“You’re telling me that in the future, Australia is overrun by cannibalistic koalas called drop bears?”
I blinked at my large companion—Squatch, our resident bigfoot—as I tried to make sense of the vision that had guided me and my cryptid companions Down Under.
He adjusted his Outback hat. “Yup.
“Hold on—we’re crashing!” the bigfoot bellowed as he pulled back on the aircraft’s controls.
I tucked my wings against my body and gripped the armrests. Squatch was not our regular pilot, and it showed.
Again I wished that Gob and Flats hadn’t had to deal with the Werewolf Plague of 1346.
The inspector tapped on the microphone. A sharp burst of static filled the room. “All right. We have Prisoner WVM-01 here for questioning. Please detail for our records your involvement in the Silver Bridge Accident on December 15th, 1967.” He flicked on a floodlight, and I blinked behind my night vision goggles.
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