September 15, 1995.
Above Isla Nublar.
She was alive. Thank Christ. Daniel’s breathing seemed to regulate, as he fought with his seatbelt, which was squeezing against his slight stomach.
Too many cheeseburgers and not enough crunches. Her words echoed in his head for a slight moment, before he finally understood exactly what she was asking.
“Where are we?”
The fluttering of wings in the treetops, the distant rumble of thunder, and the gentle rustle of treetops indicated that they were not in San Jose, but instead somewhere far wilder. “Possibly the Costa Rican rainforest? Maybe somewhere deep in Panama?” He muttered, finally freeing himself from his seat. “All I know is that I don’t hear any cars or planes in the distance, so we’re somewhere further off the grid.”
The sound of a man behind them groaning alerted Daniel that they weren’t alone. It was the touristy-looking gentleman that Daniel had noticed before. “Excuse me sir-“ he began, “are you okay?”
“Do I look fuckin’ okay?” The thick texas accent answered back. “Goddamn private planes, they’re supposed to be easier flyin’ than the goddamn big names, and this is what fuckin’ happens!”
Well, at least he seemed to be okay physically.
“We need to get out of this plane,” Daniel muttered, moving forward, causing the metal to creak. The reasoning became obvious as the half-piece of the metal tube they were in bent forward: they were not on the ground yet. “I’d hate to actually die after surviving a crash.”