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The engine roars to life as you slam the gas, tires churning through mud and shattered asphalt. No time to map a route—every overgrown path forks into chaos. Vines snag the jeep’s frame, Jurassic ferns whipping the windshield as you swerve around fallen trees. Behind you, the ground trembles. That guttural scream tears through the jungle, closer every second. You crank the wheel hard left, skidding past a ravine, rear tires spitting rubble into the abyss. The radio crackles with static, a shredded park map fluttering under your boot. No guardrails here. No signs. Just instinct and the raw burn of adrenaline. Steering one-handed, you yank the emergency flare from the glovebox. Light it. Toss it into a fuel drum abandoned near a crumbling maintenance shed. The explosion paints the canopy crimson—buying seconds as the T. rex bellows, disoriented. You seize the detour, plowing through a shallow riverbed. Water arcs over the hood, blurring the sprinting compys scattering ahead. The dashboard GPS flickers: half a mile southeast to the helipad. Half a mile through quicksand bogs and rock slides. You downshift, engine whining, and punch through a chain-link fence. Metal screeches. Something massive crashes through the trees to your right. Closer. Always closer. The jeep fishtails up a shale slope, tires grabbing at loose stone. One misstep here, and you roll. The T. rex doesn’t tire. Doesn’t quit. You spot the helipad through the mist—rusted, overgrown, but there. The chopper’s outline materializes. Keys dangling in the ignition. You leap from the jeep before it stops moving, sprinting as the ground erupts behind you. Teeth snap air where your neck just was. You vault into the pilot’s seat, slamming the door as the beast rams the chassis. The rotors sputter. Catch. Lift. Below, the T. rex rears, roaring at the sky. You bank hard, jungle canopy shrinking beneath you. Alive. For now.
