Me Head

My Internship, The Second Month
by Jared Gilbert, Me Head Intern

  The fog is thick, and the sun's gaze, though temporarily covered by clouds, cuts like a knife when left unobscured. My sweat seems to come in waves; so does the rain. Ironic, it being monsoon season and my poncho sits at base camp.
  We're soaked. I haven't had a real meal in days, and all I can think about lately is the burning hunger I feel for a steady drink.
  Peruvian reconnaissance work for the KGB is difficult- I never expected otherwise- but no one ever bothered to tell me about the dog-sized mosquitoes or the unintelligible loony-man banter I'd hear from the dirty locals.
  "SHINIWI OKAWA SABI YATA!" they shout forcefully, hidden among the trees.
  "I'd kill for a screwdriver", I think, trodding slowly through the knee-deep foliage.
  My partner, Amber, shouts for help at my 7 o'clock. Drawing my .35, I fire two quick shots- then slide the pistol back into my muddied fatigues.
  "Dropped him", I think, bragging in an under-my-breath sort of way. "Like a brick."
  "Lord", I tell her. "You'd think after 12 years in the business one might have the foresight to always maintain SOP when running u-l drills, even if we are in the live zone. I mean, what were you thinking? I thought this was routine, LeFortune."
  "I know, but--he- he came out of nowhere", she says. "Like a phantom. I just looked over, and there he was, whimpering and hollering about God-knows-what."
  We press on, like a magnet on a fridge. After 15 years of this stuff, you think in a more specific manner than the average grunt might. No longer do we see colors, textures, frequencies- they've all faded with time. Instead things appear as that which can kill, and that which cannot--two narrow, and often closely related shades of gray. Real specific--life and death. Live or Die.
  Peru is that which can kill. Peru eats you alive, swallows the bones. Peru shows no mercy.
  Suddenly we hear a light rustle in the thick.
  "LOOK OUT AT YOUR NINE!" Jackie screams.
  A flash of branches, the dull sting of a spear in my side, and the blunt smack of the hot earth as I hit the ground.