Chapter 568

Ricardo, a Panamanian of 54 years, knew the jungle. It was in his blood, from a grandfather who traded mahogany to a father who guided scientists hunting strange orchids. But tonight, the jungle felt wrong.

The air sat heavy, thick with the smell of rot and something else he couldn't quite name, something sharp and metallic that made his teeth ache.

The familiar symphony of insects was muted, replaced by an unsettling silence, broken only by the occasional snap of a twig, too deliberate to be made by any animal he knew.

He checked his machete, the worn handle smooth beneath his calloused palm. He wasn't a young man anymore; the years of sun and hard work showed in the lines etched deep into his face and the slight tremble in his hands. But he was strong, resourceful. He had to be. His grandson, Miguel, was depending on him.

They had been trapping river shrimp when it happened. One minute Miguel was beside him, his laughter echoing through the trees, the next… gone. A flash of movement, a chilling shriek that cut through the air, and then, only silence.

Ricardo had searched for hours, his fear a cold knot in his gut, pushing him onward despite the protests of his aging body. He'd found nothing, only the lingering scent, that metallic tang that now seemed to follow him like a ghost.

He stopped near a towering ceiba tree, its massive roots clawing at the earth. He listened, his breath shallow. Something was watching him. He could sense it in the hairs standing up on the back of his neck, in the rapid thumping of his heart.

"Hello?" he called out, his voice raspy. "Is there anyone here?"

Silence.

He gripped his machete tighter. He wasn't foolish enough to believe he was alone. Something had taken Miguel, and it was close.

He moved slowly, cautiously, his eyes scanning the undergrowth. The moon offered little light, its pale glow swallowed by the dense canopy above. Shadows danced around him, playing tricks on his vision.

Then he saw it.

Two points of light, burning like embers in the darkness. They were high off the ground, too high for a jaguar, too bright for any firefly. They moved, slowly, deliberately, drawing closer.

Ricardo's fear morphed into something colder, something primal. He knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that these were the eyes of something not human.

The creature stepped into a patch of moonlight, and Ricardo gasped. It was humanoid, but twisted, corrupted. Its skin was pale, almost translucent, stretched taut over sharp bones. Its limbs were too long, too thin, ending in clawed hands that twitched with anticipation. Its face was a mockery of human features, the nose flattened, the mouth a lipless gash filled with rows of needle-sharp teeth.

And the eyes… those burning eyes held an intelligence, a predatory awareness that sent a shiver down Ricardo's spine. It was a Yukolka.

He had heard the legends, whispered in hushed tones around campfires. Stories of creatures that roamed the deepest parts of the jungle, creatures that were neither animal nor human, creatures that hunted men and feasted on their flesh. He had always dismissed them as folklore, as boogeymen meant to scare children.

But here, in the pale moonlight, the legend was real.

The Yukolka cocked its head, its eyes locked on Ricardo. It let out a sound, a low, guttural growl that vibrated in the air, a sound that spoke of hunger and death.

Ricardo knew he couldn't run. The Yukolka was faster, stronger. His only chance was to fight.

He raised his machete, the blade glinting in the moonlight. "Stay away!" he shouted, his voice trembling. "Leave me alone!"

The Yukolka didn't answer. It moved with unsettling speed, closing the distance between them in a heartbeat.

Ricardo swung his machete, aiming for the creature's head. The blade connected with a sickening thud, but the Yukolka barely flinched. It grabbed the machete with one hand, its claws digging into the metal, and yanked it from Ricardo's grasp.

Ricardo stumbled backward, his heart pounding in his chest. He was unarmed, defenseless.

The Yukolka advanced, its growl growing louder, more menacing. It raised the machete above its head, its eyes gleaming with malice.

Ricardo closed his eyes, bracing for the end.

But the blow never came.

Instead, he heard another sound, a high-pitched shriek that made his blood run cold. The Yukolka froze, its body tensing. It turned its head, its eyes darting around as if searching for something.

Another shriek, closer this time. Then another, and another, until the jungle was filled with the terrifying sound.

More Yukolkas emerged from the shadows, their eyes burning in the darkness. They surrounded the first Yukolka, their bodies vibrating with a strange energy.

The first Yukolka dropped the machete and stepped back, its growl turning into a whimper. The other Yukolkas closed in, their claws extended.

Ricardo watched in horror as they tore into the first Yukolka, their movements savage and frenzied. Blood sprayed through the air, painting the trees in gruesome hues. The shrieks continued, a symphony of violence and death.

He didn't understand. Why were they attacking each other?

As suddenly as it had begun, the carnage ended. The Yukolkas stopped, their bodies still tense, their eyes still burning. They turned toward Ricardo, their attention focused on him once more.

But there was something different about them now. They no longer seemed predatory, aggressive. Instead, their eyes held a strange kind of sadness, a vacant emptiness that chilled Ricardo more than their earlier hostility.

They stepped aside, parting to reveal something behind them.

Ricardo gasped.

Lying on the ground, bound with vines, was Miguel. He was alive, but his eyes were closed, his face pale and gaunt.

Ricardo rushed to his grandson, his heart swelling with relief. He knelt beside him, gently shaking his shoulder.

"Miguelito," he whispered. "Miguelito, it's me. It's your grandfather."

Miguel didn't respond.

Ricardo untied the vines, his hands trembling. He lifted Miguel into his arms, holding him close.

Then he saw it.

A small, circular wound on the back of Miguel's neck, almost invisible beneath his hair. It was dark and scabbed over, as if it had been there for a while.

Ricardo's blood ran cold. He knew what it was.

The legends also spoke of the Yukolka's mark. A sign that the victim had been chosen, that their minds had been emptied, their bodies prepared to serve some dark purpose.

He looked at the Yukolkas, their eyes still vacant, still sad. He understood. They weren't predators. They were shepherds. They weren't hunters. They were farmers. And Miguel… Miguel was their seed.

Ricardo held Miguel tighter, his tears streaming down his face. He looked into the jungle's canopy, seeking any glimmer of warmth in a cruel cosmos, seeking a reason. There was nothing. He cried into his grandson's shoulder, but there were no dreams there anymore.

Miguel's body was still warm, but Miguel had left some time ago. And his warm body would carry out tasks assigned by his kidnappers from then on.

He knew, with crushing certainty, that he could never take Miguel home. He was gone, lost to the Yukolkas and their terrifying plan.

Ricardo was alone. He wasn't surrounded by friends and family or other protectors of this special person he brought into the world; it was only Ricardo with the problem in front of him.

This realization felt heavier than death. And then a new reality arose, if there were children trapped like his grandson, how many men and women had been taken or were lost searching, like himself. This thought hit harder.

The reality, and the silence it came with, rang in Ricardo's mind louder than ever before. He knew from there forward nothing would be normal, nothing would be easy, and there were only sad days awaiting him.

He made a choice. With what remained of his strength, his courage, and more importantly, his affection, Ricardo began his goodbye.

And though Miguel wasn't present with him to hug him, the grandfather found warmth that embraced them in the heart of his chest, filling him and filling the body in his arms with love. Ricardo was left to make this place Miguel's place, where the youth could lay here, forever.

With a broken heart, Ricardo carried Miguel further into the jungle, away from the Yukolkas, to a place where the sun's rays still poked through the jungle canopy.

The old man crafted a grave where he laid his grandson, the earth turned fresh. Using branches and leaves, Ricardo laid a veil across the resting place so that what was Miguel was at peace here.

He knelt for minutes, speaking memories of the child aloud as a man would to close family. Eventually Ricardo would return to the village he knew, but more importantly, he accepted his duty to tell and remind the local people what exists in the dark of the jungle, even if they don't listen. With his body aching he returned.

Ricardo stepped into his home in the village. No one noticed that Ricardo returned different. The man went directly inside and prepared tea before sitting in his old wooden chair to rest. His chest still weighed heavily for Miguel, and tears trickled down his face. As it gets late, the pain gets worse and the man trembles from a chill he can't shake.

As he was resting, an acquaintance showed up to invite Ricardo to join his party for cards in a week's time. Ricardo responded that he wouldn't be attending this season of life, and requested that they leave.

As the acquaintance moved to respect, Ricardo suddenly stopped them and looked at their neck. With the terror of remembrance he invited them inside.

As time grew old, villagers visited Ricardo's home to question why they hadn't seen this person recently. Upon investigating the residence they found only two vacant men resting comfortably by the kitchen.