Slack Batterton dodged off the footpath, out of sight of his pursuers.
“Christ, that was close,” he muttered, wiping the sweat from his tanned brow. He looked around for a likely place to hide so he could rest for a while. It had been hours since he’d stopped running. Spying a depression in the ground, he quietly edged toward it, picking up some fallen branches that he pulled on top of himself for camouflage once he lay down.
Their eyesight is poor, he said to himself, shaking. They won’t be able to see me as long as I stay still. Running for hours was not something that Slack Batterton was accustomed to; but fear can be a great motivator. How can I make it back to the chopper and get out of this Jurassic hell-hole? He caught his breath, then dodged from tree to tree, slowly making his way back to the small clearing where, thank God, Cindy waited in the helicopter.
“Get me the hell out of here!” he shouted as he approached the bird, and she fired it up and they swooped out over the canopy.
“Wait, Slack, was that…a chicken?” asked Cindy, not trusting her eyes.
For Cindy and Slack had landed in a remote jungle area that was home, not to reanimated dinosaurs, but giant chickens.
“Remember those stories about the Super Rats in New York City in the 1980s?” he said, over a double reposado, later, in the grimy hotel bar. “Guantanamera” played on the tinny radio.
“Sure,” said Cindy. “They grew resistant to the rat poison, and kept getting bigger and stronger, was the theory.”
“That’s right. Darwinian rats, getting leached antibiotics from the water supply and scoffing at mere chemical rat poison. Growing two and three feet high.
“Well, something went wrong with these chickens, and I don’t know if it was HGH to make them grow bigger breasts or what, but they were ten feet tall!” Slack downed his tequila and motioned to the bartender for another. “I’m not going down there again, but I think I know someone who can.”
He pulled out his cell phone and checked for service. There was one bar. “I hope this goes through,” he said, punching in a number.
“Who are you calling?” asked Cindy, curiously. “The CIA or something?”
“No,” answered Slack. “The Purdue Company. It takes a tough man to make a tender chicken. I just hope he’s tough enough.”
ETA: Fritz has this thing for giant chickens, apparently.