Faithin Omaha eBook Collection

Download or read book The War-Torn Hills of Earth | Flashback: The Final Trilogy of Stories | Part Three written by Wayne Kyle Spitzer and published by Hobb's End Books. This book was released on 2023-02-11 with total page 318 pages. Available in PDF, EPUB and Kindle. Book excerpt: The final Flashback begins ... It's all led to this. All the characters and situations of the Flashback/Dinosaur Apocalypse come together in a final trilogy of tales that will close out and define the saga. Join Ank and Williams, the crew of Gargantua, the kids from Thunder Road, and so many others as they heed the call to adventure one last time and face the very architects of the Flashback! From The War-torn Hills of Earth: The gold fog rolled and so did the water, foaming and frothing, revealing first the photonics mast and communications antennas, then The Sarpedon’s black, sea-slicked sail and forward fins, then its great, dark, parabolic bow—which breached the surface at an angle, like the plesiosaurs and ichthyosaurs and mosasaurs swimming alongside—until, still steaming forward, the ship was fully surfaced and its aft fins visible; at which three people—two men and a small woman with a bob haircut—appeared in the sail. “Jesus,” gasped Puckett, the engineering chief, as he looked at the beasts, which filled the water for as far as the eye could see (which nonetheless wasn’t very far, due to the fog). “If I hadn’t seen it myself, I wouldn’t have believed it. The sonar doesn’t lie.” Captain O’Neil was more circumspect. “But why, goddammit. That’s what I want to know. I’ve certainly never seen them migrate en masse like this—like Hammerhead sharks. What’s the reason?” Both of them had to shout over the crash and commotion of the waves. Pang signed excitedly at them as the wind chopped her hair. “What’s she saying?” Puckett, who’d been working with her, paraphrased: “She’s saying, ‘What if they were called too—only in a different way?’” He watched as she continued to sign. “‘Or—considering the dream used sound and imagery instead of words—the exact same way?’” O’Neil looked at the marine animals as they leapt and dove and swam powerfully alongside. Aye, but for a different reason, he thought. “Ho!” cried Chief Puckett suddenly. “The Santa Monica Pier!” O’Neil peered into the fog and saw the tiny silhouette of a Ferris wheel emerging from the gloom, then unhooked his mic. “Half ahead, revolutions 500—and mind the beasties.” He looked at Pang. “Yes, I’m going to send a team ashore. And no, you’re not—” And that’s when it happened: that’s when the pterodactyl flapped down like an oyster-white threshing machine and snatched her up by the shoulders—began rising. That’s when O’Neil drew his sidearm—even as Puckett grabbed her by the ankle—but couldn’t get a shot in through the pounding wings and Pang’s own flailing—until there was the briefest of openings, and he did fire. Until he got lucky, and the bird fell and so did Pang—still being gripped by her ankle—so that she was flipped upside down and slammed against the sail—which her head hit like a rock. So that she was knocked unconscious even as Puckett and O’Neil held tightly and ultimately dragged her back into the conning tower. After which, drearily—for they were unable to wake her or get any sort of reaction at all—there was nothing to do but take her to the infirmary and monitor her. Nothing to do, frankly, but pray.