Control
Click on the screen, stretch the stick, release it and put it down. Put it on the other end of the cliff. Don't be eaten by dinosaurs
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The air reeks of wet earth and primal musk. Somewhere beyond the shattered perimeter fence, a guttural roar splits the jungle’s chorus—*too close*. Your boots slip in the mud as you skid behind a cluster of ferns, pulse hammering against your ribs. They’re hunting. You’ve seen the security feeds—teeth like steak knives, claws that shred steel. The stick in your grip is laughable, barely more than a splintered branch, but it’s the only thing between you and the feeding grounds. A twig snaps. You freeze. Shadows shift between the redwoods—velociraptors, maybe. They’re faster. Smarter. You tighten your hold on the stick, jagged end forward. It’s not a weapon. It’s a lever. A distraction. The maintenance tunnels—flooded last week—are three hundred meters west. One rusted hatch, jammed shut unless you pry it open. *If* you reach it. Another roar rattles the canopy. Closer now. Heavy footfalls tremor through the soil. *T. rex*. No time to weigh odds. You bolt, stick clenched like a lifeline. Ferns whip your face. The forest erupts behind you—screeches, howls, the wet crunch of something *dying*. You don’t look back. The hatch gleams ahead, half-buried in vines. Drop to your knees, jam the stick into the seam. Metal groans. Something warm drips onto your neck. Breath, rancid and heavy, rolls over your shoulder.
