“Look at that psychotic monkey.”

I glanced up from where I sat, sprawled across the top of a mossy flat boulder that was once a temple pillar, and looked in the direction Roy was turned. I moved with languid care; there was a viper coiled in a patch of warm Cambodian sunlight next to my steel-toed boot, and since I didn’t know what sort of snake he was, I thought it would be better not to offend him. There were things in the jungle much scarier than a basking snake, but a snakebite thousands of miles from MTV-watching civilization would be no picnic, either.

There was indeed a psychotic monkey, and two pissed-off young tigers, too. The tigers were being chased around a small clearing a few hundred yards down the river. I set my crossbow along one thigh and paused to watch the monkey swing down from the trees in a suicidal dive to snatch an ear or tail of the two dozing tigers. The tigers would fly into a rage, lunging at the monkey only to have it swing away, probably smirking all the while.

Other than the amused screeching of the monkey, the indignant squalls of the tigers, and the drone of rainforest white noise, the only other sound—so out-of-place in the jungle—was the slick metallic clicks and sliding swipes of weapons being maintained. Crossbows disassembled, cleaned, and reassembled. Knives ground against a whetstone, honed to razor sharpness. Guns oiled and repaired. The clinking racket of ammo belts and cases of bullets as they were inventoried.

Roy was leaned back against the wide furrowed trunk of a tree that stretched hundreds of feet in the air. A sawed-off shotgun stood propped against his knee.

“That’s some crazy shit,” Roy continued, his gaze never leaving the monkey as it tormented the two tigers. The poor cats were too young to even begin to know how to retaliate against the obnoxious, gangly creature vaulting overhead.

I watched the tigers with the others and took a deep breath of rain that hadn’t fallen yet. It was a quiet moment, the calm before the storm. The deserted village was miles down the road, and we had half our pay already. Nobody was living in the village of Samrong anymore, but then, we weren’t there to mess with the living.

Blake sat on the back of the jeep with Luke and Ryan, sharpening the pikes while Luke did inventory and Ryan rolled a spliff, balancing it precariously on his overturned canteen. His hair spilled into his eyes over reflective sunglasses, and I could see where Roy accidentally singed his bangs the night before in a game of Chase-The-Sniper-With-A-Flaming-Stick. When you’re stuck in the middle of the Cambodian jungle with a jeep full of ammunition, recreational substances, five Gameboys, and a dwindling supply of double A batteries, your extracurricular activities get a little creative.

I contemplated Roy’s commentary for a moment, taking the spliff when it was handed to me, and said, “I really don’t like monkeys.”

“Awwwwww.” Roy raised an eyebrow at me, lip stuck out in a mock pout. The ring in his lip caught the sunlight in a blinding star that was there and gone again in the twilight of the canopy. “What did monkeys ever do to you? Were you traumatized by Curious George as a child?”

“I just don’t like them. They’re dumb enough to be useless to society and smart enough to be obnoxious. Monkeys are just people that didn’t make the hump. I think monkeys taking over the world is my worst case scenario.”

“Zombies taking over the world isn’t your worst case scenario? ‘Cause I’m thinking zombies taking over the world would be worse.”

“I can fight zombies. I do that for a living. But monkeys are tricky, and they have prehensile tails and tiny needle teeth. Zombies can’t attack you from above. Plus, zombies are pretty slow. Monkeys are like little midget ninjas. But with claws and a banana fetish.”

“What about zombie monkeys?” Blake said. Beside him, Luke blew a smoke ring that caught the light in a dancing golden hoop and passed to Ryan.

“That would suck,” Ryan added sagely.

“Indeed. But if the good people of Cambodia were to be plagued with zombie monkeys as well as zombie people, its tourism would probably suffer. The walking undead are kind of interesting. Zombie monkeys are just damned scary. You might get some crazy assholes that would want to be helicoptered in to see zombies, but anybody who isn’t touched in the head would stay the hell away from zombie monkeys.”

“I saw a zombie cat once,” Luke said as he slung an ammo belt over his head, attempting to contribute to the seriousness of the conversation. I didn’t really want to think about zombie cats, either. I sort of wished someone would change the subject.

An enraged roar drew our attention away. One of the two tigers was dangling from the trunk of a tree by its claws, and the monkey had retreated to the safety of the higher branches. The tiger finally fell backwards into a bed of ferns. Ryan laughed so hard he fell off the tailgate of the jeep.

“You know what would be really funny?” I asked.

“What?”

“If after all this goofing around, the tigers finally caught and disemboweled the monkey. Those tigers are pissed. This could go from happy-go-lucky to National Geographic real fast.”

“Are you kidding? That wouldn’t be funny at all.”

“Maybe you just have a lack of appreciation for good irony.”

“Or a lack of appreciation for the sight of animals getting eaten alive.”

The snake curled up by my heel, unnerved by some unknown in the jungle—or maybe just by Ryan’s laughter—peacefully slithered across my ankle and into the bush. Suddenly, as quickly as the monkey appeared, it was gone, rocketing through the trees and howling all the way.

Further into the jungle, something else screamed…but it was definitely not a monkey.

We weren’t on vacation, after all.

“All right, kids. It’s time to pack up the car and head to town,” I said. “No rush, but hurry the hell up.”

As easily as they fell into relaxation mode, the boys were serious again. Professional killers raised on video games, the trained slayers of things other people had nightmares about. I’d usually say it’s a dirty job and somebody has to do it, but that somebody isn’t us. We could use some help from the Cambodian army for a change; a tank or two would be nice. Still, the pay is good, and we get to blow shit up sometimes.

Luke, Ryan, and Blake loaded the jeep and climbed into the back. I got into the driver’s seat and Roy, ever the navigator, curled up in the passenger seat like a cat. Once everyone was settled in, I started her up and began the slow, laborious job of easing the Range Rover along the primitive dirt road between villages.

It was almost dark. The sun, which was so warm and golden before, was sinking behind the canopy of the trees, sending the jungle from a comfortable half-light to gloom. Not my favorite time to hunt. We wouldn’t get to the village tonight. And we wouldn’t fight. Not in the dark.

“Hey.” Roy’s voice was soft in the passenger seat.

“Hm?”

“Do you think that…the zombies, well…do you think that, I mean, can they still know things? Can they think?”

It was an unexpected question, and it took me by surprise. I started to say Fuck if I know, because if you’re the least bit unsure, fuck if I know pretty much covers you, but the look in Roy’s eyes told me that would be a bad response. As usual, he was being absolutely serious. I shrugged, not really wanting to think about it.

“Jesus Christ, do you think they know they’re dead?”

I let the not-silence of the jungle creep into the jeep as we made our way and didn’t say a word. If there’s an answer to that particular question, I have no idea what it is. And I don’t want to know. Hopefully, if the deadheads ever get a hold of me, someone will take me out before I have a chance to figure it out.

I don’t ever want to have to know.

Kind of like zombie monkeys, some things were just too damned scary to think about.

“Shut up, Roy,” I said, and handed him a cigarette.

He did.