You could scream again.
Your lungs are still moving, after all. Just. But there are no humans nearby, only beasts.
You’d scream anyway, if your limbs still worked and you could run or fight. But only your lungs and heart are moving now.
Your pinned eyes watch nature’s cruel, ceaseless carnival. A python swallows a still-twitching iguana. Swarming ants besiege a writhing centipede.
The photography that won you fame depicted jungles as paradise, but this is a savage hell. Everything doomed to be eaten—dead or alive.
You hope your heart stops before you know which fate is yours.
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alt="Stone Jaws by Evan Baughfman"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="The Mannequin People by Michael J. Stiehl"
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>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Gator by Randall Andrews"
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>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Rude Awakening by Richard Lau"
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>