by Tess Sharpe
We nod. Some of us look nervous. Others excited. And a few just look sick.
But as Bertie gives the signal for the gates to open, we all move forward, no matter how we’re really feeling. Because how could you walk away from such a chance?
Even if it does involve dinosaur vomit.
With the security guards flanking us, we walk through the gates, and they swing shut behind us with a clang.
“Keep the pace, kids,” says one of the guards as we began to walk down the slope that leads to the lowlands of the valley. The terrain flattens out and grass swishes against my boots as we march. I’m scanning the hills and slopes ahead for any trace of them. I’m so focused on my surroundings ahead, I almost trip when the ground gives way suddenly underneath me. I look down, teetering on the rim of a giant footprint.
“Careful,” Bertie warns, slowing down for a second until I regain my balance.
I look down at the print, how deep it’s impressed into the dirt, how the grass is flattened…how incredibly huge it is. I could lie down inside it and do the snow angel thing, and I’d never touch the edges.
As we make our way through the valley, guided by the red blinking dot on Bertie’s tablet that must be Lovelace, the herd still isn’t visible, and I hear Art asking Bertie where they are.
“This time of day, they’re near the lakes and river that lie beyond the tree line,” Bertie says, pointing to the map on her tablet, where a bunch of red dots are blinking. “They like to sun themselves on the banks in the mornings.”
“Is it just the Triceratops in the valley?” Justin asks.
Bertie grins and tilts her head to our right. “That probably answers your question,” she says.
The ground under my boots shakes as we look to the tree line. We can’t see her body, hidden by the trees, but her head, her neck…they tower far above the trees.
It’s one of the Brachiosauruses. Surely not Pearl, since Pearl is the youngest of the Brachiosaurus quartet. If it is Pearl, and the older ones are even bigger…it’s a staggering thought. Her long neck bends down and she grasps a hearty mouthful of treetop, munching away as she looks down in our direction. She’s at least a quarter of a mile away, so high up, we must look like tiny specks to her.
“Which one is that?” Ronnie asks.
“That’s Olive,” Tim answers as he catches up with Bertie, adjusting the strap of his medical bag on his shoulder.
“Can you tell them apart even without their trackers?” I ask.
“Absolutely,” he says. “There are big and little differences in the dinosaurs. And just like us, they all have different personalities. But Olive’s got a scar on her neck, which makes IDing her extra easy.”
“Is she gonna come out of the trees?” Eric asks. His camera is firmly fixed on Olive, who seems more interested in eating than seeing where we’re going.
“Probably not,” Tim says. “Olive is one of our older dinosaurs. She’s very used to humans in her space, so we aren’t really a novelty. Now, the younger dinosaurs, they can be a little more excitable.”
“I need a higher place to get a better shot, then,” Eric mutters, looking around. “Can I go up there?”
Tim looks at Bertie, who nods and gestures for a security guard to follow Eric as he scrambles up the tall hill to our left.
“Let’s keep going, kids. They’ll catch up,” Bertie says. “Lovelace should be just a little north of here.”
“She still not moving?” Tim asks, looking at Bertie’s tablet. Am I reading into it, or does he sound worried?
“Heart rate’s elevated,” Bertie says in an undertone, and Tim frowns.
“Let’s hurry, then,” he says, looking concerned. “Pick up the pace, interns!”
Eric catches up with us just as we hit the tree line. The trees here are different, and don’t grow thick and twined together with vines, like in the jungle. Tanya could probably explain the differences, but there’s a lot of space between them; the branches just reach out, wide and free, so the sun filters through the leaves in a mosaic of light, painting everything golden and green. The crunch of our footsteps adds to the clicks and chirps of the birds that make the branches overhead their home. I’m surprised birds are still living in the trees here. I’d think maybe they’d migrate to the parts of the island that don’t have dinosaurs, but then again, maybe they’ve adapted. Maybe it’s actually safer here, because the huge herbivores must certainly dissuade any of the birds’ smaller predators from hanging around.
A new circle of evolution, of prey and predator and adaptation, is already beginning…and I’m here near the start of it all, walking in its footsteps. Literally.
“Be mindful of the terrain,” Bertie says. “There are a few steep gullies running through this part. I don’t want any of you falling.”
But as we approach the first one, a lowing noise fills the air, and I realize we really don’t want to fall into it.
Because Lovelace is already there. And she’s trapped.
Birds scatter as Lovelace bellows, the flapping of their wings blending with her cries.
“Set up a perimeter,” Bertie says—more like barks. Her voice has turned authoritative, and the security team scurries to obey, radiating outward with their stunners at the ready.
The interns exchange nervous looks, and we all crowd together, try to make ourselves smaller and less obtrusive as the adults begin to gather around the gully—and Lovelace. She keeps thrashing back and forth, and her tail’s bent at the end, like maybe she landed on it wrong when she slid down the embankment.
“She’s hurt,” Tanya says, a catch in her voice.
At first I think she means Lovelace’s tail, but when I look where she’s looking, my stomach clenches, and so do my fists. There’s a big gash on Lovelace’s side and a dark wash of dried blood down her flank. I look up at her face, where her eyes are partly closed, and she lets out a half sigh, half moan, like it hurts.
“Stay calm, kids,” Bertie says, authority in her voice. “We want to keep her as calm as possible. It looks like she took a spill and might’ve hurt her tail.”
“What about the wound on her side?” Art asks. “Did one of the other Triceratops do that to her?”
But the head trainer shakes her head. “That’s not a horn wound,” she says. “It would be less jagged if she’d gotten it in a fight with another dinosaur.”
“More likely she snagged her side on a branch,” says Tim. “The valley and grasslands have a wider variety of vegetation and terrain than she’s used to. She could’ve cut herself, panicked from the pain, and run off and fallen into the gully.” He rocks back on his heels, stroking his beard as he thinks. “I don’t have fusion bandages in my kit,” he tells Bertie. “I thought this would be a routine check-in, so I need to head back to my jeep and get bandages, antibiotics, and a large-bore needle.”
“We’ll hold down the fort here until you get back,” Bertie says.
“Layla, Turner, come with me. I’ll need your help to carry everything,” Tim says, and he and two of the other vets head out.
Lovelace moans again, her beaklike mouth opening wide enough for us to see rows and rows of teeth. I shiver at the reminder that she could do some real damage if she weren’t stuck.
“Sarah, we need to make a plan to get her out,” Bertie says to the woman who must be her second-in-command. “I think a ramp is our best bet. Using a crane to pull her out would be the last resort, as it would cause more stress.”
“I’ll arrange for a ramp to be brought over,” Sarah says. “And Oscar wants to talk to you.” She hands Bertie a radio.
“This is Bertie,” she says into it.
“Bertie, the herd’s gathering around the thicket,” says Oscar over the radio. “I’ve called in reinforcements, but your baby dinosaur’s noise is making them nervous.”
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��Got it,” Bertie says. “Go help them,” she tells her team. And then it’s just Bertie and us here with Lovelace. Bertie smiles. “You don’t need to worry,” she assures us. “As soon as Tim’s back, we’ll get Lovelace fixed up and her wound numbed, so she won’t feel a thing.”
She bends down on one knee, looking at the dinosaur below her. Lovelace moves her head back and forth, her frill rippling as she lows right in Bertie’s face, dinosaur spit flying everywhere.
Bertie, obviously used to this, flips her sunglasses on at the best possible second. “Silly girl,” she says, wiping at her cheeks and flicking the spittle to the ground. “It’s okay, Lovelace. I know it hurts, but we’ll get you fixed up.”
The radio in her hand crackles. “Bertie, the Triceratops are getting very antsy from the noise. I sent two guys to grab the sonic barriers to prevent any charging, so I need a hand over here. I’ve got a gap in the perimeter,” says Oscar curtly.
Bertie’s mouth flattens. “Keep your distance from her,” she tells us.
“You’re leaving us alone?” Eric asks. He doesn’t sound alarmed, more like eager. He’s probably getting great footage of all this.
“I’ll be right back,” Bertie promises as her radio crackles again with Oscar’s voice. “Lovelace isn’t going anywhere, but respect her space. Tim will be back in a few minutes. I’ll be just on the other side of the trees, if there’s a problem. I can hear you if you shout. Take these. Use them if you need to.”
She tosses the radio to Art, who catches it, and then hands me a stunner from the holster at her waist. “Green button is stun, red button is off. Got it?”
“Got it,” I say, my fingers curling around it. It’s like a giant baton, and I’m not gonna press the green button to see how far the charge reaches, but I bet it packs a wallop, considering it’s supposed to put down a dinosaur.
Bertie jogs off.
For a second, we all just look at each other, and I wonder if everyone else is feeling like I am. Half excited that we’re being given such freedom, and half terrified because we’re alone. Some people pull out their tablets to take pictures of Lovelace, and I know I’m scowling, but I can’t help it. She’s hurt.
I walk over to Art, who has joined Amanda at the top of the gully where they can face Lovelace. Art’s on his knees about five feet away from her, talking in a low, soothing voice. Lovelace seems to like him, because her tail starts moving back and forth, but the movement jabs the damaged tip against the rocks, and she cries out again.
“It’s okay,” Amanda tries to reassure her, but it must have really hurt, because Lovelace is backing up, unable to turn around, and she throws her body angrily against the sloping side of the gully, bellowing.
Dirt spills down the sides of the gully, and when she pulls away, I see that a big branch with thick, sharp thorns has dug into her wound.
“Art, do you see that?” I ask.
“Oh, that’s not good,” he says. Amanda continues to try to calm Lovelace down, and half of the interns kind of back away farther, while our friends group around us.
“We need to calm her down and get those thorns out of her wound,” I say.
“We need to wait for the vets to come back,” Wyatt says over Justin’s shoulder.
“It’s hurting her!” I protest. Every time she moves, the thorns dig deeper into the already-raw wound and a fresh wash of blood trickles down her bristly hide. “Who knows how long the adults are going to be gone? She could tear her wound open even worse, and those bandages Tim went to get might not be big enough.”
He just looks at me like I’m being silly.
“Fine. You don’t have to do anything, but I’m going to,” I say.
He shrugs. “Your funeral.”
“What do we do?” Amanda asks, looking at me and then Art.
“There’s gotta be some nonmedical way to calm her,” Art says. “We’ve got to keep talking to her. Someone needs to distract her into staying still so the rest of us can get the thorns out.”
“I don’t think us talking to her is going to help,” Tanya says. “It’s not like we’re familiar. She needs something familiar right now. She’s freaking out because everything’s new.”
Tanya’s comment triggers something in my brain. I clap my hands together. “Singing!” I say. The rest of them look at me like I just said the sky was purple.
“Singing?” Ronnie asks, her dark brows knit together.
“When we were coming over on the ferry, I overheard one of the scientists talking about how she played music to the dinosaur eggs and then later on to the younger dinosaurs. She said the Tri-ceratops like jazz. What if music helps?”
“You want to sing to the dinosaur to calm her down?” Wyatt asks.
“Well, not me,” I say, trying not to snap at him because I don’t want Lovelace to get more upset. “Does anyone have jazz music on their tablet?”
There’s silence. I pull mine out, but I see we have no signal out here, so I can’t download or play anything.
“Okay, someone’s going to need to sing,” I say. “I have a terrible singing voice. So Tanya should do it. She’s got a great voice.”
Now we’re all looking at Tanya.
“I only sing in the shower!” Tanya protests, turning bright red under her green- and blue-streaked bangs.
Lovelace’s lowing gets louder, and I can feel the ground vibrate just slightly—not from her thrashing, but from the dinosaurs waiting outside the thicket, worried about their newest addition. Nervousness wrapped in fear rises inside me. What if the security guards and trainers can’t hold the herd back? What if they come running, thinking Lovelace is being hurt by us?
We’ve got to calm her down and reduce her pain. Immediately.
“Just try,” I plead with Tanya.
She lets out a deep breath. “Okay. Fine.” She looks over at her brother, who’s still recording everything. “You are conveniently and ‘accidentally’ erasing this footage, Eric, do you hear me? It will not exist after today! I do not want it being played for tourists for eternity when I haven’t even had a chance to warm up.”
“Sure, sure,” he says.
She licks her lips and then starts to sing under her breath, so softly at first that I can barely make out the words. A few bars in, her voice strengthens, and I recognize the song. It’s one my grandma used to play, Nina Simone’s “Feeling Good.” By the time she hits the lyrics about new life, Lovelace’s head is tilting and her breathing eases as she watches Tanya with rapt attention.
“It’s working,” Amanda hisses excitedly. Art begins to hum along with Tanya, and I join in, because I remember the music, but don’t know the words.
“Keep going,” Ronnie urges as she and I circle around our friends to get a better view of the branch stuck in Lovelace’s wound. Ronnie scoots toward the ledge of the gully, but when she reaches out, her arms aren’t long enough.
“Let me try.” I hand the stunner over to Ronnie and she backs up to give me room. The loose dirt shifts under my boots as I gingerly make my way to the ledge. I bend down, my knees pressing into the dirt, sending little rocks skittering down into the gully. If I flatten myself down I can almost reach it…but then my hand barely brushes up against the branch and one of the thorns slices through my fingertip.
“Crap.” I pull my hand back, wiping it on my cargo shorts before getting up.
“Let me help,” Justin says, and I turn to see him holding out his hand. “I won’t let you fall.”
I grasp his hand with my noninjured one, and with him bracing me, I scoot out farther over the ledge of the gully and then wiggle down into the embankment until I find a spot where my boots can dig in. Now I’m almost at eye level with Lovelace’s wound. I can easily reach the branch, and my fingers close around it.
“I’ve got it!” I call over my shoulder.
; “Okay, I’m gonna pull you up and back really fast,” Justin warns. “Just in case she starts thrashing.”
Sweat trickles down my forehead, and my fingers tighten around his. He squeezes back, his hold strong and sure. He’s got me.
“I’m ready,” I confirm.
“One. Two. Three.”
I yank with all my might on the branch, and Justin pulls me back up and out of the gully at the same time. Lovelace lets out a confused bellow, her head whipping away from Tanya’s singing like she’s surprised at the sudden pain. Justin stumbles backward at the shift in weight and we tumble to the ground safely, a few feet away from the ledge.
For a second, I just try to catch my breath. Then I realize I’m basically sprawled over Justin and his arm is slung around my waist, and it’s a really nice feeling. Like when a cat curls up on your stomach…a warm, kind of comforting weight.
I scramble to my feet, rubbing my hands against my shorts again. I feel more than a little dirty.
Wait. No, not that kind of dirty! Like, grubby dirty. I’m covered in mud and splashes of blood from the thorns—some of it mine and some of it Lovelace’s.
Lovelace grumbles at us, her frill ruffling in a way that reminds me of a slobbery dog shaking off drool. Then her attention shifts back to Tanya, who’s started singing some love song I don’t recognize.
“Sorry, I think I jabbed you in the stomach with my elbow,” I say to Justin.
I toss the bloody branch to the side, wiping my fingers on my shorts before I hold my hand out to Justin, who’s still flat on his back, having taken the brunt of the fall. He lets me pull him up, dropping my hand only when he bends down to grab his glasses, which were knocked off.
“I think it worked,” he says.
I look over my shoulder at Lovelace. He’s right. Now that the thorns aren’t digging into her wound with every breath and she’s got music, she’s much calmer.
It’s kind of incredible, the difference. But the scientist on the ferry did say her theory is that music operates like a kind of heartbeat. At the very least, it’s reminding Lovelace of a time when she was safe and comfortable. I take a deep breath and relax a little myself, hoping to hear Tim or Bertie driving up with their teams, but the only sounds are Lovelace’s heavy breathing and Tanya’s soothing alto belting out “Ain’t Misbehavin’.”