Would we have made it to the truck if Nigel hadn’t done what he did? I don’t know—maybe. But I doubt it. The fact is these carnotauruses were moving—faster than I’d ever seen them move before—and had cut the distance between us in half before I heard the revving of Nigel’s trimmer and saw him sweeping it across a dinosaur’s belly, opening it like a can of spaghetti.
“Someone start the truck!” he shouted, his voice raw, animalistic, “I’ll hold them off as long as I can!”
I scrambled up the stairs after Sam and Joan but before Lazaro. “Joan, this is your gig,” I said, before essentially falling through a portal into the cockpit. “Get us out of here.”
But she just stood there, looking around the deck and the crush of dials and switches; looking as if the vehicle itself might swallow her at
