There were too many ways to die in the jungle.
It had been a ferocious teacher， and in the past six
years he had damn near died from snakebite， from a half
dozen Asian diseases， from attacks by the CPT， the
~a% ~%q~e~Po! Pot s blood)~ sweeps， artillery from
various factions lobbing indiscriminate shells into the
bush. It had taught h~rn an anirna~ c~i~-
As he padded down the narrow trace through the
bush， his boots making little noise on the spongy ground，
his ears were sorting out the chatter of the monkeys
in the trees， the whistling calls of the birds in the mul-
titiered foliage overhead. His nose had picked up the
faint scent of smoke far off， not the usual burning of rice
straw or a fire to drive back the edge of the jungle， but a
mixture of smells， including the sweetish， nauseating
stink of burning flesh.
He began to trot， the .45 pistol heavy in the holster on
It the webbed belt around his middle， not a run， no， for the
heat would strike down a man who spen( too much en-
ergy too auickly. A trot， yes， the sweat pouring down
over the hard muscles of his bare back， the breath searing
in and out of his lungs， his legs hurting after the first
mile\"
The smell was stronger. He could see the smoke now，
a faint haze hanging in the trees， not even a hint of a
breeze to dispel it， and he cursed to himself. Goddamn，
again. Always again.
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