As dusk began to bleed through the jungle canopy, painting the world in shades of amber and shadow, the weary refugees pressed onward along the treacherous path. Riverside Crossing still lay hours ahead—their only hope of shelter before full darkness claimed the forest. The old village chief urged them forward with growing desperation, sensing something amiss in the oppressive silence that had fallen over their usual evening chorus.
Then the sounds began.
At first, it seemed natural enough—the haunting call of a howler monkey echoing through the trees, answered by another from the opposite side of the path. But something felt wrong about the timing, the pitch, the way the calls seemed to follow their movement rather than flee from it. More howler calls drifted from different positions in the canopy, too rhythmic, too purposeful to be genuine.
The refugees exchanged nervous glances as the monkey calls surrounded them—one from ahead, another from behind, a third from the dense undergrowth to their left. The calls were closing in, forming a net of sound that tightened with each passing moment.
"Those aren't monkeys," someone whispered, and that was when the nightmare truly began.
The attack erupted from this primordial theater with savage precision.
Steel rang against wood as simian figures poured from the undergrowth like hunting wolves. Monkey-men with cruel yellow eyes and blackened fangs burst from their camouflaged positions, their muscled arms wielding crude wooden staves carved from jungle hardwood. Among them, two larger monkey-men bore tattered banners on long poles—dark cloth emblazoned with primitive symbols that spoke of their raiding clan. The refugees' screams shattered the humid air as families scattered in desperate flight toward the path ahead—only to find their way blocked by a massive fallen tree trunk. The enormous mahogany log stretched completely across the narrow road, too high to climb over, too heavy to move.
Panic seized the column as villagers turned back, seeking retreat along the path they had traveled—but the thunderous crash of another giant tree echoed behind them, sealing their fate. The second massive trunk slammed across the road with earth-shaking force, cutting off their escape route. The howler monkey calls that had followed them now exploded into a deafening chorus of triumph, no longer subtle signals but full-throated war cries that seemed to shake the very leaves from the trees above.
Near the front of the column, the old village chief bellowed orders even as chaos erupted around him. His weathered staff spun in practiced arcs, catching a simian raider's wooden stave and sending the snarling creature stumbling backward. The monkey-men attacked with coordinated strikes of their carved clubs, while their banner-bearers positioned themselves prominently, the dark flags whipping in the humid air like declarations of conquest. "Form ranks! Protect the children!" But his voice was lost in the cacophony of bestial shrieks and the crack of wood against wood as the primitive war cries echoed through the canopy.
Two more of the monkey raiders flanked the chief, their wooden staves spinning with practiced skill. His staff cracked against one attacker's elongated skull, but the second drove his sharpened club through the old man's ribs with brutal efficiency. The village chief's eyes widened in shock before he toppled forward, his blood darkening the jungle earth where he had led his people for the final time.
Nearby, Elliot's father roared defiance, hefting a fallen branch like a club as three of the monkey-men closed on their family. Their leader—a scarred brute with torn ears and filed teeth, wielding a massive ironwood stave—chittered what might have been laughter. Behind him, one of the banner-bearers planted his flag in the earth like a claim of victory. "Run!" Elliot's father bellowed to his wife and son, but there was nowhere to flee.
The lead monkey-man's massive ironwood stave swept in a vicious arc, and Elliot's father barely managed to deflect the blow with his makeshift branch, the impact jarring him to his bones.
His father fought with desperate fury, the makeshift weapon splintering against a simian raider's wooden club. A second monkey-man circled behind while the third pressed the assault from the front, their staves whistling through the air. Hardwood cracked against hardwood—once, twice—and crimson bloomed across his father's chest like tropical flowers.
"No!" The word tore from Elliot's throat as his father stumbled, crimson frothing at his lips. Still he swung the shattered branch, still he stood between his family and the anthropomorphic beasts in their midst.
The killing blow came from behind—a rusty blade sliding between ribs with the wet sound of splitting fruit. His father's eyes found Elliot across the chaos, filled not with pain but with desperate love, before he crumpled to the forest floor like a felled tree.
Elliot's world contracted to that single moment of loss, but the horror was far from finished. His mother's terrified sobs cut through his grief as coarse, fur-covered hands seized her, tearing at her simple dress with casual brutality. The monkey-men's guttural grunts and clicking sounds filled the air—their primitive language incomprehensible but their intent unmistakably vile. "Please," she whimpered, but mercy had no place in this green hell.
"Mother!" Elliot thrashed against his captors with wild desperation, his vision blurred by tears and rage. He had to reach her, had to—
a brute with a scar bisecting his lip, backhanded Elliot's mother. The sharp crack silenced her whimpers for a terrifying second. "Quiet now," he sneered, his voice a low gravelly thing. He fisted a hand in her dark hair, yanking her head back to expose her long, slender neck. Her thin, brown skin was already mottled with the promise of bruises. "Pretty thing. Then he traced a dirty finger along her collarbone, making her flinch and whimper. Then he tore the shoulder of her dress, the fabric giving way with a sickening rip
"Don't you touch her!" Elliot screamed, his voice cracking with a pain that went deeper than any physical wound. He strained against the arms pinning him, his muscles screaming in protest.
Pain exploded across Elliot's skull like lightning. The world tilted sideways as a massive, fur-covered foot connected with his temple, stars bursting behind his eyes. As consciousness fled like a frightened bird, the last dying light of day surrendered to the jungle's embrace, and darkness—both within and without—claimed everything he had ever known.