The war torn hills of ea.., p.1
The War-Torn Hills of Earth | Flashback, page 1
THE WAR-TORN HILLS OF EARTH
Flashback: The Final Trilogy of Stories | Part Three
by
Wayne Kyle Spitzer
Table of Contents
Title Page
The War-Torn Hills of Earth | Flashback: The Final Trilogy of Stories | Part Three (Flashback/The Dinosaur Apocalypse: The Final Trilogy of Stories, #3)
Author’s Note
The End | Of The Flashback Saga
OTHER TALES FROM THE FLASHBACK
ATTENTION!
HAVE YOU SEEN ME?
And the Flashback continues ...
If you enjoyed this work of fiction, please consider leaving a review at your point of sale. Thanks!
Copyright © 2023 Wayne Kyle Spitzer. All Rights Reserved. Published by Hobb’s End Books, a division of ACME Sprockets & Visions. Cover design Copyright © 2023 Wayne Kyle Spitzer. Please direct all inquiries to: HobbsEndBooks@yahoo.com
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this book is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Author’s Note
These are stories of the Flashback, the time-storm that vanished most of the world’s population and returned the world to primordia, and thus are all connected. They are not, however, told linearly, but rather hop around the timeline at will (as is appropriate, perhaps, for a world in which time has been scrambled). Therefore, a certain nimbleness on the reader’s part is assumed. I hope you enjoy them as much as I enjoyed writing them.
—WKS
It had all come down to this, thought Sammy; this, well, whatever it was—this nondescript black and yellow gate in a nondescript neighborhood near Lake Hollywood Park. This lazed-open wrought iron door with golden fog filtering through (the same weird fog that had rolled in as they approached from the Hollywood Freeway) and a heart-shaped placard secured to it which read, simply, Welcome to the Garden of Oz (and Magic Labyrinth).
“This is it,” said Miles from the back of Satanta’s blue roan—which snorted and flicked its tail. “This is the place. Oz. Home.”
He dismounted and approached the gate. “My house is just around the corner.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Sammy used his feet to move his quieted Harley up alongside him. “Are you telling me that you used to live here?”
Miles nodded. “Uh-huh. Right next to the garden. My—my bedroom opened directly out onto it. So did my parents’ room.”
Quint and Jesse just looked at each other from the backs of their respective horses.
“And I need to know if they’re okay. So, if you don’t mind,” He walked through the gate briskly. “Let’s get this show on the—”
“Hey, wait a minute, kid—!”
And Miles was repelled: just whisked off his feet and thrown backward—as if by an invisible force—just knocked halfway across the street even as a blue barrier shimmered briefly and electricity crackled.
“Miles!” Quint and Jesse piled off their horses and scrambled toward him; slapped his face, sat him up—found him shaken but otherwise okay. “Jesus,” said Quint. “I mean—what in the hell was that?”
Sammy looked over at Satanta and Galaren—both of whom appeared grave—then reached into his breast pocket and took out a box of Marlboro Reds. “Well,” he said. He shook the remaining cigarettes out and slid them into his pocket. “I’d say that what we have here is ...” He tossed the box through the gate and it was repelled in a shower of sparks, even as the blue wall reappeared. “—some kind of force field.” He gazed beyond the treetops and powerlines as the blue barrier faded. “A dome, to be exact. A big one.”
“Gramercy,” cursed Galaren, fighting to keep his horse steady. “Witchcraft!”
“Well, now what?” said one of his knights. “Have we come all this distance just to be shut out?” He cupped the mouth-grill of his helm. “What, ho! Whoever—whatever thou art: Pray thee, open this door!”
Satanta glanced around—at the hazy, fortress-like adobe house across the street and up and down Ledgerwood Drive, which was choked in mist. “An ancestor of mine once said: when you see a new trail or a footprint you do not know, follow it to the point of knowing.” He took a deep breath. “I say we wait. If anyone needs something to do, they can map the perimeter.” He looked at Sammy and Galaren. “Patience—is what I’m saying. The situation could be, shall we say, more acute.”
And then there was a grumbling and a groaning—and a kind of snarling—as something shifted in the golden mist. Something elephantine, inelegant, massive. Something that was rapidly drawing near.
“It’s more acute,” said Sammy, even as he unshouldered his rifle and the knights drew their broadswords. As Quint raised the Magnum and Miles and Jesse brandished their wooden spears.
As the snarl became a rumble which became a thunder which became a roar—and the fog glowed white and red until two great lights coalesced abruptly and a massive machine materialized—and promptly slowed; its engine winding down, its brakes hissing. Until it had ground to a complete halt and they were all facing each other; after which a hatch popped open and a man appeared, who called down to them, “You have no quarrel with us, Dreamers of the Dream. Nor we, with you. We are all in this together.”
Which of course would have gone over better if the .50 caliber machine gun (which was mounted directly beside him) hadn’t whirred about suddenly and aimed directly at them; no, not at them, Sammy realized, at it. The thing now standing in the doorway. The 8-foot-tall thing that was neither fully human nor (prehistoric) beast—nor even nub-horned demon—but rather an unlikely hybrid of all three. The creature, he suspected, that had been at the very center of the vision.
“Fucking Livingston, I presume,” he said, marveling, and spat.
∆My apologies for the mist; and for the shield, but they were—they are—completely necessary, as you will see.∆ The creature shook its head. ∆Alas, there is no time. Miles, Quint, Jesse, come with me. As for the rest of you: guard this door, this place, this garden—with your lives. And mind the sky. Because something is about to happen. And when it does—you must know what to do.∆
Sammy dismounted his bike and stepped forward. “What? What’s about to happen?”
∆For you, Sam of Zemlja; of Dharatee, and of Earth—nothing, or very little. For others, Everything.∆
After which Sammy could just look on—disoriented, confused—as both the kids and the creature vanished into the mist, into the maze.
Leif didn’t know how long they’d been there (‘there’ being the crossroads of Interstate 15 and State Highway 58, just outside Barstow—as a strange, gold fog rolled in), maybe five minutes, maybe an hour. All he knew for certain was that nobody had done much of anything yet; not he and his people (with all their idling, tricked-out Hondas and trunks full of fuel for the fire), and not them; with their pickups and chromed exhaust-stacks and blue Tucker flags drooped in the gloom. All he knew for certain was that no one had yet made their move—not since they’d faced off like mechanized infantries (although at a reasonably safe distance of approximately 100 meters); and also that his people were growing increasingly impatient, increasingly belligerent—revving their engines, blasting their stereos—which meant he needed to get them focused, needed to dial them in. Needed to kindle and fan the flames so that when the time finally came, they could burn.
Burn the Garden of Oz, which was close enough now to taste.
Burn the traitor and his machine; which were less than 80 miles away.
“Aleister, I want you to use your scope and cover me—okay?” He opened his door and placed a shoe on the ground. “Because I’m going out there.”
“Jesus, you can’t be serious. I mean, Leif—they’ve got guns pointed at us.”
But Leif hardly paused, remembering Szambelan’s words: I will give you the power. Nor will you be alone, for our forces are gathering as we speak.
“Friend or foe—we have to know,” he said. “Just cover me.”
He slammed the door and walked out: out across the gold-shrouded asphalt and past an empty Tesla; out to the dusty fork in the road where he stopped and simply waited—patiently, fearlessly, audaciously—even as a single truck left the group and brought with it a lone (and very large) man—who got out and faced him.
“There are just two kinds that I know of so far,” said the man gruffly, and spat viscously upon the ground. “Those who got this, this vision, this hallucination, and want to go to L.A. because they think they can end the Flashback,” He tittered a little at the thought of it. “And those who didn’t, and don’t, but are supposed to go there to stop them.” He moved to within a foot of his face. “And what I want to know is: how is anyone supposed to
At which Leif just looked at him—and at his truck, with its angry grill and chromed stacks and America First sticker—its drooping, impotent flag, and said, “Now here’s a man who wants to get right to it. A real bootstrapper. A patriot. What my old man used to call a ‘High-Toned Son of a Bitch.’ And proud.” He sneered slightly. “All right, then, Mr. ...?”
“Colmes. Hannity Colmes.”
“Is that some kind of joke?”
“That’s my name ... Sprout.”
Leif chuckled. “‘Sprout’—that’s good. All right, then ... Mr. Colmes,” Leif looked into the fog. “Let me show you what kind I am.”
And then the glass shard was in his hand—just there, out of nowhere—and he’d slashed once across the man’s belly and once in the opposite direction—opening him like a sack of red snakes. Then the man was fondling his own innards and finally keeling over as the bullets punched through Leif’s body and he raised his arms in supplication; in praise—in worship.
“Hear me, oh, mighty Prince of Hell,” he cried—even as the winds began to stir, the dust began to cyclone. “For I offer these entrails to you now in the hope that you will aid me—aid your faithful servant!”
And the gunfire stopped—just like that. From both sides. Yes, he had their attention now.
His wounds healed and closed over as he wandered further into the murk. “Clear a path for us, oh, Lord, if it be Thy will. Show us Thy power and glory—and show them so that they may follow us. Yea, if Thou canst surely hear me: Part for us this wicked brume!”
At which the wind positively roared and the ground seemed to shake; and Leif was amazed to see the golden fog parting like a curtain, like the Red Sea itself—clearing Interstate 15 as though swept by a broom; opening a corridor they could follow all the way to Los Angeles—and to Oz. Bidding all those gathered—both the cars from Las Vegas and the trucks that had blocked them—to reorientate and head west—as a single column, a single armada.
Lifting all the American flags and Donald J. Tucker banners and ‘Don’t Tread on Me’ standards so that they crackled on the wind.
Ank basically knew what was coming from the moment Will dismissed the others: his excuse being that Luna was in danger so long as they remained out in the open—indeed, the San Gabriel Cemetery in South Pasadena was pretty exposed—and, also, that Travis (who’d been a mechanic in the Marines) should check the auto-hauler’s engine, which had been running hot since Modesto.
But what he hadn’t expected was the sheer emptiness in the man’s voice, the nihilism. The sense of hopelessness that suffused him as he turned from the mound of moist, black earth (with its meager selection of flowers and crude, wooden marker) and said, blankly, “I’m not coming with you. But then, I suppose you already knew that.”
They looked at each other through the gold mist, which swirled and churned.
Ank harumphed.
“It’s too late for that,” snapped Will, and planted the shovel. “Don’t you get it? I killed my wife, Ank—do you understand? I shot her like an animal. Am I supposed to just pull myself up by the bootstraps and forget that?” He knelt and touched the grave. “I killed it all—my only reason for living. The only thing that’s kept me going. The only fucking thing I ever did right.” He shook his head slowly, deliberately, morosely. “I’ll never squeeze a trigger again.”
There was a distant rumbling and they both looked up; saw three dark masses moving through the haze—masses which were the same size and shape as the ships they’d seen cruising toward Montana, toward Barley—only heading south this time, toward Los Angeles.
“They would have hidden. They would have gone below—into the tunnels. Bella Ray isn’t stupid.”
“Enough! I’m not going, and that’s final. That’s the end of it.”
Ank shook his head and laid down—slowly, cumbrously.
“It’s only a few more miles.”
“Yeah? Well.” He stuck his rifle into the ground next to the grave and hung his hat on it. “I am asking. And you’re going to have to.” He mopped his brow with his handkerchief. “You’re just going to have to, Ank.”
And he walked away.
“Nick? Come on, baby; talk to me. Tell me what you’re seeing.”
But Nick could barely hear her—was scarcely even aware they were on a beach in Santa Maria, near the Four Seasons Hotel. All he knew was that the eyes were showing him something new, something frightening, and that each of them had focused on a different part of California—a different road, a different path, a different byway, and that on these roads and paths and byways, there was terror.
“I see people and beasts; armies and entire herds, heading for L.A., heading for Oz—sowing destruction as they go. I see towns and cities being razed and plundered—burned to the ground—and places like Sacramento and Santa Rosa, Rancho Cordova, Santa Cruz, just ceasing to exist. Worse, I can see that the groups from Las Vegas and Carson City are already there; already in the hills surrounding the garden, and are drawing their plans against it.” He shuddered as he attempted to keep his composure. “And sometimes, just sometimes, I think I see the future, or what might be the future, and dear God, it’s too terrible; too awful—too tragic, too grotesque, and I ... I ...”
And then his legs were buckling and he was falling—falling to his knees in the sand and surf—even as Puck began slathering his face and Lisa tried—and failed—to help him up, growling, “This has got to stop, Nick. You can’t keep doing this to yourself. I’m just not going to be a party to it, do you understand? I mean, I’m not.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” mumbled Nick, focusing on the water. “What is that?”
“What is what?”
“That, way out past the buoys.” He climbed to his feet and shielded his eyes. “I mean, it almost looks like a ship, or maybe—”
“It’s you, losing your mind. And mine too; thank you very—”
“Jesus, it is a ship. Like, some kind of submarine. Like a nuclear fucking—” He began jumping up and down, waving his arms. “Hey. Hey!”
“I don’t see any ... wait.” She took a few steps into the water. “You mean that?” She pointed and looked back at him. “That’s a fish. Or some kind of whale—an orca, maybe, or ... look, it’s diving—”
“That’s a sub, the one I saw with the eyes. The Sarpedon .”
He was running back and forth now, like he was in some kind of dance with it, feinting and dodging, bouncing up and down. “Hey, wait. No, no. No-no-no-no ...” He dashed out into the surf. “Wait a minute! Where you going? Hey!”
But it was already gone, already out of sight. Lost to him.
He turned to face Lisa. “I’m going back in. Back into the trance.”
