Incorporated with DeepSeek
The antiseptic smell is the first thing that registers. It’s a clean, sharp scent that cuts through the fog. Then the light. Too white. Too flat. It hums, a low-frequency thrum that vibrates in my fillings. My eyes open to a ceiling with a single crack in it, shaped like a lightning bolt. I’ve been staring at it for what feels like hours. Days. A week, they tell me. A week of this.
My name is Andy. And I am the only one left.
---
**CHAPTER 1: THE LIONS' DESCENT**
The descent into Cancun was a comedown in itself. We’d been riding a high since Zurich, a three-day bender to get in the mood. Cloed was already asleep, her head on my shoulder, a thin line of drool at the corner of her mouth. Markus was loudly debating the merits of different tequila brands with Dieter, their voices too loud for the cabin. We were the Lions of the Nightlife back home. Here, we expected nothing less than a kingdom.
The airport was a blast of humid heat that felt like a wet towel to the face. But we didn’t have to suffer it. Our contact was there, a slick dude in an unbranded guayabera holding a tablet with our names on it. No line for customs, just a smile and a wave through a diplomatic gate. A private shuttle, cold beer sweating in copper coasters. This was the VIP treatment. This was Tulum.
We were here for the festival, the music, the sun. But mainly, we were here for the backrooms. The real party. The one the posters don't tell you about. By the time we reached our ridiculously overpriced jungle-chic villa, we were already deep into the stash Markus had smuggled in a false-bottomed speaker. The air was thick with humidity and the sweet, chemical smell of premium Bolivian powder.
That first night was a blur of bass drops and beautiful people. We were kings. The Cartel's representatives—polite, stone-faced men in clean white shirts—treated us with a deference that felt like our due. We bought rounds for everyone, our laughter sharp and predatory above the din. We were untouchable.
---
**CHAPTER 2: THE WHISPER IN THE NOISE**
The second day bled into the third. Time lost its meaning. I remember fragments. The sun blistering my shoulders by the villa pool. The taste of salt and lime and something else, something chemical on the tip of my tongue. Cloed, her eyes like saucers, telling me she loved this, loved me, loved everything.
It was on the third night, or maybe the fourth, in a private villa party deep in the jungle. The music was a physical force, a bassline that vibrated in your marrow. We were in a side room, low couches, low light. Markus was negotiating with one of the stone-faced men for a larger quantity of something. Dieter was trying to chat up a woman who looked bored and terrified in equal measure.
I was on the verge of a bad comedown, my skin crawling, when I heard it. A lull in the bass. A voice, not meant for us. One of the servers, a young kid with ancient eyes, was whispering to another. He was looking right at us. The phrase was in Spanish, but I’d partied here enough to get the gist.
*“Son los mismos que vinieron el año pasado. Los que se fueron sin pagar el respeto. Esta vez, correrán.”*
They are the same ones who came last year. The ones who left without paying respect. This time, they will run.
The bass dropped again, a seismic boom that shook the thought loose. I looked at the kid, but he was just a waiter again, offering a tray of shots. A second later, Markus was shoving a tiny, perfect square of paper into my hand. "Andy! Catch up, man! This is the one!"
I took it. I always took it. The warning dissolved into the neon fog of the party.
---
**CHAPTER 3: THE PICK-UP**
We left the party on a high, literally and figuratively. The world was a beautiful, pulsing thing. The jungle was a symphony of unseen life. We were looking for more, for the next level. Our new friends, the stone-faced men, said they had something special. Something we’d never tried. We just had to follow the pick-up.
We piled into a beat-up SUV, the five of us. Cloed was giggling, trying to catch fireflies out the window. Markus was up front with the driver, a man whose face was a mask of pitted scars. We drove for a long time. The paved road turned to dirt, the dirt to a rutted track. The lights of Tulum vanished behind us, swallowed by the absolute black of the jungle.
No one thought it was strange. We were too far gone. This was the adventure. This was the authentic experience.
We stopped in a clearing. The only light was from the SUV’s headlights, illuminating a wall of green. Two figures emerged from the jungle. They weren't the polite businessmen. These were soldiers. Dark clothes. Assault rifles hanging casually from their shoulders. One of them carried a small wooden box.
Markus got out, all swagger and smiles. "Gentlemen! What's the good word?"
The scarred driver said something in rapid Spanish. The soldier with the box nodded. He opened it. Inside, on a bed of velvet, were five small vials. The liquid inside was a clear, shimmering amber. It looked like liquid gold.
"For the *carrera*," the soldier said. His voice was flat, emotionless. "The race."
Markus laughed. "A race? Hell yeah! A race to the moon! Let's do it!"
We all got out, the humid air wrapping around us like a shroud. The soldier handed each of us a vial. The glass was cool in my palm. Cloed looked at me, her smile fading for the first time. "Andy, I don't feel so good."
Then we drank. Or rather, we were made to drink. The scarred driver, no longer a driver, grabbed my jaw. His grip was iron. He tipped the vial into my mouth. The liquid was tasteless, thinner than water. It slid down my throat like a living thing.
For a moment, nothing.
Then the world *screamed*.
It wasn't a noise. It was a feeling. Every nerve ending in my body lit up with a cold, electric fire. My heart didn't just beat, it tried to claw its way out of my chest. The jungle sounds weren't a symphony anymore; they were a cacophony of threat. Every rustle was a predator, every chirp a death rattle.
The soldier smiled. It was the worst thing I have ever seen. He pointed a single finger into the impenetrable black of the jungle.
"*Corran.*"
Run.
---
**CHAPTER 4: THE CARRERA DE MIEDO**
And we ran.
It was instinct, pure and primal. The drug had stripped away everything else. Thought. Reason. Love. It was just the Fear. A pure, undiluted panic that flooded every cell.
Branches whipped at my face, tearing my skin. Roots grabbed at my feet, trying to trip me, to feed me to whatever was behind us. And behind us, there was laughter. The soldiers' laughter. And then the *rat-tat-tat-tat* of a machine gun, chewing up the jungle just over our heads.
"RUN, YOU RICH FUCKERS! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!"
Markus was ahead of me, his pale skin glowing in the dark. He was laughing too, a horrible, high-pitched sound that wasn't human. The drug had hit him differently. The fear had become a wild, manic energy. "THIS IS AMAZING! HAHAHA! COME ON, ANDY! FASTER!"
Dieter was crying, huge, heaving sobs as he crashed through the undergrowth. Cloed was silent, her face a mask of terror, her breath coming in ragged gasps beside me. We were a herd of terrified animals, driven by hunters who knew the terrain, who could see in the dark.
I don't know how long we ran. Minutes. Hours. Time was a loop of fear and the burning in my lungs. My legs were screaming, but the fear was louder. Every time I thought I couldn't go on, the laughter would get closer, or another burst of gunfire would stitch the air next to me, and I'd find a new reserve of pure, animalistic terror.
I saw Dieter fall. He just tripped, and he was gone. The sounds behind us swarmed over him, and his sobbing stopped abruptly. I didn't look back. I couldn't. The fear wouldn't let me.
I saw Markus, later. He had stopped running. He was standing in a small clearing, facing the hunters, his arms outstretched. He was still laughing. "IS THAT ALL YOU GOT? I'M THE KING OF THE WORLD, YOU BASTARDS!"
They didn't even laugh back. There was just a short, efficient burst of fire. Markus's laughter ended mid-cackle. He crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut.
Cloed. My Cloed. I grabbed her hand, pulling her. Her hand was slick with sweat and blood from the thorns. She looked at me, and for a second, the fear in her eyes cleared. She looked like herself again. Scared, but herself.
"Andy," she whispered. "I can't."
"Yes, you can! Come on! It's just a little further!" I was lying. I had no idea where we were or what was further.
She stumbled. I tried to hold her up, but my own legs were jelly. She fell to her knees. I heard the hunters crashing closer. The laughter was right behind us.
"Run, Andy," she said. Her voice was calm. The drug's fear-grip had let her go, leaving only exhaustion. "Please."
I hesitated. A fraction of a second. A lifetime.
Then the fear took over again, and I ran. I left her there, on her knees in the Mexican jungle, waiting for the hunters. I heard her scream my name once. Just once. Then it was swallowed by the laughter and the gunfire.
I ran until the world went black.
---
**CHAPTER 5: THE LIGHT AND THE CRACK**
The crack in the ceiling. The hum of the light. The antiseptic smell.
The doctor is a kind man with a tired face. He speaks to me in slow, careful English. He tells me I was found on the edge of a highway, a week ago, in a state of severe psychological trauma and physical exhaustion. They found my ID. They contacted the embassy.
"Andy," he says, his voice gentle, "you are the only one. Your friends... they did not make it."
I don't tell him that I know. That I saw them fall. That I heard them die. That I ran.
He tells me about the drug. The *Miedo*. The Fear. It's a new thing, he says. A specialty of the Cartel that controls that part of the jungle. They use it for punishments, for settling debts. They hunt the person through the jungle. It's called the *Carrera de Miedo*. The Race of Fear.
"Most do it only once," he says, looking at his clipboard. "The psychological scarring is... profound. Their minds cannot process the pure terror. They freeze. For the rest of their lives, when a shadow moves wrong, or a noise is too loud, they freeze. They are trapped in that moment forever."
He looks at me. "You ran. You survived. That is a rare thing. In a week or two, if you are strong, you may dare to step outside."
The doctor leaves. I am alone with the crack in the ceiling.
Most do the *Carrera de Miedo* only once. They freeze forever.
But I am a survivor.
I try to remember Cloed's face. The way she looked at me in that last moment. But the image is already warping, fading, replaced by the sound of her scream, the feel of her hand slipping from mine.
The light hums. The crack stares down at me.
A sound. A nurse’s footstep in the hall. My heart slams against my ribs. My hands clench the thin sheets, knuckles white. The air gets stuck in my throat. I am not in the hospital. I am in the jungle. I am running. I can hear the laughter.
The footsteps pass. The sound fades. Slowly, painfully, the iron grip on my chest loosens. I sink back into the pillow, my body drenched in a cold sweat.
The doctor is wrong. I didn't just do it once. I do it every time I hear a sound, every time I close my eyes. I am running it now, right here in this bed. I will run it forever.
Most freeze. I run.
I’m not sure which is worse.
