Foster father

Carter Vaughn tried several times to light the cigarette in his hand, but the dampness of the forest was too much. The matches were as useless as if they’d been soaked in water—impossible to ignite. Frustrated, he threw the soggy matchbox to the ground, but after a moment’s thought, he picked it up again. If he could make it out of this swampy hellhole and into the sunlight, maybe the matches could dry out. He had no intention of eating raw meat for the next few days. Two days earlier, his team had been on a mission near the Burma-Thailand border. A powerful drug lord had offered 20 million dollars to ensure the success of a deal with the Americans. The money was well-spent—though the deal failed, and the Americans retaliated with a raid, the team managed to protect their client and their reputation. The cost, however, was steep: three team members lost their lives, a heavy blow for “Peregrine,” one of the world’s top mercenary groups. During the chaos, Carter had taken a rifle butt to the face, leaving him bloodied, and a knife wound to his left arm. Though he’d snapped the neck of his attacker, the delay was enough to scatter him and his teammates. Now alone, he’d fled into the primeval forest on the border, a true devil’s land with no retreat. His only option was to find signs of civilization and reconnect with the team so they could extract him. His arm was already showing signs of infection, the raw smell of blood a death sentence in these parts. He’d wrapped the hastily treated wound tightly with cloth, knowing that while it would likely fester in the damp, exposing it was far worse. Time was running out faster than he’d anticipated. He needed to get out and find treatment, or what seemed like a minor injury could cost him his arm—or worse, his life. As he trudged forward, he had to navigate not only the treacherous swamp underfoot but also the ever-present danger of predators. Food for humans was scarce here, but creatures that fed on humans were plentiful. Even the tiniest ants seemed to eye him as fresh meat. Exhausted, Carter hadn’t dared to sleep, nor to rest in one place for more than two hours. He knew if he gave in to fatigue, he’d wake up—or not—as a skeleton. The physical strain was taking its toll. Even Carter Vaughn, arrogant by nature, could feel death’s shadow creeping closer. He crouched to examine the soil, comparing it to the terrain he’d trudged through over the past two days. Relief flickered as he realized he was nearing the edge of the swamp. Once out of the swamp, his odds would improve significantly. He preferred facing wolves or pythons to the near-invisible dangers of insects. At least large predators were targets he could see—and Carter Vaughn never feared what he could see. After another ten painstaking hours of cautious progress, the ground beneath him grew firmer. The once-dense canopy overhead thinned, allowing sunlight to filter through. Hunger gnawed at him. He’d found nothing edible on his journey—only threats to guard against. His physical and mental exhaustion had sapped his strength; each step required sheer willpower. Then, a metallic tang hit his nose. Blood. The scent, thick and cloying with moisture, was almost nauseating in its intensity. Only a large animal could produce such a potent smell. Strangely, Carter didn’t feel repulsed—he was more interested in whether there was anything left for him to scavenge. Sliding his Browning Hi-Power pistol into his waistband, he readied his MP5 submachine gun. If it was wolves or tigers, he’d deal with them the straightforward way—by shooting first. Holding his breath, he crept toward the source of the scent, weaving through the underbrush. Every sense was on high alert, his sharp gaze scanning for any movement. Carefully, he used the barrel of his gun to part the foliage, inching closer to the source of the blood. What he saw stunned him. Three wolves lay dead, their throats torn out and their bodies eviscerated. Blood pooled around them, staining the forest floor a deep crimson. Carter’s instincts screamed danger. He slowly turned in place, scanning his surroundings. These wolves had clearly been killed by something powerful, yet only a small amount of their flesh had been eaten. The scene didn’t add up. A creature capable of killing three wolves should have devoured them entirely, unless it was saving the carcasses for its young or pack. Unwilling to take unnecessary risks, Carter chose a vantage point to observe from a safe distance. Two hours passed, and nothing changed. The gruesome tableau remained untouched. No predator returned. Desperation won out over caution. He couldn’t last much longer without food, and this meat—eerie as it was—was his only option. Knife in hand, Carter cautiously approached one of the wolf carcasses. His plan was simple: cut off a leg and leave as quickly as possible. The scene was far too strange for comfort. But as he neared, something about the wounds caught his attention. Upon closer inspection, he realized the tears in the wolves’ flesh weren’t typical of a large predator. The bite marks were too small, the wounds too shallow. A tiger or bear would have severed their throats in a single, crushing bite. These injuries suggested a smaller mouth—but with immense bite force. The wolves’ abdomens had been slashed open, yet there were no tufts of fur near the wounds, ruling out typical clawed predators. Carter’s mind raced. The creature that killed these wolves had the strength of a large predator, the bite of something human-sized, razor-sharp claws without fur... and a bafflingly small appetite. What kind of animal could possibly fit that description? His unease deepened. Just as he decided to expand his search, his attention was drawn to something nearby—a small, dirt-smeared human foot sticking out from the underbrush. Heart pounding, Carter approached cautiously, pushing aside the leaves. The foot belonged to a child. A filthy, blood-smeared child, no older than five or six, lay amidst the c*****e. To Carter’s astonishment, the boy was alive. He checked for signs of life, noting the faint but steady rise and fall of the child’s chest. Against all odds, this child had survived in a place that had pushed Carter, a seasoned mercenary, to his limits. Grabbing the boy by the ankle, Carter dragged him out of the underbrush. The child was stark naked, his body caked with blood, filth, and bits of torn flesh—a revolting sight. Carter wiped the grime from the boy’s face, revealing a thin, sharp-featured visage. The boy appeared to be Asian, malnourished to the point of gauntness. Unable to shake his disgust—and a twinge of envy—Carter carried the boy to a nearby pool of water and unceremoniously tossed him in. The boy sank briefly before Carter pulled him back out, sputtering and coughing. As the child flailed and screamed in terror, Carter silenced him with a sharp slap across the face. “Can you understand Vietnamese?” Carter asked coldly, his gaze steady.