It was raining cats and dogs in Nottingham, England. In a small cottage, surrounded by fields and meadows-now flooded by the unusually heavy downpour-an old man lay in his bed. He was an elderly gent who was over his eighties, and had returned to his native England from America.
Chest pains burned through him, and he clutched at a piece of paper that he practically revered. He had come to this place to die.
He had been forced to do so by a country. Whose people had sent him back to England with their jeers and taunts.
It had all started over ten years ago, when he had been an energetic man of seventy six. He had visualized the revolutionary genetic resurrection of the prehistoric world's supreme rulers: the Dinosaurs. Inspired by this vision, he had undertaken to write history for himself as the Creator of Dinosaurs. He had founded InGen, a company that specialized in genetic research.
He had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. His work had been culminated by the building of Jurassic Park on a Costa Rican Island called Isla Nublar, where dinosaurs lived in various enclosures. Jurassic Park had been an island theme park where the children (and adults) of the world could see and touch living, breathing dinosaurs. All for the measly price of an admission ticket.
But as the saying goes: shit had hit the fan.
Due to some rather foolish stinginess on his part, his computer programmer had sabotaged his island during an inspection tour by several paleontologists, a lawyer, and a (pain in the ass) mathematician. The animals had broken loose, and had proceeded to unleash a wave of destruction and death upon Isla Nublar and its human inhabitants.
Nearly everyone who had been on Nublar that weekend had died. Henry Wu, the geneticist who had pioneered the work of cloning the dinosaurs, murdered by the offpring of a velociraptor. A velociraptor which he had managed to clone so perfectly that it had been able to reproduce. Dennis Nedry, the traitorous, albeit brilliant computer programmer that had betrayed him, killed by a venomous dilophosaurus.
And many more deaths.
Needless to say, the investors had pulled out of the venture faster than a bullet speeding out of a gun's barrel. InGen had been teetering on the edge of Chapter 11, when Isla Sorna-the factory island where the dinosaurs were actually cloned-was discovered. Animal rights activists and biologists had managed to rally for the preservation of whatever specimens remained on Sorna. And InGen had received funding to maintain the island.
Things had been good then, for a while.
Several unfortunate incidents that occurred during the five years after Sorna had been discovered had been the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. People who had been against the idea of keeping the dinosaurs alive had received a godsend: two incidents involving dinosaurs killing humans.
The first incident had been the rampage of a tyrannosaurus through the suburbs. The dinosaur had been foolishly brought to the mainland by the old man's nephew, Peter Ludlow. Numerous deaths and lawsuits had been filed against InGen then.
The second incident had been far more damning for InGen. A group of five pterosaurs had escaped from Sorna (due to several people tampering with their cage), and had proceeded to massacre the entire human population of a small town in Chicago. The state government, backed by the people of America, had made a unanimous decision.
That John Hammond was a lunatic. A lunatic who had caused the deaths of many innocent people. A lunatic who would never take a single step out of Kansas Prison for the remaining duration of his life.
Hammond had packed up and fled to his home country of England, ignoring the pleas of his family. The news hadn't managed to track him all the way to Nottingham (he was pretty sure he had lost them at Surrey), where he now resided, in a small cottage.
Of late, he had been experiencing severe chest pains. He hadn't bothered to visit a doctor. Why bother trying to stave off death when the world thought you a murderer and didn't give a shit? Why bother trying to stay alive in a world where the gift of vision was labeled as lunacy?
On that rainy evening, in his cottage, John Hammond had passed away from a massive heart attack. His body was not discovered for three years. The world had simply gone on, ignoring the small cottage in the countryside that had become overgrown with ivy, which stood amidst tall, uncut grass.
Land developers had decided to clear a hectare of land for the construction of a theme park. The only thing that stood in their way was a tiny, abandoned cottage. When they had entered the cottage to check if anyone was living there, what they saw puzzled them.
A complete human skeleton, picked clean by animals and still dressed in a maroon bath robe, was lying on a bed that was covered in dust.
But it hadn't been the skeleton that confused them. It had been a piece of paper, tangled in the skeleton's fingers. It bore a simple message, printed in fading black ink, in impeccably neat handwriting.
Life will find a way.