Heat Wave - Wayne Kyle Spitzer - E-Book

Heat Wave E-Book

Wayne Kyle Spitzer

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Beschreibung

The exciting all-new prequel series to Flashback and Dinosaur Apocalypse ...

"There’s no footprints,” said Tess, examining the ground. She looked up at him as though she felt suddenly ill. “Nothing leading away. Just ours and his walking to and from …” She paused, her lower lip trembling. “How is that possible, Coup? And not just him but—where is everybody else? Where are the other cars? How in …”

And then she just broke suddenly and rushed into his arms, and they remained like that for several minutes, during which time he scanned the sky, and, to his deep relief, spied a passenger jet arching glimmeringly across the sky, its contrail just as white and reassuring as angel dust.

“Look, there, see,” He released her abruptly and spun her around. “We’re not in the Twilight Zone, after all. Hey, yo, Freedom Bird! We’re down here!” He waved his arms back and forth. “Give us a lift! Albuquerque or bust!”

Yet there was something odd about the plane’s trajectory he hadn’t initially noticed—or had he? For it truly was arching, which is to say it wasn’t crossing the sky so much as it was … falling from it. Yes, yes, he could see now that was true, as he disengaged from Tess and paced through the scrub, tracking the jet as it curved gracefully in the sun— to finally plummet straight into the far hills, where it vanished like a specter in a plume of fiery smoke.

And then he was gripping the shotgun and trying to wrest it from its rack; but, finding it locked, had to search the car for a key: upon which, realizing there were none that would fit, he located a small button just beneath the seat and depressed it—freeing the weapon.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said Tess as she tailed him back to the Mustang, but he ignored her until they were again seated inside, after which he turned to her and said, briskly, “Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t, but I’m doing it, okay?”

And it was on the tip of her lips to respond when they heard the sound: a kind of muffled whimper—something between a chirp and a meow—coming from outside. Coming from beneath the car.

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HEAT WAVE

by

Wayne Kyle Spitzer

Table of Contents

Title Page

Heat Wave: The Dinosaur Apocalypse Has Begun (A Prequel)

To be continued in | HEAT WAVE 2 | Coming Soon

Copyright © 2019 Wayne Kyle Spitzer. All Rights Reserved. Published by Hobb’s End Books, a division of ACME Sprockets & Visions. Cover design Copyright © 2019 Wayne Kyle Spitzer. Please direct all inquiries to: [email protected]

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.

It happened pow, like that. One minute he’d been blasting through the Arizona desert and listening to Martha and the Vandellas sing “Heat Wave” on the Mustang’s AM radio, and the next he was pulling over, rumbling to a stop on the shoulder of State Route 87 and idling in place as the good-looking hitchhiker jogged to catch up with him.

“Man, am I glad to see you,” she panted, opening the door—then froze, suddenly, examining the cab, peering into the backseat. “No body parts in that cooler? No murder weapons?”

“Only these,” He held up his hands. “Registered as deadly weapons in fifty states. And Puerto Rico.”

“Is that so?” She laughed, appearing relieved, then climbed in and shut the door. “So where you headed, Deadly Hands?”

“New Mexico. Albuquerque.”

“That’ll do.” She took one of his hands and examined it. “Nah, these are too pretty.” She traced his fingers, studying them. “A dentist’s, maybe. Or a lab technician.” When he didn’t say anything, she added: “No? Something creative, then. Nebulous. An artist, maybe. Or a photographer.”

He shifted in his seat uncomfortably, unsure whether he was getting creeped out by her touch and directness—or a hard-on. He glanced her up and down quickly: the slender figure, the long, dark hair—the brown eyes like a doe in heat. Definitely a hard-on. “Look, I—”

“A writer, I think,” she said, suddenly, and let go of his hand. “Ha! Am I warm?”

He opened his mouth to speak but closed it immediately, seeing only Heller and the office at 123 Wilshire Blvd—the cheap suit, the shit-eating grin—his hard-on withering like a prune in September.

“No,” he said at last, gripping the gearshift, pushing in the clutch. “You’re cold. Cold as fucking Pluto.”

And then they were moving, crossing the rumble strip and picking up speed, the engine growling, leaping up, the sweltering sun beating down, as she looked at him, curiously, quizzically, and he tried to ignore her. As the mercury in the little thermometer on the dash topped 90 degrees—and kept climbing.

––––––––

“SO WHAT’S YOUR STORY?” she asked, shouting over the wind and the radio, which was too loud, too tinny. He turned it down.

“My story?” He laughed. “I’m not the one who was hitchhiking through the Sonoran Desert.”

She smiled self-deprecatingly. “Yeah, there is that.” She hung her head back so that her dark hair billowed out the window. “I was at an artist’s colony—the Desert Muse.” She smiled again, bitterly, it seemed. “Or the Desert Ruse, as I call it. Ever heard of it?”

He shook his head.

“Yeah, well, it’s where a bunch of grad students hang out with their professors for a week and study the fine arts. You know, like how to out-snark the other pimply kids ... or fuck your professor.”

He glanced at her sidelong, raising an eyebrow.