Disclaimer: I own nothing because this is fanfiction. I draw from films as well as the books and take many liberties because this is fanfiction. My protagonist is in many (but not all) respects a prototype of Carrie Brownstein and I can get away with it because this is fanfiction. Please read and review; let me know what you love and hate, what inspires you and what disgusts you, what you want to see more of and what you want to see less of. Let me know what you are thinking and I will be grateful to do anything in my power to delight, entertain, and evoke emotion because this is nothing short of a massive labor of love- fanfiction. Dig in.
What do you do with a remainder?
You round it up or round it down
And if you're scared by what you're left with
Destroy the answer that you've found
- Sleater-Kinney
The storm had only just arrived when Carrie stepped out onto the back patio. Within a matter of minutes, nearly every characteristic of the landscape before her was drowned out by a thick sheet of jungle rain. From under the veranda, she still could see a watercolor-like peppering of coral polo shirts and red baseball hats bobbing against the green horizon.
The park would soon be ready to receive and this sparked a contrasting behavior that fascinated Carrie. Everyone was either scrambling to complete their work or moving around in the same sort of rebellious promenade as a collegiate crowd on the last day of finals week. Tensions were high and the whispers of an impending lawsuit might have been the proverbial "straw that broke the camel's" back had they not been nipped in the bud by upper-management.
As Carrie's eyes moved to the far side of the repurposed velociraptor paddock, two heavyset utility workers caught her attention. They were positioned on either side of a colossal terracotta vessel that was as deep as it was high. The leafy arms of a flourishing plant spilled over the sides, some tresses were even long enough to brush the concrete as they moved.
The workers bickered momentarily, shifting the position of the plant. At this point, Carrie was not only intrigued by the exchange, but nearly sickened once their intention became clear. She inhaled a single, sweet stream of nicotine, diminished the amber glow at the tip of her newborn cigarette by scraping it against a rock and stormed across the courtyard, against the wind.
Upon arriving on Isla Nublar, Carrie had known the paddock as a carport where the faculty stored primarily Jeeps, save for the occasional recreational vehicle or tractor. It was not until her second month there that she unveiled by means of unfailing curiosity, the area's disturbing truth and what those two workers were, at long last, looking to conceal.
When she reached the paddock, she noticed that identical plants had been spaced widely across the perimeter. From a strictly aesthetic perspective, it made sense but the flaw became clear as she examined the ground upon which this particular plant had been placed. It was exactly as she had feared.
From below, an outline, small and unrecognizable to the unsuspecting eye, of a dark crimson shadow that was once a massive stain reached its tiny fingers out from underneath the pot as if to give the impression that a bloody ghost had been crushed by its weight.
On one hand, it was gruesome enough to demand some kind of coverage. But in Carrie's case, it struck a nerve. A small cluster of workers sprinted by, seeking a dry place. She ignored them, pushing her hand out from inside of the sleeve of her oversized flannel shirt and removing the damp chunks of hair from her brow.
In the crook of her arm, a large folder rested. She remained mindful to keep it tucked safely inside her shirt as she reached out, knocking the rain off of the leaves.
They were soft and plump and reminded Carrie of the leaves of the African violent plants that her mother collected throughout her childhood. She recalled how she would press the tips of her fingernails into the leaves, spilling the juicy membrane from within when her parents weren't looking and was riddled with guilt for months after getting caught. Although curiosity so often led to despair, Carrie never heisted to surrender to it.
As the leaves moved from underneath her hand, Carrie uncovered a cluster of small orange-colored blossoms that had bloomed sporadically along the stem. The petals on the blossoms were half the thickness of the leaves but possessed the same plush-like surface. As Carrie's fingertips grazed the petals, however, they proved to be rough to the touch, as though they were made of thin sandpaper.
The low rumble of an engine and the crackle of wheels moving over the gravel pulled Carrie back into reality. Her eyes dropped to the stain and then, as though circumstances had made her so entitled, she plucked a blossom from the plant and slipped it into the pages of the notebook. As she closed it, the name on the cover stood out in her periphery.
Dr. Amancay Zamora
Juxtaposed in one glance. The bloodstain and the name. The peculiar, quasi-ceremonial moment consumed Carrie. She remained silent until the car door slammed and oncoming voices filled her ears.
"And here we have Dr. Beckler. A native Northwesterner, she hardly needed to acclimate." A tenor though albeit monotone voice droned. Carrie recognized it immediately as Dr. Harding.
Giving up on the pieces that had fallen into her eyes, Carrie brushed her dark bangs haphazardly into her navy bandana and shot a half-smile in his direction. He'd taken her under his wing from day one. Or rather, that was what Carrie wanted him to believe. Beneath a surface of friendly exchanges and like-mindedness, she'd remained suspicious of even him- her only companion on the island.
To his right, an exhausted, yet enthusiastic woman with golden hair sauntered. She and Carrie exchanged smiles. Only briefly. As they moved closer, her attention shifted to the plant.
"Florissantia?" She asked breathlessly. To this, Dr. Harding nodded.
"A healthy one, too." She moved closer and let out a small laugh in Carrie's direction. "And it's a native Northwesterner just like you! What are the odds?"
Carrie exhaled a quick, choppy breath that scarcely passed as a chuckle.
"I'm sorry. Dr. Beckler, was it? I'm Dr. Ellie Sattler. Paleobotanist. So I'm only a tiny bit out of my element."
At last, the fog in her mind cleared enough to allow Carrie to smile at this friendly, mild-mannered stranger. As she extended her hand in Ellie's direction, Carrie's eyes, dark as the sea on a stormy night, glistened slightly as they shook hands. "Call me Carrie. Anthropologist, gone rogue. Nobody is more out of their element than I am."
"Not Dr. CJ Beckler, the anthropologist?" Ellie asked, overcome by an entirely new level of joy. "You wrote the essays on the BriBri? And now you're-!"
"It's one of those stories that nobody wants to hear." Carrie replied, humbled. "But thank you. I was actually hoping to hear more about this plant. The leaves almost seem to be protecting the blossoms. But are they really? They are both equally abrasive to the touch."
"Abrasive, yes. But their stems on the Florissantia flowers are very fragile. Some theories suggest that the grain was only exclusive to the leaves. Still," she reached out, rubbing her finger against a petal, "there are so many theories that can be laid to rest just by examining the living specimen."
Carrie nodded, the corners of her mouth began to twitch as she concealed her own enthusiasm. A natural response for her. Although she was, for the most part, an agreeable person, it was very rarely that she felt an immediate kinship with anyone. Ellie was one of her own. Cerebral and energetic. More interested in discovery than small talk. She listened intently along with Dr. Harding as she explained the original climate of the Pacific Northwest. "Fossils were found throughout western Oregon and Washington throughout the early 1900's." She carried on in a joyful tangent. "A slightly different species lived throughout the plains. Where are you from again, Dr. Beckler?"
"East of Seattle, just outside of North Bend. But I've lived somewhere between Costa Rica and Austin, Texas for the last decade or so." Carrie replied.
"Ah, UT. Now I remember. One of the gentlemen that I am visiting the park with also studied there around the same time, I assume. Perhaps you know him." Ellie said mindlessly, sifting her hand through the soil and breaking it apart in her palm.
Carrie shrugged. "What is his field?"
"Either chaos theory or motorcycle jackets. He's an all style, no substance sort. Occasionally brilliant but severely self-absorbed."
As Ellie spoke, Carrie's nerves piled themselves into a tight ball of discomfort. This was one bit of history that did not need revisiting. It was the last thing she needed and so, she didn't even ask for his name. "Possible." She shrugged. "Most of my time was spent abroad."
Carrie glanced down at the notebook and saw a hand-shaped smear of sweat staring up at her. She decided to change the subject. "I work with an iguanodon juvenile," she started, trying to navigate her train of thought into a meaningful statement, "so I understand what you meant earlier about laying theories to rest. For example, did you know that iguanodon societies are matriarchal? Rendering them one of the first matriarchal societies in recorded history."
"I can't wait to read your research." Ellie was still more interested in the plant and it showed, but she remained friendly.
"I was just about to drive over to the paddock before you and Dr. Harding showed up. Would you care to accompany me?"
Ellie rose. "I should probably catch up with my colleagues. They will be returning from their tour of the facility soon."
"Please enjoy your stay here." Carrie said, stepping backwards "There is much to see."
"I'll do that."
As Carrie drove, she fought to situate her thoughts on the interstitial plane between the proverbial ghost of Dr. Zamora and Dr. Malcolm; knowing that if the line was crossed, the past would begin to unearth itself on either side. So instead, she thought about the iguanodon.
This was a comfortable place for her thoughts to linger. A pleasant place, at that. Still, that comfort was grounded on shifting sands. The iguanodon was a troubling subject for John Hammond. The survival rate for the breed was staggeringly low. There were only two cases in which they had reached adulthood and yet, they did not survive the flight to Isla Nublar.
It was not until Dr. Zamora, a promising young biologist, suggested that the hatchlings receive a new kind of care, that one showed promise of survival. By the age of two months, she was the size of a large housecat, on a stable diet, high functioning and limber. When Carrie came to work with her, just a month later, the juvenile had nearly doubled in size and had escaped from her paddock twice by climbing a tree and launching herself over the electric fence.
Her behavior was excused under the circumstances. Dr. Harding himself suggested that it was more grievance for the loss of her mistress than rebellion. But Carrie, quite like Dr. Zamora in build and temperament, proved to be a passable replacement.
Dr. Zamora named her Uno. A name that Carrie found to be passive and predictable. But after long hours of working from Dr. Zamora's notes, the little iguanodon became Uno in Carrie's mind as well.
Overhead, a thunderclap sounded. Several responsive groans could be heard in the jungle behind the fence.
There was an unshakable chill that everyone felt upon passing each of the carnivore's paddocks. She expected the grouping of slender-bodied dilophosaurs that would typically race alongside the fence in a playful race against the Jeep. The paddocks ahead, on the other hand, were silent as a haunted grave. Movement rarely came from behind the leafy backdrop, but you could feel the gaze of eyes upon you.
Today, you could not and it was all the more terrifying.
When Carrie reached the open fields where the herbivores roamed free, a similar tension could be sensed. Pods of ten or more stegosaurs were clustered around their young. They positioned themselves as far away from the jungle as possible. This behavior was new. Innately territorial. And it made Carrie want to turn back.
With one hand steadfast on the wheel, she reached under the seat and removed a locked box that contained several flares, ammunition and a small handgun that Carrie had never fired. She decided to keep moving toward the base of the mountain where Uno's living space was.