The room is a large, cool, and well lit barracks. A double row of army green canvas cots and wooden foot lockers line the length of each. Opening the locker at the foot of my bed, I withdraw my weapons, my M203 is a comforting weight as I sling it over my shoulder. I strap my bayonet to my calf, it's grip with in easy reach should I but crouch. Looking up suddenly, I listen, the world has become eerily silent. I am the last one.
Creeping though the thick jungle, I wade through the muddy knee deep water. The death cries of a cockatoo echos wantonly though the thick stench filled air. I shudder to think what it foretells. Moving silently, I stalk my prey, moving slowly as to remain silent. Deaths shadow preparing to bring vengeance up those who dared to hunt me.
The path is little more than an occasional foot print or blood trail left by the one I am hunting. He's moving careful as I am, attempting to mask his movements with a skill native to one born in this festering swamp. But he has been wounded in the fighting of the previous day, tired and growing careless from his wounds. Even so, the path is difficult to follow, and more often than nought I must rely upon gut feelings and instinct to continue.
The trail disappears into a sluggish brown oder filled stream a few meters wide. Crouched upon the bank I can only wonder which direction my prey went. Upstream? Downstream? Or did he simply cross in an effort to confuse me. Closing my eyes I prey silently to the gods who twisted me into what I am asking for guidance, asking that their horrid will be done.
A nearly empty can of beer sits discarded next to a partial foot print, it looks battered and crushed, perhaps dropped by a hand grown numb with pain. My quarry is close, and grown very careless. I feel my senses heighten, my entire body more alert, as I check the chamber on my weapon to ensure a round is chambered, checking to ensure the grenade launcher is primed and ready, it's gaping mouth free of any obstruction.
Following his staggering foot prints, I see he's getting more and more careless or perhaps more secure in his environment. He's dropped a simple key, blood spattered and worn it is the same type I use to lock my foot locker back at the barracks. It's a similarity I don't want to dwell upon.