|
JP Remnants Chapter 2: Life Finds a Way
By The Host
A brief note about the genesis of this story might, I realize now, be necessary. As some of you may know, I was a regular at Dan's TLW Page. I wrote the first chapter of a fanfic there called 'The Land Unknown' -- a completely rewritten version exists as chapter one of the story you're currently reading. (I mean *completely* rewritten -- I don't have the original and haven't read it in maybe five years.) I then tried working it into a screenplay but realized it's be too long. So I started to rework it as 'JP: Remnants' and began to post it as a brief plot outline at Dan's TLW page. Much to my surprise this became something of a hit and it became longer and more evolved, so that the final twenty of forty pages was basically a full-blown fanfic. I tried rereleasing it here last summer, four years after the original release in 1998, to exactly zero acclaim. So I gave up but silently decided to rewrtite and expand the whole thing.
And here it is.
Why is that important? Well, keep in mind, whikle the writing is new the idea isn't. I'm changing only a very few things, mainly utter inaccuracies in the old story. So it might not be the most original story you've read here. But if it seems like I'm consciously copying other stories that have been posted here, I'm not. I am aware of similarities between this story and some others here. I wrote mine first, even if you haven't read it. If you want to see the original version I can send it to you, or maybe I'll post it in an SE sometime.
Secondly, and more importantly, this story was written before JPIII was a gleam in Spielberg's eye. I'm not changing that. So while it is set in the summer of 2003, we are going to pretend that the movie JPIII didn't happen. So Grant's only seen dinos once.
Capice? Capice. Let's get rolling.
LIFE FINDS A WAY
Bill Jenkins quietly cursed to himself and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. He had lost track of that fat man, Keyser, again. Bloody tourist; a rich child of the city who’d probably never been outside Manhattan beyond the grounds of a Club Med before. Why the hell was he here in the jungle? The jungles of Costa Rica were still largely dark and untamed and could be dangerous, even for an experienced travel. But money replaces experience for people like these, Jenkins thought with an inward scowl. The old man was probably on some new-age health kick, or maybe a mid-life crisis: trying to rediscover his youth. Well, he hadn’t found it at Cerro Matama.
Jenkins was a graduate student majoring in evolutionary biology at Columbia, in Costa Rica for the summer with UC Berkeley’s education abroad program studying tropical biology. It was fascinating work, the kind of work Jenkins loved – work in the field, where you could really get your knees scuffed and your hands dirty. He conducted these tours on weekends with an eco-tourism company in Monteverde just to pick up a few extra bills. He planned on heading into San Jose with some buddies in a few weekends to burn some of his salary, and maybe, just maybe, he’d decide to settle down someday. Might as well have a nest egg.
But for now he was sitting in a field with a group of vacationing Americans, mostly college students a few years younger than him, waiting for a fat old billionaire to catch up to the rest.
After a minute he decided to give up his wait. The man had been there only a moment ago, down at the bottom of the slope filling his water bottle. Where was he now? Jenkins stood and brushed a fly away. He could see Keyser’s pack next to the river, but no Keyser.
He turned to Luis, his junior on this trip, and told him to watch over the group; he’d be back in a minute. Quietly cursing again he jogged across the field to the streambed, tall wet grass whipping against his legs. When he reached Keyser’s backpack he saw footsteps in the mud heading into the jungle near at hand. ‘Shit,’ he muttered. Then, louder: ‘Mister Keyser! It’s time to go! Catch up with the group, now! Mister Keyser?’
No response.
Shaking his head, Jenkins strode toward the jungle. Frigging tourists. This guy had better be a big tipper.
‘Mister Keyser?’
Suddenly Jenkins heard a crash and a splash and a scream. That didn’t sound good. Rich dead tourists did not secure success in this company. Bill sprinted forward, adeptly hopping over twisted roots and creepers. Then he heard a sound that made him stop dead.
A quiet hoot.
A coo.
A guttural whimper.
Could it be? The villagers back at Monteverde often spoke of the hupa, a kind of demon vampire that spirited away children at night and lived in the wilds of central Costa Rica. The creatures, according to local legend, announced their presence with an unmistakable hoot.
‘Harold?’ His cry was weaker this time.
There it was again. The hair on the back of Jenkins’s neck stood on end; goosebumps covered his arms; a shiver ran through his body. Come on, Bill, he thought, this is not the time to panic. Probably some bird.
What came next came from no bird: a terrible screeching roar followed by a human scream. Jenkins was glued to his spot, fear capturing his mind. His heart raced. Another unearthly screech.
That was enough. Forgetting or ignoring his fear, Jenkins steeled his will and ran forward toward the steep bank, scream Keyser’s name. He reached the edge only seconds later and looked down.
He could not believe his eyes.
* * *
Dr. Henry Wu, 42, settled back in his chair and thought about all the good things Jurassic Park had done for him.
Ten years ago things hadn’t looked so bright. John Hammond had not simply offered him a great salary and the thrill of adventure; John Hammond had not simply offered him the greatest challenge any geneticist had ever faced. No, John Hammond had offered him the opportunity to entrench himself in the annals of science. His discoveries would not be found on page forty-two of The Berkeley Graduate Science Journal or, if he was lucky, Nature. No, his name would be dropped in Time and on Entertainment Tonight. There would be chapters of him in science texts and history texts. His bust would stand next to Einstein’s and Darwin’s. He would be the greatest scientist of the late twentieth century.
But ten years ago he left Isla Nublar for Site B and found out three days later that the Park had been destroyed. Destroyed! A lawyer and a computer geek and a park ranger had died and some black-clad asshole mathematician Wu had met once or twice had almost lost a leg and Hammond had got scared and suddenly the whole thing was a shambles. In a way Wu felt slightly smug about the whole thing. He had been nagging John for ages to change the dinosaurs, make them less dangerous, less realistic, less of a liability, and more in line with what tourists expected. But Hammond was stubborn and insisted on accuracy. Every time Wu brought the subject up the old buzzard’s eyes would go glassy and he’d start talking about some sort of flea circus he’d once had. Well, this was no flea circus, and in August 1993 John Hammond finally discovered that real dinosaurs meant real danger and he cut the whole thing off.
A year later Site B was abandoned. InGen was being sued by more than a dozen people, including half of its investors and the Costa Rican government. Hammond decided to ditch the entire project – ten years of Wu’s life! – and served Wu with a meager severance package and a non-disclosure agreement for his troubles.
Wu was angry, extremely angry. In 1994 he was already in his mid-thirties, far too old to be picked up by another genetics company under normal circumstances. But these were not normal circumstances: he couldn’t include his greatest success on his curriculum vitae. ‘Graduated with PhD from Berkeley in 1984, I see; and then what?’ ‘Um, nothing, really . . . Just this and that . . . Until 1994.’ He didn’t quite give a stellar interview. Wu had considered suing InGen at the time, but he was held back by his NDA. All the well. There wouldn’t be many pickings left on John Hammond’s pile.
Then Hammond’s nephew, a slimy English chap that had tried to rehire Wu, wrested control of the tattered remains of InGen from his uncle and the San Diego Incident occurred. At first Wu had been terrified. What would this mean to his career?
InGen dissolved. His pension disappeared. His name showed up in the hearings. He was shunned by most of his colleagues. And he became the most sought-after geneticist in the business world.
Three Discovery Channel specials and a beah house in Malibu later, he found himself luxuriating in an expensively-furnished apartment waiting for John Hammond to appear on his television screen. He checked his Rolex: 8:28pm. Two more minutes.
Wu flicked on the television. A talking head was discussing the stock market, awake and feeling rather bullish. Wu yawned. He wasn’t getting much sleep lately. He let his mind wander and didn’t turn the volume up until the report had already begun.
The story, of course, was top news. Billionaire movie mogul Harold Keyser had disappeared in the jungles of Costa Rica almost a week ago. Then, three days ago, it was leaked to the press that his body had been found mangled by some massive three-toed creature. All eyes turned to Isla Sorna.
Now the reporter was introducing Hammond. And then there he was, smiling cheerfully but now so old. Wu was stricken. He hadn’t seen Hammond in person in seven years, and had lost track of his television appearances shortly after San Diego. Now Hammond was barely recognizable. His face was gaunt and wrinkled, his cheeks collapsed, his sunken eyes still twinkling. He had only a few wisps of hair left; his forehead was dappled with liver spots. Hammond readjusted the line to his nose with a weak hand, an intravenous line leading off camera. John Hammond’s voice was hoarse but still eager. Wu almost felt sorry for him.
The reporter, turned to Hammond’s visage on a screen behind him, was bringing out his big guns early.
‘Do you think one of your dinosaurs killed Harold Keyser?’
‘Absolutely not.’ Hammond’s old stubbornness peeked through. ‘Isla Nublar was destroyed within days of the Park’s closure; no dinosaurs survived. Isla Sorna is completely contained, its docks have been destroyed, and it is entirely inaccessible by sea or by air. The island is strictly patrolled by Navy cruisers and destroyers and occasionally F-16s. The no-fly zone is strictly enforced. The American government has spared no expense.’
‘Some within the American government have called for the destruction of the dinosaurs on Sorna.’
‘Not while I’m alive. I will not see it happen.’
The reporter slyly grinned. ‘Do you still consider these dinosaurs a lucrative investment, then? Do you plan to exploit them?’
‘An investment, no. They are living creatures, marvelous creatures such as the world hasn’t known in millennia. They are living creatures whether put on this earth by the hand of god or man, and they’ve a right to live. I’ve set up the non-profit Hammond Foundation to save them from men who would exploit them.’
‘Rumour has it the Hammond Foundation has been short on cash of late. Is there really a future for this organization, Mr. Hammond?’
‘As long as there are people willing to donate.’
‘But how can you find donors when half the world wants these creatures destroyed and the other half wants them all for itself?’
‘I will find a way. I shall see to the preservation of life intact, an entire new ecosystem, on Isla Sorna. I am confident in my ability. A close friend once told me that life finds a way, and I believe that—‘
Hammond suddenly took a sharp intake of breath. A shadow passed over his face. He cleared his throat, nodded his head, tried again.
‘I believe that I can—’
He swooned again, closing his eyes and breathing heavily. He muttered something to himself.
‘Mr. Hammond?’ The reporter was visibly nervous.
‘I can find a way—’
And with that Hammond collapsed in his chair. A nurse rushed onto the screen and the image behind the reporter blinked out. The young man turned forward, his eyes wild, uncertain. He listened to his producer through his earpiece, then stared straight into the camera.
‘News Hour Five will be back after these messages.’
A commercial for Juicy Fruit gum came on.
Wu shut off his television.
John Hammond was dead.
The phone rang.
Please comment!
-Host
7/8/2003 8:05:46 PM
(Updated: 7/8/2003 8:10:11 PM)
(Updated: 7/8/2003 8:18:43 PM)
Comment on this fan fiction!
|
|
|
