Chapter 35 – May 8, 2017
The morning sun broke through in thin shafts, filtering between the upper canopy of the Jungle Zone trees as I stepped onto the Serpent's Run construction site. The air had that quiet tension you only get on milestone days—calm, almost too calm, with only the distant hum of a generator and the occasional metallic tap of a hammer on a crate breaking the stillness.
Parked along the service road was a neat line of bright yellow transport trailers, their sides still carrying the heat of the early drive. On the side of the lead truck, in bold black letters, it read: Intamin Amusement Rides. My chest tightened with a spark of anticipation.
Walter was already there, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, cap tilted just enough to shade his eyes. "There they are," he said, his voice carrying that same tone you'd hear from someone who had just walked into their favorite toy shop.
The crew began unstrapping the first crate with meticulous care. The wood creaked as the final nails gave way, the forklift easing it to the ground. The scent hit me immediately—freshly cut timber mixed with that unmistakable blend of paint, metal, and light machine oil.
When the lid finally came off, the first car of the lead train was revealed. Deep forest green, the finish catching the early sunlight in a muted sheen. Weathered gold trim framed the bumpers, giving it an expedition-worn look. Dead center on the front, the Serpent's Run emblem stood proud—part symbol, part promise.
"Check the headlights," Walter said, a hint of pride in his voice. "Amber glass. Special order. Makes it feel like it's actually been on the trail."
I crouched beside the chassis, running my fingers lightly over the cool metal. Smooth, but with those tiny imperfections that told you it had been worked by human hands, not just machines. Behind it, in the next crate, were the rest of the cars—each fitted with deep brown canvas-look seats and gleaming brass lap bars still wrapped in protective film.
By the time the second and third trailers had been unloaded, the whole heart of the ride lay arranged across the staging area like pieces of an enormous model kit. The system crew blended seamlessly into the regular workers—on paper just another part of the assembly team, but in truth, the ones quietly setting the stage for everything to work exactly as planned.
A crane swung slowly into position above the station track. The first car was lifted from its cradle, the cables swaying slightly before lowering it into place. The soft, precise click of wheels locking into the rail's profile was deeply satisfying. One by one, the cars were coupled until the first train stood whole for the first time.
"That's number one," a technician called out over the noise. "Block brake test at two o'clock!"
Walter turned to me. "Before we even think about a launch, every wheel assembly, sensor, brake, and show trigger needs to be perfect. One bad reading, and we're back to square one."
The afternoon unfolded in a kind of controlled chaos—laptops on folding tables running live block status readouts in sharp colors, engineers hunched over sensor arrays, bolts being torqued to exact specifications. Down by the launch, a system crew member traced every power cable by hand, nodding once before disappearing back into the shadows of the temple structure.
By early evening, two complete trains sat gleaming on the track in the fading light, each one like a promise waiting to be kept. The empty station felt alive for the first time—not with guests, but with potential. The smell of fresh paint still lingered, mingling with the faint ozone scent from the powered-up launch system.