Cover by Rocky Kelley

As we barrel toward the August 29 premiere of Rayguns Over Texas at LoneStarCon 3 (aka the 71st Annual World Science Fiction Convention) in San Antonio, I am presenting book excerpts, one contributor per day.

Today’s selection comes from Mark Finn‘s “Take a Left at the Cretaceous.”

In a Texas where dinosaurs roam, Baxter and his dog traverse dangerous terrain to deliver packages in Mark Finn’s wild science fiction adventure littered with guns, bikers,
and lots of action.

Right now, the rangers at the checkpoint were the least of my worries. Highway 85 wasn’t particularly pristine before the gate opened, but now it had thoroughly gone to shit. Somehow a herd of runners, carrion eaters or maybe eggers from the looks of it, were all bunched up and picking the roadside clean. Some other driver had startled them and they were now in full flight mode, running down the road, darting left and right, going in the same direction as me. I couldn’t shoot any of them because they’d fall right in my path and make the road a bloody mess to get over and make me even more late than I already was. It was getting dark, and even seven miles out, no one hung around after the sun went down. All I could do was honk at the bastards, which only aggravated them further. So I’m driving, literally, in the middle of a flock of these things, at about twenty miles per hour. I can’t get them to move out of my way, and they keep banging into my left and right side panels and squawking that I won’t give them the road. To them, I’m just another runner. Stupid dinosaurs.

Steve was going nuts. He stood, rigid as a statue, in the front seat, his nose trembling with indignation as he barked wildly at the runners who were in his space. If he’d had a tail, it could have been wagging like a windshield wiper. I was tempted to let him out, but these things were a little big for him (not that it would have stopped him in the slightest) and he didn’t have his armor on. No fear, that dog. He was part pit bull, part dogo, and part something else, probably Rottweiler, from the size of him. That would also explain the lung capacity. His barks were deafening in the cab, and I was sick of hearing it. We were both miserable at this point; something had to give.

And give it did. The runners abruptly made a sharp right turn, and suddenly, I was free of them. I hit the brakes and cut the engine. Steve was still barking and I grabbed him and scratched his ears as I searched for the predator. How a Rex can be so big and yet so hard to spot is one of the most irritating things on a long list of irritating things about dinos.

Steve had just settled down when I felt the footsteps up through the floorboards and saw it, trotting across the road about a hundred yards in front of us. The Rex gave Cee Cee a passing glance, but was much more interested in the bite-sized snacks that were actively
running away from it at that moment. It broke into a gallop, and Steve strained against his collar, but only somewhat. He knew I’d never let him out to chase a tyrannosaur. Damn fool dog. I think if I ever let him, he’d actually take a run at one.

Steve relaxed and licked my face. “Okay, boy,” I said. “Thanks for scaring them off for me.” He panted and grinned in that way that bulldogs do. I fished around for a dog biscuit and gave him one. As an afterthought, I had one myself. Mexican made. All natural. They  don’t use cows anymore. Cows are extinct.

When the tremors subsided, I put Cee Cee back in gear and we slapped leather for the border.

Excerpt from “Take a Left at the Cretaceous” © 2013 by Mark Finn.