55
GHOST TOWN
Richley and his party had driven all night long, sleeping in shifts, following the narrow corridor that they had forged through the jungle canopy the day before. They stopped only once before they reached the encampment. The jeep's headlights had fallen on an X shaped obstruction in their path. It was the two logs they'd placed to remind themselves of the ditch that the jeep had pitched into the day before.
All four remaining team members climbed out of the jeep. After a quick check with one of their two remaining flashlights, P.J. ascertained that the log bridge they'd erected yesterday was still serviceable. The four of them pushed the jeep across, and then simply hopped back in once they'd reached the other side and started driving again.
No one had said a word since leaving the foothills. The death of Carlson hung heavily over them. They hadn't known the soldier who'd been killed by the Rex very well, but Carlson had been a member of Richley's team for years now. Even Ellis, who'd only been with the team for just under five days, felt the loss acutely. Being thrust into life-and-death situations – being forced to rely on each other for survival – tended to create bonds between people who had never even met before.
It was mid-afternoon by the time they reached the encampment where they had left the rest of the team behind. Everyone who could sleep had done so, but after the exhaustive events of the last few days, they obtained little rest from their fitful naps. None of them were looking forwards to announcing to the others that not only had their mission at the mountain been a failure, but that they had lost Carlson as well.
It was Richley's turn in the driver's position, with Soles riding shotgun, making sure they were following the path and heading in the right direction. They came out of the jungle facing the triangle of trailers, a bunch of crates set up in the middle under a ramshackle shelter built with poles and a tarp. There was no one to be seen. Richley let the jeep come to a slow stop along the invisible lines of the trailer triangle.
A distinctly unpleasant sensation crawled over the four persons in the jeep as they looked over the deserted encampment. Richley honked the horn of the jeep several times, expecting the others to come out of the trailers, but the camp remained motionless. Instead, there was a flurry of movement along the ground of the encampment. Dozens of small green dinosaurs scattered away in various direction at the blaring of the horn, like a flock of pigeons suddenly interrupted in the middle of a meal.
Very worried now, Richley jumped out of the jeep, leaving the engine idling, and began calling out his daughter's name. His cries reverberated emptily between the trailers. As Richley began running towards the nearest trailer, the other three team members left the jeep as well. They began walking towards the trailers as well, but more slowly. The empty encampment was enough to put anybody on edge, and the trio proceeded with caution and anxiety.
"Richley, be quiet!" P.J. called out in a hoarse voice. But even if Brent Richley had heard this, he paid the hunter no heed. He threw open the door of the nearest trailer and burst inside, still screaming his daughter's name. Although the trailer was obviously empty, Richley nonetheless frantically pushed aside equipment and gear so he could look over every centimetre of the trailer, just in case she might be hiding somewhere, hurt or unconscious…
Meanwhile, Ellis, P.J. and Soles had reached the so-called shelter in the middle of the triangle. The crates had been placed in no apparent pattern, and several of them looked like they had been turned over. P.J. extended a leg and caught the side of one of the flipped-over crates with his boots, and pushed on the edge to bring it right side up again. As the redressed crate rocked slightly, the hunter caught a telltale splotch of colour across the top of the otherwise dull grey of the crate. A string of brown, dried liquid.
"Blood."
"Blood?" Ellis repeated. "Just what happened here?"
P.J. looked up and saw Richley standing in the doorway of the trailer, panting and looking back at them with a mad look in his eyes. P.J. could see that the left corner of that same trailer had been liberally sprayed with blood as well.
"A massacre," he answered.
56
A DINOSAUR WITH A VENDETTA
Folker had to struggle to remain conscious as he tripped over something on the jungle floor and went sprawling to the ground. The pain from the gash in his side was searing, and the shock of the fall sent another wave of agony racking across his frayed nerves. Mustering all the will he could, trying to redirect the pain into something constructive, Folker forced his eyelids to remain open.
He probably had nodded off even as he walked. The shock and the blood loss from his wound kept trying to push him into unconsciousness, but his survival instinct overrode the desire for sleep, pumping adrenaline into his leaking body, allowing him to keep on going forwards despite the fact that he had know idea where he was going or what he was going to do next. He knew he should stop and try to dress the wound, or at the very least check to see if he had indeed broken something earlier, running away from the creatures, but he felt that he had no other choice but to keep going. A single imperative drove him now: to get as far away from the encampment as possible.
But there was a limit to how far single-minded willpower could overcome the biology of a body that was shutting down. He hadn't realized that he was blacking out even as he walked before he struck the ground. He hadn't even had the opportunity to put an arm in front of him to cushion the fall. This latest impact against this wounded side came close to allowing the encroaching darkness to envelop him fully.
Determined not to give up, Folker drew his knees up under him and pushed himself into a crawling posture. His head was the last to come up, so focused had he been on the muddy ground below. His vision had blurred slightly, but his eyesight was excellent under normal circumstances and he could still see well enough to identify the small figure standing on a rock before him. It was a diminutive green biped, matchstick arms folded in front of it, tail swishing back and forth in curiosity.
"Tiny." His voice was parched and rasped, and when he spoke he felt something grate against his insides. He was worried that a broken bone might be poking at his lungs.
The small dinosaur cocked its head to the side and gave out a small trill, as if considering the kneeling figure in front of it. Folker glared back. In the rational, scientific part of his mind, he knew that it was extremely improbable that the animal before him was the same one they had captured on their first day on this damn island. But his mind was struggling not to succumb to unconsciousness, and in his state rationality seemed to blend with that bizarre logic of dreams and high fevers. And that logic suggested that he was standing – well, crouching – in front of a dinosaur with a vendetta, seeking retribution for its imprisonment.
Tiny or whoever it was jumped down from his rock, craning its miniature head towards Folker's face. Folker scrambled backwards, away from the dinosaur, which simply hopped towards him using both hind legs at once, looking absurdly like a plucked bird. With effort, Folker pushed himself to his full height, towering considerably above the creature below. Tiny scampered off a short distance, but stopped on a fallen log about a meter away, turned around and trilled at him again.
Folker stared at it a few more moments, and the dinosaur returned the state, apparently unimpressed by the larger animal before it. Frowning and clutching his wound, Folker began to turn to leave. He had just realized that he had absolutely no idea what direction he had been running – and consequently which direction might lead him back to the monster-infested encampment – when the bushes and leaves on the jungle floor began to rustle. Out jumped several more of Tiny's compatriots, hopping towards him and warbling in their high-pitched voices.
More kept pouring out from the undergrowth, their green colouring providing the perfect camouflage, until it seemed that there were at least two dozen of the mouse-sized creatures standing around him. Folker remember what Benny had said about these beasts days – years, it seemed – ago. They were poisonous, their venom acting as an anaesthetic, and hunted in packs to bring down large enough animals through the action of multiple bites.
Larger animals like an injured human, for example.
With a startle, Folker realized that he'd been running through the jungle literally soaked in blood, standing out like a supernova in the night sky to any predator with a half-decent sense of smell. And it wasn't only his blood, seeping freely from the open gash in his side, but the blood of the monster that had nearly exploded onto him when the doomed soldier had shot it from behind.
Frantically, Folker tried to remove his shirt. His wounded side screamed in protest at the manhandling, but Folker did his best to ignore the pain. He nearly ripped the shirt off as he struggled to pull the fabric over his head, his gestures uncoordinated due to his panic and weakness. The previously white shirt was now stained all over by the maroon of dried blood, a twisted tie-dye T-shirt from some flower child's worst nightmare. There was a large tear in the side wear the beast's claw had sliced through it with impunity.
Folker threw the shirt at the assembled dinosaurs in front of him. Several of the diminutive beasts were swept off their paws as the heavier fabric struck them. As the shirt rippled from the escape attempts of the creatures under it, several of Tiny's comrades tried nipping at the fabric. As enticing as the smell of all that blood must have been, apparently cotton was not a staple of dinosaur diet. After their abortive attempts at consuming the shirt, the miniature predators turned their attention back towards Folker, boldly hopping forth.
Folker turned around, scurrying away from the crowd of tiny dinosaurs as fast as he wound would allow him to do so. He could hear the minute sounds of dinosaur tweeting and small feet landing in water behind him, following him. He turned around to see whether he was outdistancing them with his considerably longer legs, but had barely craned his neck around when he felt his feet strike something and leave the ground.
He landed brutally on his stomach. He felt something tear inside of him, accompanied by a searing blast of pain. Folker tried to draw breath to get back to his feet, but found himself gasping for air unsuccessfully. His lungs flapped futilely, a piece of bone having punctured the alveolar wall. From what seemed like a far-away distance, his oxygen-deprived brain perceived the sounds of dinosaurs around him, the sensation of little paws hopping onto his back, little teeth tearing into his flesh. This time, as darkness threatened to envelope him again, Folker gave out and embraced the onrushing shadows.
57
REGRETS
Brent Richley sat unmoving on one of the crates – one that wasn't splattered with blood – in the middle of the largely deserted encampment. In many ways, he found that the emptiness of the encampment reflected the way he felt at that moment: empty, as if someone had reached into him and scooped out some vital part of his being.
It was no great challenge to figure just what that missing something was. Alice. His team. Gone. Vanished. Dead.
He'd failed in every respect. He'd failed as a team leader – several times over, in fact. He was responsible for the safety of each and every one of the people under his leadership, and he had led them straight into the jaws of death. He should have demanded more information on the island before he had agreed to do the job. He should have demanded a more up-to-date report on the place, or infrared overheads, or something.
And when danger had reared his head, what had he done? He told everyone to simply stay put while he went off on a fool's errand deeper into this tropical hell. The damn GTRX module that was supposed to contact the plane and get them off of the island hadn't worked – another failure. They had lost Carlson on that wild goose chase. And while he was out gallivanting, the rest of the team had been attacked.
But the worst of it all – the most unforgivable thing – was that he had failed as a father. He couldn't imagine why he had ever consented to bring Alice along with him. He should have known better, overridden her protests and sent her off to a boarding school while he was working over here. No, better yet, he should never had accepted the job, and then Alice would be safe at home where she deserved, instead of… of…
He couldn't finish the thought.
Richley knew that if he wanted to he could find plenty of scapegoats that could take the blame for the events of the last few days – John Hammond, InGen, the governments of Costa Rica and the United States. But he was the one who had selected the personnel and made all the critical decisions – not only on this expedition, but also throughout his life.
He'd always considered his wanderlust to be an admirable quality, but, giving it a good, hard look, what had it brought him other than pain and death? First his wife, then his team, and then his daughter…
Richley slumped on his crate. His mind wouldn't let him come to terms with what had happened, but neither could he stop thinking about his role in this mess. Eventually, he knew, he'd have to confront his daughter's loss – and that prospect scared him more than anything the island could throw at him.
58
FORENSICS
The tiny, green scavengers that had been drawn to the campsite by the smell of the copious amount of blood had been chased away by the arrival of the rather noisy, oddly coloured animals. Had the morose and inactive Brent Richley been alone, they probably would have returned, their short attention spans no longer detecting any danger. As it was, the animals were lined up at the edge of the jungle, their small, bulbous heads tracking the motion of the other three creatures. The composognathus didn't recognize these newcomers, but the programming of their scavenger genes was clear: wait until the larger animals are finished before moving in for your share.
Unaware of their diminutive audience, P.J., Ellis and Soles had fanned out through the camp, searching for clues as to what had happened to their comrades, looking for anything that might give them a glimmer of hope. Both P.J. and Ellis moved with the precision and the efficiency of trained investigators. Soles hung back uncomfortably, uncertain of what they were looking for and unwilling to move around too much or touch anything lest she compromise the "crime scene".
P.J. had been moving around the campsite in ever-tightening concentric circles, walking in a crouch, hands playing over the tall grass, grunting occasionally as he came upon something interesting. Ellis was rummaging around in the trailers and focusing on the more noticeable – the more human – aspects of the campsite. Finally, after almost an hour of searching, the two investigators rose as if of a common accord and walked towards each other. Soles joined them, forming a triangle next to one of the trailers. Richley was seated on one of the crates, his back turned to them. He was only a few meters away, but he might as well have been back on the mainland for all the help the grief-stricken man would provide them.
Ellis spoke first. "There's something I don't understand."
Soles looked incredulous. "Something? You mean that there's something that you do understand about all this?"
"No – well, yes, I mean – it's obvious that they were attacked by something. Of course, I don't know what that was."
"Couldn't it have just been the thing that attacked us in the clearing?" Soles offered up.
"The Rex?" P.J. pondered. "No way. That thing is big. There would be signs all around us if something that size had come through here. Broken trees, overturned trailers. Not to mention footprints in the mud."
"Didn't it rain?" Soles pointed out.
"Yeah, but something that size has to weight a fair amount. Any prints would still be visible. On the other hand, smaller creatures probably would have had their tracks erased by the downpour. And I think that whatever did this had to be small – relatively speaking of course." He glanced around. "It looks too surgical."
"Surgical?" Soles repeated, glancing purposefully at a nearby spot on the ground that had been liberally sprayed with now-maroon blood.
"For animals, I mean. The perimeter is mostly intact, the grass isn't very trampled, and most of the materiel on-site seems to have been undisturbed."
"The door to one of those trailers took a real beating," Ellis mentioned.
"Even still. I think what did this was more likely than not the same things that attacked us back at the InGen compound."
"They couldn't have gotten here that fast," Soles said.
"It's a big island," P.J. answered. "There are probably several groups of them."
"I agree," Ellis said. "We know how fast those things are. And it looks like whatever happened here happened quickly. Inside the trailer – the one whose door looks like it was rammed – it looks like everybody just dropped everything where they were. The computer screen was still on, showing Benny's dinosaur encyclopaedia."
"Anything interesting?" P.J. asked.
"Wuerhosaurus?" Ellis appeared uncertain. "Anyway, it looked like one of those Stegosaurus things. Certainly nothing that could do this. But that's what I wanted to ask you guys about: where are the bodies? There's plenty of blood, but I haven't seen any bodies."
"I've been thinking about that myself," P.J. answered. "I think whatever attacked the camp took the bodies with them."
"Can they do that?" Soles asked.
"There are known modern equivalents," P.J. said. "In Africa, leopards are known to drag up some of the smaller kills into their trees with them."
"A person isn't exactly small," Soles pointed out. "Especially not if you're dragging them up a tree."
"We have no idea how strong these things are. Besides, from their physical makeup, I doubt they ever go up trees. They probably have a ground level nest somewhere. By a clump of trees or in a cave."
"So… if there aren't any bodies… we don't know how many of our people died here." Soles looked hopeful. "Is there any way to tell if some of them got away?"
Ellis looked at P.J., who shook his head. "The only thing we can tell for certain is that not everybody died here."
"Not everybody?"
"The blood traces on the ground lead me to believe that two people were…" He hesitated. "Brought down… over by the crates. Another two between the crates and the perimeter over there. And another one over by the side of that trailer." He pointed out the locations.
"But over by that trailer," P.J. continued, "There's such a large spot that I can tell what happened. It might be one person, just as it might be two."
"Which means that there were about six or seven casualties," Ellis added up. She looked at P.J. pointedly. "There were ten people at this camp."
"That means that three or four people managed to get away!" Soles exclaimed.
P.J. shook his head glumly. "No, it doesn't mean anything. They could have been brought down barely a few meters into the jungle and we'd never be able to find any trace of them with this undergrowth."
"Pessimist," Soles accused.
"Realist," P.J. returned sadly, though there was a noticeable edge to his voice. The independent minded hunter had never taken well to being challenged.
"People." Ellis' tone was slightly reproachful, like a teacher reining in children. She glared pointedly for a second, and then softened her gaze. She turned to look over at Richley, still seated on his crate. "Is there any way to determine who might have – might have – gotten away."
"Not really. But there were the two rifles next to the blood spots–"
"And a fresh clip," Ellis interjected, holding it up.
"Which might indicate that either Meiller or his men went down there. If – and that's a very big if – people did manage to get away, it's probably a good sign that we haven't found the third rifle." P.J. craned his neck to look at one of the trailers. "We're going to want to take those rifles with us."
"Definitely," Ellis said.
"Do you know how to shot?"
"I've never had to… but I did do a tour in the Gulf. I was only an analyst, but everybody on base had to know how to use those things in case some Iraqis got delusions of grandeur and tried to attack."
"Good enough," P.J. said. He glanced at Richley. "I don't think the boss is up to automatics right about now. So I'll take one rifle, and you take the other."
"What about me?" Soles asked despondently. "Should I try throwing stones?"
P.J. reached for his hip and drew his handgun from his belt. He flipped the weapon around a presented it to the cartographer. "Take this. Be careful, though – the bullets that are in there now are all the bullets that are left."
"Thank you," Soles said, somewhat surprised. Usually the hunter wasn't one for sharing his weapons – or trusting others.
"We can use all the loud distractions we can get if we run into trouble," P.J. added.
Well, that explains it, Soles thought ruefully. Out loud, she asked: "So now that we're all packing heat… what do we do?"
There was a pause as the trio thought about what their next move should be. P.J. spoke first:
"I think it's obvious. We've got no communications and we can't stay here. We pile into the jeep and head towards the plane."
"I thought we decided against that yesterday," Ellis pointed out.
"The day before yesterday, actually. And that was when we thought we'd be able to contact the plane from the InGen compound and spare ourselves five days' trek through the muddy jungle. But calling in the cavalry isn't an option anymore. We could sit around and wait for them to wonder why we aren't checking in, but I don't like that idea at all. If we're getting off this island, we're going to have to reach our ride ourselves."
"We can't leave now," Soles said. "Some of our people might still be out there."
"You're dreaming," P.J. said. "No one is going to be walking out of that jungle asking for a lift."
"We can't just give up on them – not without any hard evidence."
"Look around you, Soles. No-one could have survived this."
"How can you say that? I think you're seriously underestimating our people."
"And I think you're engaging in nothing more than wishful thinking."
Both of them turned towards Ellis, who had remained quiet during the heated exchange. After shifting uncomfortably under their stares, the government attaché finally weighed in: "I agree with P.J."
Soles made a disgusted sound. If P.J. felt any triumph, he didn't show it.
"We can't stay here and hope that someone comes waltzing out of the jungle," Ellis explained. "We don't know if anybody survived, not for sure. We don't know how many might be out there. We don't know where they might be know, if they're injured, what direction they went in, whether their heading for the plane or the mountain or just wandering aimlessly in the jungle… There are simply to many unknowns."
"So that's it, then," Soles said ruefully. "We just give up."
"We're not just giving up," Ellis chided. "Don't you think that the families of the people who died here deserve to know what happened to their loved ones? Don't you think that the people who brought this mess into being should be made to be accountable for what happened on this island? How can that happen is there isn't anybody left to make those accusations? Did you ever wonder what would happen if we're never heard of again? The pilots of the plane might come out looking for us, or the government might send some more people in to find us. That will only end in more deaths."
Ellis sucked in a breath. "I'm here as the representative of the U.S. government, Ms. Soles, and as such, I have a responsibility to minimize casualties should a dangerous situation develop. Right now, that means finding a way of warning the rest of the world about the danger here."
There was a moment of silence following Ellis' speech. Finally, P.J. piped up: "The sooner we leave…"
"Right," Ellis said. "We should pack in any useful equipment that's lying around the camp into the jeep – especially the rifles – and make for the plane. With luck, we might be able to reach the clearing before sundown."
"We should continue driving in shifts," P.J. said. "We stop only to refill on food and water until we reach the plane."
"What about him?" Soles asked, jerking her thumb at Richley.
"I'll talk to him," Ellis said. "You two start packing the jeep."
The hunter and the cartographer nodded their acknowledgement. Ellis turned around and looked at their ersatz leader. He didn't seem to have moved at all: he was still sitting on the crate, shoulders slumped, hands in his lap. She approached him slowly.
"Richley?" He didn't so much as budge. "Richley?"
"Hmm – oh, yes?" He looked up at her, but Ellis had the unpleasant sensation that he wasn't really looking at anything.
"We're getting ready to leave, Richley."
"Okay," he said. Ellis was disquieted by his lack of protest. He had even more invested in this team than Soles, and more to lose if they left – but then, he had already lost all that, hadn't he. Therein lied the problem.
"I'm staying here," Richley said after a moment.
"You can't," Ellis answered reflexively.
"Everything I had was here. Where else would I go?"
Ellis shook her head. She had developed a blooming headache arguing with the other two, and it didn't look as if things were going to be any easier. She wished she could take some pain relievers but she figured that they might need all the pharmaceuticals they could lay their hands on. Speaking of which, she made a mental note to disinfect and bandage the wound P.J. had taken to his cheek. The macho male type reacted to injury by either refusing to accept pain or became a hypochondriac overnight, and the hunter seemed to belong to the former group.
"Richley, we have to keep on moving. If this place was attacked once, it could be attacked again – not to mention that the smell will end up attracting some predators larger than Tiny's cousins sooner or later."
Richley shrugged and said nothing.
Ellis sighed. Self-preservation wasn't going to work. Maybe the preservation of other would.
"Richley, you're the team leader. You're their leader. They need you."
"P.J. and Soles can take care of themselves."
"Yes, but we can always use another person with us. Someone with your experience is invaluable."
Richley snorted, and when he spoke his voice was laden with contempt. It was the first trace of emotion he'd shown since she began talking to him. "That experience is what landed us into this mess in the first place. You want my help? You're probably safer off without me."
Ellis restrained a sudden urge to slap him. Here they were, in the middle of a life-or-death situation, and their man that was supposed to be leading them was shirking his responsibility to wallow in self-pity. Granted, he had just lost his daughter, but now was hardly the time to give into his emotions–
Or then again, perhaps playing to his emotions was exactly what she should do. She bit her lip – she felt terrible about what she was going to do, but what she had said earlier was true: they needed everything and everyone they could lay their hands on if they were to get out of this alive.
"Richley… P.J. and I had the chance to conduct a quick forensic examination of the encampment. We think there may have been survivors."
Richley turned back towards her. His eyes had regained their focus, and his forehead was creased in concentration. Relieved to see that she had jolted him out of his stupor, she continued:
"At least three and probably four people made it out of the camp – there's no trace that they were killed."
"Maybe they were just killed outside of the camp," Richley said. There was an almost pleading undercurrent in his voice, as if begging Ellis to contradict him. It felt odd to be arguing the reverse of what she'd stated barely minutes ago. Well – she'd gone this far.
"It's a possibility, it's true – but are you willing to take the risk of leaving… someone stranded out there to fend for herself – I mean, for their own – just because you think they're already dead? Rather than sitting around here moping, don't you think you should be doing everything you can to find them?"
Richley stood, squaring away his shoulders as he did so. "What do we do now?"
"We're packing in as much as we can in the jeep, and we're going to head straight north – making a beeline towards our plane."
"We're leaving?"
"You don't think anybody would stay at ground zero of a slaughter, would you? You know your team members are smarter than that."
"But how do you know that they'd be heading towards the plane. Wouldn't they be heading towards the mountain instead?"
"Why?"
"Why – hoping to run into us, of course."
Ellis shook her head. "No. If they missed us, they would have ended up going in the wrong direction for nothing. It's more than probable that their goal would be the same as ours: getting to the plane and off the island."
"They think they're being airlifted, remember?" Richley said glumly.
Ellis thought fast. "Then we'd still be heading in the right direction, because the pick-up point was supposed to be the clearing. We have to pass by there to get to the plane."
Richley nodded. He still seemed distant, but at least he was up and active.
"Come on," Ellis said. "Let's give them a hand with the packing."