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Anne's Story
Chapter 1, In the beginning...
I used to hate flying. How Marquez ever convinced me to go for a short flight I'll never understand. But there I was, heaving my lunch into the small cramped toilet on a small plane flying over a big ocean in a terrible hurricane. Ok, maybe it was a small squall, but the effect was the same on me. I was on vacation in Costa Rica and sick as a dog from the turbulence on this short flight. Being sick as a dog was the last thing I could remember before waking up on the beach. I thought "It was just a bad dream, what a relief!" I looked around. Nearby was the tail section of a plane, probably my plane. Floating in the surf was a large piece of wood. I entered the blue crystal-clear water to check it out. My neck and back hurt but the water was warm and felt good on my body. The piece of wood turned out to be part of an airplane restroom door, also probably from my plane. My dream had just turned into a nightmare. I didn't hate flying anymore, my feelings had gone way beyond hate. If Orville Wright wasn't already dead, he would have been when I got through with him...his brother too.
Upset and still dazed I tried to look around. Turning my head from side to side was painful and while looking up was no problem, I couldn't see below my breasts. (No, dear reader, they aren't that big.) I tried to move my left arm but it hung there limply ignoring my demands and pleas to move. Bending at the waist was impossible but my legs worked and I had no problem squatting down or jumping. My right arm seemed to be in good shape, but try as I might I couldn't make a rock skip on the water. Loss of dexterity is a sign of nerve damage and I knew I must have had some neck and back damage from the crash. I was getting worried but I was glad to be alive.
The storm was gone and it was morning, so it had to be the day after our flight. A search crew should have found me by now if they were ever going to. I thought about swimming back to America, but decided that maybe a one-armed woman wouldn't have much luck. Heading inland was my only hope. There had to be someone else on this island, hopefully with a phone, or maybe a radio.
Exploring the immediate area I found that I was unable to climb a few hills that would be no problem for a person with two arms. I was annoyed. I just knew that when I told my lawyer about this non-handicap accessible beach he was going to have a field day suing people. I followed the only path available to me in my current condition - I walked up the beach swishing through the plants, crunching the sand, and throwing rocks. I might have enjoyed this pleasant secluded beach if not for the way I arrived.
Just beyond the beach was a junkyard-like area with wooden crates, large concrete blocks, paint cans and other junk. At first my heart jumped, I had already found signs of civilization! Then it sank like as stone as I realized that the area appeared to have been deserted for years. I looked around for any clue as to where I was but found nothing except some strange octagonal barrels and broken lights. Who would make an octagonal barrel and why? The lights were like stage lights, but there were no power outlets for them. Worst of all there was no god-damn phone!
There didn't appear to be anything of use here and I even climbed (mostly by jumping) on top of one of the concrete blocks to get a better view. The view was great, if I wanted to see ocean which I didn't. Inland I couldn't see anything but hills and trees. If I had had some matches or a lighter I could have started a signal fire but I didn't, and there weren't any around. The only thing that looked even remotely like civilization was a dirt road heading inland. Since I couldn't swim that road was my best bet.
The road went up to a wooden fence with a gate. A gentle push sent the whole gate falling inward with a loud crash. The hinges had rusted completely away over the years - not a good sign. The road continued beyond the fence to another fence about 50 yards away and in the distance I thought I could make out a billboard. Both were good signs to me and I started hurrying towards them when I noticed the glint of metal on a crate nearby.
The crate was near some more junk, similar to the junkyard beyond the fence and I would have ignored it except for what I saw on the crate. There, sitting on the crate, were three pistols and a shotgun. I was ecstatic! I was a crack shot - my father was a gun nut and took me to the shooting range whenever he could. There aren't many guns I can't shoot, but I hadn't held one in years. After carefully checking the guns I took a few practice shots at some of the junk in the area. I was still a crack shot, and the flecks of rust here and there on the guns hadn't hurt them. If I was stuck on this island I could at least shoot something for food.
It was hard to believe anyone would just leave several fully loaded guns lying around and it occurred to me that this junkyard was set up like a shooting range. Where there's a shooting range there must be people. It then occurred to me that maybe these people who are around wouldn't be entirely happy to see me, or worse, they might be just a little too happy to see me. I grabbed a couple of pistols for protection. A one-armed lady needs all the protection she can carry. The shotgun and third pistol I hid nearby just in case I had to come back for them. I would have also taken them but just getting one pistol to stay put half-shoved into my shorts was difficult. Trying to put the other pistol there, and carry the shotgun by its strap would have been impossible. As it was these two pistols seemed a lot heavier than I remembered - I had probably lost some strength due to the crash. This convinced me that I had some serious injuries from that plane crash. I was going to have my lawyer sue Costa Rica Airlines back into the stone-age when I got out of here.
I followed the road to the second fence and pushed on the gate. It was rusted shut. I briefly considered using a couple of crates nearby to climb over the fence before coming to my senses. A shotgun blast to the gate opened it quite nicely with very little work on my part. Beyond the gate I could see the road continued. Off to one side of the road was a burned out truck, and to the other side, farther up the road was a sign. The sign was obscured by a tree and I was nearly underneath it before I could easily read it. It wasn't just any sign, nor was it a nice friendly sign like "McDonald's next exit", no it was this sign:
Today was just getting better and better. First I crashed and nearly broke my neck, then I'm left on some godforsaken beach and now, NOW I was going to be dinosaur food. Life just isn't fair sometimes. I remembered the tales of Jurassic Park from the tabloids and Hammond's book about it. I thought it was all a hoax. Now I was on Site B, the place Hammond had declared was his breeding ground for the dinosaurs. No episode of the Twilight Zone would ever top this day. The world might be conspiring against me but no smart aleck spitters or sneaky raptors were going to be french-kissing this one-armed, two-pistoled lady!
The whole island suddenly took on a sinister hue. Hammond had said that the dinosaurs couldn't survive without a certain drug, I hoped he was right but I didn't have much choice. This island was probably deserted and my only chance of being rescued lied within. I had to hope that there was a working radio or phone somewhere on this island. The alternatives were not pleasant - I'm no Anne Crusoe and I really didn't want to be an appetizer for some dinosaur.
The burned out truck nearby was exactly that. If it once had a radio it was long gone. So much for getting lucky. It was almost noon so I headed inland faster, keeping an eye out for anything suspicious. I had a choice to make - follow the road, or wander off into the forested hills. The choice was pretty easy, I took the road. It sloped upward and I was soon above the hills off to my left. I could see the remains of a truck that had apparently gone off the road. A rifle was lying in the bed of the truck but I knew I couldn't carry it if I wanted to be off this island before nightfall.
A pile of crates marked where the truck had probably gone off the road. The road appeared to have been eroded away by rains leaving a wide, deep ditch. That wouldn't have been much of a problem if I had two good arms but with one arm it was as bad as the Grand Canyon. I had seen a log earlier, but that would probably have been too heavy to drag over here and I was in a hurry.
The crates were empty and made a loud crashing sound as they fell into the ditch. One little push and Voila, instant bridge. I gingerly stepped across the crates, fearful that they might crack open under my weight. They were still quite sturdy, however, and I made it across without a problem.
Hurrying along the road I came to another ditch, even worse than the last one. Suddenly the ground shook beneath me. Too close to the edge of the road and unwilling to let go of my gun I fell down into the valley next to the road. I groaned as I slid to a painful stop. I had thought I couldn't feel any worse, I was wrong. I got angry then, I mean, just how many disasters should one person have to go through in a day. Now I had to deal with earthquakes.
I got up, spitting mad and cursing, stomping, yelling and just throwing an awful fit when a second earthquake hit. I was ready this time and managed to stay on my feet. I searched around to find the pistol I had dropped sliding down the valley wall. I found it lying next to some strange moss-covered tree trunk. An awful stench filled the air. It was like a few dozen elephants had just walked through town and left a mountain of droppings behind them. Only it was worse, much worse.
As I picked up the pistol the tree uprooted itself. Amazed, dumbfounded, and frightened out of my wits, I watched as it rose into the air, above my head. It came crashing down a few yards away. The ground shook and I fell to my knees. Not ten feet away from me was the biggest monster on the planet. Several minutes passed before I regained my senses. I stood up, unsteady on my feet, and watched the brachiosaur eat the leaves from a tree whose top I couldn't even see. Nearby was another brachiosaur.
The tales were all true. Hammond had done it, he had actually created dinosaurs.
Last updated Sunday, April 22, 2001 12:27 AM