|
X-Factor Chapter 27 and Epilogue
By drucifer67
Jurassic Park: X-Factor
Chapter Twenty-Seven and Epilogue
Rick was doing his best to hold off the raptors as they emerged from the building, but he knew that it was a matter of time before his weapon ran out of ammunition. He squeezed off round after round as the relentless marauders popped through the roof opening, taking them down before they ever had a chance to attack. It reminded Rick, incredibly, of the kid's arcade game where you used a hammer to bludgeon defenseless moles as they poked their heads up from their holes.
Then the rifle dry-fired. He squeezed the trigger again, then again, but received nothing in return but a hollow clicking sound.
The ammunition had run out.
He turned on his heels and fled toward the chopper. It occurred to him that he could probably run faster without the rifle, but he held onto it. He had already saved himself twice with empty rifles, after all.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tim stood and stared at Alan and the two winged raptors, unable to act. Without his weapon, all he could do was watch helplessly as the nightmare creatures circled Dr. Grant, preparing for the kill.
Lyndsey Cross ran past him, her legs and arms churning like pistons as she sprinted toward the chopper. Tim made no move to stop her; it was best if she didn't witness the bad death that was in store for Alan Grant.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Will Bradford held his wounded thigh, trying to hold back the rush of blood that spewed from it. At first he thought the bullet had struck a femoral artery, which would have been the end of the whole mess. A person could bleed out quickly from a wound to that particular blood vessel.
Judging from the amount of blood and the speed of the flow, he was immeasurably relieved to realize that the major artery had been spared. There was plenty of blood, but the group still had a pilot.
He turned to Malcolm, who was still on the ground with Markinson in a tangle of arms and legs. Markinson's gun hand was pinned to the roof, held in place by both of Ian's large hands.
Markinson brought his free hand up in a great, looping arc, striking Ian's temple with an audible thump. Ian wavered, but didn't relent.
Markinson struck Ian's repeatedly, striking his face, neck, and head. The movement of his fist was little more than a blur as he fought desperately to regain control.
Will Bradford pulled himself up to his knees with great effort, struggling in spite of the weakness that came with the shock of being shot. On his hands and knees, he began to crawl toward the struggling men.
He stopped when the pistol went off.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Now, this…this was bad. Very bad. Malcolm wanted to complain, but to whom? God? Fate? Who was in charge?
He felt the warmth spreading in his abdomen, a peculiar sensation unlike anything he had experienced before. He found himself thinking disjointedly, Just let me live long enough to write down what this is like.
Markinson pushed Ian off. He rolled away in a heap, unable to resist. He put his hand on his belly, feeling the warm, sticky presence of blood there. Lots of blood. Too much blood.
I came to a dinosaur-infested island to get shot, he thought. This…this is wrong.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Will Bradford watched as Ian rolled off Markinson. He struggled even harder to get to his feet, but it was clearly never going to happen. The shock of being shot had rendered him weak, and that weakness was being exacerbated by the rapid loss of blood. He crawled along a little further, then collapsed on the gravel. He closed his eyes, defeated. He didn't even raise his head when he heard the woman scream.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lyndsey Cross watched the two men struggling, and was only a few feet away when the gun went off. She wasn't sure who the man on the ground was, but he was bleeding badly.
Oblivious, she kept right on running. The man on the ground was not her concern. Markinson was. Markinson had just shot another human being, and he still held the gun with which he had done the deed.
The gun. She could only see the gun.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lex stood frozen beside Tim, watching as the two mutant dinosaurs circled Alan Grant. The two beasts called to each other as they worked around him, as if arguing over who would get which parts when the meal was served.
She stepped forward, but Tim stopped her.
"What are you going to do, Lex? Huh? What can you do about it?"
She turned to him, seeing the tortured helplessness in his tear-filled eyes. He wanted to do something, too, but he had the good sense to realize that Alan Grant was beyond all help and hope.
She turned back to Alan, watching in horror, not wanting to see what was about to happen but helpless to turn away.
Tim clutched her tightly, then screamed. He shouted a single, negative syllable that grew and echoed and formed a howl of primal rage and fear and desperation.
Lex realized that Tim was just about to do something stupid and suicidal. She reached for him, intending to envelop him in her arms and hold him back from whatever insane goal he might have set.
They both stopped suddenly, startled by the sound of rapid gunfire echoing through the clearing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rick sprinted across the roof, hearing the crunching gravel behind him as the raptors pursued. He wasn't sure how many, and he knew he didn't dare look back.
The gravel surface of the roof betrayed him, and his feet faltered. For a moment, he was sure he would be able to keep his balance and keep on running, but it wasn't to be. His feet became tangled and he went down, sliding on the pebbly surface, sprawling.
He managed to get back to his knees before his pursuers fell upon him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Alan was terrified.
There was always a way out of any bad situation, but he was having a hell of a time finding the way out of this one.
The two mutant hunters encircled him, one in front and one behind, and spread their wings to form a sort of enclosure around their prey.
He thought of diving beneath them, but he feared they would attack before he could get back on his feet.
The more he analyzed the situation, the bleaker his outlook became. It appeared that everything would end here, within sight of the rescue helicopter.
Then the raptor in front of him fell, shrieking and kicking. It was only after the creature collapsed in a pool of its own blood that he realized he had heard rapid gunfire.
He looked to his right, toward the helicopter.
Lyndsey Cross stood beside the chopper, her feet slightly apart and her wrists locked together in a classic shooter's stance. The pistol in her hands bucked wildly as she brought the second raptor down.
For a moment, Alan was too stunned to react. At last, he got moving and ran for the helicopter.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tim wrapped his arms around his sister and pulled her, trying to turn her attention toward the helicopter and away from the grisly scene of the raptors fighting over Rick's lifeless body.
She broke free from his grip and went on screaming. She began to move toward the place where Rick had fallen.
Tim caught her and locked his arms around her waist, hauling her back. Her arms flailed against his head and back as she went on screaming, wailing in horror and grief.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dr. Cross, satisfied that Alan's attackers were finished, turned her attention to the raptors that had come through the roof and were now settling on Rick.
She took careful aim and squeezed the trigger, getting off three good shots before the pistol's clip ran empty.
One of the raptors went down, but the others continued their grisly work.
She threw the pistol aside, screaming in rage and frustration. She had done all she could do, but it hadn't been quite enough.
Alan ran to her, taking her in his arms in a fierce embrace. He shook with fear and fatigue and relief.
She returned his embrace, then allowed him to lead her gently back toward the helicopter.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Will Bradford had managed to crawl back into the pilot's seat. He had a clear view of all the chaos around him.
The young man and the girl, Hammond's grandchildren, trotted toward the helicopter briskly, their arms around each other, their heads slumped forward.
One of the mercenaries--he wasn't sure which, but he had seen the man's file and thought his name might have been Rick--had gone down near the roof exit and was now entirely concealed from view by snapping, snarling, feasting dinosaurs.
Dr. Alan Grant and Dr. Lyndsey Cross were kneeling on the roof outside the helicopter.
Ian Malcolm and Don Markinson were on the ground, outside his field of view.
"Dr. Grant?" he called out, trying to be heard over the noise of the Blackhawk's engine.
If Grant had heard, he made no move to answer. Instead, he stood abruptly from the place where he had been kneeling, took three quick steps, and knelt again. His back was to Bradford, so that it was unclear exactly what was happening, but Grant's right arm was swinging wildly, almost as if he was punching someone repeatedly.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Markinson still lay on the ground where he had landed after Lyndsey had relieved him of his pistol. He had struck his head pretty hard when she tackled him, and until now had made no move to get back on his feet.
His timing was poor. Alan Grant knelt beside him and forced him back down with a hand on his throat. The expression on Grant's face was way beyond the annoyance he'd seen from the good doctor and the other members of the group, but he couldn't place its meaning until he saw Grant draw back his arm, threatening. Grant's fist, smeared with Ian Malcolm's blood, came down like a hammer, battering Markinson's face.
Lyndsey Cross tried to pull him off, but succeeded only in distracting him long enough for Markinson to retaliate. He laced his fists together and thumped the side of Grant's face, unbalancing him enough for Markinson to crawl out from under and take the high ground.
Standing over the kneeling doctor, Don Markinson punched him squarely in the nose, sending the older man sprawling onto his back. He stepped forward, prepared to finish the job.
He never laid another finger on Alan Grant. Dr. Cross stepped forward, all honorable intentions cast aside, and brought her right knee up between Markinson's thighs, impacting high and hard and following through. He lifted visibly off the ground, his eyes wide, then collapsed to his knees.
Lyndsey Cross was not finished. She turned slightly, showing Markinson her left side, then kicked him soccer-style directly in his upturned face. He careened backward, then was helped all the way onto his back by a well-placed foot in the center of his chest.
She stomped down hard on his lower leg with her heavy boot and was rewarded with the satisfying and disgusting sound of gristle tearing.
She turned and helped Alan to his feet, and the two of them, along with Lex, climbed into the back of the idling chopper.
"What about Dr. Malcolm?" Tim demanded, shouting over the hum of the rotors.
"Dr. Malcolm is dead, Tim," Alan said soberly.
Tim looked back at the chaotician, lying on his back, flat and straight and decked out in funereal black. He went back to him and slipped his arms easily beneath the shoulders of the blood-soaked black jacket. Lifting Ian's torso, he began to drag the body to the chopper.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Don Markinson came slowly to his feet, gradually recovering from the near-blackout state he had entered following Cross' attack.
Tim and Alan Grant were just finishing up the job of loading a body into the chopper, the body of the man who had struggled with Markinson for the gun.
Grant and Tim climbed aboard the helicopter. From where Markinson stood, he could see Grant pat the pilot's shoulder twice, briskly, and jerk his thumb skyward.
The pitch of the engine increased to a high whine as the pilot applied the throttle, and Markinson realized that his time was almost up.
He gathered his pack and dashed to the helicopter, his right knee screaming in pain, and reached it just as its front tires left the pad. He threw himself up and forward, landing mid-chest on the edge of the chopper's doorway.
He clutched the seat support with his left hand, keeping a tight grip on the straps of his pack with his right. He closed his eyes tightly in terror as the chopper lifted off and churned skyward.
Tim looked at Alan, then back to Markinson. He sighed heavily, then reached and grabbed the man's wrists. He strained to pull him aboard.
The pack slipped from Markinson's grip, sliding across the floor of the chopper. It stopped in the middle of the floor, then slowly began the return trip as the helicopter banked the other direction. Gaining speed, it slid right past Don Markinson and out into the empty sky.
He wrenched free of Tim's grip, and in a desperate lunge, picked the pack's strap nimble from the sky.
Then he slipped.
His left hand, which still held the support leg of the rear seat, was damp with sweat. The violent motion of his body as he reached out to grab the pack had loosened his grip. Now, his fingers slipped slowly free of the thin steel bar that stood between Don Markinson and death.
Tim got down on his knees in the back of the chopper, reaching out to try to help, but the panicked Markinson brought his other hand up, trying to grab on to anything within reach. The heavy-laden pack was still in his hand and struck Tim squarely in the face.
The pack slipped loose from Markinson's right hand at the same moment the seat support slipped from his left. He screamed as he fell away into the jungle, disappearing into the dense canopy and into the unknown below.
Tim watched Markinson fall, then turned back and sat with the others.
Lex lay her head against his shoulder. She was still sobbing gently, hit hard by all that she had seen today.
Alan Grant and Lyndsey Cross sat close together, with her hand resting on his knee and neither of them speaking.
At their feet, Ian Malcolm silently took his last ride.
"Toss the pack," Bradford shouted.
"What?"
"Toss it, Tim. Get rid of it."
Tim picked up Markinsons' backpack from the floor and, still not understanding why, threw the pack overboard, watching its tumbling descent. It struck the ground rolling, spilling its contents in a broad arc. Tim recognized a few items, but there were perhaps two dozen small boxes that he couldn't identify.
"What was in there?" Dr. Cross asked.
"They looked like hard drives," Lex answered. "From the computers in that building, maybe."
"Why?" Tim asked.
"He was paid," Bradford answered. "All the DNA data and all the procedures were stored throughout the system. Someone who wanted to get rich, like perhaps an aging public servant who's not happy with his pension, could have started this mess all over again."
"The world's most dangerous instruction manual," Alan said thoughtfully.
The helicopter moved out over the ocean, leaving the island behind. Dr. Cross lay her head back against the wall of the chopper, but Grant encircled her in his arms, laying her head against his chest.
Tim looked out across the vast and ageless ocean. He thought of all the people who had risked their lives to save him, and of those who had lost their lives in the process.
He looked down at Ian Malcolm once more, then lay his head back and shut his eyes tight.
Epilogue
Eichmann stepped off the elevator and into the parking garage on Sublevel 1. A snatch of an old song had gotten itself stuck in his head, and he whistled impulsively as he rummaged in the pocket of his slacks for his keyless-entry remote.
"Richard Wayne Eichmann?"
He stopped in his tracks and turned slowly toward the sound of the voice. Three men in gray suits were walking slowly toward him. "Yes?"
"Are you Richard Wayne Eichmann?"
"That's the rumor," he replied flatly.
"Mr. Eichmann, Agent Jackson." he produced an I.D. card, flashed it in Eichmann's direction, then tucked it neatly into his inside jacket pocket. "I have in my possession a warrant for your arrest, on charges of abuse of office, violation of federally-placed quarantine measures, breach of protocol--"
"Please," Eichmann said angrily. "I was doing this when you were still training at Quantico, trying to keep from shooting yourself in the foot."
"Mr. Eichmann, I urge you to--"
"Urge me, nothing," he snapped back. "You have no idea who you're dealing with."
"Mr. Eichmann, I am placing you under arrest, by authority of the federal government of the United States of America."
Eichmann had turned away and was now walking toward his car. His stride was casual, as if he hadn't a care in the world.
"Mr. Eichmann," the agent repeated.
Eichmann did not respond, but instead continued walking toward his car.
The other two agents dashed after Eichmann, encircling him, and Jackson strode up behind.
Eichmann, seeing that he was surrounded, stopped at last. "What are you people going to do now? Shoot me?" He slowly and deliberately slipped his right hand inside his suit jacket. The three agents all reached for their holsters, ready for anything.
Eichmann's right hand emerged from the folds of his jacket holding nothing more than a cigarette. Eichmann stuck it in the corner of his mouth. "Any of you girls got a light?"
Jackson lowered his hand from his weapon shakily. The three agents blinked stupidly at Eichmann.
"You do realize that you were two quick steps from shooting an unarmed man just now?" Eichmann asked, in the manner of an impatient teacher who is having trouble making a simple point to a slow pupil. Jackson thought what a cool customer this Eichmann fellow was. He guessed the old man had been a damn good agent, in his day.
Eichmann found his lighter and struck it. He held it near the end of his cigarette and drew in deeply, then dropped the lighter back into his pocket. He turned to Jackson and blew out a great gust of smoke. "I hope you don't mind if I finish this before you go putting the cuffs on me. I've done a hell of a lot for my country. One goddam cigarette shouldn't be too much to ask."
Jackson nodded to the other agents, who moved in and began the task of securing Eichmann.
4/9/2003 10:06:43 AM
(Updated: 4/9/2003 10:21:23 AM)
(Updated: 4/9/2003 10:22:05 AM)
(Updated: 4/9/2003 10:26:02 AM)
(Updated: 4/9/2003 11:08:11 AM)
(Updated: 4/10/2003 5:09:25 AM)
Comment on this fan fiction!
|
|
|
