Jurassic Park IV
E. L. E.
Based on the novels by:
Michael Chrichton
and the film adaptations by:
Michael Crichton
David Koepp
Written by:
Bernard Kyer/ BrachioInGen
A little About the story:
My first attempt at writing a fan-fiction for Jurassic Park, Jurassic Park IV: E. L. E. has been a sort of love child of mine for many years. My original fascination with telling the tales of what my friends and I did as children inspired me to create a world of my own in an offshoot of the Jurassic Park storyline.
I've been writing this story on and off for nearly 8 years now--since The Lost World came out. My original draft has very little to do with this, the–hopefully–final version of the tale.
This is a personal story as well. I'm writing this as an homage to a dear friend who passed away who, like in everything I did, was enthused and supportive. I write this for you John.
The original iteration may be completely separate from this one but none the less, many vital parts carry over. It has been my continued hope to write a story on Hammond post-Nublar. His character has been the most dynamic of them all and I believe, deserves to be more of a catalyst than "I'm sending you back." I also write this story to not only answer a lot of questions about the Jurassic Park universe, but at the same time, wrap up the story. (As can be seen with many films, too many sequels can spell disaster for a franchise: JP is no exception. )
I have continued to attempt to write to the times and to the people of the Jurassic Park fan base and this story is also an attempt at that. Many characters appear again, some for the first time since their original viewing in either the book or film, and many plot lines, left abandoned, are resurrected: call it "artistic nostalgia." This story will ultimately end the franchise but at the same time, leave it open for the reader to decide what is best.
So sit back, put on some John Williams, and enjoy!
I do not make any claim to owning the characters or anything of Jurassic Park past that of my own devising and adapting.
Prologue
Dinosaurs exist. The world knows this now. Ever since the incident in San Diego, information on the so called "Dinosaur Island" become a hot commodity, not to mention a hot topic for heated debate world wide.
Little is known, though, to the general public about InGen and its actions nearly thirteen years ago on the isolated island of Isla Nublar. Costa Rica certainly doesn't talk about it and InGen, a now frailing community of farming equipment manufacturers, saved from the jaws of complete and utter demise wrote off the past in non-disclosure agreements, barring most from speaking. All but one man: John Hammond.
Since the San Diego incident, John had made a good public image of himself. He spoke out about the animals they had birthed and remained outspoken on the issue for years, pressing the need to "quarantine and contain" the islands off the coast of Costa Rica for the protection of man and most importantly in his eyes, the animals that thrived on their rocky shores.
In recent years, John's health had begun to slip. His appearances on television grew few and far between until his last public appearance on the O'Reilly show.
Bill O'Reilly had been leaning over his desk, and, fire in eyes, began attacking John from an economic standpoint, saying how the government should be using money to save children from illness and help the elderly with their medication and not on bailing out companies. Then he sardonically asked where ethically John "got off" on cloning creatures that shouldn't be alive. At that point, John began to lean to one side. His eyes rolled back into his head and he passed out onto the floor.
Mid-interview, John had a stroke and was rushed to the hospital. Bill later came out apologizing for attacking the frail old man. From then on, things were different. The support for saving the islands grew less and less organized, leaving the debate less in the public arena, giving the UN the ability to focus on dealing with the chain more privately. John became a recluse, remaining in his mansion, attending to himself.
And now, as a frail and senile man, John Hammond spent most of his day lying in bed, muttering, and occasionally screaming out to the nurses who would rush to his bedside. Many a nurse had left because of the blood curdling screams from John, let alone the frightening things he would say.
He would often grab the nurses, stare into their eyes, and say quietly, almost under his breath "they've escaped. They're coming! Don't let them get me! They're slice us apart! They'll gnaw on your bones and rip out our stomachs!" Few nurses wanted to hear the constant threat of being mauled to death and many often left his aid for services elsewhere.
This is how he remained, having slept in his bed for nearly five months. His room was clean, but cluttered with "Get-well soon, Grandpa!" cards and flowers. His desk, laden with folders and several lap tops, beeping every second or so, flashing images of the island chain, updating the movement of the animals via red dots.
The mid-morning sun was sneaking in through the shades that had not yet been drawn, leaving the room in near-complete darkness. John lay in his bed, writhing under the sheets. The medical machines surrounded him, the iv machine beeping against the rhythm of the heart monitor.
From the hall, the echoing sound of the soft piano piece Bach's Siciliano was broken by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. A nurse entered into the room checking the machines, she then went to the windows and drew the shades.
The light streamed in and crossed Hammond's tired face. He winced and then opened his eyes.
"Nurse," he whispered to her, reaching his hand out.
"Nurse," he said slightly louder.
The nurse heard him this time and turned to him, taking his hand.
"Yes, sir?"
Hammond stared at her for a moment, then smiled lightly.
"Where are my grandchildren?"
"Oh, sir. Master Murphy is at work, and Miss Granger is at home."
"Yes," he said, trailing off.
The nurse smiled and squeezed his hand lightly. She went to place it back on the bed but he looked at her again.
"I have to see it finished."
"What was that sir?"
"I have to see it completed. My dream," he said, drifting to sleep, "my world."
He rolled over to his side, and mumbled under his breath.
"My son."
James sipped his beer and then stowed it into holster next to the wheel.
It was near midnight, and he and his wife had just returned to their private Yacht moor in the San Diego harbor, having spent the day tanning and boozing in international waters off the west coast. James was a wealthy realtor. His figure was less than desireable: a large beer belley, balding couf, with an awkward gate. His demenor was that of a king more than a man. All of this would turn most women away, but his money more than made up for it.
He felt his wifes silicone brests against press heavily against his back, as she leaned in for a drunken kiss.
"Mmmm," she moaned, gropeing her husband's chest hair.
"Honey," she whimpered, "I'm tired. Lets just sleep here in the boat, hmm?"
"Mariam," he groaned, unhappily.
"What,"she said, leaning off of him.
"You are always like this! You never want to have any fun! You have the big Yacht, the big house, the big life, and my big breasts and all you care about is work, work, work," she snapped, snottily, rubbing her hands angrily across her chest.
"Mariam, you have no idea what you're talking about."
"Oh yes I do," she exclaimed, leaning forward awkwardly and then catching herself on another railing.
A light siren pierced the air, catching James' attention. In the distance over the bay, he could heard it clearly. The hollow sound confused him as did the direction it came from. He knw of nothing out in that direction of the bay, except a large, strange amphitheater which had been sitting there, unused, since he moved to San Diego.
"Now you're ignoring me! Great!" she snapped, nearly tripping on the stairs to get down to the guest area.
"I'm not ignoring you, Mariam! I have work. You've already made me miss too many days as it is. Be glad they even let me take today off for you!" he snapped, following her down the stairs.
Mariam giggled and ran into the darkened living area, jumping onto the couch. Only the faint light from the docks shone through the slightly tinted windows, outlining Mariams shapely figure.
"What about me," she pleaded, like a sad puppy.
"I gave you everything you wanted, Mariam, isn't that enough?"
"Nope," she poked, motioning for her husband to join her.
James walked captiously over to her and leaned up against her to kiss her. They embraced and began to make out, passionately.
Something caught James' eye. He looked up and noticed off in the distance, the large amphitheater brightly lit.
"The hell?" he said, standing promptly.
"What is it?" Mariam asked, turning around.
"Have they finished building that thing," she asked, seeing what her husband was staring towards.
"It's been there for ages," she remarked, annoyed.
"I don't know. It doesn't look finished. Its been there since I got my promotion, nearly thirteen years ago. I didn't think it was even in use anymore."
"Maybe someone bought it. Just come over here," Mariam pleaded.
James walked away from the window, cautiously.
"I don't know, I would have heard about it," he remarked, rejoining his wife in their embrace.
A few moments latter, the light turned off.
"That's better," he said, leaning up.
Through the window, he could see the outline of a face. The light had not been turned off: it was being blocked.
He jumped from his wife and stepped backwards. The shape moved in the light, tilting its head and staring into the window.
His wife sat up.
"What is the matter with you," she shouted, turning to look out the window.
The shape contorted, opening it's mouth wide, and with rows of teeth visible in the bright silhouette, let out a piercing scream that intertwined with Mariaam's and James' screams, in a cacophony of hell and immanent death.