We hacked our way through the jungle like we were peeling back time itself.

Every branch and root we cut and stepped over felt like it hadn't been touched in decades,

maybe longer.

The heat pressed down on us, wet and constant, and the insects came in waves that never seemed to stop.

Somewhere overhead, monkeys shrieked and fell silent just as quickly.

That silence always made me pause.

None of us spoke much.

The machetes did the talking, slicing rhythmically as we followed the barely visible

trail Lewis swore existed.

I didn't see it, but he moved with a confidence, false or not we didn't have better options.

Around midday, we reached the clearing.

Or, more like the jungle gave up for a second.

In the middle was a rise of uneven stone, half swallowed up by moss and earth.

It could have passed for a hill, if not for the exposed edge of something unmistakably

artificial. Weathered concrete and the rusted corner of a metal structure poking out like a broken

rib. No one said anything right away. Then from behind me, a voice muttered, low and breathless.

There it is.

We moved closer, brushing back the foliage.

The moss came off in heavy sheets.

Underneath, a swastika, barely visible, faint from

time and grime, was stamped into the concrete, half melted from what looked like an old fire.

None of us reached out to touch it.

...