But my pterodactyl has picked off nearly half of the remaining humans on the island. It swoops low and does the same for all: silent, as it flies by, it picks them up with no effort as if they are a worm and it is a crow.
The blood starts to seep as my pterodactyl sinks its strong, sharp talons into them. Their death is one of simplicity, yet they are the ones who have radiated the most fear of all deaths. Is it the shock of waking to find yourself in the grasp of an extinct animal? Or simply the pain they feel?
I sigh and sit, crossing off the names of the dead.
I hope the remaining six can do a better job at staying alive . . .