Jungle Run

Alice's left heel had developed a blister three days ago. It was currently the most pressing problem in her life, more immediate than the gag in her mouth or the nakedness or the jungle heat.

The shovel handle stuck to her palms with sweat. Next to her, Janie dug with the same dull rhythm, their movements synchronized not by choice but by exhaustion. Dirt piled up between them in a mound that would be meaningless by tomorrow—the holes were always filled in at dusk, only to be dug again at dawn.

The guard watching them was new. Younger than the others, with a rifle slung lazily across his lap as he picked at something under his thumbnail. He hadn’t spoken yet. The older ones liked to comment, to laugh, to adjust their stance just to remind the women they were being watched. This one just seemed bored.

The guard sighed for the fifth time in as many minutes, shifting his weight against the tree stump where he’d been perched. His rifle slid a little lower on his lap as he scratched his chin, then—finally—he stood up. Alice caught Janie’s sideways glance as he stretched lazily, rolled his shoulders, and muttered something under his breath before ambling off toward a cluster of ferns. The faint flick of a lighter echoed back to them, followed by the acrid scent of cheap tobacco curling through the humid air.

Alice didn’t wait. She dropped her shovel. It hit the dirt with a dull thud, barely audible over the cicadas screaming in the trees. Janie was already moving, her bare foot kicking aside the useless tool. They didn’t need to speak; the gagged mouths made sure of that. But they didn’t need to. The understanding between them was instant—run now, or never.

Alice's bare foot sank into the mud at the stream’s edge, the coolness of it almost shocking after days of dry dirt and sweat. Janie waded in beside her, the water rippling around their thighs as they moved—not fast, not slow, just steady, because stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant realizing how absurd this was: two naked women, gagged, fleeing through a jungle with no plan beyond away.

Janie tapped Alice’s shoulder twice, quick. When Alice turned, Janie pointed upstream, then mimed climbing—her fingers walking up an invisible slope. Alice nodded. The current was stronger downstream, and the banks were steep there, slick with moss. Upstream, the water shallowed into rocky shallows, and beyond that, the trees thinned slightly. Maybe high ground. Maybe a hiding place.

The waterfall wasn’t high—maybe thirty feet—but the rocks were jagged and slick, the spray coating every surface in a thin, treacherous film. Alice went first, her fingers scrabbling for purchase on wet stone, toes curling against mossy crevices. The gag muffled her gasp when her foot slipped, but Janie was already there, palm pressed flat against the small of her back, steadying her. No time for gratitude, just movement. Alice hauled herself up, belly scraping against rock, and rolled onto the ledge at the top, her chest heaving. She turned immediately, reaching down for Janie, fingers brushing wrist, then forearm, then finally locking around Janie’s wrist as she pulled her up beside her.

They crouched there for a moment, dripping and shaking, the waterfall’s roar covering the sound of their breathing. Alice’s eyes darted downstream, back the way they’d come—no shouts yet, no crashing pursuit. Maybe the guard was still smoking. Maybe he hadn’t noticed their absence. Maybe he didn’t care. She touched Janie’s shoulder, pointed to the trees beyond the waterfall’s pool, and Janie nodded, wiping water from her eyes.

The jungle tore at them with every step—vines whipping against bare thighs, thorns catching in unwashed hair, mosquitoes feasting on the sweat-slick curves of their backs. Alice's blister had burst an hour ago, leaving raw flesh exposed to mud and rotting leaves. The ball gag pressed her tongue flat, saliva pooling uselessly at the corners of her mouth, but she bit down harder on the rubber when a low branch raked across Janie's ribs, drawing a thin red line. No sound. They couldn't afford sound.

Sunlight filtered through the canopy when the trees finally thinned. Janie froze first, her hand darting out to clutch Alice's wrist. Ahead—through a tangle of ferns—a strip of packed earth, worn smooth by tires. A road. Alice's knees nearly buckled. She hadn't seen anything man-made in weeks except shovels and rifles and the rusted bucket they pissed in.

The engine noise came from the left, growing louder. Janie yanked Alice backward into the undergrowth just as the truck rounded the bend, could it be rescue?

Janie’s fingers dug into Alice’s wrist—wait—but the truck was slowing anyway, tires crunching over the damp earth. Alice didn’t think. She wrenched free and stumbled forward, bare feet slapping against the road, her arms already raised in desperate surrender. The gag muffled her voice, but the meaning was clear: Help us. Behind her, Janie hesitated half a second longer before following, her breath ragged through her nose.

The truck stopped. The door swung open. Boots hit the ground—jungle fatigues, same as the others. The pistol was already leveled at them before the man even fully stepped out. Alice’s stomach dropped. Janie went very still beside her.

Alice's knees hit the truck bed first, the metal biting into her skin as the man shoved her forward. She didn't resist. There was no point—not with the pistol still leveled at Janie's ribs, not with the way his grip on the rope around her wrists had tightened the moment he'd recognized them. The truck smelled of diesel and old blood, the same as the others.

Janie landed beside her with a quiet thud, her breath coming fast through her nose, her body coiled tight even as she let herself be bound. The man worked quickly, looping rope around their ankles with practiced knots, his fingers brushing against Janie's calf as he cinched it tight. Alice watched Janie flinch, watched her throat work around the gag—no sound, just the wet click of swallowed panic.

The engine growled back to life. The truck lurched forward, tossing them against each other, shoulder to hip, skin sticking where sweat and dirt hadn't yet dried. Alice closed her eyes. She could already picture the camp—the shovels waiting by the fire pit, the way the others would laugh when they saw them dragged back, the new holes they'd dig tomorrow, deeper this time, punishment etched into every blister.