Shadow Over the Amazon

 The air hung thick and humid, heavy with the coppery tang of blood and the cloying sweetness of decaying vegetation. Vargas knelt beside the mangled remains of Sanchez, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. Sanchez had been… enthusiastic. Loud. Always cracking jokes that fell flat. But he'd been loyal. And now, he was just… gone. Ripped apart by something that moved with terrifying speed and ferocity.

Cortez, his face pale and streaked with sweat and dirt, sat heavily against a giant, buttress-rooted tree. He cradled his left arm, his shirt sleeve soaked crimson. He stared blankly ahead, his eyes unfocused.

"Cortez," Vargas said, his voice rough. "Let me see that."

Cortez flinched, his gaze snapping to Vargas. "It's… it's fine," he mumbled, but his voice trembled.

"Don't be an idiot," Vargas snapped, moving towards him. "Let me see it."

He gently pulled Cortez's hand away from the wound. It was deep, a ragged tear in the flesh that went almost to the bone. Vargas hissed through his teeth. He'd seen worse, much worse, but this was bad enough. Infection was a certainty out here.

"Reyes," Vargas called, his voice echoing strangely in the oppressive stillness of the jungle. A young, wiry mercenary with a haunted look in his eyes approached hesitantly. "Get the medkit. And the rum."

Reyes hurried off, his boots squelching on the damp earth.

Vargas ripped away the remaining fabric of Cortez's sleeve, exposing the full extent of the injury. He cleaned the wound with practiced efficiency, ignoring Cortez's stifled groans. The jungle pressed in on them, a suffocating green wall that seemed to watch and wait.

"What… what was that thing, Capitan?" Reyes asked, his voice barely a whisper as he handed Vargas a bottle of dark rum.

Vargas splashed some of the rum onto the wound, eliciting a sharp cry from Cortez. He ignored it. "I don't know," he admitted, his voice grim. "Something fast. Something… hungry."

He applied a pressure bandage, tying it tightly. "Keep it clean," he instructed Cortez. "We can't afford to lose another man."

The remaining mercenaries, a motley crew of hardened killers now reduced to a handful of shaken survivors, huddled together, their faces etched with fear and exhaustion. Two shallow graves had been dug nearby, the freshly turned earth a stark reminder of their losses.

Vargas stood, surveying the scene. The futility of it all washed over him. They were chasing a ghost, a legend, a city made of gold that probably didn't even exist. And for what? For riches that would likely be spent before they even saw the light of day, or worse, never be found at all. He thought of his own life, a string of brutal conflicts, betrayals, and fleeting moments of hollow victory. What was the point?

"Capitan?" It was Diaz, a burly mercenary with a scarred face and a surprisingly gentle demeanor. He was standing over the graves, his head bowed. "Should we… say some words?"

Vargas looked at the two mounds of earth, at the crude crosses fashioned from broken branches. He thought of Sanchez's stupid jokes, of Ramirez's nervous habit of chewing his fingernails. He thought of all the men he'd lost over the years, in countless nameless battles fought for causes he no longer believed in.

"What words are there to say?" Vargas asked, his voice hollow. "That they died for nothing? That they were fools to follow me into this godforsaken jungle?"

Diaz looked up, his eyes filled with a quiet sadness. "They were brave men, Capitan. They followed you because they trusted you."

Vargas snorted. "Trust? Or fear? There's a fine line, Diaz. A very fine line."

He walked over to the graves, his boots sinking slightly into the soft earth. He stared down at the freshly turned soil, feeling the weight of his command, the crushing burden of responsibility. He had led these men to their deaths.

"They were soldiers," Vargas said, his voice low and rough. "They knew the risks. They died… doing what they were paid to do."

He turned away from the graves, his gaze sweeping over the faces of the remaining mercenaries. Their eyes were fixed on him, waiting, expectant. He had to give them something. Some reason to keep going. Some shred of hope, even if it was a lie.

"We move on," Vargas said, his voice hardening. "We find this city. We get what we came for. And then… we get out of here."

He didn't say it with conviction. He didn't even believe it himself. But it was enough. It was all he had to offer. The mercenaries stirred, a flicker of grim determination returning to their eyes. They picked up their weapons, their movements slow and weary, but purposeful.

They carried on. Not because they believed in the mission, not because they trusted their leader, but because they had no other choice. They were trapped in this green hell, caught in a cycle of violence and death, with no escape in sight. Power had brought them here, and now, their weakness would define their path.