Leaves enfolded us in a thick, emerald blanket, shutting out the light and luring us deeper into the woodland. Wind breathed warm and moist between the trunks, and our bodies sweated even more.

Mani dropped to his stomach, his jaw only inches above the forest floor. Ants marched to a silent beat nearby, wending past the canyons of his fingers and mountainous legs, except for some that wandered off course and took the treacherous route over the Hill of Sneakers.

"I smell something, Paulo," he whispered. "Do you think it's a steggy?" I was crouched by his side, one hand to a red-seeded jabutica tree, the other to my mahogany staff the same way a warrior would hold his terrible spear.

I raised my nose and sniffed. The aroma of rotting vegetation wafted by, laden with wet muck and centuries of crushed leaves, all melded into a fertile loam that sprouted the trees around us. I smelled jabutica fruits, sweet and luscious, and a faint rancidity that could have been any number of things from dead rodents to mounded offal. The smells merged into a singular aroma that was the jungle's hallmark, and one that I had loved for fifteen years.

But I didn't smell a steggy, nor did I hear one. Not yet, but we were close.

"It's not here," I told my brother quietly. "It could have passed within the hour, though. But I smell something else, like rotten meat left out in the sun too long. Could be leftovers."

"Leftovers from what?" he asked, his eyes shining. The ants continued their hike unnoticed across his calf.

I shrugged. "This is carnivore territory, Mani; lots of meat eaters, lots of herbivores. Whatever a rex didn't finish it probably left for scavengers."

Mani blinked at me, but then felt the tribe of ants exploring the open hem of his shorts. He shuffled to his feet, knocking them off with fervent slaps, even jerked his fingers under his collar for fear they had nested there too.

"You didn't say anything about a tyrannosaur, Paulo!" he sputtered, clawing his armpit as if searching for hidden treasure. Ants cascaded from his body like tiny missiles.

"Keep your voice down." I helped him swat off the intruders. "It was a torosaurus I heard this morning, or another large plant-eater. Think about it; if you were a dino wanting breakfast, where would you go?"

My brother's olive-skinned face practically glowed. "My backpack!" he said. Before I could object, he had deposited the bag on the ground. The zipper click-clacked open to reveal a warm cheese sandwich mashed inside a plastic bag. It looked like orange glue between two slabs of wet bread. Gnats abandoned their orbits around us and congregated to the meal in wild zooms and dives.

Mani loved hunting day, even more than hide-and-go-seek, more than even soccer or checkers. He knew that the dinosaurs we hunted probably weren't real—probably—but the jungle held many secrets, and further to the west where the mighty Amazon river bulged and trembled like a fat brown snake, who could imagine what ancient things dwelt nearby?

While Mani ate breakfast, I continued slicing through the vegetation with Papa's gardening shears. Mani carried his own, but preferred to let me take the brunt of the task, and thus more thorny pokes and scrapes. The jungle outside our villa in Rio Branco was a wonderland of sights and sounds; vibrant green ferns bedded a floor beside amora shrubs and jeriva trees reaching for the waxy sun. Saint John's vines, eucalyptus, the occasional cashew tree and hundreds of others thrived here, housing untold birds and animals. On weekends like this I could think of nothing better than to take Mani on a safari of our own backyard.

In the brambly thickets of the Brazilian wild, anything was possible.

We eventually found a new area where the trees had been thinned. Some were twisted and fallen, the trunks cracked and jagged like the teeth of some woody beast. Sunlight flooded down hot and harsh on our faces. A spot-backed puffbird twittered from its perch on a limb and launched into the air, followed seconds later by a raucous explosion of parakeets that had been nesting in the shade of rosewood.

Mani pushed the last of the sandwich into his mouth. "I wunna fund a treratops, Polwo," he mumbled through swollen cheeks.

"I know, Mani, I know." I bent down to inspect some odd tracks. The earth here was matted and torn, but grown over with creepers and ferny tendrils inching in from the jungle. I could barely make out the rigid lines where something heavy had stalked across the ground, crushed the vegetation, snapped trees.

Mani crouched by my side and ran his small fingers over the impressions. "Are these dino tracks, Paulo? Is one close?"

"Maybe," I said. "And a big one, too." Mani's eyes were wide.

"Really?"

I gazed at the concealed tracks. They stretched forty paces to the clearing's edge, and then entered a grove of wild cacao trees. "Follow me, Mani," I said. "But quiet."

Mani nodded, lips pressed together. He straightened the backpack on his shoulders and followed, fingers twitching with anticipation.

Shadows oozed between the trees and cast themselves upon the ground. The sunlight dimmed the further we went, until we were swallowed by the green gloom. I heard something screech far away, perhaps a spider monkey or a wounded tapir. Mani kept close, one hand on my belt, the other clenched and sweaty. I felt hotter than ever as the forest hugged us from every side.

I suddenly stopped, and heard a quick intake of breath from Mani. Something lingered in the distance behind twisted tree trunks. A long neck, sleek and strong like a tree itself, attached to a great hidden bulk.

"Oh," murmured Mani, his fingers clamped tight on my belt.

"Let's get closer," I said, and gently wrapped an arm around Mani's shoulders to comfort him. We crept forward, our feet crunching lightly on the ferns and vines. The forest had grown quiet, with only the occasional fluttering butterfly to indicate life. The jungle was watching us.

The neck of the thing grew more distinct, rust-colored with flaking, chipped skin. It rose as high as some of the smaller trees. Nothing moved. We drew closer, pushing fronds aside until we stood just twenty paces from the monster.

Atop the neck rested a jawed head hanging in perpetual disuse. Vines draped it, rising up from the jungle floor where they covered a squarish body. Huge rubber treads sank into the ground with creepers winding their way through a long abandoned cockpit. It was a dinosaur all right, or at least a weird fossilized one.

"Is that a dino?" asked Mani. "It looks . . . funny."

"Sort of," I replied, "but people made it. It eats trees and dirt. And the more it eats, the hungrier it gets. Someone left it here a long time ago."

"Why?" asked Mani, his fear diminishing. He walked closer until he stood beside the tire. It was almost as tall as him.

"I don't know. Maybe something broke and they couldn't fix it, or maybe it just wasn't hungry anymore."

Mani wiped a brown hand over the metallic siding. Grime and grit dropped away to reveal stenciled black letters.

"MAN-GUS," read Mani slowly, forming his mouth around the vowels and consonants. "Man-gus In-Inc-Inc-"

"Incorporated," I finished for him.

"Paulo! I'll name it a 'Mangosaurus!' My own metal dinosaur!"

I couldn't help but laugh. "Ok, Mani, you can have your mangosaurus. But remember, it's the biggest, meanest dinosaur in the whole jungle. It can eat thousands of trees a day! And the worse part is, it never gets full. Well, neither do you, for that matter."

Mani giggled, not really understanding what I meant, or what a plague the metal lizards had truly become. My Dad had told me about it though, and I understand plenty. They really did rule the jungles in Brazil, and nothing seemed to stop them. Men and companies and their machines continued to chew up our homeland piece by piece, and soon there would be no jungles left at all. But Mani was just happy that hunting day had resulted in a rare find. I tousled his hair and nudged him toward the clearing.

"Come on, let's head back. We've been gone a long time, and Papa will have lunch ready soon."

"Lunch?" repeated Mani, his cheese sandwich already forgotten.

We left the rusted dinosaur behind us and found the trail again. The jungle sounds returned, the chirps and croaks and whistles, and for a moment I was glad that most dinosaurs really were extinct. I liked the jungle the way it was, full of life and secrets, and it wasn't right for anyone to take that away.

I believe some things in this world are better off just the way God made them.

The End

Jason works at UNC Hospitals for the Department of Radiology. He is an avid reader of fantasy and horror and likes to write in both genres, but particularly the latter. He enjoys roleplaying games and has been doing so ever since Jason was about ten and his brother was seven. He is currently focusing on a number of short stories and refining them, mostly in the horror genre.

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