The Observer's point of view: Dutch turns and looks at Dillon, Anna as his side, her hands bound in front of her. The observer watching as Dillon leads Anna onward, seeing her bound hands. Dillon pushes her. Anna spins, hurling a string of insults to Dillon in Spanish. She spits at him, turning forward with a twist of her head.
As they move on, Mac calls out to him. Dillon doesn't respond. Mac calls again.
Mac: Hey, Dillon.
Dillon turns and approaches, warily. Mac coaxes Dillon to look the other way. Mac unsheathes his knife. He gives Dillon a cold look and plunges the knife downward.
Dillon spins around, his gun aimed but then sees a scorpion on the end of the blade.
Dillon: Thanks.
Mac: Any time.
Mac flings the scorpion on a crate, crushing it with his boot. He looks up at Dillon, walks away. Dillon follows, pulling Anna behind him. Billy, guarding the rear, glances furtively around the clearing.
Hawkins walks by and attempts another one of his lame jokes.
Hawkins: Billy. Billy! The other day, I was going down on my girlfriend. I said to her, "Jeez you got a big pussy. Jeez you got a big pussy." She said, "Why did you say that twice?" I said, "I didn't."
Billy stares blankly.
Hawkins: See, 'cause of the echo.
This time Billy laughs, Hawkins moves on satisfied he finally got a laugh out of him. Billy moves a step forward and stops, freezing. Slowly he turns back, his eyes riveted upon the treeline above the camp. His eyes strain, his senses registering a fear he cannot name or see. Something is out there, in the trees, waiting, watching. Billy turns and walks into the jungle, disappearing from sight.
The Observer's point of view: looking down from his vantage point to the treeline below, fifty feet away. The Observer utters a low trill and springs outward into space, hurtling downward towards his landing point, the canopy of the trees approaching in a staccato rush of green. The sounds of the forest are again altered and enhanced with an electric, static-like quality as the Observer descends fluidly through the trees and to the ground.
He enters the camp, surveying the terrible destruction and carnage. He sees the dead Guerrillas, the dissipating heat from their bodies leaving them pale and ghost-like, as if fading light about to extinguish. He sees their weapons, the cold hard steel of the barrels registering ice blue in his vision. As the observer's hand appears, pulsing in a pale magenta heat, picking up the scorpion, examining it.
It looks like an exotic flower, its color fading from sight, turning to black. A low sound is uttered, something vaguely familiar about it: a nearly human voice, a distorted imitation of Mac. "Over here." Again the phrase is uttered, improving, closer to Mac's inflection and accent. The Hunter lowers the pitch. The last effort is a chilling simulation of Mac's voice. "Any time."
The team moves into a thickly forested valley where they plan to meet their extraction helicopter. The twilight world of a prehistoric forest, filled with gigantic plants and towering trees, overgrown with vines and creepers. The team, with Billy at point, the jungle is weirdly illuminated by shafts of light, streaming through openings in the trees, as if from spotlights, a hundred feet above.
It is midday, hot and humid, the air buzzing with the sounds of insects. The men are moving fast and quiet, straining to see into the dense jungle, aware of every sound, sweating, quietly slapping at biting insects. A giant hardwood tree lies across their path. The team moves cautiously through the winding stream bed, now wearing their clothing in various stages of disarray for comfort, sweat dripping from their bodies.
Billy, in the lead, picks his way along the riverbank, his concentration rapt, aboriginal. His face a trance-like mask of expectation. Blain, cradling the heavy Mini-gun as if it were a toy, swings the weapon relentlessly across his field of view. Mac follows, holding the M-60 high across his chest.
Anna, struggling through the thick jungle with her hands tied, Dillon prods her when she pauses. Dillon with a firm grip on her hands, pulls her along.
Schaefer, bent, cautious, his feet moving aside the dry leaves on the ground, heel to toe and on foot edges. He glances around, checking the team's position and progress. Hawkins follows, his mouth open, breathing deeply, exhausted, the radio a 60 pound demon.
Blain pauses to rest. Mac, looking around him, takes a nip from a flask passing it to Blain who also takes a sip.
Mac: Goddamn! Shew. Buddy buddy-buddy-buddy. I've seen some bad-ass bush before, man, but nothing like this.
Blain: I hear ya. This shit's something. Makes Cambodia look like Kansas.
Mac: Hey, que pasa, amigo? Little taste of home.
Blain: You lose it here, you're in a world of hurt.
Anna and Dillon have fallen behind, Dillon looking worriedly ahead at the team out-distancing them. Anna is keeping her pace purposefully slow. She trips on a root falling to the ground. She lies there, motionless. He quickly reaches down to haul her to her feet.
Like an uncoiled spring, Anna turns, flinging a handful of dirt into his face, momentarily blinding him. She takes off running. Suddenly the barrel of a gun is thrust into her face. Looking up she sees Ramirez, calmly holding the weapon on her, the look in his eyes indicating he'd have no trouble shooting her.
Ramirez gives him a cold look as Dillon arrives.
Poncho: Maybe you better put her on a leash, Agent-man.
Dillon warns Anna to not try that again. She looks at him contemptuously, undaunted.
Billy enters a small clearing, bordered on one side by the towering trees, carpeting the mountainside. High above in the thick, impenetrable treeline, birds squawk loudly. Suddenly Billy stops.
Schaefer holds up his hand and the team takes up defensive positions. An eerie silence, like a slowly falling curtain, descends over the jungle. Billy remains rooted to the spot, lost in concentration.
Dutch: What's got Billy so spooked?
Mac: Can't say, Major. Been actin' squirrelly all morning. That damned nose of his . . . it's weird.
Billy, his eyes riveted to the canopy above, as he unconsciously reaches to his throat, grasping a leather pouch, secured to his neck by a thong. He fingers the medicine bag talisman. Dutch sensing something very wrong with Billy, moves quietly towards him.
Dutch: What is it? . . . Billy --
Billy, rigid, does not respond. Schaefer forcefully jerks him around to face him and asks again.
Dutch: What the hell is wrong with you?
Billy, rigid, does not respond. Schaefer forcefully jerks him around to face him and asks again. Billy turns back, looking high into the trees, puzzled and frightened.
Billy: There's something in those trees.
The Observer's point of view: As he slowly descends through the trees, moving towards Billy, who's eyes search the treeline for movement.
Dutch: Do you see anything?
Billy: Up there ahead.
Dutch: Nothing. What do you think?
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