15-Alone

Adán awoke with a sharp breath that rattled in his chest. For a long moment, he didn’t move. His ears rang. His head felt like it had been split open and filled with fog, and his body pulsed with pain from somewhere deep beneath the skin. Everything ached.

A warm, wet sensation on his temple pulled him from the haze. He blinked, vision blurred, and turned slightly. A small, green creature—no larger than a chicken—stood beside his head, its slender tongue lapping at the blood that had trickled down his face. A Compsognathus. Adán's brow furrowed. It tilted its head at him, curious, unafraid. Instinct took over.

“Quítate,” he rasped, swatting at it weakly. The compy chirped and darted back into the undergrowth.

He sat up slowly, groaning through clenched teeth. His vest had taken most of the impact when the Carnotaurus’s tail had launched him against the tree, but it hadn’t spared him completely. His back throbbed, a deep, bruised ache. His right shoulder was stiff. His lip was split. Dried blood crusted one eyebrow. His radio lay beside him, cracked in half. Useless.

The jungle around him was quiet save for the soft drip of water from the leaves. The storm had passed, leaving the world soaked and steaming. Twilight had settled in. Long shadows stretched across the jungle floor, and the air was thick with the scent of mud and vegetation. The Carnotaurus was gone. So was Tade.

Adán looked up at the branch where the body had been. Nothing. No blood. No remnants. It had taken the corpse with it.

He dragged himself to his feet with a grunt, swaying slightly. Nothing felt broken, but he was battered and slow. His GPS screen was a spiderweb of cracks. Broken. Of course. But he’d memorized enough of the map to have a general idea of where the maintenance building was. West. Follow the slope of the terrain, keep the ridgeline to his right.

He limped through the undergrowth, each step pulling sharp breaths from him. The jungle floor was slick. Mud tried to steal his boots. Vines tugged at his arms and legs. Mosquitoes buzzed in clouds. Time passed in a slow, painful crawl. The jungle grew darker with every hour.

Twice, he had to stop and lean against a tree, nausea threatening to overwhelm him. The pain in his side made it hard to breathe. He felt hot and cold in waves, his clothes soaked with rain and sweat.

But he didn’t stop.

Finally, just before night completely fell, he stumbled into a clearing and saw the outline of the building.

The maintenance shack. Salvation.

He approached cautiously. He didn’t want to call out—not without knowing what was nearby. He crept around the back, where his boots splashed softly in the puddles left by the storm. That’s when he saw it: a small, partially open garage door tucked behind a thicket of brush. They hadn’t noticed it before. He didn’t open it yet. First things first.

He reached the side door of the building and pushed it open. Inside, the air was stale and humid, but familiar. No voices. No signs of movement. A few scattered items lay about—his backpack, wrappers, a canteen. They’d moved on.

His stomach growled so loud it startled him.

He dropped to his knees and tore into the bag. MREs. Two of them. He fumbled with the packaging, hands trembling. Chicken pesto. He would’ve eaten dog food. He devoured it, barely chewing. Water followed. Then another. His body screamed in gratitude.

After eating, he moved to the corner where they had left a few supplies. He found a medkit and peeled back the vest and shirt to check his injuries. Ugly bruises stretched along his side, angry purple blotches with a sickly green hue. He cleaned the gash on his forehead and applied a makeshift bandage. Painkillers dulled the edge of it all.

When he finished, he leaned against the wall, breathing slowly. His eyelids grew heavy. The storm had taken everything from him—but at least he was alive. He slid down to the floor, pulling off his damp jacket.

Before sleep took him, Adán’s gaze drifted to a side panel mounted near the far wall. Curious, he dragged himself to his feet and stumbled toward it. It looked like a junction box—possibly the building’s internal power grid. He opened it and stared.

Four heavy batteries sat lined up inside, thick wires webbing between them. Three of them were dark—completely drained. The fourth blinked weakly with a red LED: 23%.

Adán exhaled, almost a laugh. So that’s what had been keeping the emergency lights going. Barely. And it wouldn’t last forever.

He closed the panel carefully. Just one more reminder that time was running out—for all of them.

He passed out with the faint hum of that one flickering battery in his ears.

—

Dawn crept into the sky, weak and gray. Adán stirred awake slowly, sore and groggy. The building smelled of wet concrete and stale air. His stomach felt steadier, and his head clearer. He stood up, joints popping in protest, and moved to the back door.

It was time to check the garage.

The old door groaned as he lifted it fully. Inside, dim light filtered through narrow windows caked with grime. The space was cramped, packed with old tools, shelves of labeled containers, and—

An ATV.

Dust-covered. Slightly rusted. But intact.

Adán’s lips curled into a grin despite the pain. He limped toward it, brushing off years of dust with his sleeve. The tires were soft but not flat. A gas canister sat on a shelf nearby. Half-full. Good enough.

He checked the engine—familiar mechanics under layers of grime. The ignition switch was worn but unbroken. If he could get it running, he might be able to catch up with the others.