Ghosts of Vinh Sanh Chi

South Vietnam, January 11, 1970

A pecking crested argus at the edge of the river was oblivious of the troops boarding off a secured PT boat at its back. The pheasant was unconversant in war, yet instinct tightened his nerves in the beat of the snare drum. The bird took flight to the suffocating air—and was confronted halfway up by the shadow.

A black smear crossed its course—winged and wild. The bird shrieked downward, its form wrapped in wings and talons. The bat, black skin like a moonless night, sank its fangs into the argus belly and drained until the dead body no longer twitched.

Nine men moved unseen behind the treeline, emerging into the jungle like ghosts. None heard the dying bird. None heard its final screams.

Their attire—olive-drab cargo fatigues and matte-black boots—wore no markings. Their posture and discipline alone betrayed them: war. Four of them were handpicked American commandos, graded from SEAL, Force Recon, and Ranger units. Three were Khmer Krom native combatants, taught counterinsurgency. All of them were shadows under the guidance of MACV-SOG—the war's most covert task force.

Behind them moved Master Sergeant Carmine Whealer, tall and wiry with eyes aged for dying. His copper complexion and unfathomable heritage engendered questions back home. Out here nobody was fool enough to ask. Out here, he was point man, death-walker, jungle spook.

Swooping overhead, the black bat followed.

Behind the creation, Raymond Harris followed in tow, a CIA man with too quick a smile for this mission. No, he didn't even have a rifle. Just a gun. His detached, cold eyes did not scan the shape of the canopy, searching for snipers. They skipped over it like a skrim reader. He was younger than the others, his cool hanging on contempt. He wouldn't engage. He'd enjoy seeing how others did.

And the bat watched him.

Objective: Vinh Sanh Chi

Twenty-five minutes went by before Whealer called down a clenched fist. The column stopped dead. Leaves rustled almost unnoticed. Point man and the spook moved forward together.

Before them was a wide grass meadow. Beyond that, the sleeping village of Vinh Sanh Chi—where they were headed. Intelligence indicated it was a VC resupply depot and meeting place. Their assignment: observe the village for three days and report.

The patrol deployed into cover. Whealer lifted binoculars and surveyed a wooden shack where a young woman embraced a baby. Nothing unusual. Harris tracked a teenager departing with a fishing rod. No guns, no uniforms, no evidence of VC presence.

Then Harris stood stock-still.

Straight ahead, along the path of entrance into the village, was a fox—orange bright, its three tails quivering, and its golden eyes locked on his own.

What on earth is that?" Harris breathed.

Whealer didn't look away from his binoculars. "What?"

"The devil fox. With three tails."

Now Whealer looked at him. "Fox?"

He lowered his optics, scanned the spot Harris was indicating. Nothing. No creature. No motion.

Ray kept pointing. "Right there!

Whealer raised the lenses again. Still nothing. He was going to move the spook when he saw something worse—fear. Harris, always so unshakable, now shook with terror, eyes rolling, breathing staccato.

"Ray—"

There was a shriek tearing through the air.

Ray saw it—the fox came closer, fangs crimson, claws glinting. He screamed and retreated, pulling out his pistol.

To Whealer, Ray was going mad, waving a gun in daylight, endangering the mission.

"Sir!" one of the Khmer Krom whispered on the radio.

Ray spun around. He fired.

The hollow-point tore through Whealer's chest.

The sergeant stumbled back, eyes glazing. Bullets and screams erupted in the jungle around him. His last consciousness was the sting of two sharp teeth—the black bat, now on his chest, snacking.

Chaos and Creatures

Gunshots rang out across the field.

To the others, it was ambush—havoc, betrayal, death.

But amidst the havoc, the fox danced. No one else saw it, but it reveled in the mayhem. Blood on its lips. Joy in its eyes.

The bat had finished drinking and looked at the fox. For a moment, there was understanding between them—an old, wordless mutual understanding belonging to creatures born not of nature, but of myth.

Satisfied, the two horrors parted ways, ready for the next hunt.

The jungle would remember. But the world would never know.

THE END

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