The Fields Tinged with Red

The Fields Tinged with Red-1

Copyright © 2021 Wayne Kyle Spitzer. All Rights Reserved. Published by Hobb’s End Books, a division of ACME Sprockets & Visions. Cover design Copyright © 2021 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.

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It was the inevitability of it which had caught him; the slow, certain advance, like a leopard creeping across the plain; the sliding into the taller grass from the open field—like an alligator into muddy water. Nor was it the stalking velociraptor alone that had held him so transfixed, or, for that matter, the Holstein calf on the other side of the patch, so oblivious and unaware, but, rather, the land and the setting sun itself, the former of which rolled and undulated like an ocean of red-green dunes—like bloody entrails waiting to be read—and the latter of which looked on indifferently, pitilessly, burning and yet cold as the moon. Regardless, he had been spellbound when he should have been focused—like a laser beam—on the shot; the result of which was that he missed completely when the thing finally pounced—or started to—and again when it crouched suddenly and darted away; at which Teddy—having been awakened by the discharges—snatched the rifle away from him and aimed at the carnosaur himself. Too late.

“Bloody hell,” he said, and spat on the deck. “Why didn’t you wake me?” He lowered the rifle. “It’s not like I don’t have experience with these things; I practically grew up on one.” He spat again—he’d been huge on spitting ever since they’d climbed off the Greyhound. “I could have picked that bugger off.”

“Oh, good. See?” Nick looked at Selena. “He’s got experience with raptors. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“The Garand,” he said, ejecting the clip from the bottom. “Classic Army rifle; used mostly in WWII and Korea. Dad taught me how to shoot one.” He studied the clip fastidiously. “Three bullets. We’ve got three bullets left.”

“One for each of us,” said Nick. “And they say the Lord doesn’t always provide.”

“That being the case,” said Selena, and put her hand on the rifle, “I move we put this back where it came from—at least for now. Which is above the fireplace.”

She looked surprised as Teddy tightened his grip—then slowly relented. “Where it will remain,” she said, “until someone needs it. Anyone. Or if one of those things comes crashing through the window.” She met his gaze good-naturedly but firmly. “Fair enough?”

Teddy just shrugged. “Fine by me.” He leaned against the deck’s railing with both hands. “What’s Hawkeye have to say about it? Something cute, I imagine.”

“Cute is a state of mind—like insanity,” quipped Nick. He walked to the fireplace and admired the gun. “You know it’s true; sometimes an M1 is just an M1.”

Selena exhaled, as though exasperated by them both. She picked a piece of paper from a stack on the table and examined it. “So this is what we know,” She seemed suddenly pensive, even melancholy. “We know people have disappeared, right? I mean, we saw it with our own two eyes—”

“Even our six eyes,” said Nick.

“—including, obviously, the bus driver, which is how we ended up in that ditch.” She looked at Nick gravely—then out through the French doors at Teddy. “And we know it wasn’t just confined to the bus—because of all the empty cars on the road and the crashed and empty helicopter.” She took a deep breath; as though she herself couldn’t believe what she was about to say. “And we know what we saw. Which were ... well, brontosauruses, brachiosauruses, lumbering along U.S. Route 195, toward Spokane. Right? I mean, I didn’t imagine any of that. You were there. Both of you.”

Nick looked beyond her at Teddy, who had lit a cigarette and was silhouetted against a cloud of smoke; saw his broad back twitch as an outsized fly harassed him.

“And we know the power has already failed; which means—if the situation persists—those dairy cows are it; they’re our only food source—beyond what we can find in the cupboards, that is. And we know we’ve got three bullets left—because Nick and I already searched the house and have found nothing. So. What we’ve got, I guess, is precious little—mysteries within mysteries.” She handed Nick the piece of paper she’d been studying. “This, for example.”

He looked down at it:

HAVE YOU SEEN ME?

KATRICE LEE

Aged 12 4’9” 70 lbs.

Brown hair, brown eyes

Last seen wearing jeans,

blue shirt, white sunhat

Any information call:

509-701-0540

“Yeah, well.” He handed the sheet back. “Her and about a million others. If the Palouse is any indication.”

“Sure, but,” She studied the flyer—which was printed on bright orange paper. “What if—I mean she obviously went missing before all this. Before—before the bump in time; or whatever. Before the Flashback.”

He just stared at her. “Okay. I mean, I guess I’m not see—”

“She could still be out there—is what I’m saying.”

He moved to speak but paused, considering the implications, at which Teddy hissed, abruptly: “Hey—pssst. Both of you. Get over here. I think our friend is back.”

And he—she—it, was back, having emerged from the tall grass with its light brown neck covered in blood and a rusty cowbell in its grip; which it dropped with a clang. Having accomplished the kill—somehow—under their very noses; and more, having done it—chillingly, improbably—without making a sound.

“But that’s just not possible,” said Teddy. “I mean, my eyes never left the field—not for an instant. I swear to God.”

“Hawkeye, meet Hawkeye,” said Nick. “A pleasure, I’m sure.”

“It must have taken it down in the south pasture,” said Selena. “On the other side of the barn.” She focused on Teddy. “Do you want the gun?”

Teddy scratched beneath his beard, thinking about it. “No,” he said, his eyes never leaving the animal. “No, not in this light. I mean, that scope is s**t. All right?”

She shrugged at his seeming hostility. “All right.”

“As the scope’s advocate she protests,” said Nick.

“We’ll wait until he comes back, hopefully in the daylight,” said Teddy. He scanned the fields tinged with red and the grazing cows. “And he will be back; you can depend on it.”

“That is, if he ever leaves,” said Nick.

And then they just stared at the thing—even as it stared back, twitching off the flies, its long-fingered claws opening and closing, its pink eyes—which mirrored the enflamed sky—blinking. Until it turned and flitted away and there was nothing staring back at them but the sun.

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