Blood-Moon Read online

  Blood-Moon

  Andrew P. Weston

  _

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2012, Andrew P. Weston

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  Pagan Writers Press

  Houston, Texas

  ISBN: 978-1-938397-34-9

  Edited by Rebecca Wolfe

  Cover by Angelique Mroczka

  http://paganwriterspress.com

  Dedication

  For all those who have served in the endless green.

  Table of Contents

  Blood-Moon

  About the Author

  Blood-Moon

  Well this was just great!

  Here I was, having successfully completed the mountain and jungle phase for selection into the British Special Forces, and instead of being able to relax and celebrate I was well and truly screwed! I couldn’t believe how quickly things had turned upside down.

  I’d been in the Royal Marines for five years, having joined straight from college. I was sixth generation military and even though I’d had to work hard to graduate from the Officer Training Academy, my career had been mapped out for me by my parents from the moment I was born. No time for a normal life, friends, or hobbies. And certainly no time for romance–that would only get in the way of my career. I had been groomed to serve and the military was where I belonged.

  It was quickly discovered that I had an aptitude for diving, combat, and navigation. That together with my incredible stamina, meant I’d been recommended for the Special Forces Directorate eighteen months ago by my Commanding Officer.

  I’d trained harder than anyone else over that time to ensure I was ready for this, my chance at joining the elite of the elite, as it was something no one else in my family had yet to achieve. Of course, they expected me to pass–even if it killed me!

  Sailing through the initial one month pre-selection phase–where they had beasted all fifty candidates mercilessly in an effort to test our stamina and mental fortitude. They had ensured the chaff was quickly cut away so the remaining twenty-seven of us could be properly scrutinized for our strengths and weaknesses.

  We battled constantly over the next four months to ensure we deserved our place on the course. Four months of relentless mental pressure and stress, where our resolve was tested to the limit under all sorts of conditions. Ensuring they maintained the demands on us, they’d forced us to cover hundreds of miles on foot through all sorts of terrain and environments, carrying outrageous amounts of kit. We’d endured it all, surviving a selection process that had decimated some of the finest soldiers in the world. Then, three short weeks ago at the beginning of October, the remaining twelve of us had arrived here, in Pasto, Bolivia, a brand new training venue in an entirely different world.

  The final phase of selection is always conducted in mountainous jungle areas, as they are known to be among some of the harshest environments in existence—a place where human beings don’t belong. Not that you would believe that from the air. Our descent had revealed endless miles of high canopied trees–looking like fields of broccoli from a distance–splintered by rugged canyons and rivers. You would be forgiven for thinking of phrases like; tranquil and idyllic, as your first view of the endless forests would make you feel just that, thereby lulling you into a false sense of security. Because even now, after all this effort, we could still fail or be back-coursed by an ecosystem that could chew you up whole and spit you out in pieces.

  Sure enough, during our first week here we lost two guys during a thirty mile endurance march. The side of a ravine they were traversing gave way, sending them plunging fifty feet to the canyon floor.

  Fortunately, the rivers were swollen at this time of year and when they hit the bottom, four foot of water reduced their injuries to cuts and abrasions and minor broken bones. But that was it! For them, the course was over until next year, when they’d be welcome to reapply and face doing it all over again.

  The following week, three more of the guys got up-close and personal with some of the local wildlife. Two of them discovered what a bite from a Yellowtail Cribo snake could do, and the other one falling prey to a giant tarantula.

  Like I said, we don’t belong here! This place was deadly with a capital fuck you!

  That’s when the training team–who were totally without feelings–had gleefully told the remaining seven of us that, if we survived the escape and evasion phase without being captured by local Quechan trackers, we were through.

  This would be the hardest phase of the course, as the locals were decedents of the North American Quechan’s. The native Indians of that region lived between Arizona and Mexico and were expert huntsmen, who could not only read for sign in rocky terrain, but were renowned for their unbelievable stamina. It was known they were able to run down wild horses.

  Yay for us!

  Evidently, some great purge among their people–about a thousand years ago–had led to a branch of their family moving south, into the jungles of northern, South America.

  These guys were something else. They were so laid back, they were almost horizontal and they’d jokingly tease us, saying they would catch us within a day without breaking a sweat!

  Of course, I had to ensure that didn’t happen.

  The first three days of the exercise found me running my lungs out on various compass bearings, with virtually no sleep. I’d worked my way from Pasto-Pata toward Ara-Pata and it had worked perfectly–although I did have one close call–and a bit of help.

  I had stopped for a breather during the first day and had taken the opportunity to stuff my face with some high energy bars. As I chowed down, the sudden silence from the multitude of usually vocal critters surrounding me, alerted me to the fact that something wasn’t right.

  I paused, pulling back a little further into the ferns and took a good, long look around. There! Standing not four yards into the undergrowth on the opposite side of the trail was a startling woman. She appeared close to my height and lithely built, with amazingly long blue/black hair which shone like fire in the sunlight, creating an attractive contrast to her olive skin. Because of the play of the sun on the leaves, I couldn’t be sure of the color of her eyes. However, they appeared uncannily bright and seemed to bore right into me with an intensity that was somehow…sensual?

  She was obviously native to these forests. Not only had she been able to approach me silently, but her only form of clothing appeared to be some form of animal-hide belt, from which a number of personal items hung.

  I smiled and remember thinking, Oh! Hi Pocahontas, before she did the damndest thing. She raised a finger to her lips and stared pointedly further back along the trail.

  I looked and was surprised to see one of the trackers closing in on me! He hadn’t seen me yet, but any second, it could be game over.

  Shit! Time to go!

  I went to give her the thumbs up, only to find she had somehow melted from view, becoming part of the forest. I didn’t see which way she went, but seconds later a commotion broke out further along the trail and all sorts of jungle creatures joined in. I watched incredulously as the Quechan tracker took off after her, thinking it was me.

  I didn’t need prompting; I took off myself in the opposite direction thanking my lucky stars for friendly locals. To be on the safe side, I kept going further for two days, just in case. As an added p
recaution, I made a point of wading through the dirtiest, filthiest swamps I could find, and hid amongst some of the most gigantic spider webs I had ever seen. I got down and dirty in a giant tarantula nest, knowing full well they wouldn’t expect me to do that.

  Fortunately, I wasn’t squeamish about the local wildlife. I actually enjoyed the company of some of the largest and most venomous creatures in the world, along with their mercilessly inquisitive insect friends. Somehow, they always seemed to manage to discover all manner of ingenious locations on my body to get acquainted.

  I had always found such things fascinating, and if my life hadn’t been mapped out for me, I would’ve probably ended up being a vet or a naturalist like David Attenborough. Of course, this had made enduring the extreme conditions that much easier, as I’d repeatedly stopped to investigate various nests and lairs in which all sorts of exotic creatures I’d never seen before went about their daily affairs. I’d even had the good fortune to come across a jaguar dozing by a rock pool the day before the course ended.

  I’d managed to snare a small fawn after finding a well used trail. This had put me in a very good mood and when I went to clean the kill, I’d been feeling quite relaxed. The sun was shining; the rushing sound made by the waterfall was a soothing change to the relentless squawking and hooting you get in tropical rainforests, and I was feeling at one with nature. That’s why I didn’t notice her at first. Her dappled markings had helped her blend-in almost perfectly under the shade of some lilies and reeds.

  It’s amazing the way some animals react when they’re not used to human contact. I don’t know if this particular one was old, because although her coat was thick and luxurious, her eyes appeared rather dull from the other side of the pool. She hardly changed position as I cleaned the small fawn I’d caught.

  The only overt sign she displayed of any interest was the way her head started to bob up and down and move gently from side to side as she caught the scent of blood in the air and assessed the situation.

  Needless to say, I exercised caution. The jaguar is the third largest predator of the cat family, only being beaten by the tiger and the lion. However, this particular animal has the strongest bite of any of them, being capable of piercing the skull with a single snap. So it deserves respect.

  Respect I was happy to extend with bells on!

  Finishing at the pool, I had refilled my water-bottle, added some sterilization tablets to protect me from the millions of parasites infesting the ‘fresh’ water in these parts and was about to walk back to my camp when I’d had a thought.

  I stopped and took out my ka-bar machete and hacked off the two back legs of the fawn.

  I was intending to start making my way back to base camp later that day anyway, so I wouldn’t need all of my catch. Lifting the rest of the carcass, I had edged toward the beast slowly, holding it out as an offering.

  “Hello beautiful, are you hungry? Would you like some fresh meat?”

  She became more alert as I’d gotten closer, her ears swiveling toward me and her head rising fractionally higher.

  Deciding not to push my luck, I put the carcass down and edged away. Picking up the two legs, I continued backing away until I was within the canopy again. I paused and waited.

  Slowly, the beast got to her feet. Without taking her eyes off me, she padded over to the fawn, sniffed it once, let out a rumbling snarl, and claimed her meal.

  Smiling, I said, “This one’s on me.”

  It was one of the most surreal experiences of my life and one I’d never forget. If only I’d had my camera! At least it would be a perfect end to a long and arduous course.

  Over the next day, I made my way back to base camp, only to discover that, although I had passed the course–along with five of the other guys–things were far from good.

  The local Quechan trackers were having fits over the disappearance of one of the guys, Danny Connor from London, who had–in their words–vanished in the Coroiquillo area of the forest. It transpires that he had been the only one they had been close to catching, but when he went into this area they had refused to go any further, muttering something about bad blood, Anasazi, and Witches Night.

  The training team had become quite concerned by their reactions.

  Yes, it was coming up to Halloween, and while the Quechan’s had been quite happy to talk about that, their exuberant vocal protests had suddenly cut off entirely when the subject of their ancient folklore and superstitions came up–especially regarding Anasazi!

  Although we live in a modern world, I’d never been one to scoff at other people’s beliefs or superstitions. These guys knew what they were doing in this environment and terrain, so if anything was spooking them, well, only a fool would dismiss it.

  We’d split up into three teams, each of the guys who had successfully passed the course making up two of the number, while the third place on each group was filled by a member of the training team. Making sure we had everything needed to protect ourselves in this dangerous jungle, I selected a 5.56mm, Minimi, para-light machinegun, a Glock 18, a Ka-bar machete, and a survival knife.

  I’d also filled my backpack with sufficient provisions for two weeks and made sure to include the latest Sigma Sat-phones and smart tablets so we could keep in touch.

  Three days ago, my team–comprised of Training Officer Chris Paxton and fellow candidate, Sergeant Tom Wilkins from Cardiff, Wales–had set out on a north-easterly bearing and had arrived at Connor’s last known co-ordinates only yesterday, as the sun began to set.

  I had to admit, the area did seem to give off bad vibes–as if we needed any reminders that we didn’t belong here–and the usual cacophony of sound associated with jungles was definitely muted somehow. It had begun raining, and as is typical with tropical downpours, we were soaked to the skin in seconds. The fact that it was still raining hard enough to drown a whale the next day had done nothing to lift our spirits.

  That evening, after a fruitless day of dead-end searching, I was crouched under a spread out poncho, listening to the serenade of a million raindrops and thought it would be a good idea to while away the time by getting some information on local tribes and their customs–especially these ‘Anasazi’–as it might help us discover what had happened to Connor.

  That’s when things started to go from bad to worse.

  I’d only just logged in when Wilkins stood, slung his machine gun across his chest, and unceremoniously announced, “Don’t wait up. I’m off for a dump!”

  I’d replied, “Tom, too much information, thank you!”

  Chris Paxton had grinned, and with an evil look on his face, said, “Mind you don’t get bitten where the sun doesn’t shine!”

  We had all burst out laughing, acknowledging the reference to the candidate who was back-coursed when he was bitten by the giant tarantula. We knew it was in bad taste, but the sneaky fucker of a monster spider had bit the guy on the ass when he went to take a dump over its nest! Can’t blame it I suppose.

  Chuckling, Wilkins had stomped off through the undergrowth to look for a suitable place, well away from the camp site so as not to draw the interest of too many insects.

  As if it would make a difference in this hellhole!

  Meanwhile, I’d quickly found a site that started to elaborate on some of the beliefs and customs surrounding ‘Anasazi’, which were, dependent upon the source, Native American Indian Ancient Ones, or Ancient Enemy.

  What was particularly interesting was a reference to a great purge, whereby the Navajo cleansed their tribe of a scourge afflicting them, only to find that those responsible had escaped southward and submersed themselves into Quechan culture.

  The Navajo then pursued their ancient enemy, who fled further and further south. Joined by the Quechan’s–who were also keen to rid themselves of the curse that had fallen upon them–they pursued their nemesis to the area of these mountains. Once caught, a huge slaughter had taken place.

  Intrigued, I had begun to research Anasazi character
istics, only to find a reference to Halloween customs. They were known for terrifying Native American Indian families in the past by dressing in their animal skin regalia–often depicting an animal that was taboo–and going from home to home asking for gifts. If those gifts were refused, the family would be cursed, and often someone from that family would be found dead in the days following the visit.

  I had just begun to look at the darker practices of the Anasazi, under something called the “Black Song” when the endless drumming of the rain was pierced by an unearthly scream, a burst of gunfire, and roaring.

  My machine gun was already clipped across my chest and my pistol was still in its shoulder holster. Dropping the tablet, I ran through the undergrowth, followed closely by Paxton, and suddenly emerged onto a rocky shelf. The shelf was only three yards wide and gave way to a huge chasm, at the bottom of which a literal torrent raged.

  The relentless rain had masked the sound of the river, so we hadn’t realized we were so close to such a ravine.

  In the twilight, I could see Wilkins on the floor with three big cats on him. One was black, its dappled markings only showing around his face, and the other two were the normal color you’d expect to see on a jaguar.

  I was stunned. Jaguars are solitary animals which are wary of humans, so for three of them to be together and attacking a human–well–it was unheard of! They must be rabid or something, because they appeared to be in a coordinated killing frenzy.

  Paxton and I skidded in opposite directions, finding it hard to keep our footing on the slick, moss-covered rocks, looking for an opportunity to take out the beasts mauling our colleague.

  The black one had its jaws around his head and even in the gloom I could see its muscles bulging as it bit down. The other two were clawing him relentlessly, having a firm hold on an arm and a leg. The rocks were slippery and I couldn’t shoot without hitting him, so I did the next best thing, I aimed beside them. Bringing the butt to my shoulder, I fired three short controlled bursts which ricocheted off the rocks close to the pack. Sparks flew in all directions along with numerous stone splinters.