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Wayne Kyle Spitzer

“Drop ‘em, now!” came a voice, even as we spun in its direction and raised our weapons—and quickly realized there was nothing to shoot at. Nothing visible, at any rate. What there was, however, were tiny red dots—on our foreheads, over our hearts.

“You see them. Good,” said the voice, just as cool as iced tea—the perfect accompaniment to the clatter of shifting firearms. “And now you’re going to bend down … slowly … and lay all your weapons at your feet. All right? Nooo one has to get hurt. Just do as I say … and then we can have a nice conversation. About who you are, for example. And where you’re from. And what you’re doing being dropped off by a helicopter in the middle of disputed territory. Our territory. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said, and nodded at the others—and at Lazaro twice; we’d been in this situation before and he always wanted to play chicken.

Slowly everyone did it—the red dots never wavering, the rain starting to rattle against the gate.

“Is that a weed wacker?” said the voice, and was followed by laughter. “Damn.”

I heard the tapping of what turned out to be an axe head against concrete before I realized he’d stepped into a shaft of gray light. “Don’t let their laughter get to you—people used to laugh at us too.”

We watched, paralyzed, as the bearded silhouette seemed to yawn and stretch. “What can I say? All this rain—it makes me sleepy. I’ll tell you, I could really go for a Flat White about now. Two ristretto espresso shots, some whole milk steamed to perfection, a little ephemeral latte art right in the center. Sounds good, doesn’t it?” He cocked his head in the near perfect silence. “No? What you want then, a bronson? At this hour? A good, earthy black IPA, perhaps? I could go for that. Something with a nice malty backbone—good for the old ticker.” He laughed, seeming to think about it. “I know. Too conventional, right?” He shook his head. “Momma always said: she said, ‘Atticus, all your taste is in your mouth.’”

There was a thin chuckle and a few clanks of the axe. “Kind of mean, don’t you think? Anyway. That’s what she said.”

He began walking toward us—slowly, deliberately—dragging the handle, dragging its blade along the pavement.

“Look,” I said. “We didn’t come here looking for any …”

“Any what?” He stopped about four feet in front of me, close enough at last for us to have a good look at him, and what we saw seemed utterly incongruous with what Roman had told us—except, of course, for the multitude of tattoos (mostly triangles), and even more so the washboarded scar, which ran from somewhere on his scalp and through an eye (over which one lens of his dark, plastic-framed glasses had been painted black) clear to his left shoulder. That much, at least, fit. What didn’t fit was the slicked-back pompadour and long, full, meticulously-trimmed beard—Jesus, there was even product in it—nor, for that matter, the flannel lumberjack shirt and skinny jeans, not to mention the Converse sneakers. What didn’t fit, as the similarly attired men holding laser-guided rifles emerged from behind overgrown automobiles and support columns, was that the feared and formidable Skidders were, when exposed to the light of day (and not to put too fine a point on it), hipsters.

“Well doesn’t this just take the cake,” said Lazaro, and spit.

Hobb's End Books

A Survivor's Guide to the Dinosaur Apocalypse

A Survivor's Guide to the Dinosaur Apocalypse: Episode One: "Urban Decay"

Scenes and Interludes ... from an Improbable End | A new series in the Flashback/Dinosaur Apocalypse Universe

 

 I looked to see Nigel and Ewan entering the shop from the left, the latter seeming like an utterly new man—his hair no longer mussed; his clothes no longer a catastrophic mess.

 

“Apologies, apologies, a thousand apologies,” he said, before pausing to admire Gargantua. “But a maiden voyage such as this requires a fresh change of clothes.” He looked on a moment longer and then dropped to one knee—began ruffling through his over-packed bags. “Ah, yes, here it is. It’s—I opened it with Nigel.” He withdrew a corked bottle—which glinted darkly in the light from a high window. “Voila! One of eight bottles of Dom Perignon Rose champagne, Vintage 1959, served in Persepolis in 1971 by the then-Shaw of Iran.”

 

He looked at us with a face flushed with excitement, and we looked back.

 

“To—to celebrate the 2500th anniversary of the founding of the Persian Empire ... by Cyrus the Great.” Disappointment stole over his face like a shadow. “It’s—it’s to break over the bow, as it were. To christen Gargantua.” Nobody said anything. “Yeah—well. Waste of liquor, anyway. Especially when I’ve got so much celebrating to do. I’ll, ah—I’ll just get the door. Over there.”

 

He moved up the ramp toward the garage door.

 

That’s when I thought of Lazaro’s admonition, I don’t know why: You heard Roman—carnotauruses, heading this way.

 

“Wait, Ewan,” I said.

 

But he was already there, triggering the great door with his fist, turning to look at us as it rattled upward, pulling the cork from the champagne. “Life is for the living,” he said, and toasted us with the bottle. “And this stuff …” He poured champagne into his mouth and down the sides, soaking his clean, white shirt, splattering the floor with foam. “This is for howl—”

 

But then the door was open and they were there, the carnotauruses, and one closed its jaws about his scalp while another laid wide his abdomen (and another took up his legs) so that, howling, he was opened like a pizza being groped by eager hands. And then they themselves howled and piled over his body, and all we could do was to run—everyone save Nigel, who had his trimmer, which he started with a sputter—because our weapons were already in the rover.

A Survivor's Guide to the Dinosaur Apocalypse: Episode Two: "Howl"

Scenes & Interludes ... from an Improbable End. A new series in the Flashback/Dinosaur Apocalypse Universe ...

 

Atticus, meanwhile, had been counting down. “Three … two … one.” He sighed and lowered the megaphone—then lifted it to his mouth again. “The problem with you, Jaime, is that you just—don’t—listen. Now I just explained to you what was going to happen if I reached ‘one’ and you hadn’t come out, and goddamned if you didn’t come out. So. What’s going to happen now is that we’re going to kill one of these people for every 30 seconds you remain inside the vehicle—starting immediately.” He directed the bullhorn at the upper floors of one of the buildings. “Hershel? You awake up there?”

 

“Get ready,” I said.

 

“I’m awake,” came a voice, though it was impossible to tell exactly where from.

 

“Fine,” said Atticus. “Hershel, in 30 seconds, I want you to place your site on the head of … that little girl, right there.” He gestured at a storefront on our right side—Simply Seattle. “Green coat, last one on the end, right next to the display window. Copy that there, Chief?”

 

The man didn’t hesitate. “Twenty-nine! 28! 27 …”

 

I toggled the loudspeaker myself. “We’re coming out,” I said, suddenly, and glanced at Sam. “We’re trying to figure out how.”

 

There was a silence as Atticus seemed to think about this.

 

At last he said, “Well, how complicated could it be? Just open the door. Hershel, keep counting ...”

 

“Twenty-three, 22, 21 …”

 

“It’s not that simple,” I hurried to say, “It’s, like, pressurized or something.” To the others I said, “On my mark, okay? Get ready.”

 

“We’re at 18 seconds and counting, James,” said Atticus. “Best clean your glasses and get with it.”

 

“Seventeen, 16, 15 …”

 

“Okay! Okay. We’re depressurizing. Right … now.”

 

And then Sam was toggling the smoke as I gripped the joystick tightly and Nigel took over the loudspeaker and Lazaro opened the side door, after which we cursed loudly and bent to our tasks, and, together, threw wide the gates of Hell.

 

 

 

The Flashback/Dinosaur

Apocalypse Cycle

 

 

 Flashback

(re-printed in Dinosaur Apocalypse)

 

 

Flashback Dawn

(re-printed in Dinosaur Apocalypse)

 

 

Tales from the Flashback

(re-printed as Dinosaur Rampage)

 

 

Flashback Twilight

(serialized as A Dinosaur is a Man’s Best Friend;

re-printed as The Complete Ank & Williams,

Dinosaur War, Paladins)

 

 

A Reign of Thunder

(serialized as Heat Wave)

 

 

A Survivor’s Guide to the

Dinosaur Apocalypse

A Survivor's Guide to the Dinosaur Apocalypse: Episode Three: "Ride"

Scenes & Interludes ... From an Improbable End | A New Series in the Flashback Universe ...

 

“I’m not a killer, if that’s what you mean,” he retorted, then turned away and watched the fire, hands on his hips. “Nor will I let any of us be. I mean, if I’ve said it once I’ll say it again: this isn’t about bloodshed. It’s not even about rebellion. It’s more about …” He paused—as though saying anything else could only lead to regret.

“I thought it was about nothing,” said Fiona, softly. “That that was its beauty—it was wildness for the sake of wildness. Passion for the sake of passion. Isn’t that what you said?” She laughed with surprising bitterness. “Different context, I guess.”

“It was about filling the nothing,” he said, still facing away. “And letting go. Until … But then—you haven’t had to think about any of that … have you? No one’s made you king.”

“And cue the Messiah Complex,” fumed Fiona, which I took as my cue to leave; to give them space—to let them hash it out, whatever it was—after which I wandered over to one of the kegs and filled a cup, reckoning that next to a roaring fire wasn’t the best place to keep beer—because it tasted like piss, literally. Nor did I stop at one but downed three in rapid succession, wondering what Calvin had meant by ‘filling the nothing’ and ‘letting go,’ and about being king—not to mention starting a sentence with ‘until’ … but never finishing it.

And I guess I must have stood there for a while, because I distinctly recall watching the same group of teens—their arms laden with destruction—moving back and forth between the fire and the White House—the fucking White House!—to the point that I began feeling shitty about what we’d done; and even a little sick to my stomach. But then Fiona returned jingling Calvin’s keys and we were firing up his Mustang convertible, and the next thing I remember she was piloting us down 14th Street NW past buildings with Doric columns (now choked in prehistoric ivy) and a pair of grazing stegosaurs and at least one giant millipede; all the way to Constitution Avenue and the National Museum; which I took special note of only because I was trying not to look at her body—something she noticed, I’m sure, but didn’t seem to mind—because she just glanced at me beneath the blood red sky and smiled—toothily. Carnivorously.

The Flashback/Dinosaur Apocalypse Cycle

Flashback (re-printed in Dinosaur Apocalypse)

Flashback Dawn (re-printed in Dinosaur Apocalypse)

Tales from the Flashback (re-printed as Dinosaur Rampage)

Flashback Twilight (serialized as A Dinosaur is a Man’s Best Friend; re-printed as The Complete Ank & Williams, Dinosaur War, Paladins)

A Reign of Thunder (serialized as Heat Wave)

A Survivor’s Guide to the Dinosaur Apocalypse

A Survivor's Guide to the Dinosaur Apocalypse: Episode Four: "Burn"

“You’re a real asshole, Satanta. Just so we’re clear.”

I turned around and looked up, shielding my eyes from the sun, and saw her glaring at me from Blucifer’s saddle (to which I’d bound her with zip ties), before jerking the rein, tugging them after me.

“And here I thought you were different—if only for a minute,” she continued. “Boy, was I wrong!”

“And I thought you were—how did you say it? On a speech strike,” I said.

“I am,” she snapped. “I just needed to say that one thing. Again.”

We clip-clopped up S. Las Vegas Blvd, past the fairgrounds and a gaudy strip mall called the Bonanza, saying nothing, during which I found myself gazing at the sky lights—our ubiquitous friends since the Flashback—and noting how angry they seemed today, how inflamed; and noting, too, that Kesabe had not circled back in some time (for it was his tradition to run far ahead), a fact which was beginning to trouble me.

A Survivor's Guide to the Dinosaur Apocalypse: Episode Five: "Elegy"

Scenes & Interludes ... From an Improbable End | A New Series in the Flashback Universe ...

 

“And here they go! They’re on their way down the stretch. The break was good; every animal got a clean shot out of the gate. And as they come down here to the eighth pole, it is Mesozoic Nights and Caligula …”

I peered at the announcer’s booth, wondering once again what they were using for power, and so much of it—the stadium lights alone would have overwhelmed most generators. But then Maria nudged me and I focused on the action—seeing, to my horror, that Bromtide had already fallen behind; Bromtide, whom we had unanimously voted to support.

“Caligula is trying to force his way to the front and doing a good job of it as they pass the stands. Here on the outside comes Lovely Bones, in a good position. And as they go by me it is Caligula on the lead by one length. Caligula has the lead and then comes Mesozoic Nights in second place right along beside him. Going into the first turn is Caligula by a length. Mesozoic Nights is second and on the outside of him is Lovely Bones. Far back in the crowd, on the inside, in about fourth place, is Bromtide. They’re going into the stretch; they’ve gone about half a mile …”

“Jesus,” I said, even as something like thunder rumbled and a flash of light illuminated the stadium. “What’s wrong with him, you think?”

“Might be the T. rex piss,” said Luther, leaning in, and chuckled. “Had to spray him down with it—otherwise the allos would be all over him. Guess we forgot to tell you that.”

I glared at him before shifting my gaze to Maria and Caleb and finally to De Santo, at the very end, who looked like a kid on Christmas. “Oh, Caligula!” he cried, and clasped his hands above his head. “Beautiful! Beautiful!”

A Survivor's Guide to the Dinosaur Apocalypse, Episode Six:

Welcome to the Big Empty, the world after the Flashback ... a world in which most the population has vanished and where dinosaurs roam freely. You can survive here, if you're lucky, and if you're not in the wrong place at the wrong time--which is everywhere and all the time. But what you'll never do is remain the same--for this is a world whose very purpose is to change you: for better or for worse. So take a deep dive into these loosely connected tales of the Dinosaur Apocalypse (each of which can be read individually or as a part of the greater saga): tales of wonder and terror, death and survival, blood ... and beauty. Do it today ... before the apocalypse comes.

* * *

“You’re a fool, Nick Callahan. A fool. But I suppose you already knew that.”

 

I allowed my hand to drop before plunking down in the fir needles and just staring into space. “There was nothing. I saw nothing. It—it was like he didn’t even exist.”

 

She sat down next to me and exhaled, tiredly.

 

“He’s an animal—what did you expect?” She picked up my glove and offered it to me, but I didn’t take it. “You said it yourself; it’s like they see memories. The eyes. I don’t imagine a dog has a particularly long one. Do you?”

 

 

I sighed. All I knew for certain was that I felt numb and more than a little tired. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I expected. Or what I was looking for. An incident, maybe. Some kind of clue.”

 

She laid her head on my shoulder and stared at nothing, same as me. “What kind? A clue to what?”

 

“That’s just it—I don’t know. A clue to what might wake him up, I guess. Something I could say. Something that was important to him.”

 

“His butt was important to him,” she said. “A source of endless fascination.”

 

I had to smile.

 

That’s when it happened. That’s when he yelped, ever so slightly, and his paw twitched.

 

I looked at Lisa and she looked back. And then my hand was on him and we were running—Puck and I—down cobblestone lanes lined with streetlamps and through pools of foggy light; through tides of rusted Maple leaves, which leapt and swirled as we passed.

 

“What is it?” I heard Lisa say, her voice growing smaller, more distant. “What do you see?”

 

I turned to look at Puck as we ran and saw his tongue loll and his eyes shift—as though he wanted to look behind himself—behind us—but didn’t dare.

 

“Fear,” I said. “Confusion.” An image entered my mind of a dug passage beneath the rear wall of the T.J. Maxx; of the turkey-like thing crawling through it with Puck hot on its heels. “He escaped from beneath the wall and now he’s lost somewhere in the fog. And he’s terrified … but of what I don’t know. It’s almost like—wait a minute. Wait a minute.” I looked behind him—having heard something huffing and snorting—and saw a fully-grown therapod dinosaur (colored orange and black, like a Gila monster) bounding after us in the dark, gaining rapidly. “There’s something coming—some kind of predator. An allosaur, I think. Whatever it is, it’s closing, and I mean fast.”

A Survivor's Guide to the Dinosaur Apocalypse, Episode Seven: "'Dog' is a Palindrome"

Welcome to the Big Empty, the world after the Flashback ... a world in which most the population has vanished and where dinosaurs roam freely. You can survive here, if you're lucky, and if you're not in the wrong place at the wrong time--which is everywhere and all the time. But what you'll never do is remain the same--for this is a world whose very purpose is to change you: for better or for worse. So take a deep dive into these loosely connected tales of the Dinosaur Apocalypse (each of which can be read individually or as a part of the greater saga): tales of wonder and terror, death and survival, blood ... and beauty. Do it today ... before the apocalypse comes.

* * *

I looked at the nearest mount, a triceratops head with a broken horn (and a frightful visage), wondering what the circumstances of its death had been. Had it been charging—with the Flashback in its eyes, perhaps—and thus aware that it had an opponent? Or had it been unaware, just mulling its soft grasses, until the bullet entered its brain?

“No,” I said, finally, turning my attention back to him. “Can’t exactly say as I am. It—it’s never seemed like a fair contest to me.” I jerked my leg against the chain—twice—to make a point. “Does it to you?”

“Pshaw,” he protested. “You speak as if we’re enemies. As though this were some contest between you and I, personally. On the contrary, Mr. Hayes. It’s a collaboration.”

I’m afraid I just stared at him.

At last I said: “Okay—why not. I’ll bite. What are you talking about?”

“I am talking, Mr. Hayes …” He stood and began pacing the length of the table. “—about legend. About myth and memory—and the securing of one’s place in the natural order of things.” He withdrew something from his housecoat as he walked—a pipe; but didn’t light it. “Posterity is what I’m talking about. A place at the table of the gods. That, and endings. Inevitabilities.”

He paused and struck a match. “One last and penultimate hunt.”

He lit the pipe and waved out the match, then turned, slowly, regarding me through a cloud of smoke. “Atatilla, is what I’m talking about. Queen of the Mammoths. The, ah, Leviathan of the Steppes, as they say. I intend to kill her. And you, my lost and wayward friend, are going to help me. By acting as my driver.”

A Survivor's Guide to the Dinosaur Apocalypse, Episode Eight: "The Elephant Slayer"

Welcome to the Big Empty, the world after the Flashback, a world in which most the population has vanished and where dinosaurs roam freely. You can survive here, if you're lucky, and if you're not in the wrong place at the wrong time--which is everywhere and all the time. But what you'll never do is remain the same, for this is a world whose very purpose is to change you: for better or for worse. So take a deep dive into these loosely connected tales of the Dinosaur Apocalypse (each of which can be read individually or as a part of the greater saga): tales of wonder and terror, death and survival, blood and beauty. Do it today, before the apocalypse comes.