A woman. Fiftyish, gray-haired, dressed in a lab coat that had once been white. She carried a crossbow in one hand and a taser in the other. Her eyes were wild, darting, but her voice was calm.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out the photograph. The little compy. The smile. The miracle.
“Okay,” Lena said. “Okay.”
Lena froze. The rustling stopped. Five seconds. Ten. Then a dozen small heads poked out of the undergrowth, eyes like black beads, mouths full of needle teeth. They chirped at her—a sound like a nest of baby birds, but sharper. Hungrier.
And then, from deep in the jungle, a new sound: a scream, high and human, cut short. Dinosaur Island -1994-
Lena turned the body over. A man, fortyish, dark hair, wearing a Costa Rican military jacket with the patches ripped off. His hands were tied behind his back with zip ties. His pockets were empty. Around his neck, on a leather cord, hung a key card: INGEN – SECURITY LEVEL 5 – MERCER, V.
She read for three hours.
The raptor whined. Pressed its head against her hip.
The compound was a ghost town. Wind blew through broken windows. Doors hung open. In the cafeteria, plates of fossilized food still sat on tables—eggs, bacon, coffee mugs half-full of something that had long since turned to sludge. She found a calendar on the wall, flipped to March 1989. The fifteenth had been circled in red ink. EVACUATION DAY was written in the margin. A woman
“Okay,” she said softly. “Okay.”