Flashback/The Dinosaur Apocalypse: The Final Trilogy of Stories

Chapter 5

And then it was over, the vision, I mean, and I was back on the beach, back in Ocean Shores. Then I was looking at the eye (which had abruptly glazed over) and worrying that that was all I was going to get—all my little oracles were going to show me. All Lisa would allow as I looked back at the fifth wheel and saw her approaching (preceded by Puck, who barked and wagged his tail). As I looked at the rapidly lightening sky and the Flashback Borealis and thought the latter seemed suddenly agitated, suddenly angry.

As a new eye opened and blinked; once, twice—oozing yellow fluid, and was quickly followed by another, and another ...

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“Yo, check it,” said the black man (his name was Peter) as he tossed a can of Beanee Weenee—which passed right through me—to a white man; whose name was Preston. “It’s got a pull ring.”

“Yeah, well,” Preston gave the container a heft. “In lieu of a can opener, I guess it’s gonna have to do.” He looked around the store—which had been ransacked, vandalized, plundered. “Jesus. You’d think they’d at least carry those little keychain ones—”

“Look,” Peter stopped scouring the aisle long enough to peer outside—where a blue news helicopter sat in the sun. “I don’t know if I can do this; you know? Not talk about it. I mean, that s**t was real—it happened, okay? Do you really think that not talking about it is going to make it just dry up and go away?” He shot Preston a glance. “You know what I’m talking about. Don’t even say you don’t.”

Preston looked at him—and at me—gave the can another heft.

“All right,” he said, and sat down against the shelves. “Let’s talk about it.” He exhaled. “I’ll start with my theory; which is that not only was it ‘real,’ this, this vision, this premonition—meaning it wasn’t just some figment of our imagination—but that, far from being abstract, or even symbolic, it depicted an actual place that actually exists; and more, that it exists not in some far-flung locale but right here in SoCal, right here in L.A. Maybe even right here in South Central.” He tossed the can back to Peter, who’d sat on the floor across from him. “Now what do you think of that?”

Peter just chuckled; played catcher’s mitt with the Beanee Weenee. “Well now, I must say—that’s—that’s a cracker barrel full of assumption, is what that is.” He tittered softly. “But that doesn’t mean it’s incorrect. Truth is, I’ve had the exact same feeling—and about as much to base it on as you have; which is to say, nothin’.”

I sat on the floor between them even as he pitched the Beanee Weenee back, which passed straight through me. “So what do we do?”

Preston caught it and frowned, sat it on the tiles next to him. “The threat was clear, if not the message. Something is coming. And not just coming in a general sense but coming here, to L.A., and fast. I think we need to find out where that garden maze is.”

“There’s fuel in the chopper—that regular gasoline won’t kill it overnight. I can take us up.”

Preston smiled; devilishly, mischievously. “Back on the beat in Sundog One, just like the old days?”

“Back on the beat in Sundog One. Just like the old days.”

And then they were standing and I was standing too—but not in the convenience store, nor anywhere near it. Rather, I was in the middle of the road on US Highway 101 near Santa Rosa; just standing there in my peacoat with the collar turned up and eyeballs in my hand. Standing like a phantom, a ghost, an apparition, as three boys—no, two boys and a girl with short hair—came coasting up to me over the baked, riven, overgrown asphalt.

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“Again? Seriously, dude?”

That was Miles—sort of the leader of the group (though Quint thought it was him and Miles and Jesse usually let him think that).

“Whatever. It wasn’t my idea to scrounge inner tubes from Walmart.”

They all coasted to a halt—frap, frap, frap—Quint with a flat front tire.

“Great. Just great.” I watched Miles as he scanned the area: the fractured three-lane blacktop and multitude of scattered, empty vehicles; the hoary cycad bushes like plump, green spiders; the tree line which might conceal any number of threats. “We’re wide open. Now what?”

“Now I fix it,” said Quint, and flipped his bike over. “Again.”

“Let me guess,” sighed Jesse. “Because you’ve got, ‘attributes.’”

“Because I’m not some candy-a*s from L.A. who can’t do anything.” He side-eyed Jesse. “Or the orphanage. God, what a bullshit story that was.” He rummaged through his pack. “But I knew—I knew all along. I mean, you may have fooled Miles—but me? Quint Holloway? Forget it.”

Jesse looked around. “Just hurry up. Miles is right; we’re wide open.” She became thoughtful, introspective. “I miss the ocean. I mean, there was always at least one side we didn’t have to worry about.” She focused on Miles, or rather the talisman around his neck—which looked like a velociraptor’s sickle claw. “At least the Talon’s quiet.”

Miles closed his hand over it. “Cool as ice—for now.” He seemed suddenly preoccupied. “You’re right about the ocean, though. I wonder ...” He reached over and snatched the map from her pack. “Let’s take a look; maybe we can make a dash west—without losing too much time, that is. Quint—you cool with that?”