone.
He burst from the underbrush.
"Hey!" he shouted.
The monkeys screeched in alarm. The one holding the bag turned and darted up the nearest tree, followed by the others. They scattered like leaves in a storm, vanishing into the canopy.
Alex stood there, fists clenched, chest heaving.
Gone. Again.
The forest didn't just want him to starve. It was mocking him.
He crafted a trap that afternoon—simple, crude, but clever. A bent sapling tied with twisted vine, a bait of crushed berries and bits of cloth that still carried the scent of cooked meat. He staked it near a game trail and waited, crouched behind a rock.
Hours passed. Sweat trickled down his spine. His stomach growled.
Then came a rustle.
A squirrel, cautious but hungry, approached the bait.
Snap.
Caught.
Alex exhaled with relief and moved to retrieve it. He worked quickly—skinning, gutting, and roasting the animal over a flame made from dried moss and his last scrap of flint. The smell was almost too much to bear. He ate in silence, chewing slowly, savoring every bite.
It wasn't gourmet. But it kept him alive.
That night, the dreams returned.
Alex stood in a jungle that wasn't quite real—darker, quieter, ancient. The surrounding trees twisted into impossible shapes. Their roots throbbed like veins. And their leaves whispered.
He saw Ian—his friend, his brother in arms—struggling through tangled vines. Ian's face was bloodied. His uniform was torn. He was shouting Alex's name, but no sound came from his lips.
A jaguar stood between them. But it wasn't attacking. It was watching. Protecting.
Behind the beast, fire. Hunters. Guns. Smoke curling into the sky.
The jungle burned.
Alex reached for Ian—but something held him back. Invisible. Heavy. Ancient.
He turned to see a tree—massive, glowing with carvings, its bark etched with spirals and symbols that pulsed with light.
And a voice.
Not a human one.
A voice made of wind and breath and the rustling of ten thousand leaves.
"Protect the heart," it said."The forest remembers."
He woke up gasping.
The next morning, Alex climbed a ridge to gain better visibility. The ascent was rough—slippery with moss, unstable with loose stone—but the view was worth it.
Endless green. The jungle stretching in every direction like an ocean of trees.
But in the far distance—smoke.
Thin. Twisting. Man-made.
His heart skipped.
Someone was alive. Someone was nearby.
He started toward it immediately.
It took him most of the day, hacking through tangled vines, wading through ankle-deep mud, leaping over narrow gullies. The jungle fought him at every step, but his will was stronger.
As he neared the smoke, he slowed.
The clearing was unnatural. Trees were cut clean. The earth was flattened. But it wasn't a campsite. No tents. No tools. No gear.
It was a shrine.
At the center stood a large flat stone, carved with more symbols like the ones from his dream. Around it—bones. Arranged in perfect circles. Some animal. Some not.
Offerings littered the ground—fruit, feathers, small totems made of gold and clay.
Alex's breath caught in his throat.
This wasn't random.
This was ritual.
He turned to leave and froze.
Carved into the bark of a nearby tree, in crude but unmistakable English, were the words:
"STAY OUT. THIS PLACE IS NOT FOR YOU."
His mouth went dry.
Who had written that?
How had they known someone would come?
He backed away slowly, careful not to touch anything. The jungle might be ancient, but someone—or something—was still using this place.
As he retreated, he heard a distant whisper. Not in his ears, but in his chest. A tremble in the roots.
The jungle was speaking again.
And this time, it wasn't just watching him.
It was warning him.