Sweat meandered down his temple, catching in the groove that his tight wired glasses created in the side of his face before cascading down his jaw to fall to the jungle floor. Breathing deeply through his mouth he managed to keep relatively quiet, quiet enough for them not to hear him. This of course was a psychological defense mechanism that he used to keep himself even more calm. Truth be told, they knew he was there-knew his exact location, the sound of his heartbeat, the hyper-hushed click of the Canon and the rustle of his clothing rubbing together whenever he shifted.
His finger gently pressed the button on his camera, starting a series of events that would inevitably capture the first images of the Dinosaur Girl, the one who was left behind, the girl that survived. The shutter whirred at the volume of a butterfly's wings whipping the air, capturing image after image of the woman not more than 50 feet from him.
His partner, Dr. James Owen, shifted beside him. The ferns stirred too loudly and immediately the woman, smeared in mud, fled the scene. Moments later, when the faint sound of her fleeing ceased, the photographer turned to his partner.
"We may never see her again," he shook his head, twisting the lens free and stuffing it into a specially designed shoulder bag for the few-thousand dollar camera.
"Billy," James stood, wiping the sweat from his brow, "Chill. She's as curious about us as we are of her. And her friends."
She lived among the deadliest creatures ever to have walked the planet: raptors. They eat together and allow her into their nesting grounds. From what Billy and James have observed thus far, the jungle woman is coexisting successfully with raptors.
"You have no idea what's going on, what these things are capable of." Billy stood and ran his fingers through his dirty blond curls cut short on his head.