This was a chipmunk.
Throughout the Primeval Ecological Zone, there were numerous nut-bearing trees and thickets, artificially planted specifically to sustain the dinosaur populations. These groves didn't just attract families of herbivorous dinosaurs migrating through the area; they were also a magnet for the indigenous wildlife of Isla Nublar.
The chipmunk plucked a nut from a branch, stuffing it into its mouth, then another, until its cheeks were bulging like overinflated balloons.
Rustle...
A light breeze swept through the canopy, parting the leaves just enough to let a sliver of sunlight pierce the shade. The chipmunk froze, a flicker of confusion crossing its tiny features.
The wind certainly moved the grass and created ambient noise, but wasn't this movement a bit too deliberate?
It stopped what it was doing, looking left, then right. Everything seemed normal. Yet, it didn't dare lower its guard.
Originally, it had a family of gentle neighbors, creatures that, like itself, were too small to be noticed by the terrifying apex predators of this sector. They ate the leaves; the chipmunk ate the nuts. Life had been comfortable.
But just yesterday, those neighbors had been brutally slaughtered. This had reignited the chipmunk's survival instincts, forcing it to re-evaluate its environment.
If a dinosaur were hunting it, who would it be? It could rule out the two giants it had seen yesterday; unless they were bored out of their minds, they wouldn't bother with such a small snack. If it were something smaller, however... those were the ones that truly craved its tiny body.
The chipmunk looked toward the tree trunk. Was a camouflaged hunter waiting there? If so, how would it strike?
"Sss... hock-tuey!"
A glob of black, phlegm-like substance hissed out of the undergrowth, splattering against the branch directly beneath the chipmunk. Terrified, the rodent scrambled upward and vanished into the thick foliage.
Rustle...
The grass parted again, and a small, crested head poked out.
It was the Dilophosaurus, the one that had failed to participate in the earlier "impact." Not only that, but during its last attempt to return to the pack for mating, it had gotten into a scrap with the Alpha. It had lost, badly, and been exiled.
To be honest, the Dilophosaurus didn't mind the exile much. It didn't think there was much of a future in staying with that hedonistic pack anyway. It had been knocked into the dirt by its leader, getting grit in its left eye. Now, that eye was mostly blind during the day, regaining only a modicum of clarity at night.
In a world of "survival of the fittest," the loser had no right to complain. That was fine. But what was unforgivable was that those bastards had stolen the carcass it had scavenged from the Ceratosaurus!
Absolutely unforgivable!
The life goals of most dinosaurs were simple: victory and reproduction. I can tolerate failure! But I cannot tolerate you stealing my win! Even if that "win" was just a lucky find.
The wandering Dilophosaurus felt a bit deflated. People talked about the Carnotaurus not eating for three days? He hadn't eaten in five! He could feel his brain starting to tune out the signals from his stomach because the hunger was transitioning into actual physical pain. The fact that he could still produce venom to spit was practically a biological miracle.
But why had he missed the squirrel? He had aimed perfectly.
He watched his black venom corroding the bark of the branch, dripping slowly toward the ground. Why did it hit the branch instead of the target?
The wandering Dilophosaurus's brain began to whir with effort. Five days of starvation had taught him one thing: finding prey in this zone wasn't the hard part; the hard part was analyzing exactly why his hunts kept failing.
Drip. Drip...
The foul black liquid fell from the branch onto the grass, splashing into tiny droplets that speckled the surrounding leaves. The plants seemed to recoil as if they could sense their own contamination.
The Dilophosaurus moved closer. He tilted his head, using his functioning right eye to observe the falling liquid.
Drip. Drip...
Minutes ticked by. The grass on the ground seemed to accept its fate of being consumed by the black filth, wilting weakly. He felt like he was on the verge of a breakthrough, yet couldn't quite grasp the logic.
Drip.
As the final drop fell, inspiration exploded in his mind. He picked up a fallen twig with his snout and tossed it into the air. He watched as the twig initially followed the path of his toss, but soon the arc began to curve, pulling the twig back down to earth.
It's falling! It's falling! But why?! Why?!
As a juvenile, he had played games of "toss the stick" with his pack-mates, but he had never seen the descent as a problem back then. If it didn't fall, how would I ever pick it up?
But now, he had an entirely different perspective. If a stick falls... then the venom I spit... must also fall?
If his venom followed a curve, that explained perfectly why it had struck the branch instead of the squirrel!
…
This was a Compsognathus mother.
She sat within a hollow at the base of a tree, joined by several other females of the pack. This was the colony's nursery. Thanks to the successful hunts of the larger predators, they had plenty of carrion to scavenge. Currently, the nursery held five clutches of eggs, the future strength of the pack.
"Chirp!"
A slender head poked into the entrance. It was a male. He entered the den, located his mate, and dropped a piece of meat he had torn from the Diplodocus carcass. After an affectionate nuzzle, the male backed out of the nursery.
Outside the tree hollow, the Alpha male stood in the clearing, waiting as his scouts brought food back to the nest bit by bit. After a while, the males gathered together. Leaving one sentry behind, the Alpha led the rest back to continue stripping the Diplodocus. This wasn't an everyday opportunity; they had to make the most of it.
The sentry "Compy" was a bit disgruntled. He was a low-ranking male who hadn't found a mate, a loser. Being assigned sentry duty meant he didn't get to eat.
Maybe I should sneak a bite of the food inside the den? No, that was too risky. If the females chirped an alarm, he was dead meat.
"Sss... hock-tuey!"
A strange sound echoed from the bushes. It was soft, but loud enough to catch the sentry's attention. He craned his neck, looking up and trying to peer into the brush.
Splat.
A black liquid fell from above, from an angle he couldn't see, landing squarely on his head.
"Chirp! Chirp! Chirp—!"
Blinded and panicked, the Compy could only shriek, trying to intimidate the unseen attacker while alerting his pack. Soon, he felt long, sharp teeth clamp down on his head and neck.
Crunch.
A spray of blood hit the dirt. His breathing stopped.
Inside the hollow, the female Compies heard the death cries of the sentry. They didn't dare make a sound. They huddled together, staring at the entrance and praying they hadn't been discovered.
Unfortunately, the universe was not in a merciful mood.
A pale, greyish eye filled the entrance, blocking out the light.
"Chirp! Chirp!"
The females shrieked in terror, shrinking back into the furthest corners of their nests. A moment later, the eye pulled away and sunlight returned, but the shadow at the entrance signaled that the crisis was far from over.
They felt the ground vibrate. The entrance began to splinter and widen!
It was coming in!
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