Cyrus Montez knelt by the large print in the mud and surveyed the surrounding jungle. “We’re close.”
The native guide, hoisting a spear and, wearing nothing but a loin cloth, nodded and waved his arm, motioning for Montez to follow.
“The Phoberomys?” Julie Szubanski shouldered her pack and prepared her DSLR camera.
Dr. Byron Stoneburner made his camp on the side of the Artic mountain. He nibbled what jerky remained in his pack and warmed his frostbitten nose next to the fire, calculating his progress by the aged map in his possession. The yellowing pages had turned brittle in the frosty air, but he had memorized
Read it now
Devon threw up his hands. “We’re lost.”
The national park was vast, and we had strayed off the path. He turned to me as if looking for answers. “Should’ve brought the personal locator beacon like I told you.”
Laura walked up from behind, patted me on the shoulder, and waved her cell phone.
I’m tossed from the charter plane at two thousand feet, plummeting toward the Earth without a parachute. If gravity proves true, I’ll skewer the Alaskan treetops in seconds.
A week in the remote wilderness had seemed like a good idea. It meant time to clear my head. Campfires and hunting. Reflection and recovery
Something was killing the chickens. Outside the window, in the coop, their squawks broke the silent Kentucky night beyond the homestead’s walls—chaotic bursts of fear and agony.
A boy of fifteen, Roland Chadwick sprang out of bed while his younger brother and sister gazed at him wide-eyed from the mattress the three of them shared
“You go’n kill me?”
Slade Cartwright, Texas Ranger, ignored the question and continued cleaning his Colt revolver. In the campfire light, firewood popped and sparks dissipated. The scent of beans wafted from the kettle above the flames.
Ten feet away, Darren Dedrich sat with his hands bound behind his back, clad in a muddied
Sunlight glinted as Rayna the Red unsheathed her sword. Fierce lips hissed an incantation caught up and drowned by whipping coastal winds. Seagulls squawked overhead, taunting, foretelling a bad omen as the sky turned shades of amber violet.
“Witch!” Hrothgar, Son of Ragnar, awaited her on the beach, sword ready. “You’ve led us
“Got a mission for you, kid.”
Judy Suarez tapped the end of her cigarette into an ash tray. I leaned against the office doorway, pad and pen ready.
The Script Doctor’s eyes sparkled. “You ever read Blake Snyder’s magnum opus?”
“Who?”
“Never mind.” She inhaled a long drag, exhaling a plume of smoke
She waits for him in the parking lot.
It’s a Saturday—her day off—and Paxton is on time. The elderly man parks his ‘78 F-150 pickup and enters the library, returning a few minutes later with two tomes.
When he drives away, Greta’s car follows, but not too close. She’s wearing dark sunglasses
Her target would arrive any minute.
Tatum Albright emerged from the portal dressed in the usual style of 1922—a travel suit comprised of a gray skirt, blouse, and coat—blending in with the bustling Paris travelers as Gare de Lyon’s clock tower chimed the top of the hour.
The train station hummed
The scarecrow’s eyes glowed at twilight. Two slits blazed orange as the October sun dipped below a horizon of corn, ten feet tall.
Jester was strapped to a wooden cross. Dressed in a tattered flannel shirt and faded jeans. Straw for tendons and muscles. No heart or organs, much less a brain.
First thing you have to do with a dead body is bury it.
The year was 1862. Yellowstone country. Where no explorer dared tread alone. Shovel in hand, I dug a grave for Darryl Evans and scooped the dirt over his corpse.
After a short prayer, I said my goodbye while an orange
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