Philippines, 1942. The Japanese are advancing. Sergeant Waters and four scattered men retreat into the jungle instead of surrendering. By the second day, they are lost. By the third, they find the fog. It rises from the ground at dusk—thick, green, wrong. It doesn't move like mist. It reaches. The first man walks into it smiling. By morning, only a gray stain remains where he slept. Waters doesn't know what's hunting them. But the fog knows where he breathes.