text: As the sun rises, the gunfire stops. Someone puts his hand on your shoulder.
  
  "Johnny, I know it's bad, but your men need you." You recognize Bronski's soft voice and dry your tears. You get up and wash your hands with your canteen, but suddenly you hear a cry of a pain from the camp. You jump in shock and reach for a rifle, only to see Bronski attempting to calm you down.
  
  "This is serious, then." You run back to camp, and see your men in a circle around the tree. Your eyes fall upon what they are looking at.
  
  Several of your men lie on the ground, twitching in pain. Their rolled-up sleeves reveal their veins, black as night, showing through their skin. Most are silent in their suffering, waving their heads and whispering words from feverish dreams. At the very least, they are stacked under the shade of the only tree in the clearing.
  
  Among them is your platoon medic, PFC "Doc" Roe. Private Lering is next to him, trying to comfort him but failing to hide his own distress at seeing his comrade wither away, even though they've never been on the best terms.
  
  Your mouth opening in shock, you yell "What the hell is going on here?"
  
  The Lieutenant walks up to you, a veneer of confidence on his pale face. "Sergeant, when the mist came, something attacked us from it. Some of our men report seeing bloody Viet Cong uniforms, even though you reported wiping them out yesterday. However, the worst happened after we drove them back, when the mist left."
  
  Bronski explains, "We all felt a chill after the mist left, and some even felt kind of sink. However, the men in front of you began showing symptoms. An unnatural darkening of the blood visible on the surface of the body. Their skin turning grey and peeling off. Pain and hallucinations. Medicine didn't work for them. Painkillers were ineffective and ran out fast." Bronski was studying nursing in college before enlisting in the Marines. What a waste, you think, but you're glad someone understand's what's going on.
  
  The Lieutenant says, "What's strange, though, is that only the men who you led in the ambush are sick."
  
  "They probably had been weakened by malaria and dysentry, though," replies Bronski.
  
  A decision needs to be made. Your platoon has several "wounded" and one dead. They need medevac, but you're lost and the radio isn't working. The diseased members of your platoons thrash and spasm in pain, making it impossible to transport them in stretchers. If you stay in this place, you are certain that everyone will die if the mist returns.
  
  Bronski argues, "We don't leave men behind! We stay here, and send a small party of men to search the surrounding area. If they can find help, or at least get our bearings, then we go."
  
  Shaking his head, the Lieutenant says, "I'm not sacrificing a whole platoon for a few men. We stay here, we will be butchered. We have to get moving, and unfortunately those wounded must stay here until we find help."
  
  After inconclusive arguing, they turn to you to break the deadlock. Staying would be a noble choice, part of the Marine code. Yet, you know more men will die if you do. You see Lance Corporal Simmons trying to comfort Private Lering, while a grave is dug for the Marine who died last night. You look at your men, at the fear in their eyes. You look at the newer Marines, their shaking hands as they try to muffle out the screams of their dying comrades. Their lives are in your hands. Shouldn't you try to save them?
  
  > leave the Wounded Behind
  Your men are gathered before you silent. You open your mouth to announce your decision, but the scream of a dying Marine interrupts you. When you do talk, it is barely a whisper.
  
  "We can't stay here. You know that just as well as I do. We must leave and find help, but we can't take the wounded with us."
  
  Arguments break out immediately. Your men are furious at your dishonorable orders. Some are secretly relieved, especially the conscripts, but show no outward support for you.
  
  "I'm not leaving Roe behind," yells Private Lering, and a few other men join with him in agreement.
  
  "Okay, if any of you wish to stay here, I will allow it," says the Lieutenant, but he fails to quell the anger of the platoon. You feel sick that you've decided to side with a man who's only out here to save his skin. However, there's no other way to keep your platoon alive.
  
  Bronski looks at your men with a forlorn gaze. "Johnny, why?"
  
  You stutter, "Bronski, it was the only-" but Bronski shakes his head and leaves your side. You observe the healthy men exchange their last farewells with the ones who decided to stay, before packing their tents and gear. All that's left is a small hospital tent, erected to house the diseased and give them a modicum of dignity.
  
  The rest of the platoon departs from the clearing, leaving behind eight men, four of whom are sick. To find your bearings, you decide to locate the river you'd crossed earlier, and travel along it in search of help. You take one final glance at the clearing, at the men left behind to die, who are staring at you emotionlessly.
  
  > Continue
  It takes hours to trudge back to the river, which is now stagnant and cloudy. You caution your men not to fill their canteens from it and continue along the river bank. It is late afternoon when you find something of interest.
  
  After walking around five miles, you find a rickety wooden bridge across a narrow part of the river. The jungle is incredibly thick here, so you can't imagine a village to be nearby. But the possibility is there.
  
  The Lieutenant inspects the bridge. "No more than a single man could walk across this. It might have been build by Viet Cong- there's no guarantee nearby villagers made it."
  
  Your men are disappointed by the news. Bronski interjects, saying, "We should still explore the area. If we can find a village, then we can find help!"
  
  The Lieutenant shoots back. "Stop with your prattling, Corporal Bronski. We are not going back into the thick of the jungle to get massacred by whatever's inside that mist. I spotted a large hill while we were walking a mile back. We should get on top and then look for villages or other landmarks. If we find nothing, we can still signal friendly aircraft with flares. I know we haven't heard a single helicopter around here for a while, but one surely one will see us at that height.
  
  "Wait!" You turn to see Lance Corporal Simmons, the scarred machine-gunner, speak out. "If there is a village nearby, then we could wait by this river for someone from the village to come here. We'll just stay for a day, and then keep going if no one comes."
  
  It's not a bad idea, but staying an extra day might be fatal considering that you're running out of food quickly. You were planning to find a defensible position for the night, which the bridge would not provide. However, if you can find a villager, then the extra risk could be worth it.
  
  > stay by the Bridge
  Diplomatically, you convince Bronski and the Lieutenant to stay by the bridge, meeting both of their plans halfway. Your men dig trenches a little farther away from the river, to avoid water getting inside. The platoon hunkers down for the night, anticipating a return of the mist.
  
  A red moon reflects off over the flowing river, casting everything in a bloody tint. In the dark, you watch with a "starlight" scope for anything threats or signs of danger. There's nothing yet. The jungle is quiet- no insects or birds seem to be around.
  
  You hear a bubbling sound coming from the river. The river flows faster and faster, foaming over its banks. Before you can alert your men, water begins flooding out of it, pouring into your trenches. You are swamped by the wave as you fight to get out of your foxhole. Your clothes are soaked completely, extra weight that drags you down as you try to help other men out of the trenches.
  
  The waves recede, replaced by a sound of something squirming from the river bank. You take out your flashlight and point towards the sound, revealing a black twitching wave converging on you. The wave is made up of leeches- thousands of leeches with glistening stingers. They squirm towards you quickly. You fire your rifle, but it jams after a few shots. An exploding grenade bows a hole into the wave, but it fails to even slow it down. Screams echo across your platoon as you try to run. The leeches sting you through your boots, your feet stiffening as their toxin enters your blood stream. You fall, englufed by the back wave.
  
  Pain hits you as the leeches latches on to every part of your body. You roll over, crushing the leeches on your back. More replace them. You die a slow death, listening to the screams of your men who you've failed. After the leeches leave, all that's left of you is a sunken, hollowed corpse. You've been consumed by the jungle.