Short Story Collections

By July, the body of a second Benton Boy had been discovered—my very own buddy, Colton.They’d found him in a stone quarry about fifteen miles from town—the Eureka Tile Company, as I recall—his limbs broken and bent back on themselves (“like some discarded Raggedy Ann,” wrote the local paper) and his head completely gone—which caused a real sensation amongst the townsfolk as each attempted to solve the riddle and at least one woman reported having seen it: “Just floating down the river, like a pale, blue ball.”But it wasn’t until Rusty was killed that things reached a fever pitch, with Sheriff Donner under attack for failing to solve the case and neighbor turning against neighbor in a kind of collective paranoia—for by this point no one could be trusted, not in such a small town, and the killer or killers might be anyone, even your spouse or best friend.It was against this backdrop that I was able to break from my lawn duties—which had exploded like gangbusters over the summer—long enough to visit the Mosses: which would have been the day before Independence Day, 1979. A Tuesday, as I recall. It’s funny I should remember that. Aaron’s mother was working in her vegetable garden—just bent over her radishes like an emaciated old crone—when I arrived, and didn’t even look up when I asked if Aaron was around. “He’s in his room—done sick with the flu. Best put on a mask before you go.” She added: “You’ll find some in the kitchen.”I think I just looked at her—at her curved spine and thin ankles, her tied up hair which had gone gray as a golem. Then I went into the house and made my way toward Aaron’s room, passing his parents’ quarters—upon which had been hung a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign and a Star of David—on the way. I didn’t bother fetching a mask; I’m not sure why—maybe it was because I was already convinced that whatever Aaron had, I had too. Maybe it was because I was already convinced that by participating in the ritual we’d somehow brought a curse upon us—a curse upon Benton—that it had never been just ‘art’ and that it could never be atoned for, not by Aaron or myself or Old Man Moss or anybody. That we’d blasphemed the Name of the Lord and would now have to pay, just as Jack had paid, just as Colton had paid. Just as Rusty had paid when they’d found him with his intestines wrapped around his throat and his eyeballs gouged out.“Shut the door, please. Quickly,” said Aaron as I stepped into his room—immediately noticing how dark it was, and that the windows had been completely blacked out (with the same sheets from the garage, I presumed). He added: “The light ... It—it’s like it eats my eyes.”Christ—I know. But that’s what he said: Like it ate his eyes.I stumbled into a stool in the dark—it was right next to his bed—and sat down. Nor were the black sheets thick enough to completely choke the light, so that as I looked at him he began to manifest into something with an approximate shape: something I dare say was not entirely human—a thing thick and rounded and gray as the dead, like a huge misshapen rock, perhaps, or a mass of potter’s clay, but with eyes. Then again it was dark enough so that I may only have imagined it—who’s to say after forty years?

It was all too much—the car that had been buried for 52 years yet started right up, the flashback to the 1960s and the ghostly girl, the bugs the size of dogs whose stench filled the cab and caused me to wretch. I gripped the door handle instantly—even as the little chrome knob dropped, locking me in. Then we were accelerating—abruptly, powerfully—whipping around the cars in front of us and blasting through the intersection: the girl vanishing, just winking out of existence, the bugs making a sound like crickets but magnified a hundred fold—the V-8 (or whatever it was) roaring.Yes—yes, James. Want this, we do …Want it! Want it!Right there, James. The infestation. Do it!But I wasn’t driving—No, I could see that wasn’t true: my foot was on the peddle just as sure as my hands were on the wheel. And that foot dipped suddenly even as the skateboarder came into view—his eyes widening, his free leg kicking—so that he disappeared into an alley even as we exploded past—fishtailing to a halt in the middle of the road, where the high-compression engine sputtered and the glass packs rumbled—before my foot once again hit the gas and we tore after him, burning rubber.And then we were bearing down upon the kid, as he kicked and kicked furiously and glanced at us over his shoulder. As I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw the bug-things leaning forward (as though in anticipation). As I fought whatever impulse had taken oven my limbs and partially succeeded—too late.There was a thud-crunch! as he vanished beneath the hood—and the car bucked violently, as though I’d driven over a curb. I ground the brakes, glancing in the mirror—saw him tumble after us like a bag of litter. Only then, after I’d come to a complete stop, did it occur to me: I could see out the back window. The bugs were gone. The kid, meanwhile, was still alive—good God!—and thus it wasn’t too late; I could still help him, still save him.Yes, yes, James. Save him.We’re not finished yet, James.Finish, finish!I felt the gearshift in my hand—saw that I’d already put it in reverse and was stepping on the gas, letting out the clutch. And then the car launched backward—reversing straight as an arrow ...

I wish I could say that when Benson and his gang showed up we drew on some previously unknown strength and kicked their Rich Kid asses; that we chased them all the way back to their fancy cars and tucked and rolled seats and kicked in their doors and fenders; although we really would do that later, not to them personally but to guys like them, in those dog days immediately after high school—when Orley had yet to join the Army and I’d yet to lose my mother, and L.A. was just a twinkle in Kevin’s eye.Instead they caught us completely by surprise, knocking the tent over and rolling us up in it—like a giant snowball—after which they proceeded to kick and punch us mercilessly—before dragging us out by our feet and gloating over us in the sun: Like trolls, I remember thinking. Or Tolkien’s fucking orcs.“Well now look at this,” said Benson, and paused to hawk up phlegm. “If it isn’t our little faggots—just cozied up like lemmings.” He pursed his lips and spat, causing green slime to splatter my cheek. “Our thievin’ little douche-flutes, just letting their freak flags fly.”“And sitting on the rest of our gas money,” said Mickelson. “I can guarantee it.”“Oh?” Benson raised his brow, as if he hadn’t thought of that. “You’re kind of the leader, Orley. Is that true?”Orley just looked at him, his mouth bleeding, his cheek scuffed and bruised. At last he said, “We used it to pay your mother. She said that’s what triple-penetration costs.”A couple of them laughed—Mickelson and Spelvin, I think—and Benson shot them a look. At length he said, “Funny—as always.” He paused, cocking his head. “You look thirsty. Buckey. Give me your cup.”He held out his hand without looking and Buckey placed in it a large container, one of those 32-ounce super tankards you get at Zip Trip or 7-11, minus its lid. “The stink bugs are terrible this year, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Buckey here left this out in the sun too long,” He smelled the cup’s contents, wrinkling his nose—then motioned to Spelvin and Mickelson, who snatched Orley up by his arms and held him, even as two others grappled his head and began prying his mouth open. “These will probably tickle a little as they go down. A lot of them are still alive …”Then he tipped the cup and its contents poured out onto Orley’s face, into his mouth—the soda spattering his cheeks, the little bugs scrambling helter-skelter over his lips—before he chocked once, suddenly, violently, and began chewing, jerking his head free of their hands, smiling like a lunatic.“Protein!” he exclaimed, and spit something out, a shell, maybe, or a leg. “Thank you, sir! May I have another!”And then there was a commotion which sent a ripple through their ranks and caused them to stand apart—staring toward the lake, into the sun, where a lone figure stood slight as a wraith, its hair sopping wet, clinging to its face, its skinny arms held straight at its sides.

She looked forward at Dravidian, who was also a mere shape in the night, and her heart pounded as she watched him draw upon his oar. Beautiful, undead stranger, who bid you welcome into my heart and made me feel for you almost as a lover? Will you not still deliver me to your Lucitor if you survive? Will you not use your key again to open the gates of hell at the processing terminal only to row away from me forever with your humane, dreaming eyes and your thoughts and quotes of Montair? Who are you to me, ferryman, and who am I to you? Is it selfish of me to want to live even if that means you will surely die? And are you not doing the same? Life is selfish, only a fool believes otherwise; passion is selfish, and above all, love is selfish!She looked toward Valdus and saw that he was close enough to make eye contact with, and she did so lingeringly, seeing in his face something she had never seen there before, something eager and pure and almost innocent; he was as a child to her in that instant, and yet he was also as a stranger, like something from another life altogether, whereas Dravidian somehow shared her time and space and interiority, had done so, somehow, even before she had met him, and as she turned away from them both to ponder the extra oar she wondered how the word “love” had even come into her mind.You try so hard just to make do and to get by, she thought, You try and you try and you try. And some days, you succeed! But then comes a black coin to first your husband’s palm and then your son’s, and finally your own, and everything you thought you knew is suddenly up for reinterpretation. Then comes a lover who is obsessed for all the right reasons but still obsessed, then comes war and rebellion and the Hour of a Thousand Paths in which anything and everything is possible. And then, just when you think you can peaceably say goodbye to it all, when the numbness finally becomes libation instead of pain, then ...Comes a ferryman.And it was at that moment and none before that she realized precisely what she had to do.

It’s funny—because the first thing I noticed upon stepping into the garage wasn’t the fact that Old Man Moss was holding what appeared to be massive gray arm in his hands. Nor was it the fact that in the middle of the room stood an 8-foot-tall giant—a giant which appeared to have been fashioned from solid clay and resembled not so much a man but a hulking, naked ape. Nor was it even the thing’s frightful visage or stoic, lifeless, outsized eyes. No, it was the fact that the room was illuminated by candles and candelabrums—as opposed to bulbs or work lights or sun seeping through windows (all of which had been covered with what appeared to be black sheets). It was the fact that the garage didn’t look like a garage. It looked—for all intents and purposes—like a temple. “Ah, Thomas, by boy! Vus machs da! You are just in time.” It was on the tips of my lips to ask him what for when he handed me the arm, which was surprisingly heavy. “I’ll need you and Aaron to hold this while I sculpt. Can you do that?” The clay was tacky and moist beneath my fingers. I looked at Aaron, who looked back at me as if to say, Just go with it. Humor him. “Sure, Mr. Moss. But—” I followed Aaron’s lead as he positioned the arm against the mock brute’s shoulder. “What on earth is it?” His face beamed with pride as he worked the leaden clay. “Why, this is Yossele—but you may call him Josef. And he is what the rabbis of Chelm and Prague called a golem—a being created from inanimate matter. This one is devoted to tzedakah, or justice.” At last he stepped back and appeared to scrutinize his work. “And justice is precisely what he will bring—once he is finished. Once the shem has been placed in his mouth.” He took a deep breath and exhaled, tentatively. “Okay, boys … you can let go. Slowly.” I didn’t know what justice had to do with art, but we did so—the clammy clay wanting to stick to our fingers, its moist touch seeming hesitant to break contact. “Aaron, won’t you be a good boychick and bring me the shem. Easy does it, now. Don’t drop it.” I watched as Aaron approached one of the workbenches and fetched an intricately-crafted gold box. “Ah, yes. The shem, you see, is what gives the golem its power—thank you, son, a sheynem dank. It is what gives it the ability to move and become animated.” I glanced at Aaron, who only looked back at me uncertainly, as his father approached the golem and opened the box, the gold plating of which gleamed like a fire before the candelabrums. “This one consists of only one word—one of the Names of God, which is too sacred to be uttered here.” He withdrew a slip of paper and placed it into the golem’s mouth. “I shall only say emet, which means ‘truth’ … and have done with it. And so it is finished. Tetelestai.” He turned and looked directly at me, I have no idea why. “The debt will be paid in full.” Nobody said anything for a long time, even as the birds tweeted outside and a siren wailed somewhere in the distance. We just stood there and stared at his creation. At last I said, “So are you going to enter in the Fair, Mr. Moss, or what? How will you even move it?” At which Old Man Moss only smiled, ruffling my hair, and said, “No—it is only for this moment. That is the nature of Art. Tsaytvaylik. Tomorrow it will be gone. Now run along and finish your lawn. I’ve involved you enough.” And the next day it was gone, at least according to Aaron, and both of us, I think, promptly forgot about it. At least until the first of the Benton Boys turned up dead, Sheriff Donner directing the recovery while his ashen-blue body bobbed listlessly against the Benedict A. Saltweather Dam. It was June.

One wind is for Ghost, a juvenile tyrannosaur who befriends a boy ... until he develops a taste for human flesh. Another wind is for 'Black Betty,' a road grader possessed by demonic aliens. Still another is for Patrobus, Captain of the Witch Doctors in a war between men and women. Yet one more is for the haunted wind turbines which stand like sentinels outside a town near you ...

A shadow has come to the coastal town of Cthulhu Gardens, a butcher who leaves decapitated corpses in his wake -- including, it is feared, the town's own beloved sheriff. Yet there are whispers of a new shadow, a monstrous Other, a thing sharing the Garden's own likeness ....

The Apocalypse. The End Times. Armageddon. Whether it's from a virus or a meteor, the end is always coming. How will you deal with it?

Includes every Flashback/Dinosaur Apocalypse tale ever written, from 1993 to the present, including some that have been collected nowhere else. First came the time-storm, which erased half the population. Then came the dinosaur apocalypse. How did it all begin? That depends on where you were and who you ask. In some places it started with the weather—which quickly became unstable and began behaving in impossible ways. In still others it started with the lights in the sky, which shifted and pulsed and could not be explained. Elsewhere it started with the disappearances: one here, a few there, but increasing in occurrence until fully three quarters of the population had vanished. Either way, there is one thing on which everyone agrees—it didn’t take long for the prehistoric flora and fauna to start showing up (often appearing right where someone was standing, in which case the two were fused, spliced, amalgamated). It didn’t take long for the great Time-displacement called the Flashback—which was brief but had aftershocks, like an earthquake—to change the face of the earth. Nor for the stories, some long and others short, some from before the maelstrom (and resulting societal collapse) and others after, to be recorded. Welcome to the world of the Flashback, a world in which man’s cities have become overgrown jungles and extinct animals wander the ruins. 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 challenge you: for better or for worse. It is a world where frightened commuters will do battle with murderous bikers even as primordial monsters close in, and others will take refuge in an underground theme park only to find their worst enemy is themselves. Where ordinary people—ne’er-do-wells on a cross-country motorcycle trip, a woman on a redeye flight to Hell, a sensitive boy stricken with visions of what’s to come--will find themselves in extraordinary situations, and a gunslinger and his telekinetic ankylosaurus will embark on a dangerous quest. A world where travelers will be trapped with an unravelling President of the United States and a band of survivors will face roving packs of monsters and men in post-apocalyptic Seattle; where rioting teenagers will face deadly predators (as well as their own demons) while ransacking the nation’s capital; where a Native-American warrior will seek to bury his past--and offer an elegy for all the Earth--in what remains of Las Vegas. In short, it is a world where anything can and will happen. 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.

From Thunder Road: I don’t know why we stared at that dead pterodactyl chick so long—there wasn’t anything particularly striking or even gross about it; there were no flies, for example, no maggots—just a couple of butterflies, one white and the other burnt orange, which matched the fading sunlight. Maybe it was our nonstop ride all the way from Biggs Junction near the Washington border to Multnomah Falls, which was closer to Portland (I mean, it’s a lot of work, peddling a BMX bicycle some 70-plus miles, even across level terrain). Or maybe it was how paper-thin the creature’s exsanguinous, oyster-white skin was, how almost translucent, or the way its little talons weren’t really talons at all but little hands, like a baby’s hands. All I remember for certain is how contemplative everyone seemed to get while looking down at it—how funereal; even elegiac—like we were saying goodbye to one of our own. All I remember for certain is something akin to holding vigil for a fellow traveler; which, in a very real sense, we were. “For him, the war is over,” I whispered—although I doubt anyone heard me over the crash and roar of the falls. “I wonder where Mom is …” “Not here, that’s for sure,” said Quint. “There are no nests.” I followed his gaze into the treetops and beyond, to the waterfall itself, which dashed and cascaded down the cliffs. “Weird. I mean—where the hell could it have come from?” “Maybe it came from up there,” said Jesse. “From the very top. There’s—there’s a platform up there, a wooden observation deck. We came here on a field trip once and hiked up to it. Be a good place to build a nest—real stable. And defensible.” I looked from one end of the concrete bridge—“Benson Bridge,” the sign had called it—which was closed off with cyclone fencing, to the other. “Speaking of which, this bridge looks pretty defensible—don’t you think?” I peered off the way we had come. “Only one side to protect; we can take turns standing watch … I mean, it may not be the Ritz but—what do you say?” We looked around and then at each other. “Hell, I’m in,” said Quint. “We can even build a fire and maybe eat something—something hot, I mean. It’ll be just like—it’ll be just like Camp Courage!” I couldn’t help but to notice he’d stopped short of saying “home,” and a quick glance at Jesse confirmed he’d noticed it too; although whether he’d done so because his own home life had sucked or because he’d understood—in that moment—that, because of the Flashback, we’d never see home again, I don’t know. “Sure, why not,” said Jesse. “We can heat up that beef stew, the one we were saving for Portland. We’re close enough.” He shrugged off his pack and spear and laid down his bike. “And besides, it’ll lighten my load.” He dug out the can of Dinty Moore stew and paused, looking at it. “Seems … almost wasteful, though … doesn’t it? I mean … you’d like to think, you’d like to think nothing was born … just to lay there and rot, you know?” We all turned to look at the bird. “Yeah,” said Quint. “I mean, it’s like God laid it out there just for us, and here we are wanting to eat something from a can.” I got off my bike and reached for my pocketknife—touched its smooth, imitation-wood handle. “We’re going to have to learn how to hunt eventually, I suppose. I mean—” “I already know how to hunt,” said Quint. “And to clean and dress a—” “I know how to do that, too.” He held out his hand for my knife—which I gave over to him: slowly, reluctantly. “And since both you pussies missed man-school; I guess I’ll be the one to have to show you.” Jesse looked at me and then back to Quint. “Let me guess. Because—attributes.” “Because—attributes,” said Quint, and got off his bike.

From The Sentinels: Dunn: There—there was a large glass case in the center of the foyer … it … it contained a miniature of the wind farm, as you know. And it—someone had written something on top of it. Some kind of a message. In blood. Detective Shaw: I see. Thank you. Now tell me: what did this message say? Dunn: It … I don’t remember exactly. It was mostly gibberish. Something about ‘the Wind’ and ‘the Way,’ and going in to ‘Them.’ Something about how ‘They’ had attached themselves to the turbines—whatever ‘They’ were. And finally, just a long scrawl, followed by a warning, all in caps, GET OUT OF HERE AS FAST AS YOU CAN. Detective Shaw: I see. And I guess it needs to be asked: Did you? Or did you continue to field the 911 operator’s questions? Dunn: No. I dropped the phone as fast as I could and ran out the side door, the one Bobby had gone out. And the first thing I saw was Bobby’s pale-blue windbreaker, just thrown aside in the dirt, and further out, his T-shirt, white against the sage. Detective Shaw: It’s like he was burning up. Was it hot out? What was the temperature, you think? Dunn: It was cold! No, like I said, it was if the clothes were suffocating him, cutting off his circulation. All I know it that when I reached the T-shirt I saw his belt further out, and beyond that, his shoes, just lying amidst the cheat-grass. That’s when I knew something truly terrible had happened, was happening, and that if I didn’t find him quickly, he might genuinely hurt himself; though I’d scarcely had the thought when I noticed someone crumpled face down in the sage—not Bobby, this man was fully dressed—and ran to him. Detective Shaw: The other turbine technician. Dunn: Oh, are we done with the ignorant act? Detective Shaw: It was a slip; I’m starting to think about lunch. Okay, and, seeing this, what did you do? Dunn: He wasn’t breathing and so I rolled him over. And … Detective Shaw: Yes? And what? Dunn: Jesus, gods, you know what! Detective Shaw: What did you see when you rolled him over, Dr. Dunn? Dunn: I saw that he had no face. That it … that it had just spiraled in, like the hole in the boat. That there was a gaping funnel where his eyes and nose and upper lip should have been—mottled red and black, pink and gray—just twisted cartilage and brain tissue. And then his body spasmed, as though by a reflex, and the funnel seemed to burp, spitting up blood. Detective Shaw: Jesus. Dunn: After which, dear God, I can’t say, because I was running away as fast as I could; past Bobby’s shoes and toward the wind turbine (the one with the truck parked at its base), as well as past a few dozen new funnels in the ground—which grew in size as I approached from an inch or two across to ones the size of manhole covers. Until I came to the turbine and—and stopped dead in my tracks. Because there was Bobby kneeling prone in the dirt, like a Muslim, I suppose, or a Buddhist, but completely nude—bowing before the turbine, the hatch of which was open, seeming almost to pray. Detective Shaw: But … but all right, in spite of his behavior. Dunn: No, Mr. Shaw, not ‘all right.’ Because when he sat up again, I saw that his back was … It was riddled with those same spiral funnels. There were even some in his arms. But—but that wasn’t all. Because, after he’d stood with some difficulty and turned to face me (he must have sensed my presence; that or saw my shadow), I realized something else. And that was that his eyes had gone completely white—rather they had rolled back in his skull enough so that only the whites were visible—at which moment he spoke and said, calmly, “The turbines, don’t look at them. They eat your eyes.”