The sun seared hot even through the forest canopy, a far cry from yesterday's torrential dounpour. 

The jungle is not a fun place to be, the air thick of mosquitoes laden with all kinds of diseases. The ground is teeming with all kinds of creatures, be it the smallest of arachnids with the most potent of venom, to beasts fully capable of mangling a healthy man to a shapeless lump.

Marv tore through the tough vines and vegetation that block his path with the machete. There is no time to stop, he knew. He wanted to reach the mobile gun systems before they left. A look at his watch tells him that it is an hour past twelve noon. 

It eventually became noticeable that the sounds of the forest dwindled down, the merry chirping of birds and the croaking of frogs were all replaced with silence. Only the light billowing of wind and the accompanying light rustling of leaves got through.

Marv paused, listening, observing.

Amidst the rustling, he believes that he could hear a dull thud. No, it's a sequence of thuds.

Then a faint whistling sound became apparent. It grew louder and sharper. Nearer.

Before he could even take any action, an explosion tore through a nearby tree, wooden splinters began to displace the air around him. Another one followed, sending up dust and dirt into the air.

His ears are ringing, the characteristic screech of tinnitus drowning out the booms of the incoming shells. 

There is no other thing on Marv's mind but to run.

Run fast, away from this pandemonium.

His surroundings erupted into smithereens of whatever material they are made of. The air quickly became a murk, impeding his vision. 

He suddenly felt his foot going light on him.

His run turned into a tumble down a steep incline. Rocks pelted his body with each tumble and roll. The contents of his pack prodded up his back, so did both of the handguns he has on his possession.

His downhill journey abruptly ended as he smacks right into a tree stump.

All he can muster are groans of anger, irritation, and extreme pain as he tries to roll on his back. The backpack impeded him, however, and so he unsnaps the latches on the straps.

The RPG lay upon his left flank, nothing seemed to be broken from the fall.

He notices bleeding on his left arm. A closer look shows that a wooden shard, roughly 4 inches in length, has embedded itself on his forearm. Blood is trickling slowly onto the ground.

Marv has to think over the situation.

Pull off the shard, reduce risk of infection, but may take too much time and get captured. Leave it on, blood everywhere makes it easy to track him, may get infected.

The first option seemed much better, and so he went to work.

With his right arm, he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, wrapping it around one of the Jericho's spare magazine. He then places it on his mouth, clamping down on it with his teeth.

His arm then searches inside a backpack compartment for the bottle of alcohol and a roll of gauze. Knowing fuck-all about wound treatment, his plan is to just wash the wound down with disinfectant, then wrap it up with the bandage.

With all the things he need within his reach, Marv now seeks to find the balls to actually do it. He bit on the magazine harder than before, his hand now touching the shard. He swears that he could feel it move inside. 

In one sharp motion, he yanks the foreign material out.

Marv then flung the wood shard into the woods.

With the magazine still in his mouth, he winced as he pours alcohol on the wound cavity. His agony began to fade, however, and so he began to wrap gauze around his arm.

He took his time to drop the magazine from his mouth, the metallic taste having permeated through the cloth of his handkerchief.

>"Well, that ain't so bad."
He smirked by himself as he dusts his clothes off and began to stand up his legs.

Something is wrong, however, as he once again drops to the ground in pain. 
A loud
>"FFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKK!"
permeated through the woods, sending all kinds of creatures out of their roosts.

>"MY LEG! MY FUCKING LEG!"

Another flurry of expletives aimed at no one followed until Marv decided to calm himself the fuck down and think of the circumstances. 

>"My shoe, my shoe has to go."

He groans as he reaches for the laces of his shoes. Slowly, he unwoven them from the holes, making the footwear as loose as possible to allow his foot to slip free.

Marv huffed and puffed as he slowly inches the shoe off his damned foot. Every second seemed like hours.

All he could muster at the end of it was final sigh of relief, his foot seemingly feeling better after that little ordeal.

>"Can't walk. Near night. Fuck me, fuck this, fuck everything!"

>"I would crawl. Yes, crawl all night. Yes, yes, no. Wait. The RPG! A crutch it would be."

He slowly claws over to the rocket launcher's sling to draw it nearer, which he does. The launcher is then propped up cone-side-down as he puts on the backpack full of valuable supplies.

Marv then slowly rises up, putting much of his weight on the weapon to support him. Inch-by-inch, then foot by foot he regains his steps. 

>"Yes! This is working!" 
He exclaimed.

His celebration is cut short as he hears the distinct snap of a branch from the bush right behind him.

Marv froze, his hands grasping tight on the cold tubing of the rocket launching device.

Another rustle emerged from the vegetation.

His free hand slowly went over the Jericho 941 in it's holster, flicking open the retention strap that held it in before lifting it up to the suspicious source of sound.

The sights bobbed and dipped ever so slightly with each thud of his heart, his thoughts running wild. A Chinese kill team? A wild animal closing in for it's kill?
One of the many supernatural beings who dwell in the jungle?

His fingers gripped at the customized polymer grips, activating a bright laser sight as he bided his time on fear and anticipation on what is going to happen.

A dark silhouette broke through the leaves.

Over the adrenaline rush, Marv's trigger finger twitched. 

A loud crack echoed through the forest.

This is soon followed by a sharp metallic sound, then the groan of a man in obvious discomfort and pain. The being then crashes down into the ground, seemingly struggling with something.

Marv's gun is still aimed at whoever it was who just popped out, his sight alignment jiggling about as his arms trembled. He took a step back to put distance between him and the man. His mind is a jumble of thoughts, and so he mumbled:

>A...are you...okay? I...I didn't mean...

In a sudden, the man draws a handgun, lifting it up to him.

This left Marv with no choice but to fire off several rounds into the poor sap, whose body appeared to tremor and shake at every impact. Mud and debris flew up as the solid ball 9 millimeter rounds zipped through his target and into the ground.

He collapsed into a sitting position, the 941's slide locked back.

>W...what have I done?

He muttered as he gazed on the presumably cold, dead body. A helmeted figure, wearing some sort of long sleeved top covered in mud and grime. An M1911-pattern handgun laid on the ground mere inches away from it's former owner, while a slung Browning Automatic Rifle rested on his back.

Old World War 2-era weapons are not uncommon in this country, many still found in the hands of farmers, collectors, civilian auxilliary militias, even Communist rebels. Stockpiles of ammuntion are covered every now and then, and even the national armory produces wartime-specification .30-06.

>Okay...It's self-defense...nothing is wrong. Justified...
He muttered to himself as he looked over the body.

>Totally justif...no, oh no. No...
Marv's thoughts sank deeper.

The man is wearing an American uniform.
Not anything close to modern, even.

>Fuck...I just shot...a Joe.

His thoughts raced. This has to be a joke, right? No hold-out from the war could have probably lasted this long in the forest. Even the most defiant of the Japanese have surrendered roughly 30 years ago. 

The body says otherwise. The uniform, aside from streaks of mud and dirt, appears pristine. Helmet looks like it just came off the crate, so were the guns. No way any of those could last all those years in good condition in the hostile environment of a tropical jungle.

>Something's not right here.
He thought.

A groan emerged from the body, and an arm twitched. This sent Marv scampering away from whoever, scratch that, whatever it is. 

His Jericho empty, he reaches for the Armscor, hoping it could put down the thing.

>N...no, come on, I didn't sign up for this shit!

The body then went on to lie on it's back, arms pointing up, then seemingly flopping into the mud in frustration. A foreign sounding voice then broke out.

>"Why can't I fucking die! For fucking fuck's sake! The light...it was so fucking close, but no...back to this fucked-up shithole of a world! Please...please...why won't this ever fucking end!"

The man just went on rambling into the sky.

He then stared at Marv, who is holding up both guns at him.

>"Put them down, they sadly do fuck-all to me."
He said in a negative tone.

Marv, thinking about the futility of shooting a man that survived a full magazine, slowly lowers them. His mind strayed over to the thought that he probably was better off using the RPG earlier to save him his sanity. He doesn't know what to do next.

>Am I...

>"Dead? Sure as fuck you aren't, but I certainly hope I was."

>Uh...

>"My introduction to you was a bit...you know...unceremonial. Let's just cut the crap and get over with it. I'm Benjamin Houser, probably a private in the United States Army. Serial number...I don't have the clearest memory. I think it ends with...a 45? Fuck that, can't remember much. You?"

This Private Houser then puts out his right hand for a handshake.

Marv first doubted, but eventually he accepted the offer.

>Marvin R. Castillo, nice to know you, Benjamin. Oh, you can call me Marv, that's what everyone calls me by anyway."

>"Marv, oh okay. Did you see that plane that went down? I was heading there to see what happened, find ways to...you know...end my existence? Probably electrecute myself or something like that, then I came across you. Spooked you up to get you to shoot me. Clearly, that didn't work."

>I...was in that plane. Somehow got out alive, luckily.

>"Easy for you to say."

>Oh, sorry, didn't mean that. You saw any Chinese soldiers? You know, slant eyes and odd uniforms? Big guns on trucks? Planning to get up there, avenge things.

>"Oh, those guys? They are in lookout for me after I stole food from a supply tent. Made some scary noises as I ran off into the jungle. Fun shit."

Private Houser made a slight grin, before it receded into a blank expression.

>"Want to get there? I can lead you the way, nothing much to do anyway."

Marv bit the bullet and accepted the offer, thinking that maybe trusting an unkillable American soldier that randomly pops out of nowhere in the jungle isn't that bad of an idea.

>"Very well! Let's get going. It's like, a klick or two away from here."

>Would you mind my slow pace? My leg got fucked up somewhere.

>"The better! I hadn't talked to anyone else but good old Miss Brown and her little companion for the last, like, 70 years?"
He remarked as he tapped the M1911 that sat on it's holster.

Well, isolation probably does odd shit to anyone, especially for that long. Poor soul ended up talking to his firearms after all those years.

The two began to move in a slow but steady pace, Houser leading the way.

>"Is that a Bazooka?! Good old Private Hicks carried one..."
Their voices began to fade eventually as the went back into dense vegetation.

The sun has already gone down, the moon illuminating the forest with it's mild glow. The chirping of birds were replaced by the hooting of owls and the croaking of frogs. Branches snapped and creaked as some creatures prowled for prey.

Houser is unnerved, however. He continued to mumble on and on about the this and thats of the forest life. The expected, the unexpected, the overheard. 

>"You know, I was by the river like east from here, sleeping in this bush. I woke up to the voices of people. Tourists, totally harmless. I just occasionally steal shit from them like food, whatever. They were talking about some sort of gnarly beast that eats people and makes some sort of blood sacrifice for something."

>Are you scared about it? Have you ever seen traces of it?

Houser grinned a bit, seemingly brushing the question off.
>"Nah, after all these years I'm here, I haven't seen anything like they have said. Gnarly claws, a malformed face, a chest with a cavity as dark as the moonless night. Probably some kind of wild dog pack. If it does exist, well, nothing bullets can't cure. 

>That's...actually a great point.
Marv replied, a slight grin emanating from his face.

>How far before we reach the firebase?

>"If we walk through the night, we would be there by daybreak, if weather allows."
The private guarantees, maintaining a heading through the foilage. Marv has no other thing to do but to follow suit.

After what seemed to be a long endless walk that got you worried that the two of you are actually going in circles, you come across a break from the foliage and into a clearing at the base of a low hill. Human activity and the low hum of machinery filled the frigid morning air. A light fog softens out the structures in the area in the early morning light.

>"Well, see, got here before the sun even comes up.", the private jests.

>Good, this means the firebase ain't that busy yet. Some of the men are probably sleeping, and the guntrucks are probably undermanned right now. 

Marv checks the rocket on the launcher, making sure that the cocking piece is pulled back, and that the safety cap is still on. Private Houser seems to get what he does, pulling out the magazine on his BAR to check the rounds in it before placing it back on the rifle.

>Well, I'm ready. Are you?
>"As always."

As they began to move up the low hill to mount their assault, the shrill wail of siren suddenly filled the air. The little firebase seemed to be in alert for something, men screaming about in a foreign language. 

The symphony of gunfire began to play it's tune.

>"Someone else is attacking the base. Friendlies?"
Private Houser mutters.

>I don't really know, but enemy of my enemy and all, might as well come up to their aid.

Marv and the private slowly crept up the crest, the sputtering of firearms gradually going louder, along with the occasional punctuation of a grenade.

One of the guntrucks came into view, windows shuttered down with armor plates. It is under ineffective rifle fire, sparks flying off as bullets ricocheted off the front cab.

The rear gun began to move, whirring as it points itself up into the sky in a seemingly impossible 90-degree angle.

A desperate move, a bombardment of it's position. 

The thunder of an outbound round resonated through the base.

Men of both sides stopped firing, lending silence to the disturbance. 

A faint whistling manifested, growing louder every second.

Marv looked over at Private Houser, who did the same. Waiting...

All they got was a near-blinding flash, ears seemingly falling deaf. Everything seemed to go in slow motion. Bits of fabric and metal tubing flew though the air in a graceful dance, dust swirling over with the fog in what could be best described as a chocolate milkshake.

>Chocolate milkshake. Been a while that I haven't had one.

>"Marv..."

>"Marvin!"

>"Get up! Shit's real bad, rounds are landing left and right! We need to stop that truck!"
Houser shouts as he tugs on Marv's arm to pull him up from the ground.

Marv is slowly going back to regain his bearings, his hand moving over to grab the RPG's grip. He checks the cocking piece, bears it on his shoulder, then looking behind to make sure no one is behind it.

The sights lined up with the rear cab of the guntruck. He pulls on the trigger.

>*click*

>*BANG*

The launcher felt lighter as the PG-7 rocket launches out of the tube, hissing as it makes it's way to the target. It blew up as it hits it's mark.

A few moments later, the armored box heaved and sighed, a jet of flame erupted through the hole in which the rocket made through the armor. Parts began to buckle as even more flame vented through every crevice. The barrel began to emit smoke through the muzzle as if it were a smokestack.

What followed could be best described as an earth-shattering explosion. A section of metal plate flew over Marv and Houser's heads.

>"Now that's a near miss."

The duo came up the shallow ridge, walking ever cautiously toward the smoldering wreckage of the guntruck. Private Houser scanned around with his BAR, flipping bits of metal over with the muzzle of the rifle. They drew closer to the rear cab, from which a horrible, inexplicable stench emanated from it, causing Marv to retch in disgust.

>"That smell? Burnt hair. Don't ask me why I know about it."
Houser comments casually.

He's got a point. Some questions are best left unanswered.

A figure came around the wreckage, pointing what appears to be a rifle at them.

>"Drop your weapons! Hands where I could see them!"
The man spoke out with an intonation that Marv immediately notices.

>Saba diha, sig in-English, bisdak baya!(Shut up, [speaking] English when you're heavily Visayan!)
Marv speaks out in jest.

The man, in acknowledgement, lowers his rifle. 

Marv extends his hand to his right as to signal private Houser.

>It's okay, he's on my side, lower your gun too."

The man raises his eyebrows in confusion. 

>"Kinsa imong ka-istorya? Wa ma'y tao diha."(Who are you talking to? There's no one there."

Even more confused, Marv looks over to his shoulder to find that there is indeed no one there.

>Aha man to siya ni-adto?!(Where did he go?!)
Marv asks himself.

The man comes closer to Marv, placing a hand on his shoulder.
>"Ali diri, pila lang gani ka adlaw, nabu-ang na ka? Wala ni, weak."(Come here, after just a few days, you went mad? [This guy's nothing, so weak].)

He tells Marv to come along, in which he does, still confused as to where the Private Benjamin Houser went.