Jungle Fever

Somewhere far above, a voice cries, “We’ve got a war to fight!” It echoes over the valleys and topples over waterfalls, mixing into the water and choking all the fish until their eyes glaze over and are eaten by the birds. It creeps through the jungles and snatches everything on the ground with it’s ivory mandibles. The blood drains out into thirsty mouths and then splashes on the ground where seed chutes bloom into orchids and lilies. Great leopards hiss from the lush boughs, their ears pressed to their head and their mouths pulled back like elastic bands. Their paws swipe with an impotent fury. The great jungle cats are too proud to surrender to the sweeping death, but too cowardly and too intelligent to attack the tendrils shooting through the trees. And soon, the boughs themselves curl in on themselves and swallow the massive jungle beast into their labyrinthine roots.
The tendrils sweep through the cities, small animals from the forests still clinging to the leafy sides. A fat business man is enveloped by one of the tentacles, it’s great mass envelopes his like a rope coiling round a post. Then it snaps taut, leaving only bones where once there was only skin. The tentacles tear through offices, throwing copiers and faxes across city blocks. One woman is crushed by a great beige filing cabinet, and her last words are cut short by the wild, seven-petaled flowers shooting from her mouth. They stretch towards the sun, their leaves florid and twisting, and breath slow, shallow breaths. Soon they will grow into humanoid monstrosities. Soon business suits will be filled with twisted and gnarled roots which propel themselves independent of greed and sophistication. Soon roses will waltz in the streets, tearing through the crowds with their long, ravenous thorns.