More and more information poured in. Twenty meters away, a python swished through reeds, a baby practically, no more than two meters long. Overhead, a squirrel’s claws scrabbled up a tree trunk—a banyan, judging from the scent and the rustling curtains of foliage and roots that draped all around.

The theater of operation built itself in Tool’s mind. From the gaps in rustling leaves, he sensed trails running through the jungle. From the lap of waters, he knew the shapes of stagnant pools. He could guess where gaps in the kudzu led, thanks to the lingering scents of coywolv and deer. Access and egress routes. The most likely paths of enemy attack if he were besieged. The best lines of escape if he was forced to retreat. A battle map, constructed entirely in his head.

He could fight blind, if need be.

A breeze rustled the banyan tree’s dangling tendrils, and with it, a whiff of wood smoke carried. Tool’s nose twitched. Meat cooking. Snake. Rat. Goat. More than one cookfire, then, and with that information, the knowledge that a village lay not far away, with many families living there.

The man and the girl lifted another bandage. The scent of Tool’s own rotting flesh was strong, demanding that he lick the wounds and coat them in the healing enzymes of his saliva. Urging him to seek his packmates. To let their tongues bathe the bloody rents in his frame.

Leaves crushing. Someone coming through the forest.

Tool listened to the approach, accumulating friend/foe data. The dull flip of sandals, stealthy. Another jungle dweller, smaller than the girl. Closer. Closer. Stalking. No scent of metal or gunpowder or gun oil or acid. Not stalking, then—just careful.

“We got soldiers all over,” the new arrival said as he came close and squatted. “I covered the trails with all kinds of kudzu and thorns, so it looks like nothing comes this way, but eventually, those soldier boys are going to zero in on this patch, and when they do, we’re sitting ducks. You got any idea how much longer we got to stick here?”

A boy. Something familiar about the voice and the scent. Tool tried to recall, but his memories were blotted with fever dreams and nightmare. What was it that he remembered about this boy? About this scent?

“How many soldiers?” the girl’s voice asked.

“Forty? Fifty? More?” The boy paused. “They call it a platoon, but there’s more soldiers around than Army of God uses for its platoons.”

The girl snorted. “Yeah. My old man used to say they didn’t know squat about organizing armies around here. You catch sight of that lieutenant?”