and then you know what to do. Get the hell out of there and meet me on the helipad.”
“Aye aye, sir!”
The captain ran up another stairway, taking the steps three at a time and looked left as he emerged on an open deck. What he was trying to see was not difficult to spot. It was hard to hide that sleek black 18-wheeler. Although they did try. A black mesh tarp was hung over it to keep prying eyes in the sky from looking down. Having the thing inside on the deck itself meant for the duration it had been closer than he wanted, really, but it was his duty to ensure the asset was delivered according to plan.
Dreadnoughtus schrani was a newly discovered reptile from the fossil record, but of course DeKirk wasn’t working with fossils. This was the real deal. A living, breathing dinosaur larger than a T. rex , larger than a brontosaurus, even. Even though it was a vegetarian, the thing was ridiculously huge, Whittaker thought, and he had been unable to keep from taking a glimpse or two inside during the trip. Just a few times, when Caesar went in to administer another round of tranqs…administered through a giant needle and a hose system.
Caesar was all set—prepped for his adrenaline-fueled mission to come. Malcolm on the other hand had the unenviable job of releasing the plague of zombies upon the Savannah populace.
“Let’s go, Malcolm!” the captain shouted as he ran to the end of the dreadnought deck toward the helipad, where the chopper now hovered just above the red-painted H in a circle on the elevated portion of deck. His crewman acknowledged with a raised hand as he ran from the great cargo doors after releasing the chain and lifting one side so it opened with an enormous clang.
Whittaker didn’t stick around to see what came out of there. He was being compensated well, and DeKirk was not the type to spare expenses or cut corners when it came to his enterprises, but this was no game, and nothing was worse than facing what was down there. He didn’t want to think about the population, and what was to come, but as it had been laid out to him, it was inevitable. He could either be on the right side of this changing world order, standing with the protected, the victors…or be one of them : the prey, the food, the dead…and the undead.
As the helicopter descended onto the landing pad, Whittaker thought of what would happen when this mission was over, as long as it was successful—and why shouldn’t it be with all of the extensive planning they’d done? He hoped he could get away from the mayhem and violence and rest somewhere away from it all. He didn’t need a private island or a mega-yacht or anything like that. Just a quiet little cottage on the rocky Scottish coast where he could live out his remaining years in rugged, rustic solitude, watching the sunset each night with a glass of fine whiskey. Dulling his senses, drowning out the screams and the nightmares that would surely haunt the rest of his days.
Whittaker reached a ladder that led up to the helipad and started to climb. The roar of the helicopter was deafening now, but also very comforting, for it signaled the end of his journey. It signaled success. He topped over the ladder and emerged onto the helipad. One of the two crew besides himself—his chief mechanic, whom he meant to take with him on the bird—was already on the landing pad, hunched over against the forceful rotor wash. He knew the pilot wouldn’t open the door without consulting the captain, so he gave the visual signal and the door was opened. The mechanic, a trusted DeKirk Enterprises employee for many years, jumped inside while the captain rounded the craft to get to the door. As he did so, he glanced off to his left, down to the deck to check on Malcolm.
This time, the sight was not nearly as encouraging. The captain shook his head in bewilderment. The 18-wheeler was revving its engine, but somehow Malcolm had gotten his foot tripped up in one of the chain links
“Aye aye, sir!”
The captain ran up another stairway, taking the steps three at a time and looked left as he emerged on an open deck. What he was trying to see was not difficult to spot. It was hard to hide that sleek black 18-wheeler. Although they did try. A black mesh tarp was hung over it to keep prying eyes in the sky from looking down. Having the thing inside on the deck itself meant for the duration it had been closer than he wanted, really, but it was his duty to ensure the asset was delivered according to plan.
Dreadnoughtus schrani was a newly discovered reptile from the fossil record, but of course DeKirk wasn’t working with fossils. This was the real deal. A living, breathing dinosaur larger than a T. rex , larger than a brontosaurus, even. Even though it was a vegetarian, the thing was ridiculously huge, Whittaker thought, and he had been unable to keep from taking a glimpse or two inside during the trip. Just a few times, when Caesar went in to administer another round of tranqs…administered through a giant needle and a hose system.
Caesar was all set—prepped for his adrenaline-fueled mission to come. Malcolm on the other hand had the unenviable job of releasing the plague of zombies upon the Savannah populace.
“Let’s go, Malcolm!” the captain shouted as he ran to the end of the dreadnought deck toward the helipad, where the chopper now hovered just above the red-painted H in a circle on the elevated portion of deck. His crewman acknowledged with a raised hand as he ran from the great cargo doors after releasing the chain and lifting one side so it opened with an enormous clang.
Whittaker didn’t stick around to see what came out of there. He was being compensated well, and DeKirk was not the type to spare expenses or cut corners when it came to his enterprises, but this was no game, and nothing was worse than facing what was down there. He didn’t want to think about the population, and what was to come, but as it had been laid out to him, it was inevitable. He could either be on the right side of this changing world order, standing with the protected, the victors…or be one of them : the prey, the food, the dead…and the undead.
As the helicopter descended onto the landing pad, Whittaker thought of what would happen when this mission was over, as long as it was successful—and why shouldn’t it be with all of the extensive planning they’d done? He hoped he could get away from the mayhem and violence and rest somewhere away from it all. He didn’t need a private island or a mega-yacht or anything like that. Just a quiet little cottage on the rocky Scottish coast where he could live out his remaining years in rugged, rustic solitude, watching the sunset each night with a glass of fine whiskey. Dulling his senses, drowning out the screams and the nightmares that would surely haunt the rest of his days.
Whittaker reached a ladder that led up to the helipad and started to climb. The roar of the helicopter was deafening now, but also very comforting, for it signaled the end of his journey. It signaled success. He topped over the ladder and emerged onto the helipad. One of the two crew besides himself—his chief mechanic, whom he meant to take with him on the bird—was already on the landing pad, hunched over against the forceful rotor wash. He knew the pilot wouldn’t open the door without consulting the captain, so he gave the visual signal and the door was opened. The mechanic, a trusted DeKirk Enterprises employee for many years, jumped inside while the captain rounded the craft to get to the door. As he did so, he glanced off to his left, down to the deck to check on Malcolm.
This time, the sight was not nearly as encouraging. The captain shook his head in bewilderment. The 18-wheeler was revving its engine, but somehow Malcolm had gotten his foot tripped up in one of the chain links
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