Island Rampage: A Dinosaur Thriller

by Alex Laybourne

  “Get us in the air. We are getting out of here,” Marcus added, his voice hurried.

  “You got it,” Godfrey replied, starting up the controls. The rotors whined into life, and with a slight shudder, as they hit high gear, they took to the skies and moved away.

  Godfrey took the chopper up and over the main island. As he did, he noticed the same orange glow on the side of the volcano. He stared at it for a while, turning his bird around to get a better look.

  “Hey, there are people down there,” he began.

  “They are as good as dead, now get us gone,” Amare snarled, leaning in close as if extra emphasis on his anger was needed.

  “But we can save them,” Godfrey began, but a knife appeared at his throat, cutting his words off.

  “We did not come here on a rescue mission. We came, we did our job, and now we leave. Fuck them.” It was the longest conversation the two men had ever had, and one Godfrey was keen never to repeat.

  “What’s that … holy shit,” Marcus began.

  The other two men turned their heads, just in time to make out the horrific sight descending on them, but with too little time to do anything about it.

  The first winged creature hit them from the side. Its large body, half the size of the helicopter, crushed the side of the chopper. The metal twisted and screamed as it buckled. The spinning rotors connected with flesh, slicing through it like an oversized buzz-saw

  The pteranodon’s body exploded with a wet splat, blood and gore gushing against the window, pouring from the gaping wounds clawed into the bird’s flank. The creature gave a cry and fell away, yanking the side plates with it.

  The chopper spun, the rotors damaged from the impact. Alarms and whistles screamed for attention in the cockpit, but Godfrey could do little to quiet them.

  Two more of the flying beasts hit them, one landing atop of spinning rotors. Its legs were chopped into mincemeat in seconds, sending a further shower of blood and bone into the night. The main rotor motor blew apart, igniting the blood and engulfing the helicopter before anybody could react.

  The second creature crashed into the side, moving in head first, its long head and tooth-laden beak filled the cabin. Snapping and shrieking, it grabbed at Marcus, severing his leg in a single bite. Blood fountained from the wound, leaving the butch man screaming like a young girl, blood squirting from his mangled stump of a limb, spraying him up like a victim in a cheap horror movie.

  Amare sat eerily calm as everything around him caught fire and died. He pulled out his hunting knife and stabbed at the creature, unleashing a frenzied attack, while never losing his calm and rational look.

  Trembling, Marcus reached into his jacket and pulled out a grenade; the last one he had. Pulling the pin, he held it ready in his hand. The creature swung its head, shaking the entire chopper. Amare was thrown back, his head hitting the twisted metal wall behind him.

  Snapping, the jaws closed around Marcus’s waist. His skin punctured and blood filled his mouth, spewing from his throat like coppery vomit. He cried out, in rage, in fear, and in sorrow.

  “Fuck you,” he spat, choking on his own blood as he released his grip on the grenade.

  There was a flash of light, and for a moment, the air was sucked from around them. The grenade went off and blew the rear of the helicopter apart. Flames ate the shrieking pteranodon, whose head had been all but blown apart by the blast. Blood and warm globs of semi-cooked meat flew in all direction. Marcus’s body tore open like a piece of over-ripe fruit. Thick, purple stands of intestine flew from the gaping hole in his gut, dancing on the force of the blast like hypnotised cobras.

  The burning shell of the helicopter spun and twisted in the air, careening into the ground with the top-mounted pteranodon fused to the still-spinning ruins of the main rotor.

  It crashed in a fireball of burning fuel and dinosaur flesh, lighting up the night like a second sun.

  “Now what?” Dennis asked, staring at the burning wreckage of the helicopter.

  “Well, I guess we only have one option,” Clarke answered, turning away from the two blazing infernos to look at the small orange spec, half buried behind the tress that marked the start of the horror-filled jungle.

  Chapter 19

  Johan moved through the large house like a ghost. He had sent his staff away. His mood was as dark as the storm sky that had overtaken the coast. Moving in from the sea, it swept over the horizon like a swarm.

  Thunder rumbled and lightning lit up the ocean. The windows in the house rattled, but the state-of-the-art building could withstand even the harshest of weather conditions.

  Johan had not heard from either Godfrey or Clarke. That concerned him and went some way to explaining his foul mood. Bad weather always made him temperamental, his mood reflecting the heavy atmosphere of the storm. Amare never checked in. Very much a man of his own devices, he had earned the ability to go off the grid. He would return when the job was done. Not before, and not too long after.

  Clarke and Godfrey were different. Johan trusted the two men as if they were his blood relatives. They knew to check in and keep him informed. Their silence, coupled with his growing sense of unease around what the Americans were up to on the island, sat in his gut like a plateful of three-day-old sushi.

  A bell sounded, echoing around the house like a shrill cry. Johan stopped his pacing, confused. Who would venture out into a storm, to visit him no less? His home was isolated, and nobody knew him. It meant that only one of a handful of people could be standing at the gate.

  Moving to the security room, he looked at the screens and saw a familiar face standing by the front gate. The rain pelted, looking like static on the high-definition camera feed.

  Johan paused for a moment, as an uneasy feeling formed in his gut. His hand moved to buzz the gates open, but took his time, wanting to make sure his uninvited guests got the full experience of being kept in the dark on how things were going to develop. It was a childish move, but even a man as rich as Johan could find fun in an innocent form of misery.

  “I did not expect to see you hear, Director,” Johan said as he opened the large heavy oak doors to his home.

  Director Werkhoven stood in a rain-soaked suit. He was alone, at least; anybody that had travelled with him was keeping their distance. Johan did not, for one moment, truly believe the director was alone.

  “Well, I heard that you had been looking for me. Besides, I think we need to talk,” Sikke answered.

  Suddenly, Johan understood why the director of the NSA was on his doorstep, alone. There was something in the man’s eyes that told Johan this visit was not going to be on the record as ever having happened. He buzzed open the gate and stood by the front door, waiting.

  “Come in,” he said, opening the door as Sikke climbed the front steps.

  “Thank you,” Sikke answered, crossing the threshold with his head lowered. “I could go for a drink.”

  “Of course, follow me.” Johan closed the door and led his guest through to the library. It was his favourite room in the house and also where he kept the really good whiskey.

  They sat in silence for close to thirty minutes, each man nursing a large scotch. The sound of the storm whipping around them added an unnecessary layer of drama to the scene.

  “I assume you did not just come here to drink my whiskey,” Johan said once it became apparent that Sikke had no impending plans on raising his voice.

  “The first thing you need to understand is that I am not here in an official capacity,” Sikke said, raising his head. It may have been the shadows of the room, of the battering storm he had braved outside, but the director looked much older than the last time they were together.

  His face was heavily lined with deep creases, and his eyes were surrounded by swollen bags of flesh. He looked like a man who had not slept in some time.

  “I understand. After all, technically speaking, this house does not exist, and you and I do not know each other,” Johan said, referring back to t
he basic terms of their relationship, mutually agreed upon by the pair so many years before.

  Sikke didn’t say anything, but gave a snorted laugh. He finished his whiskey in a single gulp and let out a sigh.

  “You have probably been wondering what has been going on out there, on the islands,” he spoke without raising his head.

  “Well, the thoughts had crossed my mind. Especially when my men started dying,” Johan answered, keeping his tone stern but bordering on disinterested. He knew the game well enough to know you never give away your hand so early.

  “When we first heard about the islands, you can guess the plans we had; the possibilities.”

  “I’ve seen enough movies to know what you were thinking.”

  “Well, a theme park was never part of the plans, but yes, you get what I am saying,” Sikke spoke, leaning into the tall-backed leather chair. “We gathered some of the finest scientific minds to those islands. We created a team of microbiologists, geneticists, and military engineers. Basically, a team with enough brain power to take over the world with the knowledge we had given them.”

  “You have lost contact with them,” Johan interrupted, unable to help himself.

  “We have not been able to make contact for about a week. We were aware of a storm that moved through the area, and since then, we have been unable to contact anybody on the island. We had a satellite focus on the area, and we have seen a lot of damage around the buildings,” Sikke spoke slowly, thinking about each and every word.

  “Do you think they were compromised? Knowledge of the islands was widespread, in certain circles,” Johan offered, standing to refill their glasses.

  “We don’t know. That is why I am here. I need to ask you something.” Sikke raised his head, his face set with a look of stern concentration.

  “You want to know if I have anything to do with the radio silence.” Johan could not help but give a derisive laugh.

  “Well, I know the company you keep, and how your business works. That is why I am here off the books. I am not here on government business. You and I go back a long way—”

  “Yes, we do,” Johan said gruffly.

  “We go way back, and in all of that time, I have never once asked you about your other business avenues. I have sat back and worked with you to combat a situation I know your company was responsible for in the first place. I know all about that thing in the Sudan, and many others like it,” Sikke said, his voice raised, but not in anger.

  “Maybe I underestimated you Americans.” It was all Johan could think to say. For years, he had assumed his paper trail was untraceable. He considered himself a ghost.

  “If you thought we would not do our homework about someone we allow to live in and profit from this country, then you were indeed wrong. Until now, we have had turned blind eyes to your dealings, because our relationship was mutually beneficial, even when you did not realize it. However, now you need to answer some very serious questions.” Sikke let the threat hang in the air. He did not try to hide it, nor to soften the blow. He was there on a private matter, a cordial visit, due after so many years of cooperation, but that did not change the seriousness of the occasion.

  With the tide of the meeting changed, Johan took his drink and emptied the glass in a single swallow.

  “What exactly are you accusing me of?” he asked, determined to hear the man say it.

  “I am not accusing you of anything. If I was, you would have a bigger problem than me drinking more of your scotch,” Sikke said. “I am here to ask you, man-to-man, if you have had anything to do with the radio silence coming from the island. Did you sell us out? Plant your own men there in order to give control to some other bidder?”

  With the questions asked, Johan felt a wave of relief wash over him. It was so great a feeling that he could not help but give a laugh.

  “You think it is funny?” Director Werkhoven asked, his voice beginning to show signs of his growing impatience.

  “No, no, Director, you misinterpret my response. I have no idea what has happened on the island. As it would happen, I too was concerned about the silence coming from that port, and sent some of my best men, my own bodyguard included, back to the island just a few days ago in order to find out what has happened there,” Johan answered, studying the director’s face.

  The hardened gaze softened, a look of puzzlement and then intrigue appeared on his features.

  “What did you find out?” he asked with genuine interest.

  “That is the worrying thing. I have received no word from my men since they left the boat, and as you well know, we cannot send the boat any closer to the island given the rather territorial nature of the creatures that occupy the coastline.” Johan sat.

  The two men stared at each other in silence, both trying to make sense of what events were transpiring on the island.

  “Do you think the island could have been infiltrated?” Sikke asked, his tone dropped down to that of a casual chat.

  “Not with my men around. They would have given word, a simple signal at the very least,” Johan answered with unshakable certainty. “No, my fear is that whatever has happened, is the result of what was already on the island when we arrived.”

  Silence fell again in the room, as around them, the howl of the wind echoed like a laugh. The hidden face of Mother Nature was mocking them.

  “The storm must have damaged the power source to the fence. The dinosaurs could have infiltrated the outer compound. The structure was reinforced, but the bulk of work was concentrated on the perimeter,” Johan spoke, running through possible scenarios.

  “Well, if we have not heard back from your men by morning, I will order a search-and-rescue mission. We have a fleet stationed nearby, close enough to reach within a day or so,” Sikke said, passing the empty glass from one hand to another.

  “Are they any good?” Johan asked.

  “Good enough even to work for you,” Sikke replied with a smile. “Come morning, we will know.”

  “Why Director, are you saying we are having a, what do you call it, a slumber party?” Johan asked, rising from the chair once more.

  “Well, there does seem to be an awful lot of scotch back there,” Sikke answered, rising from his seat to take a closer look at the impressive library.

  Chapter 20

  The night proved to be a long and torturous experience. Once Clarke and Dennis had moved away from the edges of the former compound, and the glow cast by the trio of infernos had faded, they found the night to be a near impenetrable shade of black.

  The majority of their equipment was either lost or damaged, and so they made the decision to seek shelter, and set a watch, or rather, a listen.

  They found shelter up a large tree, with low-hanging branches that made for an easy climb. Clarke had a flashlight that allowed them to find their way to what they both felt was a decent height.

  After both men strapped themselves against the trunk of the tree, using the webbing from their packs, and a number of vines, which wrapped their way around the tree like varicose veins, they agreed upon the watch. Clarke went first, and within minutes, he heard Dennis snoring.

  The night stretched on into what felt like eternity, the sun resisting the urge to rise until the last possible moment. Through it, Clarke sat in silence. He listened as the jungle swarmed around him in an endless array of crashes and grunts. Several times, their tree shook as something moved either through the upper branches or crashed against the trunk below.

  While his eyes adjusted to the dark, they never moved beyond the ability to discern the different shares of darkness that surrounded them. Clarke could no soon identify the different beasts that moved by than he could recite the words to the Estonian national anthem.

  When daylight finally came, it moved in swiftly, illuminating the jungle to the point of a murky dawn. The thick canopy of trees above their heads blocked almost all direct sunlight, but allowed enough through for them to see by.

  The first thing Clarke n
oticed were the deep grooves in the ground around the base of the tree. Long, deep, trench-like gouges had been cut into the moist earth.

  The signs of a struggle were confirmed by the now tacky blood smeared over the trunk of nearby trees.

  “I guess we head up the side of the volcano,” Dennis said, once both men were out of the tree once more.

  “Looks that way. These folks survived. It was a compound full of men like us and scientists. That’s a winning combination if ever I heard one,” Clarke said, dropping to his knees as he looked around, surveying the dense vegetation.

  “If there is anybody left,” Dennis added matter-of-factly.

  “Well, I doubt these lizard bastards made a fire last night to keep themselves warm,” Clarke snapped in response. “No, let’s get moving. We are not alone here, and I don’t want to meet whatever it is that is watching us.”

  As the two men moved through the jungle, the concept that they were being watched only increased, growing on Clarke like a tumour. The soft ground made for heavy walking, but the rest had done both men well, even if they had been tied to a tree branch.

  They came across several other creatures as they moved, but very few paid them any mind. Those that did scurried away at the first sight of movement from the pair.

  The dinosaurs ranged from creatures that looked like a scaled down model of a pig, their bodies jet black, their tusks curled to the point of being useless in a fight.

  They grunted incessantly, snuffling along with their noses buried in the ground, stopping every now and then when they found a trace of whatever it was they were looking for.

  Twice, they came across such creatures, and each time, there were three of them in the group. Clarke noted it in his brain should anything happen, but the creatures had not once acknowledged their presence let alone shown any signs of aggression.

  As they drew closer to the volcano, the ground beneath their feet changed. The mud hardened and turned stony. Tree roots rose from the ground, trip hazards just waiting to fell any beast that came by.