9-Drop at the Perimeter

The helicopter’s rotors carved through the thick air, kicking up a violent storm of leaves and dust below. The jungle rippled under the force, trees bending like they were bowing, vines thrashing against bark, the earth itself seeming to groan under the disturbance. The noise was deafening—an iron beast cutting through the sky, a temporary king over an ancient land.

Inside the cabin, no one spoke.

A sharp nod from the pilot. No ceremony. No good luck. Just business.

Adán dropped first, landing in a controlled crouch. His boots sank into the damp earth, and he straightened with practiced ease, scanning the perimeter. Ren followed, light on her feet, barely making a sound. Sophia landed harder, muttering a soft curse as she adjusted her stance. Helena’s landing was cautious, her eyes already sweeping the canopy with subtle unease. Franz came second to last, descending with deliberate calm, his face unreadable.

Emma dropped just after him. She hit the ground with a startled breath, stumbling a step before catching herself. Her hand immediately went to her waist—not for a weapon, but for the small notepad clipped there. She flipped it open without thinking, scribbling something down as her eyes darted across the dense treeline.

A sudden birdcall cracked the silence, and she jumped, shoulders tensing before she could stop herself.

“Just a bird,” she muttered under her breath, more to herself than anyone else. Her eyes lingered on the movement in the trees, lips pressed into a thin line.

She was trying to stay focused—fall back on logic, on routine—but the unfamiliar setting had her nerves running hot beneath her usual calm. The data would keep her grounded. So she kept writing, even as her hand trembled slightly.

“Environmental pressure seems elevated,” she noted softly, “...or maybe that’s just me.”

She didn’t smile at her own comment.

Above, the helicopter didn’t linger. It tilted, banking sharply before disappearing over the canopy, its sound swallowed by the expanse of green.

Gone.

Silence rushed in, thick and suffocating.

The jungle watched.

Humidity pressed against them like a second skin, wrapping around their limbs, sinking into their clothes. The jungle smelled alive—rich earth, damp foliage, the musk of something old and undisturbed. Towering ceiba trees stretched impossibly high, their roots sprawling across the forest floor in gnarled tangles. Vines draped like nature’s noose, shifting slightly, though there was no breeze.

Adán adjusted his pack, heavier than it looked, but well-fitted. His fingers flexed at his sides, restless energy coiled beneath his skin. Ren’s gaze flicked upward. Too quiet. Sophia sighed, shifting her weight. “Just a hike,” she muttered.

Franz unfolded a map, glancing between it and the terrain. "Thirty-five kilometers back. We push for twenty before nightfall."

Helena exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders. She squinted at the sky. Something was off.

Emma lingered near the rear, her fingers clutching the strap of her bag a little too tightly. Her hair was already sticking to her neck, her shirt damp with sweat. She glanced down at her notepad, made a quick note—something about soil density and leaf coloration—before catching up with the group. Every crackle of branches made her flinch, just slightly. Still, her voice remained level when she asked, “Do we have a contingency if something strays off the preserve?”

Adán cracked his neck, smirking. “Easy.”

Ren scoffed. “You say that now.”

They moved.

The jungle swallowed them.

—

There were no trails. No paths. Just a mess of roots, moss-slicked rocks, and the constant pull of uneven ground. The heat was unbearable, the air thick enough to drink. Every step required focus—misplace your foot, and you’d find yourself in the dirt or worse.

Adán took point, slipping through the undergrowth with effortless ease. Ren stayed close behind, moving with the same instinct. Franz checked the map too often. Sophia huffed under her breath, adjusting her pack every few minutes. Helena barely spoke, her eyes flicking toward the sky more than anything else.

And the jungle pulsed around them.

—

The jungle had changed around them as they moved. The air grew thicker, heavier. Each step was slower now, the ground softening beneath their boots as moisture seeped up from the earth. The ever-present humidity clung to their clothes, sweat mingling with the dampness in the air. It was becoming suffocating, oppressive. But it wasn’t the heat that made the hairs on the back of Adán’s neck stand up. It was the stillness.

They’d been walking for hours—several kilometers through dense foliage, the uneven terrain taking its toll. The trees, once seemingly eternal, now loomed like ancient giants. Vines tangled in their branches grew denser with each step. Every footfall seemed amplified, the crunch of dirt and leaves a loud interruption in the unnatural silence that had settled over the jungle.

Adán adjusted the straps of his pack. His shoulders ached under the weight, and the steady climb wasn’t helping. He felt it first—the shift in pressure, the heaviness in the air. Something was coming. Not just heat or humidity. The storm was near.

Ren was already looking up, her brow furrowed. When their eyes met, she gave him a small nod. She felt it too.

"Ren," Adán said, low but firm, "let's set up camp."

She didn’t hesitate, already digging into her gear.

Emma hesitated near the middle of the group, her fingers tight around her small waterproof notepad. She had paused more than once during the hike to scribble observations—soil composition, unusual fungal patterns, notes on leaf curl. But now her gaze lingered on the sky, and for the first time, her pen stilled. The swirling clouds above tugged at something in her gut. Her scientific mind wrestled with the facts, but her instincts were louder. She jumped slightly when a branch cracked somewhere behind them—just a monkey, probably, but her breath caught all the same.

“Pressure’s dropping fast,” she muttered, mostly to herself. Then louder: “We should listen to them. This doesn’t feel stable.”

Franz shot them a look, stopping in his tracks, gaze flicking toward the thickening canopy. “We can’t stop now,” he said sharply. "No reports from the DPW about a storm. We keep moving."

Sophia wiped her forehead with the back of her arm, glaring up at the sky. “Franz, we’re in Costa Rica. If we don’t stop, we’ll be setting up in the middle of a downpour.”

"Ren and I already see the signs. Trust us," Adán added, already unzipping his pack and stringing up a tarp between two trees, angling it carefully. His movements were fast, precise.

Franz checked his watch, jaw clenched. “The forecast’s clear. We’re not stopping over a guess.”

Emma stepped forward now, not confrontational but certain. “It’s not a guess,” she said. “There are temperature shifts, pressure drops, light refraction anomalies in the upper canopy. I’ve been tracking them for the last half hour.” She tucked her notepad away and adjusted her glasses. “We need to stop. Now.”

Ren shot her a look of appreciation and got back to staking down the tent.

Franz bristled, but the group’s momentum had already shifted. Helena spoke next, voice quiet but resolute. “We’re not going to outrun it.”

Franz exhaled through his nose, defeated. “Fine. But if this turns out to be nothing, I’m leading tomorrow.”

No one argued.

The wind began to pick up, rustling the canopy high above, shaking water loose. Thunder rolled across the distance. The temperature dropped, and with it, the air thickened into something heavy and electric.

Emma hovered near the tarp, her gaze darting across the treeline. Every rustle made her spine go stiff. But when she spoke again, her voice was calm. “We should brace it low. If the wind shifts, we’ll want minimal surface area exposed.”

Adán nodded. “Good call.”

The first raindrops began to fall. At first, a light patter. Then steady. Then a sheet.

The jungle changed again, darker, hungrier. They weren’t just isolated.

They were alone.

—