Mangrove Horror
Desperation had hung in the air for months. The desperate, gnawing, hope to die. To die in service to God, our Emperor. But not like this.
This had no honor.
They all still wanted to die, but not in the jaws of the beasts below.
Anything would be better than to be torn limb from limb while still drawing breath. They had watched as their commander died miserably as the monsters tore his limbs from his body.
Like so many before him.
They had retreated into the mangrove forest as the British marched on the bunkers. Not three days later, less than half their number remained.
Three sounds dominated the stangnant air: the report of their rifles; the erratic splashing of the crocodiles and the bloodcurtling screams of their comrades.
The monsters were larger than anyone had thought possible. Two, three, some even appeared to be four times the length of a man.
They had, at first, acted like any predator picking off the weak and wounded. But now, now having gotten a taste of human flesh, the monsters were throwing themselves against the trees. Hoping to throw the surviving men from the trees.
The jungle air was thick with moisture and the sweet nauseatingly sick smell of death. It lingered in the depths of their minds…
