Drift

2. Ruination

The day after, everyone rose early with well-seasoned vigilance trained on their surrounding and their senses drinking up any signs of hostile forces. The events that transpired the day before fills the group with heavy caution. They ate their breakfast from their supply of rations and made a shell count whilst discussing their strategies for the day. They were still in a mission and a search for any survivors of the crash was still in motion. There was a lingering doubt of anyone surviving from the previous mission with deadly creatures infesting the island yet it was like there was an unspoken rule that kept anyone from voicing out the question.

"We should get to higher grounds," James had suggested.

They had readied their packs and weapons for the trek towards a nearby high elevated area to look for any signs of a crash site before setting a sweep around the perimeter for any survivors. The Colonel had placed an emphasis on avoiding any circumstance of splitting up to avoid more casualties on their part. EXFIL had been arranged to arrive the day after, to everyone's relief.

A blanket of fog veiled the horizon and over the hills, faintly shrouding their vision overhead like writhing sensuous and illusory coils of smoke. Against the backdrops, the trees seemed to be shadows, making their gnarly branches appear longer and more ominous. In the wee hours of the morning, there is a dull light behind the horizon and dawn has yet to come, casting a grey bluish tinge to the sky. The cool early morning air fills their lungs and makes the walk less suffocating. They further plunged themselves into an ocean of trees and shrubberies as hoods of shadows loom over the overarching canopy. Huge roots weaved on the ground, twisting like the slithering body of serpents. Moist grass blades and pebbles crunched in James's steps as early morning ground dew licked at the soles of his shoes.

Loud and recurrent series of dismal shrieks split the silence of the early morn, casting an eeriness that oozed like miasma. The loud cries were coming from a white-faced owl perched on a nearby gnarly tree branch, emitting barks of maniacal laughter as it peered at them with dark and soulful eyes.

"I have never heard something sound scary and funny at the same time," Muttered a twenty-something soldier whom James remembered being called FNG by the others.

"It's a laughing owl, Private Sanderson," Hopkins pointed out, scrutinizing said owl.

"It seems," Sanderson concurred.

"No, it's literally named that," The biologist stated.

"Well," Sanderson scoffed," Mankind has really come far since the stone age."

James glanced at him sardonically," It seems."

"Somehow that look made me feel offended."

"Anyway," Hopkins chimed in pensively, seemingly paying no heed to Sanderson's comment to the former SAS Captain," They were supposed to be extinct over eighty years ago."

"Yet here they are," James said.

"Yes, and during morning no less," Hopkins regarded the owl, ruffling its feathers and twitching its head while viewing them as one would do to a prey.

"You don't suppose it's one of those owls that are active during dawn or dusk?" It came out sounding more of a statement than a question coming from James who gave her a skeptical look.

"No, laughing owls are nocturnal in nature," She glossed over." It would seem like the island have more surprises in store for us."

"I think the question here should be if it's out for our blood," Hafner muttered, eyes sweeping over the perimeter for danger.

"Unless you're a beetle or a small rodent then there's nothing to worry about," The biologist assured.

"Just like how we weren't to worry about antelopes then," McArtuir said under his breath, the silence of the early morning making his words audible to those near.