Eastward
Lansig, Sabah Province
Staff Sergeant Fungestu Fa eased his horse along the narrow jungle trail that followed the ridge east of Lansig. Humidity clung to everything, soaking his camouflage uniform despite the early morning hour.
His ancestry traced back to Chinese Americans who had remained in the Philippines generations before the Mendorong. His light tan skin, blond hair tied back beneath a faded jungle hat, and tattooed forearms made him instantly recognizable among the Kingdom of Javnia’s elite Jungle Tracker units.
He was a realist.
The jungle did not care about optimism.
It rewarded preparation and punished mistakes.
His current assignment was straightforward enough—locate any survivors from a civilian utility aircraft that had disappeared from radar several hours earlier. Six passengers, one pilot. Weather had been clear, making mechanical failure the most likely explanation.
By his reckoning he was still about an hour from the last emergency beacon transmission.
He uncapped his canteen and swallowed a mouthful of tepid water before wiping sweat from his brow.
His eyes never stopped moving.
A Jungle Tracker survived by noticing what did not belong.
The forests of Sabah were beautiful but unforgiving. Saltwater crocodiles lurked in muddy rivers. Reticulated pythons hid beneath fallen logs. Venomous pit vipers rested on low branches almost invisible against the leaves. Giant centipedes and scorpions occupied every rotten stump.
There were also the things left behind after the Mendorong.
Escaped zoo predators.
Feral dog packs.
And, worst of all…
The mayat hidup.
Fortunately, from the ridge, the jungle appeared quiet.
Too quiet.
—
Nearly an hour later the smell reached him.
Smoke.
Fresh smoke.
The crash site.
Then another odor drifted through the humid air.
Dry.
Rotting.
Like mold growing on ancient leather.
He froze.
The smell of the mayat hidup.
Without a sound he slipped from his saddle and looped the horse’s reins around a sapling.
His 7.6mm battle rifle came off his shoulder.
Magazine seated.
Round chambered.
Safety off.
He moved forward one careful step at a time, avoiding dry branches and loose stones.
The jungle opened into a fresh scar nearly a hundred meters long.
The aircraft had clipped the canopy before plowing into the earth.
There was little left.
Twisted aluminum.
Burning fuel.
Scattered luggage.
Bodies.
Around the wreckage shuffled nearly twenty mayat hidup.
They crouched over the dead passengers, tearing at clothing and flesh with slow, mechanical movements. Their skin looked centuries old, stretched tightly across bone. Several were missing eyes. One lacked its lower jaw entirely.
Fungestu counted quickly.
One…
Two…
Three…
Six bodies.
No movement.
No survivors.
He began planning the safest route back when every undead creature froze.
Simultaneously.
One by one they raised their heads.
Not toward him.
Toward the east.
For several long seconds nothing happened.
Then, without a sound, every mayat hidup stood.
They abandoned the bodies.
They abandoned fresh meat.
And began walking into the jungle.
East.
Fungestu lowered the rifle slightly.
“What…?”
He had hunted mayat hidup for nearly twelve years.
They did not abandon food.
They certainly did not do so together.
He retreated carefully to his horse before following at nearly two hundred meters.
The undead moved steadily through the forest, ignoring every obstacle.
They neither searched nor hunted.
They simply walked.
After cresting the next ridge, Fungestu spotted another group emerging from a bamboo thicket.
Perhaps thirty more.
They joined the procession without hesitation.
He stopped his horse, allowing the growing column to move farther ahead before resuming the trail.
Twenty minutes later another group appeared to the north.
Then another to the south.
All converging.
All heading east.
His unease grew with every kilometer.
He removed the satellite phone from his pack.
“Tracker Three-One to Base.”
The reply came immediately.
“Go ahead.”
“I’ve located the aircraft. Negative survivors. Approximately twenty mayat hidup were feeding on the victims.”
A pause.
“Copy.”
“They’ve stopped feeding.”
Silence.
“What?”
“They abandoned the bodies voluntarily and are moving east. Multiple additional groups are joining them.”
“…Repeat that.”
Fungestu repeated his report.
The operations officer finally answered.
“Maintain observation only. Trail them at a safe distance. Send another update in two hours.”
“Understood.”
He continued shadowing the procession.
Over the next hour, more undead emerged from valleys, caves, abandoned villages, and forgotten logging roads.
The numbers continued growing.
Hundreds now.
Perhaps more.
Fungestu dismounted briefly, attaching a telephoto lens to his field camera.
He photographed the silent procession from several concealed positions.
The images showed something he hadn’t appreciated before.
Every mayat hidup was looking in exactly the same direction.
East.
He transmitted the photographs with another report.
This time his commander’s response came almost immediately.
“Tracker Three-One, break contact.”
“Sir?”
“Repeat. Break contact immediately.”
“Reason?”
There was a pause before the commander answered.
“Observation Post Two at Jakarta reports identical behavior.”
Fungestu’s expression hardened.
Jakarta was over two thousand kilometers away.
“How many?”
“Thousands.”
Another pause.
“A Medium-Altitude Long-Endurance surveillance drone is inbound to your location. Return to the crash site and establish security until relieved.”
“Understood.”
Fungestu watched the endless line of mayat hidup disappear into the green depths of the jungle.
Not one looked back.
Not one made a sound.
Whatever had summoned them…
It was somewhere to the east.
And it was calling to every mayat hidup in the Kingdom.
