Absolutely! Here’s an extended version focusing on Jack’s isolation, internal conflict, and the unsettling nature of the unseen threat, while keeping the prose fresh:
Chapter Two: The Path Less Traveled
The days bled into a relentless cycle, each more grueling than the last. On the surface, Jack carried on. The fiery speeches now rang hollow in his own ears, the organized supply drives a futile gesture against a far more monstrous force. The Panthers and their struggles seemed to swirl around him, their battles urgent and tangible, his own a silent, solitary war.
Amaya’s words had become his undoing. Sanctuary… not a haven, but a battlefield of a different kind. He clung to the word with almost superstitious fervor. Yet, sanity cracked at the edges. Each night, he hunted not for gangs or crooked cops, but whispered rumors of shifting shadows and angles only moonlight revealed. A relentless soundtrack haunted him – his Mama’s lullaby turned desperate prayer, the echoes of that stolen child’s laugh…
He found only aching silence in the too-empty streets, the shadows disappointingly normal. Yet, dread coiled tighter with every fruitless search. What if the whispers were true, but he’d been marked, the unseen battle brought home to him alone? Was he the hunted, not the hunter?
The Whispers Grow Louder
Those guiding his erratic quest offered little solace. A homeless war vet, muttering of changing angles under a harvest moon, his eyes held a terrible, frantic clarity. Then there was the pawn shop with a faded drawing – ‘The Devil’s Gateway’ – supposedly the crazed work of a man they found catatonic in a burned-out church. Each thread was maddening, fraying as soon as he followed it, leaving him both more desperate and more foolish. Was there any way out of this labyrinth, or was this itself a form of damnation?
His search was more than just an abandonment of the Panthers. It was the unraveling of every cause he’d known, every belief that gave his life meaning. He’d come back from Vietnam a changed man, his scars acknowledged, his unease tolerated. The Panthers had offered a home. But this… this was more than scars. It was a fundamental shift in the very ground beneath his feet, in what Jack saw as real, as worthy of fighting for.
The Breaking Point
The shattering came not with a bang, but in the quiet agony of a missing child poster. He’d seen that same too-sweet smile on too many vacant faces across an ocean, a sign of the unseen predator. The scent… that lingering undercurrent of metal and decay… it was here too, mingling with the smell of chalk and hopscotch on the deserted street.
Waves of nausea crashed over him. The carefully maintained façade of normalcy wasn’t just inadequate, it was a kind of blasphemy. He crumpled amidst the twisted wreckage of the playground equipment, the echoes of that stolen child’s laughter a mocking soundtrack in his head. Jack was unmoored in a world spinning on, oblivious, while a war he alone seemed to understand raged unseen beneath the surface. The soldier in him, the Panther, the son… they were all swallowed up by a single, terrible, liberating understanding: Fighting only what you can see is a damn fool’s game when the true enemy remains veiled in shadow.
The Confrontation
It was Malik who found him hours later, slumped on a bench amidst the wreckage. The older man’s usual rumble had faded, replaced by a quiet, heavy sort of knowing. His face, always a fortress, now mirrored Jack’s own exhaustion and the flickering edges of sanity.
“You leavin’?” Malik’s question was an exhale, not an accusation.
Jack looked up at the man who’d been his brother-in-arms longer than anyone, who’d looked past the nightmares before. But those shadows weren’t just memories now. “Gotta find…” he choked on the words, “Gotta find the other fight, Malik. The one where they give you the right damn weapons… for this kinda war.”
The older man sighed, his massive shoulders slumping. “Them shadows you brought back from ‘Nam… Them whispers… Ain’t just whispers anymore, are they? Maybe they followed you home, boy.” It was a benediction and a curse in one.
A twisted sense of relief coursed through Jack at finally having his fear named, shared. His path was a lonely one, but his burden wasn’t just born of madness. It was a monstrously real thing, and the whispers were a summons he couldn’t ignore.
Let me know if there’s a particular scene you’d like to develop further – the whispers in the pawn shop, the final moment with Malik, anything that sparks your curiosity!
Chapter Three: Where Shadows Bleed
The first tendrils of doubt unfurled like poison ivy. Were his eyes, honed by the brutal clarity of war, tricking him? When a streetlamp flickered oddly, was he seeing the monstrous or just the mundane? Oakland wasn’t the jungle, but could it hold the same uncanny echoes? He couldn’t shake the feeling that the world itself was a half-drawn map, its true dangers concealed in the spaces between things, hidden by the comforting normalcy of streetlights and morning rush hour.
Following the Whispers
The voices guiding him weren’t prophets, but fellow fools clinging to tattered shreds of the familiar. A wizened jazz singer, claiming the wrong notes in a midnight solo were a plea for help only the truly broken could hear. A Vietnam vet, barely more than a boy, who drew cryptic symbols in the condensation on bus windows, his eyes reflecting a battle that never left him. Each ‘clue’ dissolved like mist under the rising sun, leaving Jack adrift and doubting not just their guidance, but his own sanity.
Yet, to abandon the search was to surrender everything: the memory of those lost in the jungle, the echoing cry of the missing child, the respect in Malik’s tired eyes… It was to admit that the world was less knowable, less controllable than he’d clung to all his life. He couldn’t go back, not now.
Nights became his territory. Not the comforting darkness of sleep, but a predator’s realm where shadows twisted and pulsed to their own malevolent rhythm. Oakland’s familiar geography warped. He’d stand at a bustling intersection, watching the stoplights change, and sense the wrongness in the flow of shadows, in the way a discarded newspaper trembled though there was no wind. A city once solid was now a maze of fragile illusions.
The Lullaby as Lifeline
In those moments, his Mama’s lullaby was his only lifeline. He’d whisper it under his breath, a quiet defiance against the encroaching madness and against the monstrous things the song seemed to stir. Once a comfort, it now drew attention: a homeless man cocking his head and muttering, “that tune ain’t right…” before melting back into the shadows; a sudden hush falling over a rowdy group of teens as they turned, the glint of predators in their eyes for a moment before laughter and bravado returned.
A change was happening, not just to the city, but to him. Was he drawing the unseen battles closer? Was the lullaby marking him, not guiding him, in this new, terrible war? The thought was a knife twisting slowly in his gut. If his desperate search was making things worse, what then? Was surrender his only weapon?
Desperation Grows
The search became ritual, a relentless, hopeless pilgrimage. The abandoned docks where the salt spray turned the moonlight oddly brittle, where he almost swore he saw the water rippling as if against a current no boat could cause. The crumbling graveyard on the hill, where he’d trace the worn lettering of tombstones, feeling a flicker of recognition in names he’d never known but sensed were… allies, perhaps, in a fight far older than any history book acknowledged.
Sleep became a hazy luxury he had to ration carefully, for his dreams were no longer refuge. Instead of jungle ambushes and faceless enemies, he found himself in vast, empty libraries where the books rustled as if turning their own unseen pages, or wandering gardens where flowers pulsed with their own grotesque heartbeat. In each dream, he sought a face, a voice, anything to break the terrible silence, but there was only him, and a sense of being observed, hunted.
The day he woke up with the faint, coppery taste of blood in his mouth, and a single black feather on his pillow – no bird he’d ever seen, its edges strangely sharp – he knew that whatever he searched for, had found him. It was no longer a question of whether to continue, but of how long he might have before the fragile boundary between worlds shattered completely, and the shadows bled through.
Let me know where you want to take Jack next! Should something finally break through, an undeniable taste of the supernatural? Or do we prolong the gnawing unease, escalating it until he’s forced to make a dangerous choice?
Chapter Four: The Shadow’s Embrace
The city started talking back. At first, it was nothing more than whispers carried on a fetid breeze down an empty alleyway, the faint, echoing clang of disused train tracks he knew weren’t there. But as the barriers wore thin, the whispers turned to laughter. A mocking, childlike giggle echoing from a storm drain. A guttural growl, inhuman in its depth, rumbling from beneath a parked car. And always, just below it all, the steady hum of his Mama’s lullaby, warped now, twisted into something mournful that throbbed at the base of his skull.
A New Kind of Hunt
Jack, the one-time hunter, found the roles unsettlingly reversed. Things observed him, circling warily. His footsteps echoed too loudly in deserted streets, drawing attention from the shadows that clung to doorways, the too-empty windows of abandoned buildings. The streetlights, once beacons of however false a safety, now felt accusing. Their harsh glow stripped away the comforting illusions, revealing too-sharp angles, the impossibly long limbs of a gnarled tree, patterns in the cracks of the sidewalk that shifted and writhed in the corner of his eye. He started carrying a flickering oil lamp – the shadows it cast were less defined, strangely comforting.
Even his reflection betrayed him. Sometimes the man in the grimy mirror was his familiar, haunted self. Other times, the eyes gleamed with something far older and crueler, the angle of his jaw seemed unnaturally sharp, a predator’s silhouette replacing the soldier’s stoic facade. Was this his true form emerging, his human self the fading illusion? The thought sent a spike of panic through him, making him drop the mirror and listen to the echoes of its shattering fade.
The Mark of the Shadows
It began with small changes. Chalk lines appearing on his hands overnight, patterns that felt less drawn than carved into his skin. A growing intolerance of sunlight, his skin prickling uncomfortably even on overcast days. Food lost its taste, water left a metallic tang on his tongue only he seemed to notice. The world itself was dulling… or was his connection to it fraying, leaving him as adrift and isolated as the things creeping at the edges of his sight?
And then, the shadows started clinging. Not just looming but wrapping around him, an icy breath against his skin even in the summer swelter. He’d catch sight of his shadow on the cracked sidewalk, and it was never quite right – too-limbed, shifting and rippling with its own obscene life. It took all his soldier’s discipline not to turn and run, not to open fire even though the only ammo he had was his growing, terrible certainty.
Crossing the Threshold
The pawn shop, with its smell of dust and decay, became a perverse sort of sanctuary. The old woman behind the counter watched him with unreadable eyes, never commenting on how his clothes grew more ragged, his face more gaunt with each visit. Her wares, once dismissed as junk, were now cryptic guides: a tarnished music box playing a hauntingly discordant tune, a silver charm shaped like a gnarled tree that pulsed with heat against his skin. He’d clutch these fetishes, feeling mocked and yet reassured by their existence. It meant he wasn’t mad, that the world he was stumbling into had objects, rules… perhaps even a language he might still be able to learn.
One night, as he stared at the charm burning a hole in his palm, he spoke aloud for the first time in days. Not a plea, but a statement of defiance, his voice thick with desperation and the strange formality of a man facing a court-martial. “I know you’re here,” he rasped, the pawn shop’s silence somehow amplifying his solitary voice. “So… what’s next?”
The music box, silent for weeks, began playing faintly. Its broken tune was horribly familiar. He recognized his Mama’s lullaby, distorted, a mockery… and yet, the first clear answer he’d gotten in his relentless quest. It wasn’t a summoning, but a challenge. Not a sanctuary that would break his fall, but a battlefield that was choosing its soldier. Jack was no longer searching for the unseen war, it had claimed him.
Chapter Five: In the Belly of the Beast
It started with hunger, not the gnawing kind his time in the jungle had acquainted him with, but a ravenous, twisting thing that gnawed at him from the inside out. Even the stale bread left as offerings at the cemetery tasted of ash in his mouth. It wasn’t just his body that craved sustenance, but something newly monstrous within him that demanded a different kind of nourishment.
Fear, that ever-present companion, became a delicacy. He couldn’t resist the places where shadows writhed most thickly: a fight breaking out on a street corner, the scene of a car wreck where the tang of spilled gasoline mingled with the metallic scent of fear. He’d linger on the outskirts, an unwelcome voyeur of emotions that were no longer his own, feeding on the raw terror in a woman’s eyes or the adrenaline-fueled rage of a cornered man. The old guilt would surface briefly, but it was drowned beneath a surge of something monstrously satisfying.
Sight became a curse. The warped, lurking shapes weren’t just at the periphery anymore. A child’s skipping rope abandoned on a stoop twisted like a snake, hissing in languages he half-understood. The cracks in the sidewalk weren’t just patterns, but glyphs of power that made his skin crawl with a strange, intoxicating energy. Each distortion of the world was both horrifying and a clue to this new reality, a language he was desperately, sickeningly, learning to speak.
The Transformation
His apartment, once a haven, became his prison. Sunlight through the threadbare curtains turned razor-sharp, burning his skin in angry stripes. The lullaby, now an inescapable soundtrack, seemed to seep not from the speakers but from the walls themselves, a constant reminder of the monstrous path he’d stumbled upon. The fleeting, half-formed shadows swirling in the dust motes, the distorted echo of his own ragged breathing… they mocked him, a grotesque choir heralding his becoming.
He tried to fight. Each morning was an act of defiance. He’d force his aching body to run, mimicking the training drills of a life left behind, trying to sweat the monster out. But his reflection in the grimy windows was the true testament to his transformation. Eyes sunken and ringed with black, limbs strangely elongated, the shadow he cast now flickered and twisted of its own accord. With chilling realization, he understood. He was no longer casting a shadow, he was wearing it.
The Breaking Point
It came, as all his darkest moments had, in the ruins of the playground. Laughter had replaced the lost child’s cry, but not the joyous shrieks of children at play. It was a hollow, grating sound, coming from under the slide, from the shifting pools of impossible darkness.
Jack approached, not with the lullaby on his lips but a wordless snarl in his throat. Whatever shred of the soldier remained was gone, replaced by raw, predatory instinct. He was no longer the hunted, but the rival. He’d snatch what he could from the shadows, feast on their stolen joy, and maybe, just maybe, it would buy him a few more scraps of the humanity he’d so desperately clung to.
But as he plunged his arm into the yawning darkness, an icy hand closed around his wrist. The nails were too long, the skin unnaturally slick, and there was a whisper echoing against his skull: “Wrong tribute, brother…”
The world exploded into blinding pain, and then – blackness.
The Cliffhanger
Did Jack die? Was he captured, dragged further into the monstrous realm? Was this a rescue of sorts by some yet-unseen force?
The oppressive humidity in the Vietnamese jungle clung to Sergeant Blake like a second skin, a suffocating blanket that stole his breath with every labored inhale. Sweat beaded on his forehead, blurring the line between the camouflage paint smeared there and the grime of war etched into every crevice of his face. He crouched low, the familiar weight of his M16 a grounding constant amidst the swirling chaos of his thoughts. Unlike the usual patrols, this one reeked of secrecy, a clandestine operation whispered about in hushed tones, even amongst the hardened veterans of Bravo Company.
Unlike the grunts tasked with the daily grind of firefights and recon missions, Blake and his squad were on a different kind of mission. No enemy positions to map, no Viet Cong tunnels to clear. This one dealt in shadows and whispers, an operation shrouded in more secrecy than a CIA black site. Intel spoke of a “lost artifact,” something the brass believed held the key to turning the tide of the war. But “lost artifact” sounded like a fairy tale to Blake. He dealt in realities: the relentless Viet Cong snipers who turned foliage into a deadly game of hide-and-seek, the booby-trapped paths disguised as innocent trails, the corrosive fear that gnawed at your insides even during the brief, deceptive moments of quiet.
He stole a glance at Ramirez, his squad leader, a wiry Puerto Rican whose dark eyes held the weight of too many battles and too much loss. Ramirez’s gaze mirrored Blake’s own – a mix of skepticism and grim determination etched into his weathered face. Behind them, the rest of the squad followed suit, a tight-knit group of weary soldiers burdened by the weight of suspicion and the oppressive jungle air. They were a world away from the familiar chaos of base camp, deep in uncharted territory where sunlight struggled to pierce the tangled canopy. The dense foliage, a spiderweb of overgrown trails and ancient ruins swallowed by the relentless vegetation, pressed in on them from all sides. The air itself crackled with an unsettling energy, like the jungle held its breath, waiting for their intrusion. The whispers about the artifact mentioned an ancient curse, a chilling rumor that sent shivers down Blake’s spine even in the suffocating heat.
As they inched forward, a flicker of movement in the dense undergrowth caught Blake’s eye. His body tensed, the adrenaline surge a familiar jolt that narrowed his vision to the rifle sight. Before he could react, Ramirez slammed a hand on his shoulder, the silent command understood instantly: hold your fire. This wasn’t the enemy they were trained to fight. This was something… else. Their covert mission, shrouded in secrecy from the start, was taking a terrifying turn. Sergeant Blake had a sinking feeling that they were about to stumble upon a secret far older and more monstrous than the war itself.
The relentless Vietnamese sun beat down through the dense canopy, a suffocating heat that seemed to sap the very will to fight from Sergeant Blake’s bones. Sweat blurred the camouflage paint on his forehead, mixing with the grime of war etched into every crevice of his face. He crouched low, the M16 in his hands a familiar weight amidst the unfamiliar disquiet gnawing at his gut. This patrol wasn’t like the others. No enemy gunfire echoed through the emerald labyrinth, no reassuring thud of mortar rounds punctuated the tense silence. This mission, shrouded in secrecy from the very beginning, felt like a descent into a waking nightmare.
Whispers of a “lost artifact” had swirled through Bravo Company like smoke from a distant fire – whispers fueled by paranoia and the soul-crushing weight of a war that stretched on endlessly. Lost artifact? It sounded like some fever dream dreamt up by a war-weary grunt in the dead of night. Blake, a man forged in the brutal crucible of the battlefield, scoffed at the notion. Yet, here he was, leading his squad deeper into this uncharted territory, the air thick with an unsettling energy that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
Ramirez, his ever-reliable Puerto Rican squad leader, moved beside him with a silent grace honed by countless patrols. His dark eyes, usually holding a weary skepticism, flickered with a spark of something akin to dread. They were veterans, men who had stared death in the face countless times, yet the dense jungle hummed with a different kind of threat here. An ancient, primal threat that sent shivers down spines accustomed to the wet sting of fear.
The trail narrowed, choked by thick vines and moss-covered stones. The air grew heavy, the oppressive silence broken only by the rasp of their own breathing. Then, the foliage abruptly yielded, revealing a sight that sent a tremor of awe – and unease – through Blake. A temple, half-devoured by the relentless jungle, loomed before them. Its architecture was unlike anything he’d ever seen, or even imagined. Carvings depicting grotesque creatures and rituals he couldn’t decipher adorned the crumbling walls. The stones themselves seemed to pulse with a faint, malevolent energy. Blake’s heart hammered in his chest, a primal fear battling with the soldier’s instinct to push forward.
As they cautiously ventured closer, a single inscription on the weathered stone archway caught Blake’s eye. It was unlike any alphabet he knew, yet a single word, etched in swirling symbols, resonated with a chilling familiarity: Elora. The name hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. Elora. The whispers back at base camp, dismissed as fever dreams, now felt like a chilling prophecy. This lost artifact, this temple… they were connected to something far older and more terrifying than the war they were fighting. And Sergeant Blake, along with his weary squad, had stumbled right into its heart.
Now, a new kind of fear gnawed at him, a cold dread that eclipsed the ever-present fear of the Viet Cong. This wasn’t just about the enemy anymore. This was about something primal, something that lurked in the shadows of history, and Sergeant Blake, a hardened soldier in a modern war, felt utterly unprepared.
Sergeant Blake stared at the crumbling archway, the word ELORA burning into his retinas. An unnerving hum, a thrum vibrating the very air itself, swelled around them. The inscription didn’t just hold his gaze; it seemed to draw it inward, the letters swirling like smoke caught in an unseen draft.
Ramirez mirrored Blake’s apprehension, his finger twitching near his rifle’s trigger. “Sarge…” His word was swallowed by a sound both impossibly ancient and chillingly immediate: a low, reverberating groan emanating from the heart of the temple.
The jungle itself seemed to recoil. Even the relentless thrum of insects faded into a stunned hush. Sunlight dappling the moss and vines took on a strange quality, less light and more of an echo of brightness, as if the true source was being sucked away through the temple’s gaping maw.
“Fall back!” Blake barked. Yet, his squad stood rooted to the spot, faces mirroring his own frozen horror. It wasn’t discipline that held them, but a primal terror seeping from the stones themselves.
The archway was changing. The inscription no longer carved, but flowing, swirling like ink spilled in water. Then a tremor, not in the earth under their boots, but a ripple in the very air, a distortion… like a predator rising from murky depths.
“Sarge…what the hell…” one of the men mumbled, voice rough with fear.
Blake knew the answer even as the impossibility of it echoed in his head – a vortex, shimmering and oily, was forming where solid stone had been. And it was growing, the air shimmering, the very colors of the jungle warping and twisting around what should not be.
A strangled cry from Ramirez broke the trance. One of the squad members, Thompson, was being dragged inexorably forward. His boots dug into the earth, but he slid, horribly graceful, like a dancer in some macabre ballet.
Without conscious thought, Blake lunged forward. His grip on Thompson’s arm was futile – the force wasn’t of muscle, but some unnatural suction pulling him toward the impossible shimmering within that archway.
“Sarge!” Thompson’s eyes bulged with primal terror, and in that one look, Blake saw their fate reflected. He wouldn’t let his man vanish just… like that.
Blake braced himself, anchored his boots against a gnarled jungle root. It was a madman’s struggle, and he knew it. His muscles screamed, his shoulder was dislocating with agonizing slowness.
“Leave him, Blake!” Ramirez’s voice, rough with desperate command, was barely audible over the roar now surging from the depths of the temple.
Another vortex, smaller but just as hungry, was opening beneath Thompson. The ground warped, then flowed like water around his thrashing form. He was sinking, not into mud, but some yawning, shimmering void.
Blake made his choice. With one last surge of desperate strength, he yanked his arm free. Thompson disappeared with a sickening slurp – not a scream, simply the cessation of sound itself.
Blake, Ramirez, and the rest stumbled back, staring in horror at the impossible sight. Two shimmering holes now marred the once-solid archway, whirlpools of unnatural darkness rippling amidst the ancient stones. Where Thompson had been, only trampled ferns and a chilling emptiness remained.
Then, that impossible, guttural roar surged outward, a wave of force that sent them sprawling. Blake’s ears popped, his vision blurring. Through the haze of pain and disorientation, he saw his men scrambling, struggling to their feet with the same desperate fear in their eyes. Whatever this was, whatever they’d unleashed… it wasn’t over.
Echoes of Elora: A Sergeant’s Descent
The steamy Mekong Delta air clung to Sergeant Darius Blake like a second skin. Sweat beaded on his forehead, blurring the camouflage paint that mirrored the disquiet churning in his gut. Unlike the usual Viet Cong patrols, this one reeked of secrecy, a whisper operation even amongst the battle-hardened men of Bravo Company. Unlike the fresh-faced draftees, Blake, a seasoned African American soldier, carried the weight of years in Vietnam on his broad shoulders. He’d seen it all – ambushes in the jungle’s emerald labyrinth, mortar attacks that turned the night sky into a fiery kaleidoscope, the haunted eyes of his brothers lost in battle. Yet, this mission sent shivers down his spine.
Whispers of a “lost artifact,” fueled by paranoia and the soul-crushing weight of the war, had swirled through Bravo Company. Lost artifact? It sounded like some fever dream dreamt up by a war-weary grunt. Yet, here he was, leading his own squad – a mix of veterans and rookies – deeper into uncharted territory, the oppressive silence broken only by the rasp of their own breathing and the unsettling hum of the jungle itself.
Leading the way was Corporal Ramirez, a wiry Puerto Rican with a quiet intensity that belied his battlefield prowess. They trusted each other’s instincts, a bond forged in the crucible of firefights and the camaraderie that bloomed amidst the horrors of war. Today, those instincts screamed caution.
The trail narrowed, choked by thick vines and moss-covered stones. The air grew heavy, the silence broken only by the rustle of unseen creatures. Then, the foliage abruptly yielded, revealing a sight that sent a tremor of awe – and unease – through Blake. A temple, half-devoured by the relentless jungle, loomed before them. Its architecture was unlike anything he’d ever seen, a grotesque symphony of carved stone depicting rituals and creatures straight from nightmares.
The air crackled with a malevolent energy. Blake, a man who’d stared death in the face countless times, felt a primal fear grip him. As they cautiously ventured closer, a single inscription on the weathered stone archway caught his eye. It wasn’t English, or Vietnamese, yet a single word resonated with chilling familiarity: Elora.
The name hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. Elora. The whispers back at base camp, dismissed as fever dreams, now felt like a chilling prophecy. This lost artifact, this temple… they were connected to something far older and more terrifying than the war they were fighting. And Sergeant Blake, along with his handpicked squad, had stumbled right into its heart.
Suddenly, the air shimmered, and a low, guttural groan emanated from the temple’s depths. The jungle itself seemed to recoil. Even the relentless thrum of insects faded into a stunned hush. The inscription on the archway began to writhe, the letters swirling like smoke caught in an unseen draft. A vortex, shimmering and oily, ripped open where solid stone had been. It grew, warping the very fabric of reality, an unnatural hunger radiating from its core.
Fear locked the squad in place. Then, with a horrifying shriek, one of the rookies, Miller, was snatched into the vortex. Blake reacted instinctively, lunging for his comrade. But the force wasn’t something he could fight with bullets or brawn. It was a primal pull, a hunger that transcended the battlefield.
Ramirez roared, dragging Blake back. Together, they scrambled away, the vortex spitting out a sickening spray of green mist where Miller had been. Two more vortexes pulsed in the archway, hungry mouths yearning to consume.
Blake, panting, rage and fear warring within him, knew they couldn’t stay. “Fall back!” he yelled, his voice hoarse. The jungle floor pulsed with an unnatural energy, making their retreat a desperate scramble. Behind them, the temple roared its defiance, the echoes chasing them through the dense undergrowth.
They stumbled back to base camp, a shaken and broken unit. Sleep was a distant dream, replaced by the chilling memory of the vortex and the word that hung heavy in the air: Elora. Sergeant Blake, a leader forged in the fires of war, knew they’d awakened something ancient and monstrous. He just prayed they had enough time to figure out what it was, and how to stop it, before it consumed them all.