Disclaimer: John Hammond, InGen, Jurassic Park, Isla Nebular and Isla Sorna are all things that I have unconscionably stolen from Michael Crichton's novels Jurassic Park and The Lost World, as well as the movies of the same name. I have drawn on both forms of media (the books and the movies) for this story. It does not follow one or the other specifically… it is implied that John Hammond is still alive in this story, but I use dinosaur elements from the books… and a few that were in neither. None of the characters from Jurassic Park or Lost World, in either variation, appear in this story. Instead, I have chosen to plunk down a new set of characters on the island. Well, I guess that's all there is to say, except… enjoy the story.
Los Cinquo Muertes
Chapter 1: Survey
1
A SUMMER PLACE
As summer dwindled down into the era of fading light and falling leaves that was fall, a man named Brent Richley lounged in his backyard, enjoying the last few warm days of Indian summer. It was unseasonably warm for late September, and it hadn't rained in over a week. CNN kept showing a procession of farmers complaining about this, but Richley thought that it was nice of summer to go out like this, sort of like a hearty wave goodbye. Heat wave, that is.
Eyes closed, Richley breathed in deeply the air, thick with the musk of freshly cut grass. It was the smell of civilization, he thought. As a professional explorer (surveyor actually, but he preferred to think of it as explorer – it sounded more romantic) he had traveled the world over, and there seemed to be one constant to every countryside, suburb and city. During the summer, you invariably smelled cut grass. Where there was cut grass, there was civilization, and vice versa.
In the background, the occasional passing car made a slow, lazy rumble as it drove past on the asphalt. In the foreground, the constant tchick-tchick-tchick of the sprinkler, still working despite the first day of fall being right around the corner, worked on Richley like a hypnotist's coin, the repetition drawing him closer and closer to sleep. He felt for a second that the lazy Sunday afternoon would never end.
The first indication that something was wrong was the change in the sprinkler's sound. It didn't changed rhythm, but became more pronounced. Sighting heavily, he prepared to lift himself up, open his eyes and glance at the possibly malfunctioning machine. But before Richley could do any of that, a gout of cold water hit him in the face. Richley jerked at the contact of the foreign substance, falling off his lawn chair, but getting up rapidly due to his explorer (surveyor) instincts.
He had looked up just in time to see Alice putting the sprinkler back in it's place, now that it had served it purpose, namely rousing Richley from his trance-like relaxation.
"Ah, jeez, Alice, why did you do that?!"
Looking down, he noticed with some satisfaction that his daughter had missed his clothes, a Hawaiian T-shirt and a pair of long Bermuda shorts. His tourist outfit, his daughter called it. Only a man such as Brent Richley would be considered a tourist in his own hometown. He really didn't feel like getting wet today. After all, it wasn't that warm.
"I'm sorry, did I wake you up?" she mock-asked.
"I wasn't sleeping, Alice. Though I could have been, given a minute or two."
"Well wake up. FedEx just delivered a package for you. It's from the Institute." She handed him the package and walked back into the house.
Indeed, the package bore the sigil of the National Institute of Geography in the upper-right corner. Tearing the package open at the top, he was surprised to find only a letter. Usually such packages came with maps to the area that they wanted to survey. Puzzled, he read the letter:
Dear Mr. Richley,
We hope this letter finds you well. The National Institute of Geography would like to request your expert services in a surveying job. We further request a meeting with your person Sunday, at 20 hundred hours, to discuss location, equipment, and other such matters. The price will be your standard fee. We hope to see you soon.
James Palwood
James Palwood,
Director of Surveying Services,
National Institute of Geography.
Short, but not exactly to the point. James Palwood was an old friend, and his formal manner in this letter further mystified him. He resolved himself to be at the Institute at 20 hundred hours, which would be (Richley made a brief mental calculation) 8 o'clock tonight.
Too disturbed now to try and take a nap again, Richley went inside to fix himself a late afternoon snack.
2
THE MILITARY ON BOREDOM
Brent Richley leaned forwards and paid his cabby through the window. His work done and paid for, the yellow taxicab flashed its intention to rejoin the traffic mainstream and soon lost the National Institute of geography from view.
Straitening back up, Richley gazed at the familiar sight of the Institute. The large building, a 19th century architectural relic, had been augmented with a variety of global sigils during the years since it replaced the old courthouse that had been there before. Now, its most prominent feature was two great big pillars that flanked the marble steps leading up to the Institute. The massive stones were designed to imitate the mythological Pillars of Hercules in the Isles of the Blest, but instead of being adorned with Atlantean sigils, it was topped by two globes. The right showed the Americas prominently, cutting along the 90th meridian. Inversely, the second globe featured Russia, Mongolia, China, Burma and the Indian Ocean. Richley frowned as he spotted a few political frontiers that were no longer accurate. He briefly wondered how much it would cost keep a chiselled stone map up to date.
Once Richley had passed through the big red double doors of the National Geography Institute, the middle-aged man who ran the Surveying Services sector called him. He was dressed in the typical office-man getup. The sombre pants and jacket over the white shirt and the tie. Today's tie was a plain, mocha-like brown. Richard Palwood was an old friend of Richley's, as their jobs had caused them to cross path many times.
Richley was a veteran explorer/surveyor of the Institute. He had led survey teams that attempted to chart the depths of the Amazonian and central African jungles. Richley had been on over a dozen expeditions, sometimes difficult, sometimes deadly, but had always managed to bring the team back whole.
Except for…– his mind began to say, but Richley cut the thought off. No use dwelling on that.
The core team of these groups accompanied Richley wherever he went: the Amazon, Africa's jungles and savannas, the tropical Indonesian isles, hidden valleys of Asia and Richley's backyard (but only until they had found a place of their own, of course, plus a couple of green cards). And so, when the Institute (or a wealthy private entrepreneur) needed an area charted, they usually called upon Brent Richley. What was different from all those others jobs (missions, the romantic part of his brain insisted on calling them), is that previously he had always known where he was going before entering the big red doors.
"So," asked Richley, trying to contain his curiosity but not quite succeeding. "What's up?"
"That," replied Palwood with a mysterious smile "Is a surprise."
Intrigued and more than slightly curious, Richley follow his friend into Palwood's office. It was spacious enough, the kind that you might find in any office building throughout North America. A desk, a couple of chairs in front of them, a window in the left wall (from the perspective of someone sitting in one of the chairs), and a wastebasket in the corner, inconspicuous because it was the same wooden brown as the rest of the room. Behind the desk, hanging on the wall, was a flat metal globe, this one having no continents at all, only parallels and meridians. Sitting in one of the two chairs facing Palwood's desk was an aging man in an U.S. military uniform, which, judging by the quantity of markings and pips on the man's shirt, was quite advanced in rank.
With an annoyed look on his face, Richley turned towards his friend.
"What's the meaning of this?"
Richley didn't like the military. He had once. After he graduated from high school, a dreamy Richley had enrolled in the army. See the world, live adventures, and all that crap. However, the army's restrictions had choked down on Richley's wild and roaming spirit. This had resulted in several confrontations with his superiors, most notably the one where he sucker-punched a commanding officer that was screaming at him for taking a pause in the middle of cleaning the toilets with a toothbrush. Finally a dishonourable discharge ended private Richley's stay with the proud and the few.
It was after this incident, a terrible letdown that Richley came back to his hometown and enrolled in his local college. There he participated in his first survey mission. It was simple enough, a short trip to the Montana badlands, mapping out rock outcroppings and the sediments in the ground for a possible rock quarry. As it turned out, the ground rock was too hard, but the trip had set him on his path in life.
Still, he never forgave the military for kicking him out, even though he knew he was responsible. If they had just given him a little more liberty…
"The expansion of America, Mr. Richley."
Though Richley had asked Palwood, it was the military man who answered.
"I'm General Samson," he said, extending his hand for Richley to shake it. Richley did so, reluctantly.
"Please," continued the general, "Have a seat." General Samson motioned to the other chair besides him. Richley sat there, and Palwood sat in his usual spot behind the desk.
"So what's this about, general?" Richley asked with as much neutrality he could muster.
"Mr. Richley, the government wants to hire you to explore and chart a chain of islands in the Pacific Ocean. We want you to make a topographical and geological map of the area, as well as charting the flora and fauna, and major hydrographical currents, in the hopes that these islands can support an American colony."
This surprised Richley. There hadn't been any real colonization in over a century now. There was no longer any new territory to appropriate, and all the lands that could be lived on, were. Besides, there was no point. God knows all the planet's resources had already been tapped. And since there was no war (well, there were a few in Africa and Eastern Europe, but they didn't concern the United States), tactical reasons no longer applied. Very few people would want to leave their nice air-conditioned homes to ruff it out on a remote island colony for no better reason than "it is there".
"Why?" asked the dumbfounded Richley.
"Mr. Richley, America is bored. Let's face it, peace may be better than war, but it's a lot more boring. There is nothing going on at the international level to catch the population's interest." Again, the wars he had thought of earlier flashed into Richley's mind, but he guessed the public wouldn't be overly concerned with something that didn't involve them directly. "The entertainment business is having a hard time keeping people entertained. Predictable Hollywood terrorists and the constant marriages and divorces of the superstars can only keep people interested for a certain amount of time. Soon, the populace is going to realize that their lives are boring as hell, and unhappy population makes for an irritable government. So we asked ourselves, what fascinated us when we were kids? The answer was: cowboys."
Loony Alert! By now Richley was certain the general had flipped his top. First colonies, expansion, and now cowboys? Did this guy think it was 1800 and something? Besides, if the guy was old enough to remember cowboys as a major source of entertainment, he definitely belonged in a nursing home. Unaware of Richley's thoughts, general Samson continued his winded speech:
"Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not thinking of resurrecting the cowboy craze; I know that that's considered passé. No, what I'm suggesting is a new frontier, a group of real life pioneers settling on wild lands. A yearlong and years long project that the population can keep track of, and be fascinated by. Something to keep them interested, because if it works, it will be interesting."
"And you want me to go in first and make a map of the place for your would-be pilgrims," Richley cut-in, anticipating the Samson's eventual request. The general nodded an affirmative, and Richley got up and started pacing the room.
"I don't know. I don't usually work for governments. These kinds of expeditions are usually low-key, so if they don't succeed, nobody sweats about it. This, however, sounds very far from low-key. Sounds more like a live-coverage thing. Besides, I don't think my daughter would appreciate being pulled out of school at the start of the year."
That last one, Richley knew, was a lie. Alice would love nothing better than a chance to get away from what she called the "boring, monotonous and dreary routine of an unremarkable school in a lifeless town." She had an adventurous spirit and could not stay in one place for very long. She wanted to break free of all rules, and roam the globe. She had too much of her mother in her.
It seemed, however, that General Samson was ready for opposition.
"I assure you that very few people will know of this project, and all documents pertaining to it will be kept confidential. Your involvement in this project will only be revealed if the mission is a success and then only if you wish it to be. However, if you really don't want this mission, I'm sure we can ask Dr. Hiller."
Damn, though Richley, this guy is good. He had obviously done a more than superficial research on Richley before coming to the meeting. Dr. Hiller was another professional explorer, and was second only to Richley himself. Both men often vied for leadership of a certain expedition. He could be said to be Richley's rival, nemesis even, if such words could be applied to the relatively peaceful area in which they work.
Besides, Richley was only human. One could not stop oneself to dream of glory. By inaugurating a new land, Richley felt he was sure to become famous. Hell, just look at Columbus. He has countries named after him. Richley though of his name being given to cities. Brentown. Richleyville. Richley smiled faintly at the incongruous thought.
"All right," Richley finally said, "Where am I going?"
3
MAGNA CARTA
The map room was immense, and the black walls seemed to give it a cavernous feel. The were computers everywhere on the floor, and on the walkway (because it was a two-story map room) were libraries, storing maps, some so old that they had bizarre whales and serpentine sea creatures and "Here there be Dragons" scrawled all over them. Above the libraries, blue and green squares showed all the landmasses in the world: North America, Central America, South America, Europe, North Africa, South Africa, the Middle-East, Russia, India, Eastern and South-Eastern Asia, Indonesia, Australia and New Guinea, and a big blue one that Richley figured contained the small green blotches of the Solomons and the other Pacific Isles.
The National Geographical Institute prided itself upon having the most comprehensive and researched computerized map in the world. Thing is, they are probably right. Standing in the middle of the vast map room was a large grey table with a smooth black surface. As Richley and the general approached this table, Palwood went over to a nearby computer terminal.
"Just a sec, and I'll give you your islands," said Palwood.
Just then, the black surface on the table lit up. It was then that Richley realized that the black surface was in fact a computer screen. He saw on it a globe. Then a flashing red square appeared on the globe, and the square, representing Central America, grew until it occupied the entire screen. Then, about 75 kilometres into the Pacific, off the cost of Costa Rica, another squared appeared, and, like the first, magnified a portion of the ocean that carried five island, three of them relatively big, the two others smaller.
General Samson then spoke up:
"These, Mr. Richley, are the islands we are thinking of colonizing. Their total superficies is slightly smaller than that of Hawaii's. The climate there is nice and hot most of the year, except for your occasional tropical storms. Of course, the colony would be built to safely withstand these. There are a few arable lands for cultivation and some small mineral deposits here and there. The local wildlife is small and peaceful, and many of the animals there can be domesticated. Th-"
"Wait a minute," interrupted Richley. Something wasn't sitting quite right. "If these islands are that nice, than why has nobody ever gone there before?"
"Until recently, the islands belonged to the Costa Rican government, who frankly did not have the kind of funds for such a costly and low-income project. A few years ago, a private company, InGen, purchased the islands from Costa Rica. However, InGen's board of directors soon realized how costly transportation and communications were when the head bureau was on an island. So, with the authorization of the Costa Rican government, the company's CEO, one John Hammond, sold the islands to us. Now, to get back to the colony, we where thinking of setting up the main colony on Isla Capula," one of the three big islands lit up red, "With secondary ones on Isla Nebular and Isla Sorna," the other big ones turned red, "The two other islands will only be colonized if this project works out," the two remaining isles lit up, making the whole island chain look like a fiery half-circle. "This," Samson said, unnecessarily pointing on the map, "Is Isla Capula, where you and your team will begin your charting work."
"Speaking of my team, do you have any restriction and who and what I bring?" Oh, sure, Richley thought. The military loves restrains. Here's a list of who you can't have.
"No. In this case, we will trust your judgment as a veteran explorer. However, we will be sending with you a governmental attaché, who will make sure that the island meets government security standards, plus a small group of soldiers, just for the sake of being prepared. How soon can you leave?"
"To assemble the team and the equipment, I'd say somewhere between one and two weeks."
"In that case, I suggest you get packing."
ISLAND
4
DIABLOS EN LA OBSCURIDAD
While it might have taken Richley one to two weeks to get all his personnel in one place and all the equipment he needed together, General Samson made it a point of never putting off something you can do right away. There's no time like the present, his mother used to say, and it was a philosophy Samson lived by. As soon as he was back in his car (a black unmarked limo, the earmark of high-ranking military personnel), he picked up his car-phone (another earmark) and made the call that Miguel Sanchez and his men were waiting for.
Sanchez hung up the phone and told his men they were moving out. They shambled into positions in the small motorboats, some putting on their lifejackets, others not and daring anybody else to make something of it. They were not soldiers. They were menial task labourers. The poor and the dregs of Costa Rican society, who were so desperate for cash that they would jump into motorboats and make a seventy-five kilometre trip out in the ocean at the promise of money.
Sanchez was in charge of this particular group of misfits. He had never seen, spoken to, or even heard of General Samson. The good general had called a contact in the Costa Rican government, and gave him money to get a job done. That contact had in turn called a less-trustworthy contact to which he assigned the task and gave him two-thirds of the sum he received. The rest he kept for himself. The less-trustworthy contact did the same, until the long list of exchanges ended at Miguel Sanchez, with only one-fifth of the original sum remaining. Like his predecessors, Sanchez had made sure to hire men who would work for a song, thus ensuring his profits.
The job was simple enough: clear a portion of the jungle and install a landing field.
The boats were in poor condition, and as they did not wish to navigate at night (no radar), they only arrived around noon the following day. They circled the island quickly, taking care of avoiding a few rocky reefs (cheap, but not suicidal). Finally, on one of the beaches, they located an area that would do fine. The beach was large, and the vegetation that surrounded it was mostly overgrowth from the nearby palm trees and ferns.
Sanchez split the group into two. The first group would work on the area of the landing strip that was covered by vegetation, rooting out the ferns with bare hands and ropes. The second team, which Miguel Sanchez would oversee, focused on laying down the large, grey, holy bands that would serve as runway for the planes. Sanchez though inwardly that to use planes to go to an island instead of helicopters was kind of stupid, but he really didn't care as long as he got paid.
They lost Rodriguez during their fifth night on Isla Capula. Nobody did a roll call at night or in the morning, but by noon of the sixth day it was known that the moustached Costa Rican was no where to be seen, and had been since the night before. As night began to fall again, Sanchez and the rest of the crew ventured slightly inland, a disorganized search party, calling Rodriguez over and over, but getting no reply. Sanchez had been unwilling to devote any daylight to the search, and he refused to conduct any more search parties, threatening a cut in pay for anybody who did. When faced with the prospect of losing their hard-earned money, the building teams went back to work. Sanchez personally though their missing man had deserted. Probably was hiding in the jungle, feeding off plants, waiting for the airplanes to arrive so he could mooch off the Americanos, maybe even hitching a ride with them back to their country. He wanted no delays. Delays would be costly, and he needed that money to pay off a few debts and loans, as well as changing his name to something less stereotypically New World Spanish.
Over a week later, at about the time Richley and his cronies were turning in for a good night's sleep before the big day, the Diablos En La Obscuridad struck. One of the workers, sleepless from the excitement of finally returning to the mainland (and getting paid!), was nervously flickering his lighter on and off. He had nothing to use it on, since he had smoke his last cigarette within two days on the island, but he found the flame hypnotically reassuring. Only, as he walked near the jungle, the light caught something and reflected off of it. Intrigued, the worker took a step back, and kept his lighter on instead of flickering it on and off again. The flame indeed caught two objects. They were located at the same height. They seemed yellow (though it could have been the light), and had a black slit running through it in the middle. They were eyes. As the hapless man realized this, another series of objects caught the flame. Beneath the eyes, a long row of pearly whites.
The others heard a brief scream cut off by what sounded like someone gargling himself. Still, a scream was a scream, and one didn't survive in the streets of San José, Costa Rica, by ignoring screams, no matter how short. Within seconds everyone was on his feet, trying to assess the situation in the darkness. A second scream was heard, uninterrupted and clearly laced with pain and terror. Only this one had come from the beach, not the jungle. Whatever it was that was causing the screams, there was more of it. This realization sent the workers stampeding towards the boat, even though the last scream had come from that direction.
Sanchez came rushing out of his tent (the only one in the group) at that instant, waving his flashlight (also the only one in the group). The light briefly caught on something sharp, serrated and shiny, as another scream was heard and Diablo Number One took another victim. Sanchez decided he did not like what he had seen, and followed his men to the boats.
The first workman to reach the boats leaped in without any preamble. He began to feel his way to the motor (he touched the radio instead, the only one in the group), when he felt a pair of sharp pains, one in his belly and another at his throat. An observer here would be thankful it was night-time, and the red waters below the unfortunate's severed head could not be seen.
While Diablo Number Two fed (they could hear the crunching sounds now) the other workmen piled into the two remaining boats, pulled the motor, and speed away in no direction other than Away-From-Isla. Sanchez, who had begun his desperate dash after the rest of his men, stopped when his feet hit the waters. Standing there, waving his arms furiously, he screamed at the men to come back (which they sensibly did not). Then he felt a force hit him from behind, smashing him against the waves. His mouth was open from shouting and he swallowed a lot of water, but a moment later, as either Jungle Diablo or Beach Diablo began tearing at his back, he found himself wishing he had drowned.