Major Kealen stooped, picking up a sharp piece of quartz from the jungle floor. He used it to chip away deliberately at the exposed vein of raw gold. He raised the resultant nuggets, turning them over in the dappled light, his gaze devoid of awe, tainted only by profound despair.
"What is the essence of this wealth?" he muttered, his voice echoing through the dense canopy. "Riches given to a man trapped in a forest that has no end, a man who knows no freedom. The universe decides to bless me with this prosperity when it is no longer useful to me. The forest is now my territory, my new home. I don't need this. Let the universe grant me freedom instead."
The tiger, his watched him as he poure out his anger, still bleeding heavily from the deep wound.
Kealen instantly recognized his duty. He began his familiar search for the specific medicinal herbs he routinely used to treat his wild ally. He located the serrated leaves of the Rattlesnake Plantain, quickly harvesting a handful. He crushed and squeezed the fibrous material, applying the acidic juice directly onto the deep laceration. The pain was immediate and excruciating. The tiger roared, a sound that shook the humid air, and bolted into the dense undergrowth, disappearing instantly.
Kealen smiled thinly. He knew the remedy stung, but he couldn't grasp why the tiger had reacted so violently this time; it had remained docile when he treated the python bite earlier. Ignoring his confusion, he followed the rough trail the tiger had left, unwilling to lose the only reliable face that matters to him.
After only a short distance, Kealen stopped. He couldn't trust his own senses. Through the trees, a small patch of sunlight spilled onto a remarkably neat, cleared area, and within it stood a well-built wooden hut. It was pristine, an anomaly of structure and order in the chaotic jungle.
He rushed forward, a desperate hope surging through him. If it was a spirit dwelling, or a hideout for drug runners, he didn't care. He craved any vestige of humanity. He was done submitting to the jungle's tyranny; either they would accept him, or they would have to fight him for possession of this civilized sanctuary.
Kealen found the hut secured by a heavy-duty padlock. A thorough perimeter search yielded no immediate inhabitants, yet the evidence of recent human activity was everywhere. He noted a roughly flattened and blackened area where a heavy-lift helicopter must have landed, perhaps within the last week.
Without hesitation, Kealen found a sizable rock and smashed the padlock off the latch with two deliberate, heavy blows. He stepped inside, his military training instantly cataloging the contents.
This wasn't a recreational camp; it was a professional gold mining operation. Everything was high-grade: sealed supplies, powerful communications gear, and specialized excavation tools.
It was now clear: these prospectors were the ones who had cleared the land where he found the rich gold deposits. He knew they would return soon.
Kealen decided then and there that this hut was his extraction point. He would wait for their return and fight, negotiate, or simply force his way out of this hell. He was completely aware that gold miners operating in isolated regions were perhaps the most dangerous civilians on earth; they viewed any unauthorized presence near their claim as a lethal threat. He knew their protocol was to shoot first and never ask questions.
But he promised himself that it was better to be killed by a human in a tactical confrontation, the death he had signed up for as a soldier, than to die lonely and consumed by the wilderness, or ripped apart by a wild animal.
"The universe has done it once again," Kealen whispered, an overwhelming sense of relief washing over him. "It has provided me with a temporary heaven where everything needed for survival is here."
At that moment, the nagging worry about his injured tiger companion vanished, replaced entirely by the novelty of his environment.
He secured the broken door and explored the space. The miners had left behind untouched rations, canned goods, vacuum-sealed coffee, and, most importantly, a fully stocked medical kit. He located antiseptic wipes, powerful painkillers, and antibiotics. He quickly treated the myriad cuts and abrasions that covered his own body, ignoring the sharp sting of the solution.
Finally, he saw the cot. It was not a jungle hammock, but a proper, spring-coil bed topped with thick blankets. He collapsed onto it. The pain from his battered body still registered, but it was insignificant compared to the sheer luxury of lying on a manufactured surface, sheltered from the damp earth. The pain would soon fade, he believed.
Hours later, the adrenaline of the discovery subsided, replaced by a deep, strategic calm. Kealen rose and began a systematic reconnaissance of the hut's contents. He found maps marked with coordinates, detailed geological surveys, and a meticulously kept logbook.
The logbook confirmed his suspicions. The team, group of men and a security specialist, were flying back in five days to begin the main extraction phase. The location was designated "Alpha-09."
Kealen knew his timeline. Five days to formulate a plan. Five days to prepare the battleground.
He checked the communications equipment. The radio was a state-of-the-art satellite model, but the security specialist had removed a crucial component, the main power cell, making it inert. They weren't taking chances with anyone contacting the outside world.
Kealen moved to the exterior, his focus now shifting to defense. He needed to establish a perimeter for the few days left.
As he worked, his thoughts drifted back to the tiger. He felt a pang of guilt. He had abandoned his only friend for the promise of a soft bed. He knew the tiger would be licking its painful wound perhaps a mile away, recovering but angry. He needed the tiger. Not as a friend, but as an early warning system.
He left a fresh piece of venison he had hunted the previous day near the hut's entrance, a small peace offering.
On the third day, the air pressure dropped and a relentless tropical storm enveloped the forest. Kealen was snug inside the hut, listening to the drumming rain, planning escape routes. Suddenly, a noise cut through the downpour, not the wind, but a low, guttural growl, accompanied by the clatter of the venison being consumed.
The tiger was back. But it wasn't approaching for comfort; it was communicating hostility.
Kealen stepped outside, ignoring the blinding rain, carrying a small, powerful flashlight. The tiger was soaking wet, its eyes reflecting the beam with fierce intensity. The wound had scabbed over, confirming the painful medicine had worked.
"You're angry," Kealen observed calmly, addressing the massive creature as if it were a disgruntled comrade. "You don't like being healed, do you? But you came back. You know the jungle is safer with two of us."
The tiger didn't respond with affection, but with a warning snarl. It lingered only a moment longer, ensuring Kealen knew it was watching, before melting back into the deluge.
Kealen understood. The truce was conditional, maintained by shared survival and mutual need, not affection.
He returned to the hut, his plan solidifying around the date marked in the logbook. It remains 68 hours for them to return.
Now, he just had to wait for them, the people who had inadvertently brought him salvation, to arrive and seal his fate. He set a booby-trap alarm system using tension wire and empty ration cans around the perimeter, then drew the survival knife he founds in there. He would greet them as a ghost of the jungle, a lethal anomaly that had claimed their base.