Shadow Over the Amazon

The air hung thick and heavy, saturated with the smell of decay and damp earth. Vargas wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead, his hand smearing the camouflage paint across his skin. They'd been hacking their way through this narrow ravine for hours, the dense foliage a suffocating green wall on either side. The only sounds were the rhythmic *thwack* of machetes against stubborn vines and the ragged breathing of his men.

"Cortez, how much further?" Vargas growled, his voice tight with frustration.

Cortez, a wiry man with eyes that seemed to absorb every shadow, consulted a battered compass. He was their tracker, supposedly the best in the business, though Vargas was starting to have his doubts. "Hard to say, Capitan. The terrain… it shifts. Like the jungle itself is trying to confuse us."

"Confuse us?" Diaz scoffed, pausing in his work to glare at Cortez. "It's a jungle, not a damn magician. Just find the trail."

"There *is* no trail, you ape," Cortez snapped back, his hand instinctively moving to the large knife strapped to his thigh. "Not anymore. The guerrillas… they know these parts. They cover their tracks like ghosts."

A tense silence fell over the group. The mention of the guerrillas was enough to make even the most hardened mercenary uneasy. They'd lost two men to them already, a brutal ambush sprung from seemingly nowhere. Silent death delivered by shadows.

"Enough," Vargas barked, cutting through the simmering animosity. "Cortez, you find us a way through. Diaz, you keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. The rest of you, stay alert. We're not losing anyone else."

He pushed forward, his own machete biting into the thick vegetation. The ravine narrowed further, forcing them into a single file. The light barely penetrated here, casting the world in a perpetual twilight. Vargas felt a prickle of unease crawl across his skin. It was too quiet. Too… expectant.

Suddenly, a chorus of shouts erupted from up ahead, followed by the unmistakable staccato burst of gunfire. Vargas cursed, dropping to one knee, his rifle instantly raised. The mercenaries scrambled for cover, their faces a mixture of fear and grim anticipation.

"What the hell was that?" Diaz hissed, pressed against the damp rock face.

"Guerrillas," Cortez said, his voice low and urgent. "Sounds like they're engaged… with someone else."

Vargas strained his ears, trying to decipher the sounds of the conflict. It was difficult to tell, the dense foliage muffling and distorting the noise. But he could hear the distinct *pop-pop-pop* of smaller arms fire, mixed with the heavier *boom* of what sounded like a shotgun.

"Who else is out here?" Vargas muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

"Could be another mercenary group," offered Ramirez, a young, nervous mercenary, his eyes wide. "Maybe after the same thing we are."

"Or survivors, from the other expedition" added another mercenary.

Vargas considered this. It was possible. He knew he wasn't the only one interested in the City of the Serpent God. The lure of gold and ancient artifacts was a powerful draw.

"We need to know who we're dealing with," Vargas said, making a decision. "Cortez, you and Ramirez, scout ahead. Carefully. Find out what's going on. The rest of us will hold position here."

Cortez nodded, his face tight with apprehension. He gestured for Ramirez to follow, and the two men melted into the dense undergrowth, disappearing as silently as the shadows they resembled.

Vargas waited, his senses on high alert. The gunfire had stopped, replaced by an unnerving silence. He could feel the tension radiating from his men, the unspoken fear hanging heavy in the humid air. He gripped his rifle tighter, his knuckles white.

Minutes stretched into an eternity. Vargas was about to order a cautious advance when Cortez reappeared, his face pale and streaked with mud. Ramirez was nowhere to be seen.

"What happened?" Vargas demanded, his voice sharp. "Where's Ramirez?"

Cortez swallowed hard, his eyes darting nervously around. "It was… it was a massacre, Capitan. The guerrillas… they ambushed a small group. Maybe five, six men. All dead."

"Who were they?"

Cortez shook his head. "Couldn't tell. Dressed like us, mostly. Mercenaries, I think. But… they were torn apart. Like… like animals had gotten to them."

Vargas felt a chill run down his spine. "Animals?"

"I don't know, Capitan," Cortez said, his voice trembling slightly. "But it wasn't just the guerrillas. Something else was out there. Something… big."

He glanced back into the jungle, his eyes wide with a primal fear that Vargas had rarely seen in the seasoned tracker.

"Ramirez?" Vargas asked again, a knot of dread forming in his stomach.

Cortez shook his head, his gaze fixed on some unseen horror within the dense foliage. "He's… he's gone, Capitan. Taken. I heard him scream…"

Vargas closed his eyes for a moment, the weight of another loss pressing down on him. He forced himself to breathe, to push down the rising tide of fear and doubt. He had to stay focused. He had to keep his men alive.

"We move," Vargas said, his voice hard and resolute. "We find out what's out there. And we make it pay."

He didn't know what they were facing, but he knew one thing: this jungle was a graveyard, and it was hungry for more souls. He just prayed that his wouldn't be among them.