5 April 2017 – Serpent's Run Construction Site
The morning in the Jungle Zone was cool, but the sun was already breaking through the thin layer of clouds, casting long shadows from the coaster's golden supports across the dusty worksite. The air was a mixture of fresh spring earth, the faint tang of welding metal, and the damp scent of jungle foliage from the nearby themed areas.
Lucas stood near the fenced-off perimeter, safety vest zipped up, boots pressing slightly into the loose gravel. Just beyond him, the highest part of Serpent's Run — still incomplete — rose like a skeletal arch against the pale blue sky. Today, that gap at the crest of the airtime hill would disappear.
The crane's boom stretched high above, its steel cables swaying gently in the breeze. On the ground, the final track segment rested on a flatbed, cradled in padded timber beams. It was still in its deep red primer, a dull industrial colour that made it feel almost unfinished compared to what it would soon become. In a few weeks, that colour would vanish beneath the deep forest-green paint, but for now, it was a raw, honest piece of engineering.
The foreman, helmet tucked low over his brow, raised his arm and shouted something sharp over the hum of idling engines. The signal operator responded with a short whistle. Slowly, the crane's hook lowered, and two workers in harnesses stepped up, looping thick straps under the curved steel like they'd done a hundred times before. The fabric groaned as it took the weight, the straps pulling taut.
A low mechanical hum filled the air as the winch began to reel in, and the track rose — inch by inch — into the sky. Every worker seemed to pause just slightly, eyes tracking the movement, conversations dropping to murmurs. The sunlight caught the curve of the spine as it tilted, making the steel glow briefly.
As the piece reached alignment height, the workers atop the golden supports moved in sync, guiding it with slow hand signals. There was a quiet tension in the air, broken only by the distant sound of a hammer somewhere on-site and the high, rhythmic clank of the crane's pulleys.
The segment eased into position, the end plates meeting their counterparts with a faint metallic kiss. Then came the sharp, hollow clack of alignment pins sliding into place. Wrenches turned. Bolts tightened with a groaning twist. And then — a pause.
The foreman stepped back, eyed the join, and gave a short nod. The radio crackled with confirmation. A moment later, someone started clapping. It wasn't a loud, roaring cheer — just the kind of genuine applause that ripples naturally through a crew that knows they've just finished something important. The last bare spot in Serpent's Run's track was gone.
Lucas allowed himself a small smile. "That's it," he murmured. "We've got a complete circuit."
But before the moment could settle, a new sound rolled in from the Jungle Zone service road. Low diesel growls, tyres crunching over gravel. From between the foliage at the far end, two matte-green service trucks appeared, followed by a low flatbed draped in heavy canvas sheets. No branding, no supplier logos — they could have been delivering anything, to anyone.
The trucks slowed, engines idling down to a low rumble as they pulled alongside the outer perimeter. The drivers didn't step out immediately; instead, figures in dark work jackets emerged from the passenger sides, moving with the kind of quiet, coordinated efficiency that told Lucas exactly who they were.
The system's theming crew.
The gate clanged open, and within minutes, the flatbed's canvas coverings were peeled back. The morning light spilled over what lay beneath: massive sections of resin-cast faux stonework, carved with intricate patterns of ancient serpents coiling through crumbling temple walls. Beside them, thick jungle vines — every leaf and twist hyper-realistic — had been bundled like living vegetation. There were weathered statues, cracked urns, and panels of sculpted rock already painted in sun-faded earth tones.
Lucas stepped closer, catching the subtle variations in the stone texture: small chips along the edges, faint moss-green washes in the deeper grooves, tiny hairline cracks like those in real centuries-old ruins. They didn't just look real — they felt real.
Two crew members hefted one of the largest panels, carrying it toward the bare transfer track building. A third followed, holding a small, palm-sized device. Lucas knew it was a precision laser level — the kind they used to make sure every piece aligned perfectly with the next.
The first panel was lifted into place, its backside sliding against a hidden steel frame. The hollow metallic sound of it settling into its brackets rang out once before the crew began tightening clamps. A faint clunk, and it was locked in.
Walter appeared beside Lucas, eyes tracking the movement. "That theming?" he asked, though the answer was obvious.
Lucas nodded, his gaze still fixed on the wall taking shape. "First pieces. This is where it starts looking like the real thing."
By now, the crew had uncrated a serpent-head sculpture nearly two metres tall. Even under the pale daylight, its weathered gold finish caught the light in shifting tones, and the inlaid emerald "eyes" seemed almost alive. Lucas watched as they tested its fit over the corner of the building, angling it so the head would jut out slightly toward the main path — a hint of menace to catch the eyes of guests walking past.
Above them, the last track piece gleamed Green in the sun, the steel spine now a complete ribbon looping through the air. Below, the temple's first skin was taking form, stone by stone, vine by vine. Two milestones, happening almost in the same breath.
And for the first time, Lucas felt it — that shift from construction site to attraction. Serpent's Run wasn't just steel and supports anymore. It was beginning to live.