I didn't sleep. This will be my last entry. I'm leaving in a few hours. I keep hearing things. I think the raptors are in the building. They're not here yet. I have the things I'm taking packed into a bag and my vest. My last two granola bars, just enough water to not weigh me down. Another spear I made.
I also have a collection of photographs that I'm taking with me. I've been sort of idlylly picking them up as I found them without really thinking about it. They're all just of regular people. Moms and husbands and dogs and kids. SometimesI think I've been squirrelling them away because I wanted to take them with me when I escaped. When someone came and rescued me. No one is coming to rescue me. I've taken the photographs and folded and tucked them all into Eli's empty pack of cigarettes and put them in my back pack. I am going to rescue them. Me and those photographs are going to leave this building, and god-willing, this island.
I don't know how I'll be able to get through the jungle and off this rock, but I can't think about that. I refuse to die here, that is all.
I hear sounds in the vents. I'm sure I can hear the grunts and clicks of raptors echoing from somewhere in the building. I've spent the night tying a makeshift rope from my clothes and some bits of cloth I found. I will wait until I know the raptors are on my floor, and then I'm going to escape the building from the roof. My hope is that if enough of them have found their way into the control center they won't notice me slip up and over the side. I believe I can get to the roof from here without them cutting me off.
Right before writing this, the faintest of chatter came over the radio (which surprisingly still has emergency power.) Just a flicker of a human voice, language and words indistinguishable. I tried to hail them, but of course it was no use. I said to goodbye to them nonetheless. It felt good to tell someone goodbye.
I've jammed the sharpest debris I could find into all of the command room vents. I smashed a monitor from one of the dead terminals to get glass shards, but it exploded in shower of sparks and nearly shocked the hell out of me, so I'm not doing that anymore. I'm sure I can hear dinos in the floors beneath me. It's so quiet now. I thought it was quiet in here before the virus, but I was wrong. Maybe I should scream for them. Maybe I'll light a fire and burn this whole place down. Maybe I should stop waiting and do something. It seems about time.
Part me hopes someone finds this computer terminal, finds this journal I've been writing. I know that won't happen, but part of me thinks it'd be nice for someone to read this. To know this. But the better part of me wants no one to ever set foot on this wretched island again. My story isn't worth this place being remembered.
If you are reading this, I take pity on you. May both of us make it off the island alive.