Into the Green

The world comes back to me in fragments. First, the smell. Smoke, sharp and chemical, cutting through the wet-earth scent of rotting vegetation. Then the sound—a million different calls and buzzes and drips that press against my ears like water against a dam. Finally, the feeling. Damp ground beneath my cheek. A throb in my skull that pu...

The world comes back to me in fragments. First, the smell. Smoke, sharp and chemical, cutting through the wet-earth scent of rotting vegetation. Then the sound—a million different calls and buzzes and drips that press against my ears like water against a dam. Finally, the feeling. Damp ground beneath my cheek. A throb in my skull that pulses with every beat of my heart. I push myself up slowly, the world tilting before settling back into place. My hands sink into soft, damp leaf litter, and I catch a glimpse of small black beetles scattering from the disturbance. The motion sends a fresh wave of nausea through me, but I force myself to breathe. I check myself over with the methodical focus of someone who's watched too many survival videos, reciting the steps while my fingers do the work. Head. Neck. Arms. My left forearm has a shallow cut, already crusting with dried blood, but nothing deep. My ribs ache when I press them, but nothing grinds or shifts. Bruises. A dozen of them, blooming across my body like dark flowers. I'll live. The smoke is what anchors me. A thin gray finger pointing at the sky from somewhere in the endless green. I stare at it, letting the reality sink in. That's where the plane went down. That's where everyone else is. Was. Might still be. I reach into my pockets. The multi-tool is there, a familiar weight against my thigh. My other hand finds the water bottle, barely a quarter full. I unscrew the cap and take a small sip, forcing myself to ration it before my throat can demand more. The jungle wraps around me like a living thing. Trees tower overhead, their trunks wrapped in vines and moss, their branches lost in the canopy above. Light falls in patches, golden shafts that cut through the green and illuminate clouds of tiny insects. I can feel them landing on my skin already, testing me. Everything here is testing me. I listen to the sounds, trying to pick out the familiar from the alien. The buzz of mosquitoes near my ear. The distant screech of something primate. A low, guttural call that vibrates through my chest. Water dripping somewhere close by. The smoke rises in the distance, steady and patient. It's miles away. Maybe five, maybe ten. Hard to tell through the trees. But it's there. A fixed point in this shifting, living maze. I should stay. That's what the books say. Stay with the wreckage for rescue. But the smoke is thin, barely visible, and the plane came down hard. If anyone survived, they might need help. And if no one survived, there might be supplies. Water. Food. A first aid kit. Something to give me a fighting chance. The jungle breathes around me, waiting. I take another small sip of water, tighten the cap, and start walking toward the smoke.

The first few steps are tentative, my feet testing the ground before trusting it with my full weight. The earth gives beneath me, soft and spongy, littered with leaves that hide roots and rocks and who knows what else. I pick my way forward, one careful step after another, my eyes scanning three feet ahead before committing. The smoke st...

The first few steps are tentative, my feet testing the ground before trusting it with my full weight. The earth gives beneath me, soft and spongy, littered with leaves that hide roots and rocks and who knows what else. I pick my way forward, one careful step after another, my eyes scanning three feet ahead before committing. The smoke stays in my peripheral vision as I move. A constant compass needle. Sweat gathers on my forehead within minutes. The humidity wraps around me like wet fabric, and every breath feels thick, heavy with the smell of damp earth and decaying vegetation. My shirt clings to my back, dark with moisture that isn't rain. I take another sip of water, just wetting my tongue, and resist the urge to drain the bottle. The terrain shifts constantly. Patches of relatively open ground give way to thick undergrowth where vines snag at my ankles and thorned branches reach for my arms. I pull the multi-tool from my pocket, flipping it open to the smallest blade, and use it to cut through the worst tangles. The work is slow. Frustrating. But rushing would mean a twisted ankle or worse. My left forearm throbs where the cut is, and I notice a fresh smear of blood on my sleeve. Something must have reopened it. I press my palm against the wound, holding pressure for a minute before checking again. The bleeding is light. I keep moving. The sounds of the jungle settle into a rhythm around me. The constant buzz of insects. The rustle of something in the canopy above. Water dripping somewhere off to my right, a sound that pulls at my dry throat. I don't follow it. I can't afford detours. Every twenty minutes or so, I stop and look up. The smoke is still there, faint but steady, cutting through the green like a thread leading home. It doesn't seem much closer. The jungle plays tricks with distance, swallowing landmarks before they can be fixed in memory. I find a rhythm. Step. Breathe. Scan. Listen. Step again. My mind settles into the repetition, the constant vigilance becoming background noise. The heat presses down. The sweat runs. The miles pass in increments too small to measure. A flash of movement to my left stops me cold. My hand freezes mid-reach for a vine. I hold my breath and turn my head slowly, scanning the undergrowth. Nothing. Just leaves trembling in the still air. A bird, maybe. Or a lizard. I wait another ten heartbeats before moving again. The water bottle grows lighter with each sip. I know I need to find a source soon, but the smoke pulls me forward, and I let it.

The humidity doesn't let up. It's not the kind that comes in waves, giving you a moment to breathe before the next assault. It's constant. Relentless. A weight that settles into your lungs and stays there. I remember the phrase from years ago, spoken by a sergeant with a voice like gravel and eyes that had seen too much. Embrace the suck...

The humidity doesn't let up. It's not the kind that comes in waves, giving you a moment to breathe before the next assault. It's constant. Relentless. A weight that settles into your lungs and stays there. I remember the phrase from years ago, spoken by a sergeant with a voice like gravel and eyes that had seen too much. Embrace the suck. We'd been slogging through a training exercise in the pouring rain, mud up to our knees, equipment dragging at our shoulders, and he'd just stood there, letting the water stream down his face, and said it like it was the simplest truth in the world. It is. The suck is here. It's in the sweat that pools at the small of my back and drips from my chin. It's in the way my shirt clings to every inch of skin, heavy and damp, chafing at my collar and my wrists. It's in the constant itch of insect bites I can't see and the throb of my arm where the cut keeps reopening, a slow, persistent ache that I've stopped checking on. I keep moving. The ground rises and falls, forcing me to scramble over fallen logs and pick my way through patches of mud that suck at my shoes. Each step is a negotiation with the earth, a compromise between speed and safety. I lose more often than I win. My foot slips on a moss-covered root, and I catch myself against a tree trunk, my palm scraping against rough bark. I don't stop. I push off and keep going. The smoke is still there. Faint. Distant. But there. I take another sip of water. The bottle is nearly empty now, the liquid warm and tasting faintly of plastic. I swish it around my mouth before swallowing, trying to make it last. My throat feels raw, my lips cracked. I think about the sound of dripping water I heard earlier, somewhere to my right, and I force myself to ignore it. Detours are dangerous. Detours are delays. The smoke is the only thing that matters. The jungle presses in around me, green and alive and utterly indifferent. Vines brush against my shoulders. Leaves slap at my face. The air is thick with the smell of damp earth and rotting vegetation, a smell that settles into my clothes and my skin and my lungs until I can't tell where I end and the jungle begins. Embrace the suck. I keep walking. One foot in front of the other. Step. Breathe. Scan. Listen. The rhythm returns, steady and mindless, carrying me forward through the heat and the sweat and the endless green. The smoke grows closer. Slowly. Imperceptibly. But I see it when I look up, and that's enough. I keep moving.