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Back Into the Jungle Save as PDF
Contents ( 49)
  1. PROLOGUE
  2. ONE
  3. TWO
  4. THREE
  5. FOUR
  6. FIVE
  7. SIX
  8. SEVEN
  9. EIGHT
  10. NINE
  11. TEN
  12. ELEVEN
  13. TWELVE
  14. THIRTEEN
  15. FOURTEEN
  16. FIFTEEN
  17. SIXTEEN
  18. SEVENTEEN
  19. EIGHTEEN
  20. NINETEEN
  21. TWENTY
  22. TWENTY-ONE
  23. TWENTY-TWO
  24. TWENTY-THREE
  25. TWENTY-FOUR
  26. TWENTY-FIVE
  27. TWENTY-SIX
  28. TWENTY-SEVEN
  29. TWENTY-EIGHT
  30. TWENTY-NINE
  31. THIRTY
  32. THIRTY-ONE
  33. THIRTY-TWO
  34. THIRTY-THREE
  35. THIRTY-FOUR
  36. THIRTY-FIVE
  37. THIRTY-SIX
  38. THIRTY-SEVEN
  39. THIRTY-EIGHT
  40. THIRTY-NINE
  41. FORTY
  42. FORTY-ONE
  43. FORTY-TWO
  44. FORTY-THREE
  45. FORTY-FOUR
  46. FORTY-FIVE
  47. EPILOGUE
  48. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  49. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I climbed as high as I could, only six or seven feet, since the branches higher than that were too slim to hold me. The husky—still with her three-foot lead thrashing about—leapt at the throat of one of the pigs, killing it just as the other pigs turned on her and piled on, tearing her to bits. The other dog ran yelping into the forest. The only sound was of the pigs grunting, devouring what was left of the husky.

Franz trained his gun and shot one of the pigs dead; it looked like a juvenile. Except for the biggest one, who must have weighed over a hundred pounds, they all scattered to the forest, leaving the dog’s corpse. But the big one stayed. It circled my tree, eyeing me like I was the one who’d shot her kid. She snuffled around the base of the tree where I crouched, her gray tail whipping back and forth at her wire-haired rump.

“Shoot it, Lily, shoot it!” the men yelled, firing off shots, but the creature had migrated to the other side of the tree, all the wrong angles for them to hit it. She peered up at me, her long snout reaching, huge freckled nostrils opening to taste the air around me. Her powerful shoulders rippled, the skunk stink fouling the air.

Omar called out, “It can’t climb, but you have to shoot it!”

I stiffened as I reached for my gun, my weight firmly back in the crotch of the tree, both hands on the pistol, an extension of my hands, finger on the trigger. But the pig wouldn’t stop moving, circling my little tree. Omar shot again and missed. Snarling, it ran around to the other side—far from the men and out of their range. It started to dig frantically into the thick mud at the trunk of the tree with its powerful hooves. I leaned down, training the gun on the top of its head—just shoot the thing; why can’t I pull the trigger?—but I missed the moment. The creature shifted a bit to the left and began burrowing again. I hadn’t understood what its plan was until it dropped its block of a head and rammed it again and again against the base of the tree, shaking my whole body with each strike. It snarled up into the barrel of my gun with a loathing that felt personal. Weakening at its base, the tree juddered and swayed. I adjusted my weight against the new equilibrium, bark scraping at my arms, the gun slick with sweat in my hand.

“Lily, shoot!”

The pig, on a mission, ran back around to dig some more, ripping at the roots and spitting them aside. It dropped its square, iron-gray head and rammed.

I swayed, found my balance. One more hit and I’d be on the ground. Feet jammed in the notches of the tree, I rested my forearms on my pregnant belly and pulled the trigger three times. Her head opened and she fell flat, arms and legs splayed onto the mud and ripped-up roots. The taste of gunmetal flooded my mouth as the tree finally gave way, and I jumped to the earth.