text: The sound of the desperate wailing banshee cries of the grieving woman were broken only by the thunderous, booming clap of the rotors as the bird descended down into the sizable forest clearing, onto a makeshift landing pad, throwing up fountains of the fallen yellow red leaves as it did. A passerby hiker with no context to the events might have guessed that this was some sort of expensive private vehicle show which a pampered young billionaire had decided to hold in the local state park, for some reason. Henderson, a man in his later forties, with disheveled greying hair, wearing a worn and dirty ranger uniform had really wished it to be exactly that as he sat helpless on the trunk of a fallen tree. He looked out at the array of technology which was as if on parade in the clearing. Several ATVs had been arranged in neat little rows, each equipped with high powered lights, specialized tires and luggage attachments on the back filled with a variety of supplies. They stood next to several large canopies, the ones that you’d typically see at your local fair, under which were a tangled jungle of electronics and cables with a mountain of various assorted backpacks of the staff and volunteers lying beside it. The bird was a brightly orange colored former military “Huey” of Vietnam era fame with the words “Search and Rescue” written on it’s side in clear black paint. A strange device which at first glance may have looked like a threatening machine gun, a leftover from its war days, was in reality an expensive new thermal camera which was attached next to the side door of the helicopter. It, along with some of the ATVs, and a good portion of the volunteers were from out of state in a “Custer’s Last Stand” of sorts. Just half a week ago was it, indeed, just days ago Henderson thought, damn how long those four days had seemed since the disappearance of Jake Fulton and Catherine Helsak. They were a young teen couple, enjoying a gap year together before they were forcefully separated by destiny, he was planning to start work at a local mechanic’s shop while she had bigger plans and wanted to attend a fancy out-of-state university. Not allowing their Romeo and Juliet complex to stop them, they decided to go on a final fling before the start of school and their separation. By all accounts they had driven over to Lewiston Gap State Park at around noon on Friday, checking in at 2:00pm at the campground, and planned to leave early on Monday. When the local campground attendant saw that they were late to check out, he went down to their campsite, number 4 at 11:00pm on Monday just to find a dark, silent and most importantly empty campsite. The door to their cheap blue tent was torn open from the inside with considerable force as evidenced by the severe stretch marks on the nylon material, which in places had completely separated from the zipper. Dogs and Search and Rescue teams were first brought on site the very next morning, but still, it was nearly a day since the supposed time of disappearance. Henderson was there, every step of the way as a veteran park ranger with fifteen years of experience working at this park, he was among those first responders, and back then they still had hope. That's when things began to go wrong, right at the beginning of the search operation. The dogs combed the campsite, it was an open space of about ten by fifteen feet, just enough room for a tent, a fire pit and a nearby old, half rotten wood picnic table and a car parked in the dirt driveway leading up to it. Situated on a raised elevation of about twenty feet or so, a path led down the hillside and through a thick crown of pines which ringed the hilltop camp, down into a large open clearing nearby a sizable stream. It was a minor tributary that eventually flowed into the reservoir at the center of the park. The dogs sniffed and searched but Catherine’s scent was entirely just gone, as if she had just been picked up into the sky and right off the face of the planet. They did manage to pick up a faint scent when given some of Jake’s clothes, strangely it led away from the campsite, through the pines and dissipated into uncertainty near the sandy bank of the creek. That was where the SAR operation ground to a halt, they sent out single searchers on foot into the surrounding wilderness and divers combed the creek to find a body. Those divers seemed to be in the water for hours for the next three days, but the most that they dug up was a rusty pocket knife that somebody dropped, judging by the rust it seemed to be in there for half a year, so it definitely couldn’t have been Jake’s. Henderson was one of the searchers who were sent out on foot into the woods. There were ten of them in total, they were given a 5 mile radius of search area from the clearing, it was a huge area but they would walk through the woods and call out Jake’s and Catherine’s names but to no avail. There was no answer, just the heavy dread of the wet, mossy pines and sprawling leafy branches of the oaks high above which felt like an immense stone crushing your ribcage, pulling the air out of your lungs and not allowing you to breathe fully. It was on the third day of the initial search when it happened. They had gone out on a search in the mid-afternoon and they started only heading back when Apollo had ridden below the horizon on his golden chariot and replacing him came Selene. The darkness only compounded the feeling of unease, Henderson had to push himself, his legs were sore from the miles he had walked, and he was barely awake enough to avoid the thorny bushes on the sides of the trails, usually of an unknown species and the thick vines of poison oak which like pythons hung from the trees. That’s when he heard the scream. In the distance, he didn’t know how far away, but even then it was loud. There were no words in that scream, but Henderson didn’t need them to understand the immense feelings of fear and pain that it carried with them. He broke into a run, quickly, faster and faster, the feeling of absolute fear and the instinct of self-preservation flooded his senses, snapping him out of his tiredness and pushing his body to his limits, with torrents of sweat forming under his uniform and sliding down his skin, soaking his hair and clothing. One step, a jump to avoid a jutting out root, a dodge to avoid a thorny vine, another step, another step, everything was a blur. Henderson broke through the treeline and his boot sank ankle deep into the soft, muddy silt at the bank of the creek, he had made it into the clearing. He lost his balance and nearly collapsed face first into the dark rushing creek when a hand grabbed him and pulled him up, it was his co-worker and long time buddy, Franklin. “You alright, man?” Franklin asked in a worried tone, his voice was quivering. Looking up Henderson saw the blinding lights of handheld flashlights and camping lanterns rapidly approaching him. “Yeah, seem to be...” Henderson began before being cut off by a collective sigh of relief from the others which joined the lonely howl of the night breeze. “I ran because I heard the scream, what was that?” Franklin didn't respond at first, just looked back out into the circle of blackness which completely surrounded the lit up clearing, the trees waved in the slight wind, angrily shaking their branches in unison, as if part of one organism. “It’s Garthorn, he never made it back.” Garthorn, also Henderson’s colleague, was the only person at the park office with more experience than Henderson. A former Navy Seal, Garthorn was always a stern yet calm older gentleman who had turned 50 just this year, a secretive fellow he never told anyone much about his life, especially about the war. Nobody asked in any case, everybody could guess what happened, so silence was a sign of respect. And respect was well deserved, aside from his military service, he had earned his reputation as an expert woodsman and an amazing hunter, a crack shot with an old M1 which he always had with him in his truck. Out of anybody, Henderson didn’t expect Garthorn to encounter any trouble. Maybe it was a predator, a bear or a mountain lion perhaps, ambushing the poor man from the undergrowth? Perhaps. But, Garthorn was a “sizeable” fellow, and Henderson just couldn’t believe that a beast could’ve gotten him in one bite, he must’ve known if he was going into bear or mountain lion country, he had known these woods like the back of his hand, even in the dark. Why didn’t he fight back? He was armed, and with his history, there should have been a gunshot, or some sort of struggle... And the scream, that scream, why was it so short? “Are you sure that he isn't on his way back?” Henderson asked, “Last thing we heard from him he was heading back, was nearly here when he just cut off, we never heard a scream however, so that’s just you. We sent some guys to check it out. They found nothing, absolutely nothing. We need to get the dogs out there tomorrow morning, but now, nobody goes out there alone anymore.” Franklin solemnly but confidently stated. “We contacted the National Guard, they should be here tomorrow as well, we stay put for now.” The rest of the volunteers returned home and only Henderson, Franklin and three others stayed behind, huddled around a small fire, the flames dancing to the beat of it’s lively crackling, holding the deafening silence of the night forest at bay. The morning came to life with the roar of engines. The next day was spent circling the surrounding area far and wide for any trace of either Jake, Catherine or Garthorn, and none was found. Today with the newly arrived chopper things might be different, Henderson thought. No, he didn’t think that, he hoped for it because there was no evidence for him to base his thoughts off of. “Henderson, we're planning to go up again in ten, get ready if you want to join us.” came a yell from a man, the pilot, who groaned as he dismounted the cockpit of the Huey. The young man tore the heavy helmet off of his head, placing it haphazardly on the ground and hurried over to a large bucket of water, filled up a cup and emptied it, all in one gulp. Henderson readied himself, making sure all his gear was strapped securely to his duty belt, most importantly his treasured M9. He along with three others, climbed into the helicopter and strapped themselves into the seats, donning the headsets. A large screen which was connected to the thermal camera displayed a sea of re, orange and purple-ish blue. The pilot promptly returned, resuming his position in the cockpit and slowly, the rotors came back to life and the engines once again belched hot air, silencing the two crying women, the mothers of Jake and Catherine. The machine shuddered and before he could blink, Hendrson felt the Huey buckle and began rising into the sky. As they soared above the treetops, Henderson looked out at the screen of the thermal camera, the camera’s operator, a National Guardsman, same as the pilot, slapped the display, visibly irritated. “Classic percussive maintenance?” Henderson leaned over out of reflex and spoke into the headset. “Aye, sir, damn thing keeps displaying wrong temperature readings.” the camera operator responded before slapping the monitor again. “And why is that?” Henderson asked, puzzled, to him what the monitor showed now, aglow with colors, was no less legible than an alien’s abstract art piece. “You see this?” the operator gestured toward the screen with his gloved hand. “See what exactly?” Henderson asked. “Here,” the operator pressed a few buttons and the camera rotated a little to the left. The screen did change colors, Henderson admitted, despite being rotated to face a nearly identical patch of trees. Instead of the bluish hue previously shown, an irregular shape appeared, colored yellow orange and stretching out outside of the camera view. “And the significance of that is?” Henderson inquired. “Usually, trees would show up as usually somewhere around 50-55 Farenheit, that's the blue purple coloration, but this trash here is telling me that a patch of ground and the trees on it, right around the campsite about 2 miles by 2 miles has the same temperature as a human body, 98 Farenheit.” the operator explained matter of factly. The Huey jerked to one side, flying erratically. The thermal camera operator was nearly thrown from his seat, the web of straps creaking but holding him in place. “What the hell!” Henderson heard through the headset. “Turbulence? At this altitude?” Henderson murmured to none in particular. He looked out to see a pine tree, to extend, grow an additional 15 feet, nearly swatting the Huey. Another treetop, an oak, flashed just outside the open door. Problem is they were 150 feet high. Suddenly Henderson’s whole world shook and began to turn 50 degrees to the side. The last thing he remembered was a blurry orange glow of flames on the left engine, and the chopper careening into a sea of trees. Then darkness... “A strange smell...” “Pain?” “Pain in my leg?” Henderson’s thoughts flashed before his closed eyes. Another jolt of excruciating pain tore through his leg, he couldn’t move it. At least he was alive, alive, yes, it seemed he wasn’t dead yet. Carefully he opened his eyes, with leaves and mold meeting his gaze, he was lying face first in the soft, wet and mossy ground of the forest floor. Carefully he tried to lift himself up and turn around. However he found that he was still strapped into his seat. Carefully reaching with his hand he pressed the button on the buckle, releasing him. He tried to turn now, his attempt was only partially successful, only managing to turn onto his side without causing another jolt of pain. He looked down at his hurting leg, a shard of bone had pierced his lower right leg, almost slicing completely through his calf muscle, and soaking his pant leg with blood. Similarly with his left, he couldn’t move it either, both his legs were broken. Unable to do much about it now, Henderson gasped, his brow wet with cold sweat and looked around some more. His pained gaze darted over the twisted fuselage of the Huey which was suspended several feet in the air, held aloft by a tree trunk which directly impaled the cockpit, as well as the metallic bacon that had once been the tail of the helicopter, wrapping around the lower branches of another tree. Two bodies still hung lifelessly in the hull of the crashed chopper, the blunt force trauma of the intense whiplash killing them instantly. The pilot was most surely dead as well, judging by the blood dripping from the broken windshield where the tree trunk had impaled it. That only left him, and, and the thermal camera operator, Henderson remembered the only other person who was in the helicopter with them. He scanned around and saw the man lying nearby, just fifteen feet away, but he couldn’t tell if he was dead or not. “I have to call for help, somebody is bound to hear me!” Henderson thought out loud. “There! I hear it, the rumble of an engine!” A deep rumble was indeed audible, just with one tiny gimmick. It wasn’t coming from the north, south, east or west, as if those words meant anything to Henderson. Nor did it come from the sky, but instead, and it took a minute for this reality to register inside of Henderson’s head, it came from *below* him, from the ground. The rumble continued, growing louder but not by much, then the ground began to vibrate, and more than that, Henderson could’ve sworn that he felt something large *move* underneath him, up and down as if the ground was breathing, disturbing the earth all around. But nothing could’ve prepared him for what he saw next, the trees which held the wreck of the Huey up, simply *shifted* to the side. The helicopter wreck fell to the forest floor which in the span of about a minute had seemed to completely come to life, shaking as if in an earthquake, a plausible explanation if Henderson couldn’t have seen the ground 300 feet away, which was completely still. Still shaking, and getting more intense by the second, the soil around the Huey began to liquify, as the wreck sank into the dirt. Within another two minutes, everything stabilized and returned to normal, the birds were chirping and the ground wasn’t moving, but Henderson’s eyes were transfixed to the spot where the helicopter *was*, now there was nothing there, nothing at all, not even a tiny scrap of wreckage. He didn’t know what to do, what was there to do? He yelled and screamed, he unholstered his M9 and fired into the air three times, no response. He lay there for hours, the sun began to dip, and then the rumble came again. This time the ground opened up around the motionless thermal camera operator. Henderson could see a glimpse of something under the ground, something fleshy. He began shooting at whatever it was. One of the bullets hit a nearby tree which began to ooze not amber sap, but deep red blood. Then, the man was pulled under the earth as the ground turned into what was effectively muddy water, he was gone in five seconds. That left only Henderson, he knew he was next. He didn’t have to wait long. As the ground began to shake again beneath him, but he was ready. He racked the slide of his M9 one last time, the last round in the magazine was now in the chamber. He felt something, wet, slimey, pulsating with muscle, flesh and saliva and very much alive as he began to sink down into the earth. One single tear rolled down his cheek, he raised the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger. No one was there to hear the gunshot, except the birds, the insects and Mother Earth.