The Best of Penny Dread Tales by Kevin J. Anderson, Quincy J. Allen, Cayleigh Hickey, Aaron Michael Ritchey Ritchey, J. M. Franklin, Gerry Huntman, Laura Givens, Keith Good, David Boop, Peter J. Wacks Page A
Authors: Kevin J. Anderson, Quincy J. Allen, Cayleigh Hickey, Aaron Michael Ritchey Ritchey, J. M. Franklin, Gerry Huntman, Laura Givens, Keith Good, David Boop, Peter J. Wacks
Tags: Science-Fiction, Literature & Fiction, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Steampunk, Anthologies, Anthologies & Short Stories
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proceeded to tear through that cage like pages from a Sears & Roebuck. That critter started smashing machines and lightning poles to beat the band. By the time I rode through there were people running everywhere and explosions like it was the fourth of July. I thought it the better part of valor to get out of there fast as I could. As I made for the cage door, I turned one last time, and through the fireworks I could see Pete still on the other side of the big door riding that wheeling, bucking Tyrannosaurus rex, with Pete waving one hand in the air and singing the Yellow Rose of Texas at the top of his lungs. Just before the smoke got too dense to see, I would swear I saw a spear hit the beast right under one of its tiny arms. I heard three loud whoops as I was unceremoniously shoved through a side door and out onto an overcast Milwaukee street corner.
Once we were out, that building started shaking and tearing itself apart. It finally just up and imploded into itself with a big old whump of air. By the time the volunteer firemen showed up there wasn’t much left to see. Men in white coats gave statements to bewildered policemen as I sipped a beer offered to me by an understanding soul. Nicola Tesla was off to one side, covered in dust and debris, scribbling madly in a notebook that was now charred slightly at the edges. Buffalo Bill sat hunched up on a curb, hat in hand, crying softly for his lost dreams of dinosaurs at a dime a head.
So, my dearest, Pete is gone. The professor says he will rebuild his machines one day—Bill says not with his money he ain’t. So rescue seems out of the question. The common sense thing to assume is that your baby brother is long gone, a meal for monsters. But Pete was never one much for common sense. I lay awake some nights wondering if, somewhere back in pre-history, Pete didn’t manage to bust that rex after all. If so, then maybe my old partner has managed to start himself the world’s first and only dinosaur ranch. Never count a cowboy out till he’s six foot under, that’s what I always say.
Hug the children for me. I will be home from my travels in the spring.
Your loving husband,
Sam
***
American Vampire
Keith Good
Part One: Bandito
1913
I
He craved death. Each bone-stubbled carcass, each spike of irradiated grass growled at the dark inside him. Days stretching to weeks, he entertained the fantasy that, like him, these plains would die forever. It was a cruel thought. Flickering lizards—little candles of life—and summer cloudbursts snuffed his macabre fantasies. He could never die, and the world would only live.
He pulled the pamphlet from Rosie’s saddlebag only to put it back. He’d arrive soon. Hypnotized by the chuff of Rosie’s pneumatic horseshoes, he fell into a dream. Denver City sprouted from the shimmering heat, woven from light and fog. He and Rosie trotted its familiar High Street, a squat warehouse on their left. Its hand-carved sign declared:
Metalwork & Horseshoeing
L.M. Smith, Prop.
In this false lucidity, he pulled Rosie’s reins toward their former home. She ignored him, instead breaking into a brisk jog. As all good things do, Denver City died. He tried to ask “¿Que es esto, Rosie?” but weeks without water left his voice dead as the surrounding plains.
The question proved superfluous; a black speck squirmed on the horizon, too big for brush and too small for buffalo. Another horse—and another rider—lay 500 yards ahead. He swung an arm behind him and let the safety off his rifle … just in case. Rosie, her sight superior, her attentions inexhaustible, recognized the speck and upped her pace. The Rider obliged her enthusiasm and sat firm, hand to gun and his eyes on the growing shape.
As in most matters, Rosie’s judgment proved correct. A horse stretched across the earth, missing most of a foreleg and bested by the cruel heat. A bandito slumped against the horse’s neck, pot-bellied and bloody-mouthed. Rosalina broke to a
Once we were out, that building started shaking and tearing itself apart. It finally just up and imploded into itself with a big old whump of air. By the time the volunteer firemen showed up there wasn’t much left to see. Men in white coats gave statements to bewildered policemen as I sipped a beer offered to me by an understanding soul. Nicola Tesla was off to one side, covered in dust and debris, scribbling madly in a notebook that was now charred slightly at the edges. Buffalo Bill sat hunched up on a curb, hat in hand, crying softly for his lost dreams of dinosaurs at a dime a head.
So, my dearest, Pete is gone. The professor says he will rebuild his machines one day—Bill says not with his money he ain’t. So rescue seems out of the question. The common sense thing to assume is that your baby brother is long gone, a meal for monsters. But Pete was never one much for common sense. I lay awake some nights wondering if, somewhere back in pre-history, Pete didn’t manage to bust that rex after all. If so, then maybe my old partner has managed to start himself the world’s first and only dinosaur ranch. Never count a cowboy out till he’s six foot under, that’s what I always say.
Hug the children for me. I will be home from my travels in the spring.
Your loving husband,
Sam
***
American Vampire
Keith Good
Part One: Bandito
1913
I
He craved death. Each bone-stubbled carcass, each spike of irradiated grass growled at the dark inside him. Days stretching to weeks, he entertained the fantasy that, like him, these plains would die forever. It was a cruel thought. Flickering lizards—little candles of life—and summer cloudbursts snuffed his macabre fantasies. He could never die, and the world would only live.
He pulled the pamphlet from Rosie’s saddlebag only to put it back. He’d arrive soon. Hypnotized by the chuff of Rosie’s pneumatic horseshoes, he fell into a dream. Denver City sprouted from the shimmering heat, woven from light and fog. He and Rosie trotted its familiar High Street, a squat warehouse on their left. Its hand-carved sign declared:
Metalwork & Horseshoeing
L.M. Smith, Prop.
In this false lucidity, he pulled Rosie’s reins toward their former home. She ignored him, instead breaking into a brisk jog. As all good things do, Denver City died. He tried to ask “¿Que es esto, Rosie?” but weeks without water left his voice dead as the surrounding plains.
The question proved superfluous; a black speck squirmed on the horizon, too big for brush and too small for buffalo. Another horse—and another rider—lay 500 yards ahead. He swung an arm behind him and let the safety off his rifle … just in case. Rosie, her sight superior, her attentions inexhaustible, recognized the speck and upped her pace. The Rider obliged her enthusiasm and sat firm, hand to gun and his eyes on the growing shape.
As in most matters, Rosie’s judgment proved correct. A horse stretched across the earth, missing most of a foreleg and bested by the cruel heat. A bandito slumped against the horse’s neck, pot-bellied and bloody-mouthed. Rosalina broke to a
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