Per 
Ooga: Big spooky centipedes that may or may not exist in the vietnam war
Ooga: Ok, I wrote up a bit of the first scene. It's just there as a template, so change it up however you'd like if you feel that it needs it, or if you had something else in mind.
Ooga: I finished writing up the narrative, feel free to take a gander. Are we doing two separate takes on the same story, with my narrative and your recovered documents? Because that's what it looks like is happening.
February 2nd, 1966
Private Tom Legrasse sat on an overturned crate in the middle of the jungle, enjoying a long drag on a cigarette. The other men bustling about the camp said that he was paranoid, having hallucinations. He didn't call it paranoid when there actually were dozens of Vietcong guerillas swarming in the jungle at any given time, just waiting for him to let his guard down. He never let his guard down, that was the trick. Yeah, that's why he couldn't sleep at night, and nearly shot his fellow soldiers when they were returning from the latrine in the night. Three times. The war was getting to him. Still, more often than not, his itchy trigger finger got him out of scrapes instead of into them. He was always the one assigned to watch whenever possible, so that's why he was the first one to see the bloodied Vietcong stumbling out of the jungle.
Tom lurched to his feet and leveled his rifle in less than a second, shouting for assistance all the while. As it turned out, he didn't need to shoot, as the enemy soldier collapsed as soon as he escaped the overgrowth of the jungle. Tom kept aiming anyways. Other troops rushed forwards, some of them arming themselves like him, and a brave few ran up close to the bleeding, babbling Vietcong. They hauled him into the center of the camp, where a medic was quickly hauled over in a similar fashion. The soldier had been speaking fragments of English alongside his native tongue, and if he survived there was no telling how much information could be gleaned from him.
If he survived. Up until now, Tom hadn't exactly paid attention to the soldier's wounds, but he could see by the medic's face that there wasn't much hope. The wounds weren't even bullet holes or burns, but instead gaping slashes and slices all over the man's body. Maybe he fell into one of his own traps. Or maybe, Tom thought as his mind ran away from him again, the other enemy soldiers had tried to feed him to the wild beasts of the jungle for some grave error oh god when they caught us they would tear us apart and leave us at the mercy of the wilds and tigers and insects and- Legrasse was snapped out of his daze by a great, hacking cough from the dying man, along with words that upset every man present, but him most of all: "Your fire woke them. Tore all of us apart, and next it is you." Of course, Tom had no way of knowing the extent of the soldier's poor English, or what words the soldier might have mistaken for others. He should have been like the others, and chalked it up to the crazed last words of the enemy. Instead, all he could do was imagine what horrors the napalm had awoken, and how they could cut through a human like butter.
Of course he was assigned to the exploration squad. "Tom. You're…alert, is the best word for it. We could be walking into a trap, so we need somebody who can keep their eyes peeled for anything." If what the soldier had said was true, the entire enemy camp would be deserted, allowing for unrestricted advancement through the jungle. Normally they wouldn't believe a word that came out of the Vietcong's mouth, even if they could understand them, but his wounds spoke for themselves. So, it fell upon Tom and 3 other soldiers to investigate.
Charles had been a nurse before enlisting, so he could patch them up from anything short of a gunshot. Of course, gunshots were the problem.
Wilson was a demolitions expert, and he was here to fix any problems they encountered the way only explosives could. Tom secretly wished he hadn't come along, Grenades would surely draw the attention of the monsters that crawled out of the jungle, teeth bared and- No. No. Stay calm. Stay rational. Phew.
Finally, there was Jeff, also known as "The Fridge", because he was huge and seemingly bulletproof, and man could he store food. But big means loud. Maybe if Tom scouted ahead, he could have something remotely resembling the stealth needed to survive.
February 4, 1966
After a day and a half of trudging through mud and plants, and narrowly avoiding several booby traps, they had made it. They could see the camp in a clearing ahead, but they couldn't make out any details or sounds. Which was the worst possible scenario. It meant that either the entire camp was expecting them and had hidden for an ambush, or they now had bigger problems than just a few Vietcong soldiers. Problems that crawled out of Tom's darkest nightmares, wriggling and clawing towards the light.
They all took a moment to catch their breath, and form a plan of attack. Charles was the defacto leader at the moment, and soon he spoke up: "Okay. Tom, get a flash from Wilson. Sneak up as close as you can, then huck it into the middle. Once that's done, Fridge takes point, followed by the rest of us. If they're here, we hit 'em while they're blind. If nobody's there, we didn't blow up any important intel." This last part was directed at a sheepish Wilson. It had been a month and a half and we still weren't letting him forget about that one. It had been funny in the moment though.
One, two, three. Tom counted down after pulling the pin and threw the flash grenade before covering his eyes. He heard the bang, and seconds later another two sounds followed. The first, he had expected. A holler from Jeff as he barged out of the underbrush, Wilson following close behind, and finally a swear from Charles as the other two utterly abandoned the concept of stealth. The second he was far less prepared for, and it sent a great shiver up his spine. Thousands of little clicking noises, and a drawn-out rustling throughout the leaves not more than a few feet away from him. Tom didn't wait to hear the ok from his teammates, instead he ran out of his hiding place behind a tent and into the center of the camp. He only stopped, and noticed why the others had stopped, when he stepped on the first body.
It was like every one of the myriad nightmares he'd had while sleeping in this war-torn place had come to life at once. The corpses were everywhere, and that didn't mean there were a lot of them. One poor bastard had his top half stuck in the branches of a tree, with the grisly intestines winding down around it like a horrendous maypole, celebrating the death of the entire world instead of the cheerful flowers of spring. Another Vietcong looked less like a person and more like a long snake, with almost nothing remaining of his body besides a leg and the spine. Tom could see a single arm sticking out from under a blood-drenched bush, but after seeing Jeff lift up the fronds to investigate and losing his lunch, he decided it was best not to know. Wilson and Charles fared slightly better, as Wilson was used to seeing plenty of viscera in his explosions, and Charles had a strong stomach after seeing countless injuries in the emergency room. But Tom, poor Tom. Every detail etched itself into his already fragile mind, from the all-too-clean slices to the gouged out eyes. If he had been conscious, Tom would've been glad that he didn't land in the pile of gore to his left when he fainted.
When Tom awoke again, the camp was looking less gruesome. A bonfire was going in the center of it, the sickly-sweet smell of burning flesh and smoke wafting through the air. The others had been busy. Charles had moved him away from the corpses, and was now dabbing his forehead with a wet washcloth. "Good to see you've rejoined us, private. We woke you a couple more times, but every time you saw the carnage you just went out like a light again, hence the bonfire courtesy of Wilson." Tom was on his feet in a flash, shouting at the others. "Nonono are you crazy? W-whatever monster did this is still out there? It'll come right to the fire, and then right to us and then oh god we'll be torn apart just like th-" A swift backhand from Jeff cut off his ramblings, and Wilson sidled over to explain. "You didn't see much apart from the bodies, did you? There was a big scorched crater in the middle, and rubble around the camp. Best guess is that some dumbass accidentally set off a bunch of munitions, which blew all of the gooks to kingdom come, and a combination of shrapnel and scavenging animals further tore them up. No monsters here, bud. Just the good old horrors of war." Wilson finished with a morbid grin. Tom took a second to register all this, then let out a sigh of relief. The camp was empty, the report was written, and that meant they could return to their nice, safe camp.
February 5, 1966
The camp was not safe, nor was it nice. There were no signs of an explosion like before, so the only logical explanation for half of their friends missing and the other half spread around like confetti all over the decimated camp was that another group of Vietcong had launched a brutal raid while they were gone. Of course, there were plenty of illogical explanations that sprang to Tom's mind. His teammates were equally shocked, seeing such carnage once was enough, let alone twice in the span of a few days, let alone seeing faces you recognize on the eviscerated corpses surrounding you. Whoever the attackers were, they had been thorough. The vehicles and radios were all inoperable, and animals had already gotten to the food supply. Their only hope was to make the trek to the nearest friendly camp. On foot. Through the jungle. Filled with traps and enemy soldiers. And potentially monsters.
The nearest friendly camp was much farther away than the Vietcong camp, it would be a 3-day journey. The four of them gathered what supplies they could and gave quick burials to the deceased before setting off into the jungle. Occasionally they could find flecks of blood from some of the missing soldiers, but animals had done away with any bodies. They were moving back through territory they knew far better than before, so most of the traps they came across had already been disarmed. Most.
Tom saw the tripwire, but not in time to stop Jeff from triggering it, so all he could do was dive and knock him out of the way as the taught rope flung spears of sharpened bamboo at him. He felt it dig into his forearm, the angle preventing it from hitting bone or an artery, but he knew he wouldn't be able to use his hand for a while, even after Charles told him that there had been a toxin on the spears. He was given the best antidote they had available, but soon his fever was rising, and the delirium began to set in. The poison wasn't lethal, I can't stop now. I'm was the only one of us who can always see the traps. Tom just hoped the swimming colors in his vision wouldn't interfere with that.
February 7, 1966
About halfway through the second day of walking, they came across a familiar face. Matthews, one of those missing from the camp. He was down in the mud, fallen victim to another spear trap. However, whereas Tom had suffered only one spear, poor Matthews was riddled with five of them, and they were taking their toll. Even with Charles' help, he wouldn't last long. He was rambling, suffering from shock while desperately trying to provide information before he died. "Oh hey it's you guys well isn't this swell, oh lord I can feel my life going you gotta help please I was out on the john when there was gunshots and screaming, then I saw them THE BUGS, oh man they were huge, thousands of legs and teeth and they changed colors all over hey you guys are changing colors too oh god-"
Wilson, knowing how Tom would react to hearing such things, covered Matthews' mouth as quickly as he could, but it was too late. Tom had heard, and even now he could picture them. Long, like centipedes, glistening through the jungle on countless legs, first they had destroyed the Vietcong camp, then slaughtered theirs, and now they could be anywhere, closing in on them. Normally Tom could have tried to calm himself down, but the poison in his veins was doing little good for his mind. As Matthews bled out, Tom let out a low whimper that eventually built up to a scream.
"Tom, put the gun down." Charles was doing his best to remain calm and collected, attempting to soothe Tom out of his delirium. Some part of Tom still knew that, and tried to tell the rest of him to gather his thoughts and at like a rational human being. Unfortunately, all the rest of him could hear was the vivid scuttling noises which now invaded every corner of the jungle. "Yeah, come on buddy." Wilson said, butting in. "You've already shot the hell out of that tree because you thought you saw a giant centipede crawl out of it, and there's no telling how many actual, real-life hostiles heard the shots." Charles winced. Wilson had meant well, but giving indication of even more danger was just throwing fuel on the fire. Tom let out a whimper as he tried to curl himself into a ball while simultaneously sweeping his line of sight over every inch of jungle he could. Despite this, he didn't notice the burly frame of Jeff sneaking up behind him in time to stop him from grabbing him and hoisting him up over his shoulder, arms pinned by his side. "We don't have time for this now. Keep moving."
Nearly three hours later, the continuous reassurances from Charles and steady rhythm of Jeff's heavy footfalls had done something to soothe Tom. He was still insisting that they were surrounded by horrible monstrosities that had been awoken from their slumber by napalm bombing and were now going to eat them, but at least he wasn't trying to fill anything that moved with bullets. That may just have been because his gun was taken away, but it was still an improvement.
Eventually, the group collectively decided they needed to eat before continuing. They didn't have many rations left, but they needed the energy. They all sat down in the most relatively clear space they could find, and broke open their packs. Tom quietly accepted his share and huddled against a rock, making sure he could see in all directions. Still no insects. He had heard them, and seen the vegetation rustle aside as they moved, but he still hadn't seen one clearly. In fact, he hadn't seen any sign of them in the last hour. Maybe they had moved far enough away from their nests, or maybe that was what they wanted us to think and they were lurking right underneath, ready to- No. No. He hadn't seen them because they weren't there. Matthews had received a much higher dose of the toxin than he had, he had likely been seeing things as he spoke. Just like he had. The food helped too. Tom turned the meager piece of bread over in his hands, before breaking it in two. He could touch it, taste it, he had power over it. This is real. Hold onto it.
They were back on the trail, and Tom was in the lead again. After he had apologized to the others for his breakdown, they were quick to welcome his return to sanity. And his skill for spotting danger. They continued forwards, following what little path they could, and avoiding trap after trap. They were going to make it.
One second, there was only the chirping of birds and insects, and the slight crunch of leaves underfoot. The next, there was a swift swish of movement, a heavy thunk, and a gurgling moan. Tom whipped around to see Charles, sunken into a pit in the earth, blood starting to pool from the gaping punctures he now sported. All the fear and panic came rushing back into his mind. He saw the glistening blades pulling back out of his friend's stomach, not the rough bamboo spears of the Vietcong, but instead, a long, curved claw. He could see the huge coils rising up out of the earth, exoskeleton flexing and clicking into motion with colors swimming across it. And most of all, he could see all of the other wicked claws, each and every one of them primed to take his life as painfully as possible. Tom had no choice but to turn and run into the jungle, ignoring the shouts behind him, ignoring his dropped gun, ignoring the scuttling following him through the trees.
Tom rocked back and forth beneath the fronds of the plant he had sought shelter in. He had no weapons, he had none of his friends, and he could hear the thing getting closer. Closer. Closer. The scuttling of its countless legs, circling around him, closing in for the kill. No, it won't kill me just yet. It wants me to suffer. And in the jungle, away from the world of men, beasts get what they want. Tom peeked out, desperately looking for an escape. Instead, he saw death.
As wide around as he was, and so long he couldn't see the end of it. Each segment wrapped in a chitinous armor, glistening with the colors of fear and held aloft by two terrible legs. Each leg ended in a bladed claw that was far too wide and far too sharp, felling a sapling just by grazing against it, churning through the air and ground like the oars of some great boat here to take him into death. Its movement was fluid and unstoppable, flowing and undulating towards him. And the face. There weren't giant clicking mandibles, or compound eyes and antennae. It was far, far worse. The shell opened into a dark cavity, a grotesque, squirming visage engulfed in the shadows. There was no mind that could remain whole after gazing into the two piercing eyes, wrought with twisted veins and an unmistakable sadistic glee. He could already imagine the teeth, those all-too-human rows of glistening white teeth, sinking into him as he saw his terrified reflection in the sinister smile.
He didn't have to imagine for long.
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