Wounded badly, the black caiman became even more frenzied. Crocodilians have two eyelids—one normal and one transparent—that allow them to see clearly even in muddy water. But the MK3 didn't care about that. Owen's blade punched straight through, destroying both the transparent eyelid and the eyeball beneath.
Seeing it couldn't shake him off, the black giant unleashed its death roll—the ultimate killing move of all crocodiles. Usually, when hunting prey larger than themselves, they clamp onto a leg and spin violently, throwing the victim off balance at best or tearing the limb off at worst.
This time, it was trying to use the move to dislodge Owen. But Owen clung to it like a parasite, fingers hooked into its scales, legs locked tight.
Three full rotations, and it still hadn't shaken him free—instead, it had taken three more stabs.
On the boat, Monica had already been hauled aboard. Turning back, she caught sight of Owen and the caiman spinning in the water and froze in panic.
Owen could hear nothing now. All he knew was that he had to fight this beast to the death. Each strike drove the blade in to the hilt. With wounds like that, he didn't believe the caiman could last much longer. Breath-holding didn't scare him. He had only one thought—to kill this monster.
The river churned like boiling water, then both man and reptile vanished beneath the surface. As the ripples faded, anxiety spiked on deck.
"Owen! Owen—no! Owen\~\~\~"
Monica's screams tore the air. No one knew the outcome—had Owen killed the caiman, had the caiman killed him, or had they both gone down together?
No answer came. A dark rage welled up in Monica's chest. She glanced toward a nearby fuel drum—if the beast had killed her Owen, she'd take it down with her.
Suddenly, a figure burst from the water.
Owen wiped the river from his face. Behind him, the massive carcass floated up, the combat knife still lodged in its ruined eye. He reached back, yanked the MK3 free, and the others finally exhaled in relief. Monica sobbed with joy, and hands reached down to haul Owen back aboard.
Fresh from the jaws of death, Owen felt utterly drained, but Monica showered him with frantic kisses.
"Darling, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—it's all my fault…"
Her heart was wracked with guilt and self-blame. Panting, Owen stroked her hair. "Baby, don't. I love you. I'd do this for you any time. If it were me, you'd come for me too, wouldn't you?"
Monica nodded like a frightened bird. Owen smiled and drew her into his arms.
To the others, the scene was beautiful—morning sunlight streaming through the leaves bathed them in a halo of gold.
Kroll laughed. "This might be the most exciting birthday I'll ever have…"
"Oh, shit, I didn't even get it on camera…"
Danny's belated outcry drew a round of laughter.
The party ended early, and Martin piloted the boat onward.
Amazon weather turned on a dime—clear skies minutes ago, and now a sudden fog. The three-hour trip stretched endlessly. For safety, Martin dropped to the lowest speed and kept both spotlights on, but visibility was still poor.
Fortunately, the fog thinned later, and the boat picked up speed.
Along the way, they saw more Shuar-style stone carvings of snakes entwined with human figures. Everyone knew they were getting close.
"We're here," Martin said.
He pulled the boat to shore. According to both him and Adrian, the Shuar village should be nearby.
Kroll's group was excited. Nick hefted his camera—filming would start the moment they stepped on land. Jackson readied his sound gear. Adrian stayed to watch the boat, while Martin led the others ashore. Owen and Monica, with nothing else to do, tagged along to see how the documentary was made.
Owen naturally took point with Martin, machete in hand to clear the way. After a stretch of wilderness, they found a path—an encouraging sign that the village was close. Along it, the snake statues and murals became more frequent. They grew more certain they were in Shuar territory, yet they hadn't seen a single person.
Soon, thatched huts appeared by the path. Some were damaged, falling apart. Still, there was no sign of life.
A sense of unease grew. Martin slung the machete at his waist and unslung a rifle—the team's only gun—brought from the boat for protection in case of trouble with the indigenous tribe.
They pressed on. The more they saw, the stranger it became. Then they stopped short.
On the edge of a small plaza formed by several huts lay the unmoving body of a massive snake—an Amazon green anaconda.
Gasps went around. This one was about six meters long. They could tell it was dead because its belly was split open—and protruding from the gash was a human leg. Flies swarmed thickly around it, the buzzing mingling with the stench.
The closer they came, the worse the reek of decay. The leg inside was unmistakably that of a native—dark, gleaming skin, bare feet with no shoes.
Everyone looked to Martin.
He shook his head, baffled. "I have no idea. I only knew the Shuar were around here, but I've never been myself."
Eyes turned to Kroll. She scanned the scene. "Spread out and check the area. Carefully…"
The search didn't take long. The village was tiny—just a few minutes' walk from end to end. Martin had likely been right—this was the Shuar settlement. Traces of snake worship were everywhere. But something had happened here. The people were gone, and the dead anaconda lay in the open with a native in its gut.
That made no sense. The python was supposed to be the Shuar's god. Why would they kill their own god—let alone one that had swallowed a tribesman?
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