|The Costa Rican Contractor
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|Author:||Draconisaurus [ Mon Dec 31, 2018 3:39 am ]|
|Post subject:||The Costa Rican Contractor|
Carlos Lopez sat quietly in his Portland Construction manager's trailer, sifting through the latest blueprints from the InGen corporate office in Palo Alto, California. Most of it seemed fine, some corners unnecessarily cut that he noticed. As well one of the buildings did not meet the earthquake regulations he kept telling them were needed on this Costa Rican island.
Lopez had worked on InGen's "Site B" facility on the island of Isla Sorna for two years now. He never did find out why the senior contractor prior to him had left the project, but he was mostly satisfied. It was moreover like any other construction job he'd taken, though possibly even more wet and humid.
He shook the tin can as he held it to his lips. Three drops poured out. Damn. He set the plans down and went to grab another can of 'Dino Jolt' soda.
Outside he saw Raime Juan, said hello. He let him continue working on the struts for the second contractor trailer, being prepped for his second-in-command set to arrive later that week. He made his way amidst unfinished foundations and piles of dug-up dirt, over to the worker barracks. The resident head of Site B's programming team, Dennis Nedry, was standing there kicking the machine, cursing at it. Dennis looked up, saw Carlos, and decided to leave.
"It's all yours," Dennis said as he left.
"Uh, thank you senior?" Carlos inspected the machine. It had a small dent in it. Violence and technology rarely made agreeable fellows in bed, he thought to himself. Digging in his pocket for some pecos, he found just enough for the 'Dino Jolt', slipped it into the machine. However, he'd failed to remove the bit of loose red yarn from his jacket that was stuck to the pecos. The machine waited a moment, then started making an odd mechanical sound.
"¿Qué en la tierra?" he asked to nobody.
The sound increased, and he realized the thread from his jacket was being unraveled as it was sucked into the machine. He tried to grab it, felt his hand burning, tried to stand back. But the machine had him and wasn't letting go.
"Máquina muda. ¡Que alguien me ayude!---"
There was a loud POP.
Carlos had a hard time remembering what had just happened. He opened his eyes, looked around. He was surrounded by conifers, his body proped up against a wooden cabin.
"What in the World?? Como hice..." He noticed his clothing, then. It was torn and covered in sticky liquid. He could swear it smelled just like 'Dino Jolt'. He decided to get up and find out where he was.
Inside the cabin were several items of interest. A blood-smeared whiteboard, appearing to list some sort of count, as if its artisan had been stuck there and obliged to record the count of days in his or her own blood. He recoiled. The shack also included a desk, a couple of familiar yellow chairs, and a writing desk. However he wasn't interested in exploring or attempting to explain what he saw - he only wanted to return to where he was, or wake up from whatever strange dream had captured him.
Just as he turned to walk outside, he heard the not-too-distant roar he'd come to know as one thing - the Tyrannosaurus.
TO BE CONTINUED
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