Although Dr. Wu’s obsequious mien was balming, Donald was still uneasy. He smoothed over the creases in the collar of his outrageously gaudy top—it was splashed with orchids and a myriad of other colorful flowers, a trope that most middle-aged men on vacation in romantic comedy films wore. Despite his comedic sense of fashion, he was still dashing enough to earn glimpses from some of the female security responders. “Mr. Churches?” Dr. Wu extended his hand; Donald accepted, reciprocating with a firm shake. He wondered why a man would fathom wearing a wool-knit turtle neck in record-breaking heat but the thought was fleeting as he was addressed by a stranger.
“Excuse me?” His throat was dry. He was still trying to subdue the stabbing sensation behind his eyes, likely a symptom from his binge drinking the prior night. “Who are you? Listen, lady. The only person that needs to be embarrassed for me is me and my poor mother. Thanks.” Dr. Wu, again, watched on in mild bewilderment. He closed the space between them, purposely blocking Donald’s view to capture his attention.
“I would like to speak to you in private, Mr. Churches. I assure you this is a matter of the utmost importance. In addition, I am awaiting another who has been summoned.”
“Summoned? I’m sorry, doc, but you hired one of the most vicious animals on this side of the world to assault me, abduct me, then literally drag me to here—wherever here is. I hardly consider that as ‘summoning’. ‘Summoning’ is for fucking … MMOs and Dungeons and Dragons campaigns, pardon my French. Furthermore, Samosa is a monster. Are you comfortable having a mercenary of her calibre working for you?”
The doctor gave the security line a once over and smiled. “Very much so. Ms. Mamba-Zayer has an impressive repertoire; her field experience is unprecedented, as is yours, Mr. Churches, which is why I have summoned you here. I’m assembling a genetics team. A field genetics team.” He clasped Donald on his back; he flinched, glimpsing over his shoulder at the fair-skinned intruder toting two, likely poisonous, serpents.
“See, I’m worried about things like that. Random women carrying around snakes, as if dinosaurs weren’t bad enough. You guys should run with a Kill Bill theme here in the security office.” Although humored by his own jest, Dr. Wu was not nearly as tickled pink. “No? Ah, fuck it. Let’s go chat.”
“In a moment, my friend. Ms. Shire? Is that you? Oh my, how rude of me. I apologize—I didn’t recognize you. Please, if you would, follow me. Mr. Churches, this is the second I mentioned. Olivia Shire.”
Meanwhile, Samosa’s presence was requested by her employer, Vic. He requested that she and her team escort him—and oversee—the presentation at the raptor cages. During their journey through the broad roads sweeping through the valley, Samosa could make out the etchings a magnificent blue sphere through the early afternoon fog. It was miles away, several islands down the chain and she had never once been there. It was a new attraction years away from even being released to the press or acknowledge as a potential attraction. It was a new biome, a technology erected for, likely, unscrupulous use. She deigned not pay too much attention to it, but the mere shadow of it on the horizon was haunting.
She led the caravan on a slender, obsidian-black motorcycle with Vic riding in Humvee behind them. Their arrival at the raptor cage was heralded by Barry, a co-worker of Samosa’s. She swung a leg over her vehicle, greeting him cordially with a handshake. He beamed from ear to ear, flashing his almost blindingly white teeth in a friendly welcome, but his smile waned when he saw Vic waltz into view. He muttered something to her in Afrikaans and she rebuked with a low, guttural growl. Preceding their exchange she hoisted her bike gloves from her hands by the index finger, revealing a series of intricate runes on her knuckles, tracing well into the palm of her hands. She was littered in tattoos, some detailed, others merely geometric, but virtually none of them were asymmetrical. Regardless they didn’t subtract from her feminine magnetism.
The most notable tattoo was a handsomely drawn depiction of the nine circles of hell inked on the inside of her right forearm. There was an emphasis on the sixth circle, heresy, by the notably darker ink. After depositing her gear into one of the cage’s lockers she ascended into the rafters with Vic who was seen grinning from ear to ear. He invited himself to watch Owen Grady demonstrate the contributive abilities of his velociraptors. Samosa remembered working with one pack but only briefly. Vic had them put down for ripping the stomach from one of his subordinates. Truthfully, Samosa was hurt by it; she and Barry developed a bond with them. Although Barry trained them, she worked diligently to see that they were protected and grew in tandem with proper socialization.
Much to Samosa’s chagrin, she was pulled away when she noted a trio of men skulking around the raptor cage. There was nothing special about them—they were American, in their early twenties and inebriated. They staggered, slipping their cans of beer in through the cage bars, sequentially spilling the brews all over the pulpy growth inside of the cage. The smell was virtually a lure to some dinosaurs. Unfortunately for the boys, the cage they chose to deface belonged to a small group of Compsognathus. Though petite and relatively harmless, they were a threat in groups. One of the drunks thrust his hand through the cage to pet one and that was when Samosa intervened. She jerked one back by his collar and gave the second a quick buffet to his stomach with her foot. “Hey! Lady!” they shrieked, earning the attention of one of the workers participating in Owen’s demonstration.
“’The fok you think you’re doing, then?” Samosa’s snapped. The boys exchanged two uneasy looks as the third attempted to make his getaway, but Samosa’s comrades thwarted his escape.
“Ah man. I love Australians. You Australian? Why you tryn’a ruin a good time, eh? Aussie, right?”
Samosa pressed her lips in a hard line. She knelt next to one of the men, turned his head and directed his line of sight at the hungry little creatures throwing their entire weight into the cage bars. “See them?” The man nodded. “Those little bugga’s will eat clean through your knuckles. Once one half is gnawing on your fingerbones, they rest’ll knock you flat on your back and bore into your belly. Fortunately for them, seems you’re already sauced. I’m confident they won’t say no to marinated meat.” The boys all swallowed hard and Samosa concluded her rant with a frown.
“Also. I ain’t fokken Australian, yeah? I hate Aussies. I much prefer Kiwis.”