He was running for his life, crumpling unfamiliar vegetation as he careered through the thick foliage that closed around him like the claws of some alien creature, eager to snare him. His mouth burned with the tang of anaerobic respiration and his sharp nose was full of a terrible funk of rotten meat and perspiration that sent a clear message to the deepest, most instinctual corner of his brain: predator.
He could hear them, too, although they moved with a lithe grace that cut the noise of pursuit to a gentle rustle. There were no calls, no snarls, no vocalisations of any kind. They weren't communicating with one another and they weren't attempting to intimate him. They didn't have to.
He had no idea where he was going, or whether there was even somewhere to go. All he knew was that he had to run; every nerve in his body was livid with the urge to flee. Suddenly he burst through the suffocating jungle into a clearing and his feet dug into loose soil. Panic overcame adrenaline as realisation dawned: he hadn't been fleeing; they'd been driving him into the open.
The thought to wheel around and dive back into the green sea met a fatal punctum in the form of a seven-inch, sickle claw that penetrated his thoracic artery, followed by the keener rake of teeth on his flanks and belly that sheared away chunks of red flesh before he had even hit the ground.
Owen observed from the gangway. It had been Echo who had made the kill; she was almost always the point-man (Point-woman? Point-raptor? Whatever). The messy, risky, energy-expensive task of bringing down prey always fell to the lowliest individual, with superiors pitching in if more claws and teeth were needed. For a single pig, one raptor was more than sufficient. Had it been a hadrosaur, it might've been a different story.
Echo was pinning her prize beneath her, both feet on the pig, toe claws buried in its still-quivering flesh. Her arms were positioned awkwardly at her sides, bent at the elbow, flapping in a near-comical display that, to Owen's mind, evoked the chicken dance. He frowned and dropped to one knee, wishing he had a pair of binoculars to hand. Echo's head was bowed, angled towards the kill; she was grunting and squealing in evident frustration as she attempted to maintain her balance atop the dead pig.
Owen smeared sweat from his brow with the crook of his arm. Well I'll be damned, he thought.
He'd studied his pack's genetic profiles closely when he'd agreed to take on this crazy post; he'd also spent eight hours a day, five days a week with these animals for the past three years. He knew that Echo's genetic makeup contained more modern avian DNA than her pack-mates; a fact reflected in her behaviour, which was more birdlike than her sisters overall; with a more accentuated bobbing of the head, a natural sense of curiosity and even a talent for mimicry.
From what he had read of velociraptor feeding habits (and he had read avidly since he had been employed at Jurassic World), Echo's long-dead forebears would pin their stunned but often still-living prey with those big toe claws and begin feeding until the unfortunate animal expired from blood loss or organ failure. Ancient raptors would, literally, eat their victims to death. Obviously, when perched on a struggling meal and trying to enjoy your lunch at the same time, it can be tricky to keep your balance. One theory was that raptors used their long arm feathers – the ancestors of wings – to stabilise themselves by flapping as they ate, much as eagles do today. This, it has been suggested by some palaeontologists, might even have been the basis of the flapping that eventually led to powered flight in avian dinosaurs.
John Hammond and Dr Wu's creations, being a veritable long island ice tea of genetic material, crammed full of bird, reptile and amphibian DNA, were almost certainly a million miles away from 'authentic' specimens in terms of appearance. Owen knew that Wu had pushed for keeping the park's attractions as close to the original source material as possible and while Hammond had mostly agreed, he evidently hadn't thought the world quite ready for fluffy dinosaurs.
Even the name 'velociraptor' was a bit of a joke. The particular species listed on the visitor's guide, velociraptor mongoliensis, would have been about a third of the size of Owen's girls; little more than a kickboxing turkey. Jurassic World's raptors were somewhere between a Deinonychus and Utahraptor in size, leaning a little closer to the former in build and head shape.
All of this meant that most of Jurassic World's raptors had developed distinctly 'un-raptorlike' hunting and feeding habits, with a great deal of variability between individuals. Blue, for example, being a heavy-set gal, tended to plough into her prey and knock them on their asses before getting busy with her claws and teeth, aiming for the soft parts around the neck and belly, much like a hyena or a hunting dog. Little Echo, for her part, was obviously acting out an instinct still buried somewhere in her genes - the urge to pin and flap - except the magic of bioengineering had failed to furnish her with the proper equipment. The spirit was willing, but the feathers were missing. The outcome was this rather stupid-looking, failed balancing act, which was causing the raptor to consistently fall off her pig, snarling with annoyance. Nature and nurture; the coefficient of animal psychology: in Echo and Blue you had the same environment, the same conditions, but a different fundamental mix, resulting in two completely different outcomes.
Owen smirked and looked down fondly at his struggling raptor. That's it, bird brain, he thought; your ancestors would be proud to see you at least give it a shot.
By now, Charlie and Delta were on the scene; the former with her distinctive lip curl that led the keepers to nickname her 'Elvis' and the latter with sleek, golden patterning down her side. Each entered from opposite sides of the clearing (standard raptor pack hunting method; lure the target to the kill zone, approach from all sides and overwhelm the prey). Blue slunk out of the forestry of her paddock last of all, regal in her silent dominance over her pack-mates, who dared not approach the pig until she had eaten her fill.
Owen knew that no good parent should have favourites, but Blue was a magnificent specimen. Nine feet from nose to tail, heavily-built but Porsche-elegant, with a cobalt-blue birthmark running the length of her body; a gift from the blue-throated lizard DNA that had helped bring her to life. Blue stalked towards the pig and Echo finally gave up on her futile effort to live in the manner of her antecedents, relinquishing the pig so that her elder sister could feed, hissing reproachfully. Blue ignored her and ducked her head.
At that moment Owen stood, raising the clicker above his head.
"Alright girls, eyes on me."
Four arrow-shaped heads snapped in his direction, bearing golden eyes that gleamed with suspicion and hostility. Owen smirked again: there was no better test of trust than to give a command when an animal was eating; in the case of a raptor, if it didn't immediately attempt to eviscerate you, you knew you'd established a decent level of rapport.
Owen waited until he was certain he had the squad's undivided attention before slowly raising to his feet and lifting the clicker without pressing it; the command to hold. His raptors did not budge.
"Okay, we're moving."
Click.