fell into the muldoon's logs rabbit hole and guys. guys. i really will ship anything because why the fuck am i all for shipping robbie and muldoon when this is supposed to be a horror webseries. and now i'm thinking of a movie/book mix au where robbie is part of the movie group and ian is just like 'yeah that's totally just your friend. totally 🤨'
I don't move a muscle. I don't even breathe. We wait, me with my heart beating in my throat, cowering behind him, he the very picture of composure as he holds his gun in position and scans the brush for movement. He looks very much in his habitat, so that I might have admired him if my heart wasn't pounding so violently that it seemed to shake my whole body with each jarring thump. My ears strain to hear anything over the pattering of raindrops against the broad leaves of the tropical foliage.
A shriek cuts through the air, and we both jump. A bird bursts out of the trees, still shrieking as it flies away with a rowdy flap of its wings. Muldoon lowers his gun and laughs, while I drop to my knees, feeling as though I might be sick.
"All right, up you get," he says, as he offers his broad hand to me again and I accept it gratefully. He tugs me back to my feet. "Not taking kindly to the park's night life, are we?"
"Not taking kindly to dinosaurs in general," I groan, and then flinch at the sound of a low bellow in the distance.
"Dinner time." Muldoon sounds amused. His boots squelch in the mud as he heads to the Jeep again and I eye them enviously as I follow, my own sneakers soaked through from the rain. I no longer have the urge to run. With the odd paranoid feeling I keep having, of being stalked by something lurking out there in the grass, I suddenly don't mind so much being in the custody of someone who has a gun.
He opens the door to the Jeep and I eye the seat dubiously, very aware that wherever he's taking me, there's no going back. My research is done, and so might be my life outside a cell. But I can feel Muldoon's eyes on my back, and I have the unpleasant feeling that he won't take kindly to another attempt at escape. So I climb into the Jeep, feeling nauseous and cold with dread, and wait for him to enter on the other side.
The game warden doesn't join me immediately. Instead he stands for a moment, scanning the jungle trees once more.
I can't help but lean against the window, peering into the night as well. I hate this feeling. I know the dinosaurs are securely contained. I know that. But still, nothing feels right about this place. Why do I keep feeling like I'm being watched? Why does the game warden carry a gun and scan the trees so carefully when we're far from the paddocks? Surely he's not afraid of howler monkeys when he's visiting 10-ton reptilian monstrosities as his day job. I've only been here for half a week, but some of the things I've been seeing just aren't adding up and it's making me more and more uneasy.
The driver's side door opens and I jump with fright.
"Just me." Muldoon grins as he climbs into the Jeep and shuts the door, still holding my things. I reach out for them expectantly but he gives me a look and tosses them into the back seat instead. "So, the paleontology student isn't so fond of the dinosaurs. It's a lot more intimidating to see them in the flesh, I'll grant you that. Most of our scientists prefer to stay in the safety of the control room and observe them from a screen."
"I-I'm not a paleontology student," I correct him as he turns the keys in the ignition. "I'm studying linguistics and communication."
"You what?" He's frowning at me. "What, you came here to learn to speak dinosaur? Unravel the intricacies of the Tyrannosaur's grammar system?"
I give a shaky giggle at that. "Raptors, actually."
The Jeep Wrangler is slowly rumbling down the muddy road now, and I gaze out the window at the passing trees, their branches whipping in the wind, battered by torrents of rain.
"So, what have you learned?"
I'm caught off guard. "You wanna know? Can I grab my bag so I can show you my notes?"
"No."
"Oh. Um, okay. Well, there are a lot of similarities to present-day communication patterns in animals, like how cats twitch their tails when they're irritated, velociraptors do the same thing which is kind of cute."
Muldoon scoffs at this, but I keep going. "And they do the same thing the Tyrannosaur does, where they tilt their chin up when they're sizing up prey rather than a threat. They're trying to get a better sniff of it. I haven't seen that as much with modern animals since their noses are already either smaller or more front-facing."
He looks more interested now. Encouraged, I keep going. "So I was looking at their different vocalization patterns, and you can start to distinguish their pack calls by pitch and duration to know whether they're expressing contentment, irritation, summoning each other versus just checking on each other, intimidation versus mating behaviors."
"Mating behaviors? They're all female."
"Oh. All of them?" I feel a bit deflated. "Some of their behaviors looked really similar to reproductive behaviors in birds, but I guess I'll have to study it more and reevaluate the causes- oh." I stop short, embarrassed. Of course I won't be getting any more stealth observation sessions after this.
"Anyway, I found that they have a unique chuffing sound that they use only for intraspecies communication, whereas their hisses or shrieks can be used towards other species as well if they want to intimidate rather than hunt them. But I wanted to check out the other raptor paddock to compare and see whether it was a habit specific to that pack, or if it applied to the rest of the species as well. But I never got a chance to find the other raptor paddock."
"There's only one raptor paddock," Muldoon corrects.
I frown. "That's weird."
"Why do you say that?"
"So, the biggest velociraptor. She acts like a pack leader, right?"
"Well spotted. I call her the Big One. Fiercely intelligent, that one."
"Exactly. Okay, so, the 'Big One', she gives subtle commands with body language cues like head-bobbing, tail movement, the smallest of gestures. And she also vocalizes to the other raptors, with that chuffing noise they make, when she's calling them, summoning them, checking in."
Muldoon nods, and looks a little impressed. "You've got a good eye. She's quieter than the other ones, but she is definitely calling the shots. The others are less subtle, more bird-like in their behavior, and their reactions are bigger."
"Yeah! They are a little more reactive, right? So, they see something out there they don't like, they hiss and posture."
"Or they screech. They like to hold your attention so the others can creep up from behind. It's a classic ambush strategy. That's why I tell the others, 'never turn your back to a predator.' You can't let your focus on one of them distract you from the fact that there are others, watching very closely for an opportunity."
I shiver. "They are… really terrifying."
"If it were up to me, we'd destroy every last one of them." Muldoon's voice is grim. "They are dangerous, but what's worse, their intelligence is vastly underestimated. They are quick, clever, calculating. They remember things. And when a highly intelligent predator is held in captivity, by people who cannot comprehend what it is capable of, it can only be a recipe for disaster."
With this sickening thought hanging over us, we ride in silence for a while. Then I remember I haven't answered his question from before. "Oh, but I was saying, I noticed something weird at night. The Big One, I saw her approach the northeast fence of the paddock and stop. I thought it was odd at first because she usually doesn't test the fence like the others do. But then, she didn't test the fence. She started calling, the way she calls the other raptors, with that chuffing noise they make. But here's the really weird thing: the other raptors were already all within roughly a 20-meter radius. She's facing the fence, her back to them, her posture relaxed, stretching upward on her toes, head cocked slightly backward, bobbing up and down as she calls at a slower, slightly lower frequency. All consistent with past patterns of communication to members of her pack from a distance of 50 meters or more. That's why I assumed there was a second raptor paddock."
"I think I know what you're referring to. The first time I saw it, it shocked me. It looks like she's communicating with something outside the enclosure, but there are no raptors other than the ones in that paddock."
Damn. That's 0 for 2, I guess. I turn this new information over in my head for a while, then I ask, "So, what is she communicating with?"
Muldoon doesn't respond, keeping his eyes fixed on the road.
cw: gore, mauling, graphic depiction of a velociraptor acting according to its nature
I drum my fingers against my thighs, absentmindedly tapping out the tune to Paula Abdul’s Straight Up. I detest this song, and yet it seems to frequently come unbidden to my fingertips when I’m nervous, God knows why. Tap, tap, tap. I feel restless, wondering what’s going on back in the park. From where I’m sitting, the ocean is stunning, all glittering turquoise cascading into white foam as it meets the rocky shoreline, and yet I barely even see it. Instead, my eyes keep wandering back to the treeline as I worry about Robert and the dinosaurs. Tap, tap, tap.
How the hell did a raptor get loose?
That’s the question my brain is stuck on, when it isn’t conjuring gory images of the raptor finding some unsuspecting victim and eviscerating them. I’ve seen the paddock several times, and it’s surrounded by electrical fencing alongside the thick, steel pen. This place was designed by people who should know more than anyone else in the world about dinosaur containment, and now somehow one of them is freely wandering about in broad daylight? Suddenly, all of my assumptions about the park management’s competence are out the window. How could this have happened? This should not have happened. How could anyone with half a brain create a situation where this could be allowed to happen? My fingers are drumming faster and faster as my thoughts run themselves around in circles.
My disgruntled internal dialogue is interrupted by a rustling in the leaves. The sound makes me jump, my nervous system already on high alert.
Just a bird, just a bird, I’m repeating to myself as I peer through the thickly growing jungle foliage. And then I see a long, skinny, lime green tail. Okayy, not a bird.
Another creature darts through the grass, and I exhale. Procompsognathids. What does Robert call them again? Compsies? As I frown, trying to remember, a third one pops into view and they run off, disappearing into the ferns.
Right. ‘Compys.’ But what are they all doing over here? Hesitating, I slowly rise to my feet and step into the undergrowth, following them. I need a distraction.
They disappear quickly, their tiny yet nimble feet carrying them swiftly through the thick vegetation to be instantly concealed among the tall grass and broad, waxy monstera leaves. However, it’s not difficult to find where they’re going; three more compys zip after them in quick succession, rendering me even more curious about what could be attracting this tiny parade of scavengers, and I quickly follow.
I feel like a clumsy giant crashing loudly through the backwoods, in sharp juxtaposition to the diminutive theropods who move silently and gracefully like little prehistoric sprites. Where the tropical flora seems to move aside for them like a curtain, it drags against me in constant friction, tripping my feet, catching my hair, and scratching my skin. I’m picking a twig out of my hair and spitting out grass seeds when I stumble upon the compys’ treasure. Bile rises sharply in my throat as I take in the scene before me.
The poor thing.
It looks like the capture team didn’t get to the Othnielia in time after all, and something else did. Her mangled carcass lays torn open on the ground, flies swarming about her remains, the delighted compys tearing away chunks of her bright pink flesh and feasting on it like eager picnickers pulling apart a crusty baguette. Her small, yellow eyes are open, unseeing, her neck hanging on by a thin string of ligament to the rest of her body.
This was not merely the work of the compys. That much is evident even to me, and I don’t by any means claim to be an expert on any of these creatures. But even if I didn’t know the Procompsognathids to be scavengers, there’s just no way they would have done this kind of damage to a larger creature. The neck of the Othnielia is thicker than the circumference of the largest Procompsognathus here, and I only see about eight of them in the clearing. I followed six of them here, and there’s no way the two others brought down this animal on their own and had the strength to rip its neck off like that.
I begin to feel prickles of unease as the realization ripples over me. Something else was here first. But what animal would kill its prey then simply wander off without devouring it nor caching it away to keep it hidden from scavengers?
Maybe it wasn’t a predator, though. Could there have been a violently territorial howler monkey, or even another Othnielia, who saw this one as a rival? Maybe this one just lost the fight and then was discovered by the compys. I take in a shaky breath. No need for me to jump to any scary conclusions. I need to keep my head cool if I’m going to make it off this island.
And then I hear the screaming.
My entire nervous system is lighting up like an overfunded firework display. Shit. Fuck. What the fuck was that? Where did it come from? Do I run away or run toward them?
For a moment I’m frozen on the spot, caught in fear and indecision. But then I decide that standing still is the worst of the three options, and after another moment’s hesitation, decide to run toward it. Better knowing than not, I guess. Sure hope I don’t die.
As I get closer to the screams, I’m already reconsidering my options. They’re dying off now, which I’m not sure is a good thing. I slow down, moving more quietly now, my skin cold and numb to the scratches of the branches which slap at my stinging body wherever I step. I’m looking in every direction, scanning for danger, but my nerves are so keyed up that my eyes could go right over a threat without seeing it. Every single moving leaf looks like danger, my body locked into the prey state. My ears are pricked, listening for every sound. Even moving with the utmost caution, to my ears my careful steps in the grass sound like a drunken elephant stumbling through thickets of dry leaves and potato chips. I’m itching all over with hypersensitivity and dread.
And then my ears pick up on another sound that halts me altogether. It’s quiet, but it definitely sounded like… God, I hope it wasn’t. But I hear it again, and it’s faint, but it unmistakably sounds like the chuffing bark of a Velociraptor calling to its pack. Oh, god. I choke back a sob, pressing my hand over my mouth to quiet myself. I’m going to be sick.
The wind picks up, the branches around me gently swaying, and the fat, waxy, dark green leaves before me move lazily aside, revealing a terrible sight in the clearing below.
A massive Velociraptor hunched over a kill, her huge tail waving in the air like a pleased pup, her great maw glistening with red. And at her feet, crumpled and bleeding, a man.
My body is immobile, waxy and cold and numb, like I’m a candle that’s melted down and fused to its holder. I’m not even sure I’m conscious, unable to think, unable to breathe, unseeing, unfeeling. My only awareness is of sound. The buzzing of flies, the rustling of leaves, the wet smack of flesh being ripped away and swallowed, the whine of a mosquito that lands on my neck and bites me when I don’t move to swat it away. My legs are starting to tremble from being frozen in place for so long, but I force them to be still.
There is no escape.
If I run, it will hear me and be on me in seconds. If I remain still, it will look up and see me and be on me in seconds. Whether it is this moment or the next, my imminent death is as fact to me as my own name.
And then, the man on the ground moves. At first I think it’s only the work of the Velociraptor’s enthusiastic jaws tearing away at his body, when his head flops over to the side, his eyes wide and staring. But they lock onto me. Desperate and afraid and in agony. And his mouth opens. I can’t make out what he’s trying to say, his voice choked and gurgling. I only stare back at him, frozen in horror. Then his mouth makes the same shape again, and I realize what he’s trying to say.
RUN.
My whole body agrees with the command, my heart thumping, my muscles tensing for action, adrenaline surging through me, but still I don’t move. My brain will not make the call. I don’t know whether it’s fear that the raptor will hear me and take chase, or that I’ve made eye contact with this man and if I leave him he will certainly die. But regardless, my feet are rooted to the spot.
I can’t leave.
And I can feel the dread and bile rising in my throat now, overcome by nausea and sheer apprehension as I have the sudden sense that I’m about to try something very, very stupid.
There’s a rock on the ground in front of me, about as large as a softball. If I’m very fast-
I take a step forward, ignoring every bit of good sense in me which is screaming at me to not do this foolish thing. But I just can’t do nothing.
I take another step forward. I feel oddly detached from my body, like I’m hovering just above it, forcing it to move but unable to climb back inside. And then something grabs me, snatching me hard by the back of my shirt and yanking me backward. I gasp, but a hand claps over my mouth.
Someone is clutching me tightly from behind, his arm wrapped around my waist, his other hand clamped firmly over my mouth, so that my back is flush against him, his breath hot on my head, as we hide behind a tree. I struggle to pull away, but his grip only tightens around me.
And then I hear the familiar pop of a tranquilizer gun, and a furious hiss, and I go still, the fear thick in my throat. There’s a thud, and then a crunching of grass, and then a man’s voice says “Arnold, target acquired.” Only then do I breathe.
The relief is sharp and overwhelming, and suddenly my whole body begins trembling violently like it knows it’s finally safe to do so. My breath comes in a shuddering sob.
“It’s alright,” he breathes in my ear, and finally my panicked reptile brain calms down enough to recognize that it’s Robert Muldoon who is holding me, who grabbed me and pulled me behind a tree before I did something incredibly brainless like hurl a rock at a six-foot carnivorous theropod.
I should thank him, but I’m still trembling and weak and can't seem to form words. And anyway his hand is still covering my mouth. In the end, all that comes out is a small, pitiful whine. Robert removes his hand from my mouth, but still holds me tightly to him.
“Easy. Just breathe.” I can feel the vibrations in his chest as he speaks, his voice low and soft. “I’ve got you.”
My legs are wobbling under me and I have the sense that if he released me now, I’d collapse onto the ground. He doesn’t. I don’t know how long we stay like that, hiding and listening to the sounds of the capture team talking around the raptor, but eventually Muldoon’s radio crackles and someone’s tinny voice is saying “Muldoon, we got her. Where are you?”
The hike back through the paddock was awful. We made it to the Jeep, though, and then it was a surprisingly short trip to the barracks.
Robert didn’t say a word for the entire drive. He just gripped the steering wheel hard, his eyebrows knitted in a frown. When we arrive, though, he’s around the Jeep and at my side in an instant, helping me down. He lets me cling to his arm, supporting my weight when I’m too weak to walk up the steps on my own.
When we get to his quarters, he fills the bathtub with cool water and helps me climb in, fully clothed. According to him, submersion in cool water is the best way to bring down my body temperature and prevent heat stroke.
I’m left to sit in the cold water while he leaves to grab a thermometer from his first aid kit. I guess he keeps one here as well. I wonder whether that’s park policy, or whether he just likes to be prepared.
“I knew I had one in here,” he says as he comes back. “Open up.”
I open my mouth obediently, and he puts the thermometer in my mouth.
“You already look a lot better, so I’m not as worried, but we want to monitor your temperature all the same. If it exceeds 104 degrees, that would be a major warning sign that heat stroke has set in and I’d want to get you to some proper medical attention.” The thermometer beeps, and he takes it out of my mouth to look at it. “101.3 degrees. That’s not so bad. I think it’s safe to assume this is just a bad case of heat exhaustion. How are you feeling?”
“My head hurts.”
Robert hums sympathetically. “You’re dehydrated. I’ll check the first aid kit; I’m fairly certain I have some painkillers in there. I’d like to get you something better to drink, too, something with electrolytes instead of just water. Are you experiencing any other symptoms? Nausea? Dizziness? Do you feel like you might faint again?”
I shake my head. “Just tired.”
He takes my hand and I stiffen. Brushing his fingers lightly against my wrist, Robert catches my expression and smiles. “Just checking your pulse again. It’s much stronger now, which is a relief. I still want to keep an eye on you, but as long as you keep improving in the next hour, I don’t think there’s any need to take you in for emergency medical attention.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. I’m fairly sure that seeing a medic would involve some uncomfortable questions about who I am and what I’m doing here, and Robert and I never actually discussed what would happen if we were caught while I was helping him. Huh. Maybe I should bring that up. I’m about to ask, when my stomach gurgles loudly. Mortified, I press my hands over my belly, trying to muffle the sound. “Sorry,” I mumble, my cheeks warm.
“Laura.” Robert frowns at me. “When was the last time you ate?”
“Um, around 4 a.m.?”
“Christ, I’m an idiot.” Robert runs his hand over his face. He steps out of the bathroom, muttering something about “fucking Balance bars”, and comes back with his canteen and a small, square packet. “I’m going to the cafeteria to get you something to eat. Stay here, take these and keep drinking water. I’ll be right back.” He presses his canteen and the packet into my hands. “Keep drinking the water,” he says again, more sternly, then leaves, shutting the door behind him.
I tear open the small packet, which turns out to be aspirin, and swallow the two pills with a long drink from the canteen. Then I sigh, sinking down into the cool water. This is the closest thing I’ve had to a bath in days, and I’m shivering, but savoring every bit of it. My whole body is aching with fatigue, but I slowly peel off my soaking clothes, piece by piece. After five days of this island’s humidity (and not to mention dirt), I feel positively grimy. In fact, I decide, I think I’ll borrow some of Robert’s soap. Surely the game warden won’t mind. Although he’s been polite enough not to mention my state of filth so far, I’m probably smelling pretty funky by now.
I lather up and scrub myself clean until I’m glowing. Then I sink back down into the tub, even more exhausted than before, but feeling the best I’ve felt in a week.
…
I must have dozed off at some point, because I jerk awake, freezing cold and momentarily very confused about what I’m doing in a cold bath smelling of men’s soap. Then I hear the front door click, and it all comes roaring back. Shit! Robert is back and I am naked in his tub. Double shit! I scramble for my shirt, but it’s too late and I just have time to clutch it against my chest as the bathroom door swings open.
“I brought you a change of-” the words die on Robert’s lips. He’s frozen, his eyes on me, one hand on the bathroom door, the other clutching a bundle of clothes. As we stare at each other, both of us utterly immobile, the clothes slip uselessly from his fingers and onto the floor. Slowly, his eyes tear themselves away from me to fall upon the clothes he dropped, and the spell is broken.
“Uh,” I find my voice. “Would you mind-”
“Right, of course! Forgive me, I didn’t know you’d be- er, anyway, I’ll give you some privacy.”
When the door shuts again, I bury my face in my soaked shirt and let out a muffled half-scream. Oh. My. God. I want to die. I want to pull the plug and be sucked right down the drain with the bathwater. I stare at the suds, trying to work out exactly how much coverage I had when he came in. How much did he see? I run my hands through my damp hair, groaning.
