He looked up at his apartment window after he'd gotten out of his truck, he didn't know why, and saw Sadie sitting in the sill, staring down at him, it seemed. Hey, you little psychopath, he thought, as the snow fluttered down and clung to his face. Have you been a good girl?He was relieved to find, a few minutes later, that she had: for nothing appeared amiss either in the kitchen or the living room. The bedroom, too, seemed in perfectly good order-although Sadie was no longer at the window, which did beg the question: Where on earth was she, exactly? He began calling out her name as he moved toward the bathroom, and was surprised by how little his voice sounded, how nervous."Sadie? Saaadie?"He felt a wave of apprehension as he entered the bathroom, he wasn't sure why, but was pleased to find it normal in every respect-there wasn't even any discernable cat box odor. He laughed a little at his own paranoia. What had he expected? 'REDRUM' scrawled across the mirror in cat shit?

Sadie

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" - A Survivor's Guide to the Dinosaur Apocalypse, #8

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

A Survivor's Guide to the Dinosaur Apocalypse, Episode Three: "Ride" - A Survivor's Guide to the Dinosaur Apocalypse, #3

Welcome to Black Sheep: Unique Tales of Terror and Wonder, an extraordinary anthology magazine that transcends the boundaries of science-fiction, fantasy, and horror. Prepare to embark on a thrilling journey through the darkest corners of the human imagination, where the ordinary becomes extraordinary, and the mundane transforms into a realm of unspeakable terror and awe-inspiring wonder. Within these pages, you'll discover a collection of captivating stories carefully curated to transport you to realms beyond the mundane. Each issue presents an array of unique tales crafted by talented visionaries, both established and emerging, who dare to defy conventions and push the boundaries of speculative fiction. Whether you're a seasoned lover of the fantastic or just curious to explore new frontiers, Black Sheep: Unique Tales of Terror and Wonder will be your guide through the realms of the extraordinary. Prepare to be enthralled, enchanted, haunted. So put on your dark sunglasses . and unleash your inner Black Sheep. In this issue:BRAIN LICKERAndreas J. BritzAN INCIDENT FROM MY CHILDHOODRoss ClarkDUST TO DUSTAnthony FergusonALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUALYura RiphyakTHE DAGGER AND THE CHALICEWayne Kyle SpitzerINSTINCTUALLITYJ. Brian ReedA HOPE IN HIS YELLOW EYESWess Mongo JolleyPOND MOUTHKeith LaFountaineROGUE PLANETPaul CesariniTHE FUBAR RITUALKevin David Anderson

Black Sheep: Unique Tales of Terror and Wonder No. 8 | February 2024 - Black Sheep Magazine, #8

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" - A Survivor's Guide to the Dinosaur Apocalypse, #2

There was a single, sharp tap of the drums followed by a rapid succession of beats as the crushed velvet curtains spread and the audience gasped: for Tran had taken her position in the box and was even now being secured as Williams struck a gunfighter pose and his hand hovered next to his weapon."Ladies and gentlemen, I think it goes without saying, " said the announcer over the speaker system, "Do not try this at home."Williams relaxed his entire body even as his mind cycled through the calculations-altitude, the breeze, humidity, temperature, the curvature of the earth, the spinning of the earth . It was, like music, a largely mathematical proposition; a cold equation he'd had a gift for ever since he could remember, ever since he was a boy with a Daisy BB gun in the backyard of their southern California home. He focused on the knife blade as the balloons to each side of it warbled in the breeze. It was a funny thing, sharpshooting, so utterly unlike music, in that each time he did it he felt like he was doing it for the first time, felt like he was starting over from scratch. With music his fingers just automatically found the frets, just instantly knew where to begin and where to end; he never felt as though he were lost in a vortex of potentialities, never doubted his ability to perform. But sharpshooting was a different beast altogether. With sharpshooting he had to call on something outside of himself as well as from within-something which was not his to control. Something which either kissed him with its ghostly lips or turned away with perfect indifference-like love itself, he supposed. Or God. And then the drum taps stopped and he was alone with the breeze, and it was time to make the intuitive leap which would set the bullet in motion. And as he breathed out and drew his revolver and squeezed its trigger softer than he would a daisy, he knew, even before the crack! and the ka-chink! and the pop of the balloons, that the projectile had found its target. That it had found the slim blade and split like an atom-becoming two loaves rather than one-two soft but lethal slugs, which had spread like shrapnel in the Fresno heat and ruptured the red balloons-releasing their air in a vacuum-like rush and causing the audience to gasp and to cheer. And then his wife was there, having loosed her mock bonds and scrambled out of the tall wooden box (with its crushed velvet curtains and bulletproof glass), and she'd bowed to the audience before embracing him like the wind, and he had kissed her as he always did after completing their final act-when air raid sirens sounded and he looked at the sky, which had darkened with a storm front as fast-moving as it was inexplicable ...

The Magnificent Bastards: 3 Realms ... 3 Unlikely Champions

The race is on to get out of post-apocalypse New York in an all-new Flashback thriller. 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, 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, 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 The Ghosts in Their Boroughs:She loosed her hair and shook her head, allowing the locks to spill down her shoulder-and I zoomed in on them to get a focus."Do I look any different?" she hollered."Yeah . you shine."Which she did, like a candelabra, as the lights reflected off her hair, her skin, her beaded jacket. As the music played and she reached for the brass ring-and got it. As she circled and laughed and gripped the pole and the camera went click, click, click. That's when I saw them; or thought I did. The shapes. Gathered beyond the farthest poles (I'd zoomed up on the opposite side whilst waiting for her to come back around); gathered like outsized crows. That's when I focused through and saw their eyes; their awful, red, vertically slit eyes, before dropping the camera and unslinging my rifle-pointing it directly at them . and finding them gone. That's when I realized that I was starting to lose it-to slip, as the writer Hugo Eagleton once said. That the terror and uncertainty of what had happened-the sky, the missing people, the remaining people who seemed intent on burning the city down-had affected me more than I realized. Sylvia, for her part, only looked at me like I was insane. And I would have agreed with her; had I not looked behind her and saw them again. Had I not seen with my own eyes their black bodies and crimson snouts as they weaved between horses and slowly closed the gap; as they stalked her like panthers and the carousel went around, the music like a carnival, the horses rising and falling. As they closed to within about twelve feet of her and I fired-causing them to stop and to crouch and to look around-only to inch forward again as I resumed shooting (missing, it seemed, every time). Until there was an ear-piercing pulse which I recognized as coming from Madsen's sound cannon (he'd demonstrated it for us before we set out) and the animals scattered-even as Sylvia crouched and covered (from the excruciating noise) and I did the same; paralyzed, debilitated.

The Ghosts in Their Boroughs

Dark horse/'därk '?hôrs/noun1. a candidate or competitor about whom little is known but who unexpectedly wins or succeeds."a dark-horse candidate"Join us for a monthly tour of writers who give as good as they get. From hard science-fiction to stark, melancholic apocalypses; from Lovecraftian horror to zombies and horror comedy; from whimsical interludes to tales of unlikely compassion--whatever it is, if it's weird, it's here. So grab a seat before the starting gun fires, pour yourself a glass of strange wine, and get ready for the running of the dark horses. In this issue:THE EIGHT-YEAR LOCUSTSJennifer S. HaneTHE GARDENCarla WardTHE TORTURED WAIL OF MACHINESLamont A TurnerTHE WITCH AT KHOLAT SYAKHLT. K. HowellTHE RETURNWayne Kyle SpitzerTHE PAINT GODS MUST BE ANGRYSabina MalikTHE HEARTBEAT BETWEEN USA. E. S. THE ENTERTAINERSR. OstermeierSUPERMAN AND THE HOLLYWOOD WITCHT. K. HowellSWEET PETUNIAEdward Ahern

Dark Horses: The Magazine of Weird Fiction No. 17 - Dark Horses Magazine, #17

A two-way radio seated in a battery-charger on the counter suddenly squawks to life, and Beth jumps. She catches bits and pieces of a broken transmission-something about having "secured grid 12" and "Zebra Base confirms I. A. C. entering grid 7"-before an old woman snatches it up, turning it off, and apologizes for the noise. The two women quickly warm to each other as Beth pays for a room and is given a key. The old clerk encourages her to use the pool before "Andy" closes it for the night. Beth says she will, indeed. As she leaves, the woman asks, "How's it feel?"Beth just looks at her. "I'm sorry?""Your bundle of joy, there. How's it feel?"Beth is taken aback. "But I'm not even showing!"The old woman smiles. "It shows in your eyes. Your face.""It's terrifying, " Beth says at last. "Being an expectant mother . isn't at all like what I expected."The woman seems to think about this. "Nothing ever is. And nothing's ever easy, or cheap. But make no mistake: that's a gift from above you got there."

Sadie

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