Dodgson
Dodgson was awakened by a noisy chittering, like the sound of a hundred tiny birds. It seemed to be coming from all around him. Slowly, he realized that he was lying on his back, on damp sloping ground. He tried to move, but his body felt painful and heavy. Some sort of weight pressed down on his legs, his stomach, his arms. The weight on his chest made it difficult to breathe.
And he was sleepy, incredibly sleepy. He wanted nothing more in all the world than to go back to sleep. Dodgson started to drift off to unconsciousness, but something was pulling at his hand. Tugging at his fingers, one by one. As if pulling him back to consciousness. Slowly, slowly, pulling him back.
Dodgson opened his eyes.
There was a little green dinosaur standing beside his hand. It leaned over, and bit his finger in its tiny jaws, tugging at the flesh. His fingers were bleeding; ragged chunks of flesh had already been bitten away.
He pulled his hand away in surprise, and suddenly the chittering grew louder. He turned and saw that he was surrounded by these little dinosaurs; they were standing on his chest and legs as well. They were the size of chickens and they pecked at him like chickens, quick darting bites on his stomach, his thighs, his crotch—
Revolted, Dodgson jumped to his feet, scattering the lizards, which hopped away, chirping in annoyance. The little animals moved a few feet away, then stopped. They turned back, and stared at him, showing no sign of fear. On the contrary, they seemed to be waiting.
That was when he realized what they were. They were procompsognathids. Compys.
Scavengers.
Christ, he thought. They thought I was dead.
He staggered back, almost losing his balance. He felt pain and a wave of dizziness. The little animals chittered, watched his every move.
“Go on,” he said, waving his hand. “Get out of here.”
They did not leave. They stood there, cocking their heads to one side quizzically, and waited.
He bent his head, stared down at himself. His shirt, his trousers were torn in a hundred places. Blood dribbled from a hundred tiny wounds down his clothes. He felt a wave of dizziness and put his hands on his knees. He took a deep breath, and watched his blood drip onto the leaf-strewn ground.
Christ, he thought. He took another deep breath.
When he did not move, the animals began to inch forward. He stood up, and they backed away. But a moment later, they began to come forward again.
One came close. Dodgson kicked it viciously, sending the little body flying through the air. The animal squealed in alarm, but it landed like a cat, upright and uninjured.
The others remained where they were.
Waiting.
He looked around, realized it was getting dark. He looked at his watch: 6:40. There were only a few minutes more of daylight. Beneath the jungle canopy, it was already quite dark.
He had to get to safety, and soon. He checked the compass on his watch strap, and headed south. He was pretty sure the river was to the south. He had to get back to the boat. He would be safe at the boat.
As he started walking, the compys chittered and followed after him. They stayed about five or ten feet behind, making a lot of noise as they hopped and crashed through the low foliage. There were dozens of them, he realized. As darkness descended, their eyes glowed bright green.
His body was a mass of pain. Every step hurt. His balance was not good. He was losing blood, and he was very, very sleepy. He would never make it all the way to the river. He would not make it more than another couple of hundred yards. He fell, tripping over a root. He got up slowly, dirt clinging to his blood-soaked clothes.
He looked back at the green eyes behind him, and forced himself onward. He could go a little farther, he thought. And then, directly ahead, he saw a light through the foliage. Was it the boat? He moved faster, hearing the compys behind him.
He pushed through the foliage and then saw a little shed, like a toolshed or a guardhouse, made of concrete, with a tin roof. It had a square window, and light was shining through the window. He fell again, got to his knees, and crawled the rest of the way to the house. He reached the door, pulled himself up on the doorknob, and opened the door.
Inside, the shed was empty. Some pipes came up through the floor. Some time in the past, they had connected to machinery, but the machinery was gone; there were only the rust spots where it had once been bolted to the concrete floor.
In a corner of the room was an electric light. It was fitted with a timer, so that it came on at night. That was the light he had seen. Did they have electricity on this island? How? He didn’t care. He staggered into the room, closed the door firmly behind him, and sank down onto the bare concrete. Through the dirty windowpanes, he saw the compys outside, banging against the glass, hopping in frustration. But he was safe for the moment.
He would have to go on, of course. He would somehow have to get off this fucking island. But not now, he thought.
Later.
He’d worry about everything later.
Dodgson laid his cheek on the damp concrete floor, and slept.
Trailer
Sarah Harding placed the aluminum-foil cuff around the baby’s injured leg. The baby was still unconscious, breathing easily, not moving. Its body was relaxed. The oxygen hissed softly.
She finished shaping the aluminum foil into a cuff six inches long. Using a small brush, she began to paint resin over it, to make a cast.
“How many raptors are there?” she said. “I couldn’t tell for
sure, when I saw them. I thought nine.”
“I think there’s more,” Malcolm said. “I think eleven or twelve in all.”
“Twelve?” she said, glancing up at him. “On this little island?”
“Yes.”
The resin had a sharp odor, like glue. She brushed it evenly on the aluminum. “You know what I’m thinking,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “There are too many.”
“Far too many, Ian.” She worked steadily. “It doesn’t make sense. In Africa, active predators like lions are very spread out. There’s one lion for every ten square kilometers. Sometimes every fifteen kilometers. That’s all the ecology can support. On an island like this, you should have no more than five raptors. Hold this.”
“Uh-huh. But don’t forget, the prey here is huge. . . . Some of those animals are twenty, thirty tons.”
“I’m not convinced that’s a factor,” Sarah said, “but for the sake of argument, let’s say it is. I’ll double the estimate, and give you ten raptors for the island. But you tell me there are twelve. And there are other major predators, as well. Like the rexes . . .”
“Yes. There are.”
“That’s too many,” she said, shaking her head.
“The animals are pretty dense here,” Malcolm said.
“Not dense enough,” she said. “In general, predator studies—whether tigers in India, or lions in Africa—all seem to show that you can support one predator for every two hundred prey animals. That means to support twenty-five predators here, you need at least five thousand prey on this island. Do you have anything like that?”