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The jungle fit his needs like a glove. It was a brutal environment, contrary to what idealistic conservationists thought, temperatures soaring to unbelievable highs coupled with total humidity. The wildlife was unafraid of humans, having been left undisturbed for so long, and challenged him, a new predator in their land. He quickly learned that whatever his past had been, violence had been a chief part of it.
A jaguar, larger than one should have been, had decided that it would rather take his kill than make one of its own. It was the size of a large dog, and quite capable of killing him, if he wasn’t careful. It was approaching him as if he were another aggressive male—which, he supposed, was true. He responded in kind, standing to his full height. From the humans he’d seen, he’d determined he was of above average height, and easily towered over the jaguar. Green eyes locked with yellow, staring, intimidating. He slowly approached, the kill—an unlucky bird—forgotten behind him. The jaguar snarled, trying to keep its menacing appearance, lashing out with a razor-clawed paw. He dodged, lashing out with the metal hand at the same time.
He got lucky, catching the cat a powerful blow to the head, leaving it dazed, all the fight knocked out of it. He’d noticed that was how the jungle worked—nothing fought to the death, and it was usually the one who put on the best show that won. A decent act was just as good as having physical prowess. If you could convince your foe that you were tougher, stronger, and meaner than he, he’d back off, rather than getting hurt.
Ignoring the jaguar, he turned back to his bird, scooping it up. He carried it in one hand as he climbed the tree, taking the safest way to his dwelling.
It was a humble place, a large tree that had fallen in the last wet season, lying on its side. With a great deal of time and tenacity, he had worked through the tough outer skin, finding the hollowed center. With more time, he’d managed to make a suitable den for himself. It was really just a place to get out of the elements and store what food he gathered. He’d discovered, unlike the other animals in the jungle, he didn’t need the cycle of sleep and wake, at least, not to the extremes they did.
He plucked the bird, thinking that food hadn’t always been this way. A memory surfaced of a creamy white substance, covered in a thick brown liquid. It had been hot, tasting bland and meaty at the same time. He shook his head. Memories like this weren’t bad, just distracting, especially when faced with the prospect of raw parrot for his meal.
~*~*~
For the remainder of the wet season and a portion of the dry, he lived like this, relatively undisturbed. He had his own territory and the other predators respected that. Mostly, they were content to let him have it, as it was closest to humans. He watched them, the humans, on the fringes of his land. The occasional brave soul ventured into his territory, but never very far into it. They feared what they didn’t understand, and the rumor of a man living in the jungle was something that no one could understand, the act of a desperate man, or so they thought.
He became something of an urban legend, the wild man in the jungles near the fringes of civilization. No one was able to pin down if he truly existed or not, and most thought of him as some sort of boogeyman that was a figment of a drunken or stoned imagination.
~*~*~
Desperation drives men to do extreme things. In this case of desperation, it drove this one, a man by the name of Schmitt, to find if the legendary jungle man existed.
Schmitt knew all the stories. They said he was tougher, fiercer, and more brutal than any other man alive. Schmitt hoped these stories were true, because he needed a man with just that kind of skill
He watched this strange man, average height for a human, a bit on the heavy side. He wasn’t dressed like the typical human that came into the jungle, but more like the men that came in the new cars, studying the land to see if any of it could be ‘reclaimed’ to civilization. The heavyset man had mousy brown hair, eyes of an indeterminable watery color, and a habit of tripping over everything that was more than three inches high. It made for easy tracking, though, and he soon realized he was looking for something. Now, he wondered, What are you looking for?
Schmitt had stopped for a breather. The thick, humid air wasn’t as kind on his lungs as the dry, recycled air he was used to breathing. Add in ten years of smoking, and he was in no condition to be tramping around a jungle for hours on end. He rubbed the back of his neck. Damn jungle bugs, never giving a man a moment’s peace.
This time, there was no bug there. Schmitt slowly realized it was the crawly feeling one got when being watched. Slowly, he turned, watery eyes wide and alarmed.
There. He. Was. |
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samma_knight's journal
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