Impossible. That was the first thought Robert Muldoon had when he slowly opened his eyes. How was it that he wasn't dead? That raptor should've ripped him to shreds. For a moment he thought his vision was failing him, but no, it was just falling darkness, he must've lain here for hours. Priorities. Having no way to know where the raptors were, he tried to forget them and assess his wounds. If they wanted him dead, he would be. With difficultly, fighting pain, he managed to pull himself into a sitting position. His left shoulder was the worst. The big one had savaged him fairly well, deep tears marred his flesh, limiting his movement, though whether that was due to damage, or just the initial pain, only time would tell.

He'd been seriously scratched by a lion once, and he knew now that's all it had been, a scratch; the felines claws were toys compared to these raptor weapons. His gut had several puncture wounds from her talons, his life slowly leaking out of them. Perhaps it was best not to study the damage too closely until he had a chance of fixing it.

One thing was for certain, sitting here in the jungle wasn't going to help. He needed to get up, needed to move, find his way back to the emergency bunker. He had no idea where the raptors were but he couldn't stay here. If they didn't kill him blood loss quite possibly would. Muldoon hauled himself up onto torn and bloody legs. He needed medical supplies if he had any chance of surviving. He needed to clean and bind his wounds, he might even luck out and find some antibiotics. And maybe other survivors. Dr Sattler had made a run for the maintenance shed, perhaps she'd made it. And there was no reason why Hammond and Malcolm shouldn't still be safe in the bunker.

He located his weapon, which thankfully was still in working order, and focused on the task at hand. He raised his SPAS-12, testing his shoulder. His aim was unsteady at best, it was a good thing dinosaurs were big. Muldoon wasted no more time, heading for the door he and Dr Sattler had used earlier. The weapon was a familiar comfort, not a failsafe, so he moved as quickly as he could, scanning ahead as far as his vision would allow in the fading light. His aching legs carried him into the building and he bolted the door behind him, resisting the urge to sink down and rest. Rest would come when he reached the supply room. Weak and aching and dizzy he made his way further into the building, realising that Dr Sattler must've at least made it as far as the switch because the lights were on. He found the bunker room he'd left Hammond and Malcolm in but there was no sign of them. The room was as he'd left it, no signs of disturbance beyond the makeshift hospital for Malcolm. The old man and the injured scientist had left of their own free will. He trusted that they were safe, beyond that there was nothing he could do for them until he'd tended to his own wounds, he was of no use to anyone in his current state.

He'd been instrumental in establishing the safety practices of Jurassic Park. The emergency bunkers were a suggestion he was now very glad Hammond had listened to. Muldoon knew what was stocked here and where to find it, so he set about gathering all the supplies he suspected he'd need. Gauze, bandages, butterfly stitches, saline solution, antiseptic wipes, tape and even antibiotic ointment. He placed all the supplies on the table in front of him and now came the moment of truth. Gingerly he peeled his shirt off, the cloth sticking to his bloody wounds and stinging as he pulled it away. On his stomach he found three puncture wounds, one not much more than a scratch, but two were nasty, where she'd driven her talons deep into his flesh. If there were internal injuries, there was nothing he could do about them, so he washed and dressed what he could see of the damage and hoped he'd find a way off the island before he bled out or turned septic. It was a difficult process, made harder by the hampered function of his left arm. His abdomen was crisscrossed with more superficial scratches, which he cleaned and gave up trying to dress individually, settling instead for wrapping his entire midsection in bandage. His shoulder was another story. The raptor had clamped her jaws over it, teeth sinking deep into muscle, scraping bone, it was a mess. He cleaned it as best he could, blood still flowing steadily from the tooth holes, and packed it with gauze to stem the flow. It was tedious with one hand, but eventually he managed to wrap and tape it to his satisfaction. Years in Kenya had made him a fairly competent bush doctor, he couldn't guarantee his work would heal pretty but he was reasonably confident he would survive. His arms and legs were cut and grazed, but he merely doused them in antiseptic, not bothering to dress them. If he was lucky smelling like a hospital might deter any hungry dinosaurs.

Muldoon pulled the tattered remains of his shirt back on, another layer over his injuries preferable at the moment, unsure as he was about how and where he was going to escape this failed experiment. He checked his weapon and helped himself to some extra rounds, and a torch.

There was no point in staying put. Finding his own way off the island was his best chance of survival and time he knew was of the essence. Any mode of transport left would not be back once it had departed. He'd do a quick sweep of this building and the visitors centre, unable to ignore that there might be other survivors, and then he'd grab a jeep and head for the dock.

AN: My knowledge of Jurassic Park is pretty much limited to the first movie. I haven't read the book, so anything about Muldoon's back story in this fic is just made up by me. I have no idea if it fits in with cannon or not. Anyway, thanks for reading.