“It’s been twelve years now,” John Hammond wheezed, rolling his head about on the pillow.
“Twelve years since my dreams were born and then torn from me. This place, it was real. As real as you or I,” Hammond continued, straining to raise his body from his bed, only to be pushed gently back by the nurse.
Indeed, twelve years had passed since Isla Nublar lay host to such terrifying and awe inspiring beats of Hammond’s imagination. In those twelve years, numerous attempts were made to salvage the island chain. Isla Nublar was lost to the Costa Rican government which annihilated everything upon it’s rocky, volcanic mass. Isla Sorna remained inhabited by workers until a year latter, hurricane Clarissa swept through the South Pacific, wiping out all the facilities. And yet, despite everything man had put into place, nature survived on its own. And even in the wake of several ecological disasters, not to mention political and physical ventures, the islands remained intact: unlike their creator.
Hammond’s age had caught up with him. No longer could he remain one step ahead of his eventual demise. His mind had become loose and wandered. Several times he was heard crying out by nurses ‘Grant! My grandchildren! Are they safe.’ Even then, the nurses could not calm him and sometimes, Tim or Lex would be flown to him to prove they were indeed safe.
Through this, one thing remained entrenched in his mind.
“Nurse. Nurse!” Hammond exclaimed.
“Yes, Mr. Hammond. What can I do for you?”
“I have to see it completed,” his voice trailed off. The nurse looked at him confused.
“My world! My dream. My, Petticoat Lane.”
