Guardian | Camp Cretaceous

Camp Cretaceous

Thunder cracked overhead, lightning spider-webbing across the sky and illuminating the world for the briefest second or so. It was enough for him to glimpse the dozen men crawling through the tall grass of the field surrounding the old cabin. Calm as still water, he continued his patrol at a leisurely pace, purposefully stepping next to their heads. Water beat down on his poncho as he stood on the perimeter and watched the treeline before reporting the all-clear.

Turning just as lightning webbed across the sky and silhouetted the belly-down men in the grass, he raised his carbine and put a round into each of their backs. Unhanding his primary and letting it hang, he upholstered his sidearm as he approached them, booting them and listening. When one groaned, he took aim at the man's nape.

Thunder drowned out the bang, and he stood alone in the field.

Azriel gasped and sat bolt-upright, sweat rolling down his brow. Dragging a hand down his face, he braced his elbow on his knee and leaned forward, glaring at the deck of the ferry taking him to Jurassic World like he had at those men in the field. What his mother was thinking sending someone like him to a place like this, Azriel would never know. But he didn't fault her for it—if anything, he loved her even more—because she'd been awfully worried about how he had not had many experiences other than the ones he'd fabricated to ease her concerns.

What good son wouldn't at least try being normal for his mother's sake?

Five other teenagers were saying their goodbyes to their families via phone calls, but Azriel had done so already long before getting some shut-eye, which he now regretted because of the terrors.

Forcing himself to his feet, Azriel fixed his black cap on his head. He needed to move—the jet-lag was screwing with him. Rolling his shoulder and shaking his head, he moved over to the foredeck and dropped into a push-up, groaning at the irritation in his sleepy muscles.

"Whoa, dude," someone said a few minutes later just as Azriel moved from a handstand into an L-sit. "Little early for an HIIT, isn't it?" He glanced up at the dark-haired teenager in grey jeans as she leaned on the rail, her arms crossed over her chest as she raised a brow at him—Azriel tucked his legs and returned to the handstand.

"Jet-lag," he admitted. "I hate being sleepy."

"Ah," she said. "So, what, you're a gymnast?"

Azriel dropped back into a plank and looked up at her. "Not really," he confessed, leaning forward and holding himself in a planche. "Callisthenics clears my head. Ma mère tells me I should start, though." However, gymnastics brought a little too much attention—which brought too many cameras—so he had adamantly refused.

"Ma mère? That's French, right?"

"Oui oui." He planted his feet and stood up, running a hand through his hair and ruffling it before putting his cap back on. "But I lived mostly in Italy, Rome to be precise." Azriel offered her a handshake. "Azriel. Pleasure."

"Uh, Yasmina," she said, shaking his hand. "Hi."

It wasn't much longer before the ferry anchored beside the concrete jetty. Azriel glanced over his shoulder at Mt Sibo to the northwest of Isla Nublar, shook the foreboding feeling in his stomach off, and grabbed his duffle bag and taking out his phone; he sent his mother one last text—that he'd arrived safely—before dropping it into the polyester bowl at the exit. They'd not be permitted cell phones at Camp Cretaceous, and Azriel was just fine with that.

Everyone disembarked.

They stood with their bags on the jetty beside the Jurassic World ferry in front of a man in a crimson T-shirt and safari shorts. He had unkempt, light-brown hair kept from his face by a yellow headband, and his eyes sparkled with an odd mischief as he beheld them all there. A wristwatch on his right hand had a name etched into the leather.