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  INTO THE

  FLASHBACK

  Being the Collected Tales of the

  Flashback/Dinosaur Apocalypse,

  Volume One

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  by | Wayne Kyle Spitzer

  IN THE SEASON OF KILLING BOLTS

  And the Flashback continues ...

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  by

  Wayne Kyle Spitzer

  Copyright © 1993-2022 Wayne Kyle Spitzer. All Rights Reserved. Published by Hobb’s End Books, a division of ACME Sprockets & Visions. Cover design Copyright © 2022 Wayne Kyle Spitzer. Please direct all inquiries to: [email protected]

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this book is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Contents

  IN THE SEASON OF KILLING BOLTS

  SUN-DOGS

  FLASHBACK

  AND LET LOOSE THE BEASTS OF PREY

  A REIGN OF THUNDER

  THUNDER LIZARD ROAD

  RAPTORS ON A PLANE

  THE PRIMEVAL WORLD

  IN THE SEASON OF KILLING BOLTS (2022)

  “Good morning, Sandy Chain Peninsula, and it’s Thursday once again—Thursday the 25th of November, in case you were wondering—one day closer to Friday; and this is your Morning Catch of news, weather, and interviews—not to mention great music—with me, Mollie Vaughan. Now, as we all know, yesterday was a real Debbie-downer: gray, chill, and damp. The good news is that today is looking better—with a high of 72 and winds south at 5 to 10 mph, with a low around 55. And, while the sun may give way to rain this afternoon—with a 20 percent chance of precipitation—winds are expected to remain calm, at around 9 mph. All of which is my way of saying that what I hope to do today through the magic of radio is to lift your hearts, your moods, and your limbs—is that asking too much at 6:01 am? I guess we’ll find out as we anticipate our main event: an exclusive, in-studio interview with Deputy Bennet Firth—19-year veteran of the Sandy Chain Police Department and winner of the 2017 Mayor’s Choice Award—that you’re not going to want to miss. It's all coming up at the bottom of the hour; but first, the news ...”

  I looked at Bennet and he looked back, coolly, nonchalantly. “What? It’s not like it’s a big deal, you know. I mean—Jesus. You’d think the town has never called on me before.”

  I glanced at his badge, which had been buffed to a spirited shine, and his pressed Khakis; at his glossy black belt and shoes. “Oh, I just thought you might be anxious, that’s all. I reckon I should have known.”

  I returned my attention to the clipboard, which I’d braced against the wheel. “I’m sure Mollie will ensure everything goes to spec. I mean, she runs a tight ship, Mollie. A tight, fine—”

  “Look, I don’t want to hear about her tight, fine ship, all right?” He glanced at the roses on the dash—a subtle accusation. “I just want to get through this. And—and to assure Sandy Chain we’re on duty. Both of us. Still.”

  By which he meant to say: Because some of us have remained focused—know what I mean, ‘Chief?’ On the needs of the community, on good, old-fashioned police-work. On our duty, if you don’t mind; and on service, not grieving endlessly, endlessly—or worse, acting like teenagers. Not dwelling on personal matters.

  I finished scribbling in my log. “We’re here,” I agreed—and tossed the clipboard onto the dash. “Still. Now let’s get some coffee ... and you to the station.”

  And then I started the patrol truck and put it in gear—but paused, distracted, looking at the still-dark horizon, looking beyond the breakers. “There’s no raincloud out there,” I said. “Nothing but clear sky.”

  “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t be so sure,” said Bennet. “Oh, I know, everyone says July, or August, maybe September, but in my experience, it’s November. November’s the season—the season of killing bolts. You just mark my words.”

  And I did—mark his words, that is. Marked them and filed them away: under hyperbole. Under ‘how to speak with grandiloquence.’ Under Shit My Deputy Says.

  I had to hand it to her, I thought, even as we entered Carmichael’s and Cecilia rushed to turn down the radio; she (Mollie) knew how to sound objective even when reporting on things I knew pissed her off: “... America’s allies are calling to congratulate President-elect Jon Brady even as President Tucker refuses to concede the election; among them President Emmanuel Macron of France and Prime Minister Boris Johnson of the United Kingdom. Tucker meanwhile has not publicly conceded and continues to make claims of election rigging and voter fraud ...”

  “Cecilia; I don’t know how you even hear them bells with such an infernal racket going on.” I motioned for her to remain seated even as we made our way toward the coffee urns. “Nah, nah. You just sit right down there and give little Archie a chance to breathe, you hear?”

  She blushed and dropped a hand to her bump, which was more of a basketball. “Little Archie—” And she tittered. “Not X Æ A-Xii—like Steve Dannon and Sharona?”

  “The rich can afford to be weird,” said Bennet. He took a Styrofoam cup and began to fill it. “Like that Hugo Eagleton—the guy who wrote The Sleeping City, or whatever. Named his kid ‘Rocket.’ I mean, can you imagine? A kid named ‘Rocket?’” He snickered through his nose. “Going to have to teach that kid how to fight; that’s all I have to say.”

  I filled my own cup and went to the counter, took out my debit card. “Oh, I don’t know. I kind of like it. It’s got—how do you say it? Gravitas.” I looked at Cecilia. “I’ve got these, darling. Can’t have Bennet paying for his own coffee, not today; he’s the man of the moment!”

  Bennet just shrugged. “It’s nothing, really. Little PR for the Department.” He lifted his chin and squared his shoulders. “People see things like the race riots in Seattle and, well, they get scared—that’s all. Just need to know there’s a firm hand at the wheel.”

  Cecilia nodded slowly, tentatively. “So are you ... going to be on television? Or on the radio?”

  “Oh, radio; radio. KEXM, right next door. You’ll—you’ll be able to hear the whole thing.” He hitched up his Khakis briskly. “Yeah, just something a lawman has to do ... I mean, now and again. Touch base with his public. Let ‘em know he’s on the beat.” He laughed a little. “After all, we work for you, right? I mean, it sure isn’t the reverse. I can tell you that.”

  “Speaking of which,” I indicated the clock on the wall. “Isn’t it about that time?”

  “Is it?” Bennet looked at the big IBM. “Well—so it is.” And to Cecilia: “Well. Reckon that’s why I don’t currently have a lady friend. Married to duty, as they say.”

  “Aww. Well, break a leg,” she said.

  “Yep ...” He exhaled loudly. “My lady is Sandy Chain.”

  “Bennet.”

  And we went—as Cecilia refused to run my card (as usual) and the radio blared (with Mollie t
alking about a bold new era in human achievement and the imminent return of Steve Dannon’s Daedalus Seven spacecraft) and the door chimed and the wind—which had picked up markedly, alarmingly, inexplicably—met our faces.

  “Chief Townsend! Hey, wait!”

  I turned to see Vicki from Blevins Pharmacy rushing up the sidewalk.

  “Am I glad to see you!” She paused to catch her breath, the hair whipping and lashing her face—before extending a white bag. “Tell me you’ll deliver this to Wilber Cole—out in Mirabeau Park—like, yesterday, please? Before he eats anything?”

  I took the bag and looked at her. “Now you know that when you ask like that I can’t help but to comply.” I peeked inside the sack. “I’m not even going to ask.”

  “One in the morning—before breakfast, and one at night, just before dinner.” She jumped as a garbage can toppled and papers cycloned. “Before meals, okay? Don’t forget.”

  “It’ll be done—I was going out there anyway. Go on, git.”

  She paused, looking suddenly abashed. “Oh, Chief—”

  “It’s all right,” I watched as the power lines began to waver—ominously, precariously. “Vicki, don’t make me—”

  And she went; as Bennet and I crossed the street to the station and went up to its double doors—where he paused, abruptly. “Look, Archie. Maybe we should—”

  “Aw, no. I won’t hear of it. Now you’ve been looking forward to this all week. So just go in there and knock ‘em dead—and I’ll see you on the other side.”

  “Aw, Arch, but what if—”

  “No, no. Everything out here is gonna to be fine.” I nodded once, twice. “Go on. Make us proud.”

  He moved to go in but hesitated. “You don’t even have your service revolver; now when are you going to get back on the horse, anyway? I mean, I’m sorry, Arch, but someone has to say it. It’s time for you to snap out of it.”

  I scanned the trees, which were leaning in the wind, and the brownstone buildings, whose screens rattled. “Just a storm. Don’t need a revolver for that.”

  “Yeah, well. You’d think better if, say, the Dusty Moths—”

  “Who aren’t going to be riding around in a storm; I can guarantee it. Now go on.”

  And he went on, shaking his balding head, which shined like his badge, slamming the door behind him—after which I heard a rap on the glass above and looked up; saw Mollie holding a sign against one of the second-story windows, a sign which read, simply: NIGHTCAP AT MIDNIGHT JOE’S?

  At which I just smiled and gave her a thumbs up.

  “Yeah, well, sure, I try to stay sharp. And that means a lot of time at the range—lot of time sighting paper targets. (laughter) I mean, I’m no Jingo Williams—you ever seen him? Jingo Williams? On TV, I mean? Him and that Oriental gal? Amazing. Amazing shootist. I saw him do a trick once where he—”

  I switched off the ignition and sighed, rubbed the bridge of my nose. ‘Oriental.’ I got out and shut the door.

  Oreo was already there, barking and slavering, his white paws on the fence. Greeting me as he greeted everyone, with a hail of yaps and spit.

  I shook him by a jowl. “Whoos a good boy? Whoos a good boy?”

  “Not that dog,” snapped Wilber, drawing my attention (to the porch, yes, but also to the fact that he was wearing nothing but saggy undershorts and a wifebeater). “Not one little bit. Bugger chewed up my lawn gnome. Just chewed it to pieces. Ate its head off! I mean, look at it.”

  I looked to where he’d indicated; saw a plastic lawn gnome with—sure enough—its head chewed off. “Aw, no.” I clicked my heals, saluted smartly. “Wilber. For him the war is over.”

  Wilber just looked at me. “You, ah, you out here on business, Chief? Or are you just out here to be cute?”

  “Actually, Wilber,” I walked toward him and handed him the bag, which crinkled. “I’m here to tell you to take your medicine. Two a day: One before breakfast—one before dinner. Call Vicki with any questions.”

  He stared at the bag, irritably, contemptuously. “Will it help me sleep?”

  “Call Vicki with any questions.”

  “Hmpf.” And he went back inside.

  “You’re welcome,” I said; even as the wind blew and the screen door banged.

  And then I looked across the street. At the long, open, swaying gate and the hideous, black, gothic-style arch. At Sandy Chain Community Cemetery with its towering cyclone fences and tombstones like ruined teeth; its brown, semi-frozen lawns; its crypts and sepulchers full of nothing.

  Bennet continued as I laid the roses (I’d parked next to her section with the engine running and the door hanging open): “Vacation? (laughter in the studio) No, no, not this Deputy. I mean, what would I do? Yeah, yeah; I know: Go to Bluebeard’s Cove, right? Or Devil’s Gorge. Go bet on the races at Checkered Flags. Well, that’s fine, I suppose—if you’re a civilian. If you’re not a lawman. But I am lawman, see, and—”

  I stood, staring at the marker, staring at the inscription.

  “—an oath of service, a promise to protect. And that promise comes before anything; even, I dare say, family—"

  I watched as rain began to spot the granite; to stain the marker in ever-increasing blotches— darkening the ‘C’ in Cynthia, punctuating the still-fresh epigraph.

  “—well, that’s true, I don’t. I don’t. I mean, unless you count Barney; that, he’s my dog. Norwegian Elkhound. (proud chuckling) That’s the national dog of Norway—”

  I stared at the marker.

  Were you really so unhappy—so lost? So alone? Was it really so hopeless—and did you hate me so much—that you would use a piece of me—a piece of my work—to at last finish what the pills and alcohol couldn’t? Had I abandoned you to that extent, my love? And did any of it—any of it—ever really happen?

  I looked at the granite and the semi-frozen grass—the insufficient inscription, the red, wet roses in cellophane.

  Where are you, my love, and just as importantly, where am I? Because I no longer care about what I cared about—and so fiercely! while you were here; by which I mean, what I took from you and gave to Sandy Chain, what I thought was my duty but was in fact only selfishness.

  I looked up, the rain spotting my eyes, to find the clouds virtually racing.

  Where are you, and just as importantly, where am I?

  And then I turned toward the west, toward the sea—I’m still not sure why; and became, in that very instant, a kind of statue, a kind of oak. Then I saw the Anomaly for the very first time (that churning, boiling stormfront; that amorphous Man o’ War spreading, ink-like, across the sky), and, unable to comprehend what I was seeing, just stood there, frozen, like I’d looked on Medusa herself. Like I’d become Irit; the Lady of Gomorrah—and prideful spouse to Lot—after she’d been turned into a pillar of salt.

  “Looks like a mushroom cloud–only, like, horizontal.”

  I confess I jumped, and that my hand dropped to my weapon—had I carried one. “Donovan. Now how many times have I told you not to cut through the cemetery?”

  “Ah, Chief, but then I’ve got to go all the way around. And there’s a mean dog on Oberlin; you know that. Besides,” He stepped up next to me and gazed at the cloud. “You don’t really mean to tell me you care about that when there’s, well, that. Am I right?”

  I peered at the cloud: at its curtains of rain and lightning—like the tendrils of a jellyfish—at its billowing cumulonimbus, which flickered and flashed.

  “What is that?” I mumbled. “Is that, is that lightning up there, or something?”

  I guess he must have followed my gaze. “Up there? Near the top? No—no, I don’t think so. More like—more like balloon beacons, or aircraft. Their wing lights, maybe—glowing in the gloom. Those colors, though. They don’t—they don’t look right. Almost like—”

  “That’s because you’ve never seen them,” I said, and toggled my radio. “No one has. K-94, this is the Chief. Do you copy?”

  But there was
nothing—only static. Only white noise. I listened for the truck’s radio: nothing. Just dead air. Just silence as thunder rumbled and the rain fell and the wind gusted—powerfully. Alarmingly.

  “K-94, this is the Chief—do you copy?”

  More static, more noise. I looked at the fast-approaching cloud.

  “Donovan,” I said.

  “Yeah, Chief?”

  “Don’t cut through the cemetery.”

  And then I hustled for the truck and quickly climbed in—jammed it into gear, activated the light bar. Then I was driving out of the cemetery at a dizzying clip; reaching for my cellphone even as it started ringing and ringing; glancing at the shotgun as it lay—bleakly, funereally, like a coffin—between the seats.

  “What do you mean, gone?” The wipers went squirk, squirk, squirk. “She’s probably in the restroom, Hank.” I cradled the cellphone as I drove. “I mean, she is pregnant. Jesus. Give her a minute.”

  “I’ve given her about 20 minutes—and I’m telling you, she’s not here. Now are you coming to check it out, or what?”

  “Look, my phone’s been ringing since I left Mirabeau; okay? Just hold on. I’m turning onto Main now.”

  I turned the corner even as a tangle of powerlines cascaded onto the street—spitting sparks, sniping like snakes. “And tell Clayton we’ve got lines down; front of the pharmacy—Oliver and Maine.” I maneuvered around the lines and accelerated. “Tell ‘em to hustle.”

  And then I was pulling up to Carmichael’s and ratcheting the break; piling out of the cab even as Hank met me out front and I blew right past him—thankful the place had power, making a beeline for the restroom. Then I was rapping on its thin door even as Hank crowded me from behind and rain pounded the roof.

  “Cecilia! Hey! You all right?” I rattled the door handle furiously—locked, of course. “Cecilia! Now, listen, you’re going to have to say something, darlin’, or we’re just going to have to kick this here door right in; ya understand?”

  I leaned closer as something seemed to shift; to move—as clothing ruffled and rain trickled. “Cecilia?”