Chapter Eight

Mistakes aren't hard to make. They are incredibly easy, in fact. And incredibly hard to put right, the longer you leave it. Sam was finding this itchy truth somewhat difficult to ignore, laying in the dark on his cot, amongst complete strangers, and staring at the ceiling of the shack, counting the cracks in the plaster and listening to the warbling and throaty night time calls of toads, frogs, geckos, lizards, insects and God knows what else. It was just all so noisy. Nothing like the clamour and bustle of Chicago at night, which he was wishing he could hear now, just to get an hour of sleep. Wishful thinking got you nowhere though. And right now, he only had himself to blame for getting himself here.

Him and Scott Archer, with his tempting and attractive offer of a bit of not so legal work in exchange to turn his life around. What a chance it had seemed. Debt and rent paid off, and enough money to get him back on track. Funny how the scraggly headed asshole hadn't mentioned the finer points when he agreed. And Sam knew he should have pressed harder, but Scott had told him all would be explained later. Always later. Well later, when Sam was done with this mad job and back home, he'd find that grey haired weasel and kick his ass from one end of town to the other.

But that wasn't the worst of it. Not by a long shot. Illegal you can get away with. Jetlag you can catch up on. Being sniggered at for turning up with an old suitcase instead of the rugged backpacks like everyone else, you could ignore. Just about. Even the mosquito bites he'd already picked up could be scratched. The worst bit was not having a damn fucking clue about how to deal with being on an island inhabited by dinosaurs. This was a long way from his worry of the cartels or being a drug mule. And it had been amusing, to begin with, when he'd got here and the others had started talking about what they were going to do. What they might see. What most of them had seen. He'd thought they were joking around.

His skin had prickled when that one-armed drill sergeant England had assumed everyone had watched the news, and he'd realised he was the idiot after all. But he'd never paid too much attention to the news anyway. And when those stories had come through about a dinosaur on the loose in San Diego, and huge Corporate companies with famous CEO's and important bills going through Congress, he'd shrugged it all off with a snigger, thinking it was all just a hoax that had gotten out of hand. Usual media bullshit. He'd had bigger worries anyway.

The old worry of his family harassing him every other day seemed like a good trade now that he was staring down the barrel of reality.

It was just all so serious. From the military precision of England's plan to the hard stare of that Redgrove woman. It was evident none of them found any of it amusing in the slightest. And that was before he even thought about those sneering scientists, looking down their nose at everyone. Except that Weaver girl. Woman really. She looked older than Sam, and she'd been nice enough to spend an hour with him making awkward small talk after the briefing, clearly trying to reassure him but only succeeding in revealing she was worried about something herself. Still, it had been nice to find someone in kind of the same boat. Just maybe on a different deck.

He let out a long, slow breath in the hopes it might calm the fluttering in his stomach and give him at least one moment where he didn't feel like a fraud. As if that was going to happen. He was horribly out of his depth, and it was by sheer necessity and need of making up the numbers that Scott had managed to get him into this crowd with England and Redgrove's tenuous approval. He wished they'd told him to get lost now. He'd felt that woman's eyes on him ever since, as if she thought he was a spy or something. Maybe she just saw right through him anyway, seeing the scared phony that he was.

But it was just as England had said. Too late to back out now.

The thought made those flutters in his stomach come right back, and he swung his legs off his cot and sat up, feeling the need to move, to stand and be away from staring at that ceiling any longer. He glanced at his watch. Nearly half three in the morning. He could see a few stars, through the grimy window, outside in the black sky. His knee flared for a moment as he put more weight on it, and he hissed automatically through his teeth. Mercifully, nobody looked up or made any sign they had been disturbed, even more so as he slid his shoes on and threaded his way through the room, wincing as he crept.

He slipped through the door and stepped outside, the air cool but still with that cloying humidity. He dragged a hand down his face, feeling the exhaustion of the past days travel and wishing he'd been able to shake it all off for just a few hours' sleep. A night on that rigid cot, sick with worry, had done him no favours. Animals of the night chirped and called from the jungle around him, an alien sound to his city life ears. Some of it sounded pleasant, but most of it was unnerving. A world beyond his experience. The breeze stirred the tops of the trees, and his chewed his lip as shapes moved in the dark. Huge, and hungry. The shapes of monsters and beasts, ready to devour anything they came across. The fronds of the trees moved the other way and the monsters vanished, morphing into new and abstract shapes.

Was this what it would be like, on the island? Worrying about what lurked beyond? He rubbed his eyes again, trying to believe England's words that they had made the site secure. He leant against the wall and, in a moment of pure and shame filled vulnerability, wished he could see his mom. Just her face, to see her smile and know that everything was alright. He groaned, hating to admit the feeling, if only to himself.

The door beside him creaked open and someone else came out, stretching their arms and yawning. It was that giant with the soft voice, Elliot. He looked like a thug, but he seemed like a good guy. Elliot noticed Sam and gave him a surprised nod of greeting.

"Can't sleep?"

"Not a wink," said Sam, grimacing. "You?"

"I don't sleep," said Elliot, looking at Sam with those little eyes, somewhat beady in the darkness. His face was a blank slab, menacing in its lack of movement. Elliot huffed a kind of giggle. "I'm kidding pal. You're the new guy huh?"

"Wouldn't even say I'm new,'' said Sam. "More like the guy who doesn't have a clue what he's doing here."

"I think most of us think that. Don't worry. I used to work for InGen, but I've never set foot on the islands either." He leant in a bit. "Neither has some of the others here either, just to let you know. I worked security at the Head Quarters in San Diego. I was there back when…well, when all that happened."

"What did happen?" asked Sam. "I saw the news, that morning, but thought it was crap, you know? Just some accident with a big boat. I mean, come on, it sounds insane right?"

"Funny thing was, it was insane,'' said Elliot, crossing his arms. "Insane to try what they tried. What he tried."

"He?"

"Peter Ludlow." Elliot sniffed, his face looking like he'd smelt or eaten something unpleasant. Sam raised his eyebrows enquiringly. "The CEO of InGen. The new one. Or he was, before he went missing during the incident. By the accounts of two people involved, he was killed."

"Shit,'' breathed Sam. "By the dinosaur?"

"Can't say for sure. But it seems likely. I was at that dock though, when the ship crashed, and that T-Rex burst out…" Elliot trailed off, frowning. "The carnage it left behind…on that ship." Elliot had that look again, as if the thought was painful, or just smelt bad. Sam scratched at his neck.

"Is it really going to be safe though? On the island?"

"Mr. England knows what he's doing. If he says it's safe, then it's safe." Elliot gave him a gentle pat on the arm. "You just do what you're told to do, and you'll get through it. If you need any advice though, or help, you just come to me, right?"

"Right,'' said Sam, nodding, and feeling a touch better. There was something solid and reliable in Elliot, and it wasn't in his build. He just seemed genuine. The polar opposite of Scott, now that Sam thought about it. The door beside them opened, and they watched as someone else appeared now. A knuckle cracked in the dark, followed by a series of more cracks, and the newcomer shook their hands out, sighing contentedly. It was one of the scientists. McCallister, that was his name. Sam had him pegged as an asshole already, even more so as he flashed that wolf grin at them in the dark.

"Howdy there, boys,'' he said, coming to stand with them. "Up early or out late?" He gave himself a self-congratulatory smirk. "What's the news?"

"Just passing the time, Dr. McCallister,'' said Elliot. Sam just nodded along.

"Excited to be off, huh?" said McCallister. He seemed to look directly at Sam when he said that, as if he knew Sam was as far from excited as you could get.

"Sure,'' grunted Sam, feeling a slight chill for the first time. The wind had picked up a bit. "What about you?"

"What about you, Doctor." McCallister gave him a sudden stare, any trace of excitement gone and looking like if Sam didn't correct himself he'd beat the shit out of him. That wolf grin split his face again. "Ah I'm just messing kid. And oh shit yeah am I excited!" McCallister gave a look now as if he'd just solved a fun riddle. "You're the guy that turned up with the suit case right? The old grandma one?"

"That's me,'' said Sam, holding McCallister's eye and not enjoying this bit of school yard bullshit one bit. "You're the Doctor with the make-believe stories right?" Not his best wit, but Sam didn't quite feel at his best. Not that he counted himself as particularly witty. McCallister smirked, somehow finding a way to appear an even bigger asshole.

"I wouldn't be so sure it's make-believe kid,'' grinned McCallister. "Dark things happened on that island."

"We've all heard the stories Dr. McCallister,'' said Elliot softly. "I don't think there's much truth in any of them."

"Oh come on. Even you boys from San Diego have your own!" He grinned again, a grin that was very unpleasant to look at. All perfect teeth and glistening lips. "I know you know what I mean. The bodies? On that ship?" Another grin. Elliot sighed, looking down. McCallister caught Sam's frown of confusion.

"It was just stories,'' said Elliot.

"Stories don't just pop up out of nowhere,'' said McCallister, his voice raspy. "No matter how much they tried to hush it up, they couldn't keep it all quiet. Especially what happened in ninety-three." Sam crossed his arms, raising his eyebrows expectantly. He hated to admit that the prick had him intrigued.

"What's that story then?" said Sam.

"Well,'' said McCallister, that voice almost hoarse again as he cracked a knuckle, "the way I heard it, back then, things didn't go so well for one employee. There was a death, right, at the Park. A handler got killed, by a raptor. Fucking brutal, from what I heard." He cracked another knuckle. "So it turns out, the raptor should have been partially sedated or something. Make it a bit more compliant. Only it wasn't, and it went and killed a guy. And it was this other guys fault."

"A raptor?" said Sam, recalling England waffling on about these things but not having a clue from one dinosaur to the other.

"Velociraptor,'' said Elliot. "Lethal things, from what I hear."

"Mad lethal,'' grinned McCallister. "So anyway, this guy whose fault it was, turns out it was none other than the warden of Sorna! The guy supposed to be in charge of things like safety and that. So, he gets the boot from Hammond and Muldoon. You know, for the fuck up. And then…" The door swung open and someone stomped out into the night, shorter than all of them but no less threatening for that stone-cold demeaner.

"Yes, Dr. McCallister?" said Redgrove, the shadows sliding off her face as she came closer and treating them all to a withering stare. "What happened next?"
"The, err…the, so the guy…" McCallister cracked a knuckle and frowned. Sam felt quite amused watching him squirm under Redgrove's stare, that smug grin wiped clean off his face and crinkles forming around his eyes. Seemed the asshole got a bit more wrinkled all of a sudden. "Another time, guys,'' managed McCallister.

Sam felt a smirk tug at his mouth. Must have only been a twitch but Redgrove saw it, even in the dark.

"Mr. Summers? Something amusing?" Her eyes were like flints in the dark. McCallister flashed him a dark look.

"No, ma'am." He stammered a bit. "Miss. Ms?" Sam felt the blood rush straight to his face, followed by that horrible feeling when your hair stands up and the depths of your guts twist and writhe. "Sorry, Mrs. Redgrove." Her eyes lingered on him a moment longer, like an executioner deciding how best to kill the condemned.

"It's Miss,'' she said, her tone even and flat, bored almost. "But Catherine will do." Sam nodded, sucking in his bottom lip and shifting weight off his knee. "Now, if you boys have nothing better to do but stand around discussing that utter campfire bullshit, you can be the advance party and go help the pilots get things finished. Mort will need a hand with the car as well. Grab your things and get going or I'll shave five grand off your pay." She jerked her head in the direction of the trees, a dark and swaying mass of those strange shapes. Elliot grunted and went back inside without another word, McCallister not far on his heels. Sam ducked in after them, not daring to find out if Redgrove's threat was real or not.

Quietly, but not without the odd bump or groan, they had their packs, or suitcase, and were back out in the night air. A few more bodies had stirred from the cots as they'd left, and Sam had glanced at Dr. Weaver, somewhat fascinated by how her hair had splayed across her bare shoulder and got stuck in the strap of her vest top. He'd felt his face burn again as she'd cracked an eye open as he looked, and the cool night air felt like a good remedy. Just about.

He followed Elliot and McCallister away from the shack and towards the trees, noticing they were on a thin path in the grass. The light from Elliot's torch wobbled as they walked, creating strips of emerald next to black. Occasionally he would direct it at a tree, and Sam thought he saw a monkey or something dart from the light. The movement of anything that wasn't human gave his nerves a little scrape.

The jungle grew noisier as they left the clearing behind and moved beneath the trees. A discordant medley of chirps, hoots, howls and snuffling clamoured at Sam's ears, and he found himself wishing once again he was back in Chicago. Didn't help he was wearing sneakers and carrying his old suitcase and feeling like a bumbling idiot, especially compared to Elliot and even McCallister. The doctor moved easily amongst the vegetation, untroubled by the dark or difficult ground. Elliot glanced behind at Sam.

"Keep up Summers."

Sam grunted something approaching an acknowledgment and tried hefting his case over his shoulder, succeeding in only making it feel more awkward and himself more bumbling. He shook his head, not quite sure how he thought he'd ever manage as a fireman when he felt like this much of an incompetent moron. He huffed quietly to himself, waiting for his knee to give him a stab of pain. It was mercifully painless for the moment.

He trudged after them for ten minutes before they broke free of the treeline, the noise amongst the trunks and shrubs falling away slightly and getting replaced by the sounds of something quite different. Sam squinted at the scene ahead of him, his mouth hanging open. It was like something out of those action movies from the eighties.

An aircraft of some sort sat in another clearing, huge and looking like this whole job was ramping up a notch. It was one of those helicopters with the two sets of rotor blades and its fuselage looking like someone had wanted to make a helicopter on steroids. Its rear door was open, like a mouth yawning and the tongue lolling out onto the ground. A hungry metal monster ready to consume anything that came too close. Sam pulled his case tighter.

A few portable floodlights were dotted about the clearing, harsh white light bathing the scene in a mix of shadow and colour. The chinook looked like maybe it was a dark green, with a pale belly. Rows of small round windows lined its side, the glass catching the light on one side and reflecting it. Made it look like the monster had ten eyes in its head, and all of them watching Sam. About the chinook were various piles and stacks of heavy looking boxes and storage crates. Like the kind that were filled with important equipment or weapons. Just like in those movies. More suited to military operations than some mad venture to islands with prehistoric animals. Sam frowned at it all once he got his mouth shut.

Three people were moving about the area, and Sam recognised two of them as the pilots from the briefing. A man and a woman. They were moving about the aircraft, inspecting, checking and ferreting about with purposeful movements and that annoying quality of people who knew what they were doing. Elliot led them away from the trees towards the activity, the noise of the jungle now somewhat nostalgic as they approached the metal monster and its cargo that was strewn about the clearing.

The pilots gave them a quick glance before continuing with their checks, slipping under the chinook now and laying on their backs, pointing small torches into various open hatches and hidden compartments, muttering and tinkering. The third person, a gruff looking man with red hair and a face that looked like life had not been kind to him, ambled over to them, his jaw working mechanically as he chewed something.

"El. Good night for it, eh?"

"Let's hope so,'' nodded Elliot. "Mort, this is Sam. Sam, Carl Mortimer." Sam nodded, trying to look like he belonged.

"Call me Mort, eh?" Mort leant forward and shook Sam's hand, his skin as calloused and rough as sandpaper. "Saw you yesterday didn't I? You manage to get any sleep kid?"

"Can't say I did, no,'' said Sam. "This is a bit different to what I'm used to."

"You'll get used to it. Say, El, if you boys are here to help, you are here to help right?" Elliot nodded. "Good. Can you get those strong boxes stowed? I need everything on before I get the car on."

"Sure," said Elliot.

"Anything I can do?" asked McCallister, cracking a knuckle. The sound was becoming more than a little annoying.

"You're one of the white coats, right? Then you can go check the shit that that Wu guy was telling me about. It's over there." Mort waved a hand to some chrome cases that were piled by some big duffle bags. Mort turned to Sam. "You can come with me Sam."

Elliot took Sam's suitcase and was soon moving about the equipment and cargo, stowing the packs inside the chinook and hefting boxes without trouble. McCallister was kneeling over the chrome cases, frowning and rummaging inside, occasionally nodding. Sam followed Mort around the other side of the chinook, away from the floodlights and towards a dark shape by the trees. Took Sam a moment to realise it was a car. At least, it looked to be a car in name only.

Mort switched on a nearby floodlight and Sam got a better look at it. It looked more like something the army would use. It was painted with green and black camouflage and had clearly been modified for driving through a warzone, or that's what it looked like to Sam. Serious off-road tyres, protective bars across the windows and reinforced panels on the doors all added to the look of something that made Sam even more apprehensive about their destination. Even the headlamps had bars across them. A mechanical winch with what looked like steel cable adorned the front of the car between bull-bars.

"Aint she a beaut?" said Mort, standing beside Sam and putting his hands on his hips.

"I was thinking more of a brute than beaut,'' said Sam. "What is this thing? We planning on going to war in our spare time?"

"Ha! Funny. But you got no taste kid." Mort strolled over and patted the hood. The light gleamed off the propeller design of the Mercedes logo. "This is the last of three pre-production Merc ML Three Twenties that we have been lucky enough to get our hands on. This one's name is Montana." Mort beamed down at the car as if it was a local celebrity or holy relic of some kind.

"Lucky? We win it in a raffle then or something?"

"Ha! In a way." Mort strolled around the car. "When Masrani bought InGen, they acquired all owned or commissioned property and assets. One such property, by way of sneaky corporate pants pulling, was a workshop for field equipment tech. The owner, what was his name, might have been Ted or Ed. Eddie maybe, yeah that's it. Well old Hammond had commissioned this guy to assist in his little venture to the island with some others to gather their research and shit, just before the San Diego thing. They had some nice gear. Two other SUV's like this one and this modified trailer to stay in whilst they were there. Montana here got left behind at the workshop, and when things went south on the island and the owner got killed, the business got swept up as part of InGens assets. So now here it is." He patted it again.

"Killed? I keep hearing that word a lot lately." Sam rubbed at his face, wondering if the car was more a cursed relic than a holy one.

"The islands are dangerous kid. People get killed if they aren't careful."

"This Eddie guy wasn't careful then?"

"From what I saw, the guy died a hero."

"You saw him die?" said Sam, wondering if he wanted to hear anything more. His skin felt a touch clammy inside his shirt.

"I was with Ludlow and his team on Sorna the same time as Hammonds research team. We were there to save the company and earn a fortune. But didn't quite go that way. Those animals, they need respect. And we didn't give them that. So they showed us the price. Hammonds team found that out too." Mort leant against the car, interlocking his fingers, his eyes focusing on something that wasn't there. Sam was beginning to find every other persons wistful and haunted memories more than a bit annoying.

"Let me guess. You got some more chilling stories about this island as well then?"

"Hah!" grunted Mort. "You go to these islands, you either come back with stories of your own, or maybe you don't come back at all."

"So why are you going back?" said Sam, finding he'd sounded a bit pricklier than he meant. Mort stuck out his pursed lips as if he were considering the Sunday newspaper. After a moment he just shrugged.

"Monies good. I like money. And the risks seem a bit less…risky, this time round."

"I guess,'' murmured Sam. "So what do you need my help with then?" Mort smiled and tossed something at Sam. He caught it on instinct and inspected the car key now resting in his palm.

"Once big El is done loading those crates up, I want you to back up Montana here onto the helicopter. Can you drive stick?" Sam nodded, frowning at the car. "Good. Then go give El a hand and then let me know when you're ready."

Wasn't much longer until the last of storage crates and boxes were stowed neatly in compartments aboard the chinook, and Sam had worked up a small sweat. The two pilots were in the cockpit, doing whatever it is pilots do before a flight, and McCallister and Elliot were headed back to the shack to round up the rest of the team. Sam trudged down the boarding ramp out of the chinook and nodded at Mort.

"Ready when you are then," said Sam, turning towards the car. Mort grunted something and then took up a position on the ramp.

"Just line her up with this ramp and reverse up at my signal. Nice and steady."

"Got it." Sam fished the key out of his pants and headed for Montana, finding the silent presence of the SUV strangely intimidating. He huffed, knowing it was just these stupid stories they all had. Still, as that asshole McCallister had said, stories don't just pop up out of nowhere. He unlocked the car and got in, sinking into the leather seat and gripping the steering wheel, his eyes roaming over what felt like a rocket ship's worth of buttons and controls. A handheld radio receiver sat in a cradle on the dash, and there was a small display screen that came to life as he turned the ignition over, showing all sorts of information that Sam was convinced was nothing short of bewildering. The confident purr of the engine made him feel like the car was worth a hell of a lot more money than he had at first thought.

He reached for the park lever before remembering this was a manual and couldn't resist the urge to look around to make sure Mort hadn't seen him make that first mistake. He pushed the clutch in and shoved the stick into first, easing off the handbrake and desperately trying to remind himself he knew how to drive. Confidence was always the key. His knee gave him a little jab of pain as he slowly rolled the car forward, arcing it around the chinook and lining the trunk up with the tail ramp.

Mort's weathered face was a small blob in the rear view, and his arms started gesturing for Sam to bring it aboard. Sam hooked the stick back into reverse and twisted in the seat, looking back through the car and out of the back window. He had to duck and bob his head a bit to keep Mort and the ramp in sight between the protective bars on the windows, correcting his line with every flap of Mort's hands. The red glow of the tail lights lit up the mouth of the chinook as Sam made contact with the ramp, the rear of the car angling upwards slightly as he gave it more gas.

The monster eventually swallowed the car whole as Sam reversed the SUV fully into the aircraft, the hellish red of the lights seeping around him in the dark and mingling with the gold of the headlights. Mort thumped the car and began securing the wheels to anchor points, whistling tunelessly as if he were tinkering in his garage at home. Sam had to double check twice that he'd applied the handbrake, thoughts of the car coming loose during the flight racing in his mind and only adding to his doubt that he would be discovered as the fraud he felt. Still, he'd take the small victory of getting an SUV on a chinook. He'd never done that before. Something to tick off he supposed.

He climbed out, noticing the strange silence within the chinook, punctured by the clangs of Mort's clips and straps as he secured the car. Along the edge of the hold, he saw the row of small, uncomfortable looking seats with shoulder straps and headsets. The number of clips and harness buckles on the straps made him wonder if they were going to be flying or performing complex air tricks. His stomach gave a small flutter. Above him, small red lights glowed from the wall, giving off just enough light to see by.

A shape burst from the front end of the hold, breath panting and teeth bared. Sam almost yelped, taking a step back as the creature came for him with mouth open and tongue lolling. The dog was up on its hind legs in a flash, pawing at Sam's chest and licking at his chin and hands as he tried to fend it off. The very unique stink of dog and dog breath washed over his face as the animal thumped down, tail wagging and panting in excitement. The dog looked up at him, big brown eyes imploring Sam to ruffle the fur between it's ears. Sam couldn't help it. Maybe those eyes were the first eyes to look at him with anything other than doubt or derision, or maybe it just reminded Sam of his parents place, and the dogs there. Either way, his hand reached out and he scratched at the animals head, feeling something close to enjoyment for the first time on this venture. The yellow-brown fur felt good against his fingers, and he scratched harder.

"Merv? Merv?! Oh, shit! Sorry mate." One of the pilots had appeared from the cockpit doorway. It was the man, dark skin made darker by the red lights from above. His accent had sounded British. British accents always sounded so posh to Sam. He wove his way over to Sam between the SUV and the stored crates and seats, his movements easy and fluid amongst the tight spaces. A man at home in his aircraft. Merv padded back to him, circling around his legs, tail still wagging, and then came back to Sam. "Sorry about him."

"Its fine,'' said Sam, finding he'd smiled. "He yours?"

"No no. He's Kurts. Silly mutt just won't leave my wife alone. Been hanging around here the whole time." The man extended a hand to Sam. "Matt Chiles."

"Sam Summers. You and your wife are pilots then?"

"Indeed we are," said Matt. "We've flown together for years now. You'd think it would be a nightmare wouldn't you, stuck with your wife all the time."

"I heard that,'' came a voice from the cockpit, British as well and sounding rather nice to Sam's ears this time round. Matt grinned, jerking his head in the direction.

"Yes dear. Sorry dear." He stifled a small laugh as the tuts came from this cockpit this time.

"Call me dear one more time Matt Chiles and I'll leave you behind on that island." A face appeared in the doorway, long blonde hair tied back in a pony tail and cheekbones that belonged to a super model. The face smiled at Sam. "Hello there. I'm Connie." Merv trotted over to her, muzzling at her hand. Connie pointed at Matt. "Can I have my dickhead back?" She inclined her head at Matt, shaped eyebrows raised and a smirk that made that face even more attractive.

"Coming dear,'' said Matt, giving Sam a friendly nod in parting and heading back towards his wife who feigned slapping him, playful annoyance in her eyes. Sam listened to them giggling, not sure if he found their apparent happiness endearing or aggravating. Merv came padding back to him, trundling along at his side as he walked back down the ramp to the grass. He ruffled the dogs head again, finding it helpful as he saw the wobbling beams of torches approaching from the treeline. Certainly helpful in calming his growing nerves again. Everyone was coming now. Which meant it was time to go. The easy task of helping load the chinook now seemed preferable to actually flying in it.

He closed his eyes, trying to think of the money and the clean slate it was giving him. Just get through this, come out the other side and he could get his life back together again. His knee, ever the miserable companion, throbbed on cue, and he felt the crunch of the tackle all over again. The tackle that had put him on this path, all those years ago. He snorted to himself as Merv licked at his hand. No amount of money would wipe clean that bitter memory. You can't change the past. Just the future.

Kurt England and Catherine Redgrove led the group, striding purposefully with packs slung over shoulders and eyes set in determined frowns. Elliot and Perry were next, trying out their own frowns. Perry's jaw was working overtime as he chewed at something, looking far from happy with the flavour. Merv went bounding over to England, tail moving at warp speed and falling in step with his owner.

Nods were exchanged as the group ascended up the ramp, filing into the two lines along the edge of the hold. Redgrove barked a few commands and the rest of the rucksacks were stowed, people grumbling, sniffing and coughing as they threaded their way around the equipment, car and other paraphernalia for this madness.

Sam saw Beth, buckling herself into a seat next to that tall Costa Rican chef. He grimaced, wondering why he felt a silly pang of jealousy. He shook his head, finding an empty seat next to the two computer technicians Valerie and Hal. They gave him beaming smiles as he buckled himself in. Even the nerds had more confidence than him.

Mort appeared, moving up and down the line of seats and checking harnesses. In a matter of minutes, England was the last one standing, pacing around what free space there was with Merv at his heel and nodding imperiously at everything he saw, apparently satisfied. Behind him, the floodlights had been switched off and hidden away, and the night was a black abyss where only the swaying hiss of the jungle remained. Sam's mouth went very dry as he heard a garbled British voice in his headset and the loading ramp began to rise, warning lights pulsing. The outside world slowly vanished, the ramp clanging shut and sealing with a mechanical whirring and hiss.

In the belly of the monster now, Sam could feel his apprehension growing. England strode down the hold, past Sam and vanished into the cockpit with Merv. The red lights grew dimmer, bathing nervous and excited faces into crimson and black masks. Eyes glinted, tongues licked at lips and hands beat quick beats on knees. Sam could see the chef's feet tapping at the floor, his breathing looking hurried. Beth squeezed his hand, and Sam felt that jealousy again. She caught Sam's eye and gave him a smile and a nod. Her face looked eager. Far more eager than Sam felt.

And then the chinook vibrated. A deep, deep tremor and shudder that ran through every surface and up through Sam's ass to his eyes. The vibrations got stronger, the building growl of the aircraft increasing to a permanent roar. Sam's headset drowned out the worst of it, but the noise was still a muffled barrage of mechanical power. Voices in his ear again now, hard to make out though. Might have been something about preparing for take-off. A high-pitched whine started, sounded like somewhere above. It got faster, the definite sound of spinning turbines. Faster and faster. The vibrations were thrumming through Sam's body now, making his teeth rattle. He clamped his jaw together, sticking his tongue into the insides of his teeth. He could feel the muscle in his jaw squirming.

There was a sudden whump. Followed by another. Then another, growing louder, faster. Sam caught Connie's voice through his headset, very clearly this time and making his guts do one final flip of trepidation for something that he knew he wasn't ready for.

"Take off. Bon voyage, Costa Rica."

The chinook lifted off the ground. Or Sam assumed it did the way his guts suddenly dropped away through his ass. He prayed he hadn't shit himself as he felt that strange sensation of being airborne. Direction became a mystery as the chinook banked and accelerated, the shuddering energy of the aircraft propelling him towards an island of prehistoric creatures and no end of ghost stories. An island of opportunity, he kept telling himself. For him. For a lot of people, it seemed. He let out a long, long breath, silently convincing himself he could do this. From the end of the opposite row of seats, McCallister grinned at him.