Chapter 25

I'm in a hospital. After spending a few minutes, Brooke was able to come to this conclusion. She had the time. Her eyes had fluttered open, her mind in a clouded stupor. She began to breathe rapidly, but that hurt her chest. She could feel slight pinches of pain in her hand, but she couldn't move them to see. A sense of panic seized her and she could feel her heart beating. The more her heart raced, the more a dull beeping penetrated her eardrums. That was the first sound she heard, the erratic beeping of a machine somewhere to her right.

She took a few slower breaths as her eyes darted around the room. There was a man in a suit sitting on a couch in the corner, his head bowed with a clipboard in this lap. Brooke watched him for a little while, wondering if he would feel her gaze. She soon tired of her attempt, and her eyes flicked around as her hearing became more acute. She was able to tune into her surroundings.

The beeping had become clearer, but also slower and more rhythmic. It was certainly not like the original sounds. Everything started to gain depth. Her eyes were able to see passed the open door frame. People in uniform teal blue scrubs rushed by. That was her first clue, but her the gears in her brain were still struggling to warm up. She recognized them, but she couldn't label it. It was as if her mind was thinking without words. Usually something that came automatically. You look at something—"That's a tree, that's a house, that's a human". She didn't even think to herself "I know what that is", she just did.

Once she was able to see and hear, the sensation began to move down. She became more aware of her body beyond the pain in her chest, the pounding in her head, and the odd prickly feeling in her hands. Slowly, she was able to move her muscles. First her neck—she was able to shake her head. It was very slow, slightly painful movement, but she was finally able to take in her surroundings. Finally, words were able to form.

There were catheters in both of her arms. She was tucked in tightly to a bed with safety bars on both sides. As she sat staring at her fingers, she was able to wiggle them. Everything felt stiff and sore. But feeling was good. Feeling meant she was alive, and that everything was working. She was able to wiggle her toes, watching the sheets move at the edge of the bed with her moment.

I'm in a hospital.

It took her a few minutes before she posed a question to herself: Why?

She closed her eyes for what she had intended for only a moment. She just needed a moment to think. Instead, she fell into a pit of darkness…

Brooke knew they were being hunted. She could see the figures in the forest, except now they were larger, their figures black but their eyes shining red in the darkened jungle. Richard chattered on about dinosaurs and cerebral cortex up ahead. Diego was singing a low, melancholy tune in Spanish. She couldn't understand the lyrics, but she had heard it before.

"Richard, we're being hunted," Brooke stressed, but the cocky zoologist told her.

"Pish-posh," Richard replied. But Brooke knew they were. She could see them, she could hear the jagged breathing. She could smell them, smell the death on them. It was like she was back in Africa when a pack of Hyenas had taken up residence near camp. Rotting flesh, stale blood. It was poignant and permeated everything. The smell hung in the air, becoming more and more apparent with every breath.

Diego's song became louder and louder, and his voice became more distressed. He stressed each syllable as if he were being strangled. Brooke turned around to face the guide, to tell him to shut up or he would get them killed. Whatever words she had meant to say escaped her mouth in a scream. She could do nothing to stop as she watched the innocent guide ripped apart by the velociraptors. They took him apart piece by piece, his screams of pain blended with lyrics of his song.

And then the animal was attacking her. It grabbed her by the side, ripping her off her feet. Brooke could do nothing but watch as the animal sunk its teeth deep into her side. She screamed loudly as pain rippled and throbbed in her side. The teeth sunk deeper and deeper into her flesh, and the pain became unbearable. The other raptor abandoned Diego and moved over to Brooke. While one animal tore at her side, the other took its forearms and dug its claws into her shoulder, pressing her against the hard earth. Just beyond them, Richard Levine watched on.

"Now Brooke, that's enough," he said. His voice sounded too close for where he was standing. There was not a hint of panic. "Brooke, that's enough now. It's time to wake up. Brooke, you need to wake up."

Lights began flashing in Brooke's eyes. Was she dying? Images started fading in and out. The forest flashed into a white room, and then back, and then finally to the room.

Brooke opened her eyes. There was a man in a lab coat—a doctor, she quickly resolved—standing over her with his hands pressed on either one of her shoulders. A nurse in a white kit was pushing something into one of her IV tubes. Within the span of a few gasps of air, the pain in Brooke's side began to dull and her heart rate began to normalize. The doctor released his hands from Brooke's shoulders and stood up straight.

"Lo siento," he said.

"Esta bien," Brooke replied without thinking.

"Lo interesante…" the doctor said. He placed a gentle hand on Brooke's forehead, removed it, and wiped his hand on his lab coat. Brooke could tell she was sweating. She didn't feel exactly clear, but all of her senses were back and she clearly wasn't in danger of being eaten by dinosaurs. Whatever drug had been pushed into the IV line was doing its job. She couldn't get excited if she tried.

"Puede hablar espanol?" the doctor asked.

"Un poco," Brooke replied, hearing her words slur. "Y muy mal."

"Prefiere hablo en ingles?"

"Si, por favor, si."

"Very very interesting," the doctor finally said. "You understood your second language—"

"I wouldn't call it that, doc," Brooke interjected. "I took like 5 years and I can barely speak it."

"Well, after the injuries you sustained in your fall, we were expecting difficulties in your speech, but you seem to be speaking quite well—even utilizing bi-linguistic ability."

"That's good, right?"

"Very, very good," the doctor nodded. "Though you also seem to be experiencing PTSD. You were having such a violent dream you set off all our machines and were tossing and turning but couldn't wake up, though I'm sure you were experiencing a pretty high degree of pain from your ribs."

"Are they cracked?"

"Yes, three on the right and one of the left side of the cage."

"I thought they were."

"When did you think they were?"

"When we were in the control room, when we—" She paused. "How is everyone? Is everyone okay?"

"The others are fine. The girl had to have her arm recast and had a few stitches. Everyone else had stitches and strains to worry about. Nothing worse than a laceration or a twist that a few bandages couldn't fix. You, senorita, seemed to take the brunt of it."

"Serves me right, I suppose," she murmured.

"Como?" the doctor asked.

"Nada," Brooke replied, raising her voice just slightly. Whatever was pumped into her IV line was definitely kicking in. She didn't feel tired or clouded, she just didn't really feel anything. Her mind felt numb. Her ribs were throbbing a bit, and she felt sore, but even though she felt the pain she was disinclined to react to it.

"What's the damage?" she asked, realizing that she was speaking slowly. "Besides the cracked ribs? Why does it feel like I'm wearing a helmet?"

The doctor chuckled. "Well, right now, you kind of are," he told her. "The little girl told me that when you fell, she heard your head hit a metal bar. Her father said you accurately diagnosed yourself with a concussion—"

"My dilated pupils," Brooke interjected.

"Exactly," the doctor nodded. "And because you engaged in…" he trailed off, as if trying to find the right words. "Engaged in strenuous physical activity, and because it took you a long time to reach medical care, you developed a substantial sub-dural hematoma—that's bleeding in the brain in a concentrated area. Because your skull is a finite area, that applies a lot of pressure, which can cause permanent damage."

"Oh my God."

"That's why we were expecting difficulties with language, from where the hematoma was located. We had to go in and drain the area and clean it up. He reach over and applied gentle pressure to the back of her head.

"Ow," Brooke said, but didn't really react to the pain.

"Right here," he said. "We had to shave some of your hair, but then bandaged it to keep it out of the way and the area sterile. One of our nurse's assured me that you'll be able to cover up the spot easily enough."

"Not my biggest concern, but okay," Brooke said. "What's recovery like? I'm going on a research trip to a zoo in Ohio in a couple of weeks, and then Africa in the fall to work with elephants." Without the drugs, Brooke imagined she'd be feeling very anxious, but in reality she was still quite relaxed.

The doctor pursed his lips and bowed his head a bit. "What's the activity like? If you were to say—just sit and take notes, you should be fine until the fall. Though you might have some difficulties writing and reading. They're going to perform more tests and an M.R.I when you return to the States, they'll be able to give you a more definitive answer."

"Okay, that can be worked with. What about Africa?"

"Your doctors will be monitoring your health over the next few months," he replied. "Regular X-rays, M. , vision, and auditory tests will be performed on a weekly basis. If everything goes as it should and you rest as you should, then Africa should be feasible."

Brooke couldn't nod or shake her head, so she just said: "Okay. Okay, I can live with that. Why are we waiting until I return to the States?"

"A Mr. John Hammond demanded it," he replied. "We simply do not have the adequate facilities to perform that extensive work."

"Okay," Brooke replied. It would be better to be home, anyway. She could be with her family, she could do her research on schedule. Her life would have to be modified a bit, but she would survive.

The doctor cleared his throat and bowed his head slightly. He picked up a clipboard of the bedside table, and flipped through a couple of pages. "There is…I'm sorry—lo siento mucho pero, Senorita DiAngelo, there is one more thing I must tell you."

The grave expression on his face did spike Brooke's heart rate for a couple of seconds—she could hear it on the monitor. The doctor walked over and laid his hand on her shoulder. "Lo siento mucho, Senorita DiAngelo, I am so sorry to report you—" he broke off again and took a breath. Brooke took this moment to notice how young he looked. He—who had just calmly explained her brain surgery—looked scared.

"Has perdido al bebe," he said quickly, meeting her eyes. Brooke's eyes widened.

"Bebe?" she repeated. "What…what did you say about a—"

"Your baby," he told her, his tone dropping. He didn't break eye contact. "I'm so sorry, but during your surgery, you lost your baby."

Author's Note

I know I left it on a cliffhanger. I wasn't going to end the chapter here, but I realized that it had been a while since I last updated the story, so I wanted to get something up. Don't worry, there's more, and it's not all going to be destruction and sad stuff from here on, I promise. This was just a good spot to build dramatic tension before moving on. Stay with me, it gets better, I promise! As a heads-up though, there's going to be a bit of space (anywhere from a couple of days to a couple of weeks) in between updates. I've had exams and I just got a job and life got a little crazy. I'm determined to finish this fic, though, don't you worry!

Also, if you are looking for a good Ian Malcolm fic, please check out "Pangaea" by Raptor Dash. I'm absolutely obsessed. The writing is flawless and characterization is on-point.

Happy reading!

xo Liza