Night Terror! (An excerpt from “Time Crunch”)

Writing Time Crunch was an awesome experience for me. I’d just undergone shoulder surgery and couldn’t write things out freehand the way I usually do. And I wasn’t camping a lot either, which is where I do a lot of my work. So instead I wrote the entire book on my computer, and I never edited a single word until the entire first draft was finished. The surprising thing is that the book just flowed. Without wanting to sound too corny, there were a lot of times I felt like someone else was writing the book, and I was simply manning the keyboard. It went so well that I actually tried to do the same thing again with Time Jam and Time Break (except for the surgery), but those books really made me work!

Anyway, this is one of my favorite scenes from Time Crunch. It’s a scene I always return to when I need a good boost of energy. I hope you like it!Final Ebook Cover

 

RAPTORS.

Chase was dreaming of velociraptors, of being surrounded by dozens of deadly, snarling animals. But he felt like he was standing in glue—couldn’t move—couldn’t get away as the raptors swarmed him—

Look out!

Crack! Crack-ack! Brraaaaaaat!

Chase jerked awake as men began yelling, and shooting.

“There! In the trees!”

Brraaaaaaat! Brraaaaaaat! Brraaaaaaat!

There was a blood-curdling scream, followed by a horrifying bellow that sounded like a high-speed drill chewing through gravel. More shouts, yells, roars, gunfire—

Brraaaaaaat! Brraaaaaaat!

Chase ripped open his sleeping bag, grabbed for his pants and hauled them on in a single motion. He pulled on his shirt—not bothering with the buttons—and jerked on his boots—not bothering with the laces. He scrambled for the door, searching frantically for the zipper, but something abruptly crashed into the tent, rolling it over. A heavy body slammed Chase through the fabric, bowling him over backward. He landed hard on his back—

Oof!

—but was instantly tumbling again as the tent flipped up and over, again and again. He landed on his injured ribs—

Aaah!

—and then crumpled as the tent slammed into a tree or a rock. He pushed himself to his knees—pack, sleeping bag, flashlight, water bottle, and other supplies scattered about—and searched for the door, but the tent was no longer right-side up. He looked frantically about in the darkness—

A razor-sharp claw ripped through the top of the tent and a terrible head pushed inside, the silhouette clear and terrifying in the starlight. Gaping jaws snapped together, snatching the sleeping bag and pulling it out through the torn fabric. Chase could see the bag whipping violently back and forth as something tore it apart.

Chase scrambled through the slashed nylon, then dropped to the ground and skittering away on all fours.

All around him, men were running, screaming, shouting, large dark shapes darting in from the trees with amazing speed and power, the howls and roars almost indistinguishable from the shouts and yells. The bonfires were still blazing, but the bright light didn’t make things any easier to see. There was a constant barrage of gunfire—

Brraaaaaaat! Brraaa—brraaaaaaat! Crack! Crack! Brraaaaaaat!

Chase couldn’t tell exactly what was happening, knew only that the camp was under attack, everything confused and chaotic and out of control. He scrambled to the side of a supply box and crouched beside it, ducking as something huge and terrifying rushed past.

His heart was pounding hard and fast, his lungs wheezing as he fought for breath.

The trees! Gotta get to the trees!

Someone ran by shouting—

On your six! On your six!

—something else darting past an instant later in a different direction.

Chase looked directly at one of the blazing fires, the firelight instantly destroying his night vision. He couldn’t see anything more than a couple of feet away.

Still on all fours, he scrambled for the trees, dropping flat when he saw something running at him. He screwed his eyes shut, steeling himself to be snapped up by sharp yellow teeth, but the thing rushed over the top of him, a heavy foot stepping right on his butt and grinding him into the ground.

Chase couldn’t help crying out—

Aaaiigh!

—but then the thing was gone. Chase didn’t hesitate, began army-crawling through the ruined, mangled campsite. He put his hand into something wet and slimy—he recoiled in horror—but shook it off and continued crawling.

“Behind you—”

Crack-ack! Brraaaaaaat!

“Look out!”

Aaaiigh!

Chase could hear the voices, but couldn’t tell one from another, didn’t know who was doing the yelling or the screaming.

He scrambled between two fires and reached the first tree. He skittered around, getting behind it, keeping it between him and the raging fight, then heard a horrible shriek. He looked up just as a screeching nightmare raced toward him on two legs, forearms outstretched, ready to tear him to pieces. The thing leaped—

Brraaaaaaat! Brraaaaaaat! Brraaaaaaaaaaat!

—and exploded in midair, hot blood and foul dino juice spraying Chase like a fire hose.

Someone was yelling—

“Run for it, kid! Get out of—aaaiigh!”

Chase panicked and ran, bolting mindlessly through the woods. His boots were still untied, his shirt still open, flapping behind him as he tore through the brush and trees. He could still hear the fight raging behind him. The shouts were incomprehensible now, though the yells and roars and gunfire crackled furiously in the air.

He tripped on a bootlace, fell flat on his face, but was up and running again without remembering getting back to his feet.

He ran into a thicket too dense to get through and turned, running now in a different direction. He wasn’t sure, but the sounds of the fight seemed to be dying away. Whether because the terrifying dinosaurs had been driven off or the camp completely over-run, he didn’t know. But he kept running. Unlike the others, he didn’t have a weapon, nothing to fight with, no way to help.

He kept running.

After several minutes he realized he could no longer hear the sound of gunfire. He wasn’t sure if the team had stopped shooting or if he’d just run too far to hear it. But he didn’t waste time trying to figure it out. His legs were in full-flight mode and he was still running as hard as he could. He splashed through a small stream, then turned and ran along what seemed to be a trail, just visible in the starlight. He was slowly regaining his night vision, the stars providing just enough light to pick out trees and rocks and stumps blocking his way.

He came to a fallen log, the remains of an enormous pine, the rotting branches rising into the air like the ribs of an ancient monster. He turned away, running slower now but still as fast as he was able. He was chuffing for breath, wheezing like a kid with asthma, and could feel the blood pounding in his hands, and ears, and feet.

After several more minutes he stopped. He looked around, spotted a tall, sweeping pine, and dove beneath the branches. The springy boughs were bent under their own weight, providing a small hollow near the trunk. He curled up against the scaly bark, breathing hard. Something snapped in the trees and he jerked his head in that direction, but … nothing seemed to be there.

He stayed alert, looking back and forth, searching for threats, but nothing seemed to be moving. The forest was still, and quiet, as if the very bugs were worried about making noise. A soft breeze rustled the leaves and—farther away—a bird mourned in the darkness. Chase heard a distant hoot—

Sounds like an owl

—and then a cricket or two opened up. And then a few more. And more. And it wasn’t long before the forest was again ringing with the soothing, comforting chirrups of cricket song.

Like absolutely nothing’s wrong in the world and never will be.

Chase pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. He was breathing easier now, and he even felt his heartbeat begin to slow a little.

His mouth began to tremble, first just a little and then more sharply. Hot tears scalded his eyes. He fought them off for a moment, but then the horror, and fear, and terror of the night overcame him.

He lowered his face to his knees and bawled like a baby.

 

Wow! I just love reading that! When I sat down to write it, I didn’t know what was going to happen. (I was actually writing as fast as I could, just to find out!) If you like it, check it out on my Amazon page.

 

Crash at Roswell

July 3rd marks the 73rd anniversary of the UFO crash at Roswell, New Mexico. I’ve always loved the mystery surrounding that story, and I thought I knew most of the facts. But one day I was reading and–almost as a footnote–discovered that rancher Mack Brazel wasn’t alone when he found the wreckage. A young boy was with him.

I had never heard that before, and I instantly wondered what it must have been like for that kid. And I began work on Saucer Crash that very night, telling the story of the Roswell crash through his eyes.

SaucerCrash01Saucer Crash is a middle-grade book, but it won’t insult your intelligence if you’re a little older. But with the anniversary coming up, I’ve posted the first chapter here.

Hope you like it!

 

July 3rd, 1947

CRACK!

The rumble of thunder rolled over the desert like the growl of an angry dinosaur. Fourteen-year-old Will Proctor listened as the thunder died away, then shook his head.

“That was nothing,” he said. “Had to be ten miles away.”

“Ten miles?” Will’s ten-year-old brother Ben looked worried. “Are you sure?”

“Oh, yeah. Ten miles at least.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, it wasn’t very loud, for one thing. And it was nearly a minute from the time we saw the flash ’til we heard the thunder.”

“So?”

Will looked over patiently. Ben wasn’t usually frightened by thunderstorms, but this one was especially fierce. And there was a … strangeness … to it that made Will’s skin crawl. He suddenly shivered, though he wasn’t really cold.

Ben was sitting beside him, hunched on the porch with his knees drawn up to his chest. He’d pulled his sweatshirt down over his legs so only his head was visible.

Will looked up as another rumble of thunder rolled in. Rain pounded the roof of the house and poured over the eaves. Will could smell the dust being stirred up by the rain, as well as the acrid ozone from the lightning.

Summer thunderstorms were not uncommon in the desert of New Mexico. And Will usually enjoyed them. He liked watching as the lightning flashed and the thunder boomed.

But this storm was different. It was wild and strange and eerie in a way Will had never seen before.

Almost as if the heavens were angry about something.

 

WILL LOOKED DOWN at his little brother and tried to sound reassuring.

“It’s like this,” he said. “Light travels faster than sound. That’s why you see the lightning before you hear the thunder.”

Ben scrunched his nose.

“But if you want to know how far away the lightning is, all you have to do is count seconds,” Will continued.

“Count seconds?”

“Until you hear the thunder. When you see a flash of lightning, start counting like this: one little pony, two little ponies, three little ponies … like that. It takes about five seconds for the sound of thunder to go a mile. So if you count to ten before you hear it—”

“It’s two miles away?”

“Right. And if you count to fifteen?”

“Three miles!”

“Right.”

Ben was searching the sky eagerly now, anxious to give it a try. The sky lit up almost instantly as angry flashes split the darkness. The brilliant streaks lasted a full second or more, but Ben was already counting.

“One little pony … two little ponies … three little ponies …”

Twelve, Will thought to himself as Ben counted. That looked a lot closer than the last one … I bet it’s twelve seconds . . .

“Ten little ponies … eleven—”

Crack!

The thunder crashed loudly, followed by five or six seconds of lesser rumbles.

Despite the ear-splitting crack of thunder, Ben looked excited.

“Two miles!”

“Two miles and change,” Will agreed. “Right between here and Mack’s place.”

“But closer to ours!”

“Yup … closer to ours.”

Five minutes ago, Ben would have been frightened that the lightning had struck closer to their place. But now it was a source of pride.

Will looked around as the rain picked up—falling even harder now—and thought about Mack Brazel. Mack was a gangly rancher who lived five miles down the road. Will helped him with his sheep.

Mack had a family, but he was the only one who lived in the desert ranch house. His wife and sons lived in Tularosa because the school was better there and, besides, the ranch house was too small for the whole family.

“Do you think Mack’s sheep are scared?” Ben asked. “You think they’re scared of thunder and lightning?”

“I’ll bet they are. Tomorrow, Mack and I’ll probably spend the whole day roundin’ ’em up.”

“Poor things,” Ben said as thorny branches of lightning split the sky, one right after another. He used his fingers to count so he could continue talking. “I’d hate to be out in the desert on a night like this.”

The first crack came at nine seconds. Ben looked over with a crease of worry on his face.

“It’s a little closer,” Will admitted. “But it’s still nothing to worry about.”

“Do you think Mack gets scared?” Ben asked. He scrunched himself up inside his sweatshirt. “Being out there all by himself and everything?”

Will shook his head.

“I don’t think Mack gets scared of anything.” He looked at Ben and grinned. “But one of his dogs sure does.”

“Which one?”

“Tuck.”

“Tuck? Really?”

“Oh, yeah. He hates loud noises. I’ll bet he’s hunkered down under Mack’s table right now.”

“Poor thing.”

“Yeah.”

Ben hesitated, then asked, “What about Big Owl Man? Or the Eight-foot Skeleton? Think Mack’s scared of them?”

Will looked up as another flash of lightning peeled back the night. Big Owl Man was a legendary monster said to live in the desert. The Apache Indians who once lived there said the Big Owl Man was part-owl/part-man, carried a club, and gobbled up naughty children for breakfast.

Will didn’t think the Eight-foot Skeleton was an Apache legend, but it was just as unsettling. The story was that an eight-foot human skeleton wandered the desert on moonless nights with a glowing lantern nestled within its ribs.

When he was younger, Will had been frightened of the stories. But not anymore. After all, he reasoned, how could a skeleton be eight feet tall?

And why would it need a lantern?

He reached over and tussled his brother’s unruly mop of hair.

“Naw, Mack’s not afraid of anything.”

“He’s not afraid of skeletons?”

“Nope.”

“Cougars?”

“He’s got dogs and a rifle.”

“Wolves?”

“Ain’t no wolves to be scared of.”

Ben looked up as a crack of thunder crashed over the desert. His voice was quiet. “Is he scared of thunder?”

Will shook his head. “Thunder’s nothing to be scared of, Ben.”

 

THERE WAS ANOTHER FLASH of light, another, and then another. Will wasn’t counting the seconds, but the lightning seemed to be striking farther away now. Strike after strike after strike. They were coming so fast it was impossible to tell one from another. The thunder became one long, angry rumble, punctuated by occasional sharper cracks. The rain began falling even harder, pounding the dry desert and pouring off the Proctor’s roof like a waterfall.

“My gosh,” Will said. He had to raise his voice to make himself heard over the rain. “This is incredible! I’ve never seen—”

Before he could finish the sentence the entire sky lit up. The flash was so bright it stung Will’s eyes. He winced, throwing a hand up in front of his face. There was suddenly a strange smell in the air, the smell of ozone.

The hair began tingling on Will’s arms and neck.

He whirled around.

“Ben! Get down!”

“What?”

Will didn’t take time to explain. He pushed Ben down on the porch and dropped flat on top of him. Ben jerked his elbow in surprise, striking Will in the eye. Will recoiled in pain—his eyes filling with tears—then ducked his head and held on tight.

The sky lit up again. The flash was so bright Will could see it even though his eyes were closed. From the inside, his eyelids appeared blood red and full of spider webs. The thunder followed instantly, a terrifying, ear-splitting crack that shook the house and rattled the windows. The blast was so loud it crushed Will’s ears.

There was another flash—an instant, terrifying explosion of thunder—and Will felt the porch shake. The windows rattled. A pot fell from the windowsill. Ben was flailing wildly beneath him, lashing out with an elbow that caught Will in the other eye. Will ducked his head out of the way and held his brother even more tightly.

There was another crack of thunder, and another. The crashes sounded like cannon fire as the sky lit up brighter than the sun in the middle of the day.

And then, finally, the storm seemed to recede. The thunderclaps became muted as the lightning began striking farther away.

Will held onto Ben for another moment, then slowly lifted his head. The house was still standing, the rain still falling. Ben was crying. Will relaxed and tried to sit up, but the younger boy cried out and held on.

“It’s okay,” Will said. He pulled his brother close and hugged him. He looked into the darkness. “It’s okay,  the worst of it’s over.”

The door flew open and Mr. Proctor burst onto the porch.

“Will! Ben! Are you okay?”

“We’re fine, Pa,” Will said. Over the sound of the rain he could hear his little sister sobbing in the kitchen. “Just a little startled.”

Mr. Proctor knelt on the porch and began checking his sons for injuries. Ben threw his arms around his father’s neck, still whimpering.

“Will, what happened to your face?”

“My … what?”

Mr. Proctor squinted in the darkness. “Your eye’s cut.”

Will reached up and touched his left eye. His fingers came away wet with blood.

“Oh,” he said, surprised. “I was holding Ben down on the porch and he sorta smacked me.”

He stood and stared into the darkness: the lightning was flashing above the clouds now. It was like watching campfires through thin curtains.

He looked back at his father.

“What just happened?”

Mr. Proctor shook his head. “I don’t know, Will.”

“That didn’t even seem like thunder. It was … different. Do you think an airplane might have crashed?”

Mr. Proctor frowned. The Roswell Army Air Field was about seventy miles to the southeast. The base was the home of the 509th Bombing Squadron. The Enola Gay—the bomber that dropped an atomic bomb on Hiroshima—had once been stationed at Roswell, and people said the army still stored atomic bombs there. If an airplane carrying such a weapon had been caught in the storm …

Well, who knows what might have happened?

 

HE TURNED AND LOOKED southwest. The White Sands Missile Range was about 200 miles that way. White Sands was a top-secret missile base. No one knew what the army did there, but there were plenty of rumors. And who knew what might happen if one of the army’s secret experiments went haywire?

“I don’t know, Will,” Mr. Proctor said. “But I can’t imagine an airplane flying around on a night like this.”

But Will wasn’t listening anymore; he was looking steadfastly into the darkness.

“What is it?” his father asked.

“I don’t know, but …”

He pointed.

“Something’s glowing way out there on the desert.”

Ben was instantly alarmed. “Something’s glowing? Like a lantern? Like the skeleton?”

“No, Ben, it’s not the skeleton …”

Mr. Proctor squinted but couldn’t see it. “Are you certain?”

“I think so. Maybe. Do you think the lightning could have sparked a brush fire?”

“It’s possible. But I don’t think so. With all this rain, I can’t imagine anything being able to burn.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

On the other hand, Will thought, if a missile—or an airplane full of fuel—had gone down out there, it’d take more than a little rain to keep it going up like a bonfire.

He squinted but was unable to see the dim glow anymore. The night sky was black as ink and the fiery glow now seemed more imaginary than real. He wasn’t certain anymore that he’d actually seen anything.

He peered into the sky. It was hard to be certain, but it seemed as if the storm was beginning to let up a little. The rain wasn’t falling quite so hard and the lightning strikes had tapered off, only flashing once every half-minute or so.

“Why don’t you come on in, Will?” Mr. Proctor asked as he stood and lifted Ben. “You’ve got to be up pretty early in the morning.”

“Yeah, sure, Pa. I’ll be right in.”

Will watched as his father carried Ben inside the house, then stood on the porch for another minute. He watched the sparks of receding lightning and listened to the ominous rumble of distant thunder. The air smelled wet and dusty and a little bit moldy.

As far as storms went, this one seemed normal again. But for several minutes it had seemed strange in a way that left him feeling uncomfortable. It had been disturbing and quite a bit frightening.

Now he wondered if it had really been as strange as it seemed … or if it had just been his imagination.

He shivered again.

 

Well, there it is! I hope you like it and–whether you believe the story of the crash or not–with the anniversary coming up, remember to keep your eyes to the sky!

Moon Lake Adventure

I spent this past weekend at exotic (and mysterious) Moon Lake, speaking to a group of 11-year-old Scouts. Great kids! I had a great time (and even looked for the legendary Moon Lake Monster, but without luck).

bearAnyway, I opened my talk with one of my favorite Scouting stories, which went something like this:

A bunch of years ago I spent 18 days backpack through Philmont Scout Ranch in New Mexico. Now, there’s a lot of bears at Philmont, so you can’t keep any food in your tent at night. Yeah, you do that and every hungry bear on the mountain’s gonna try crawling into your tent with you.

So every night before you go to bed, you’ve gotta take all your snacks and candy and anything else that smells like food and put it in a burlap sack called a “bear bag.” Then you take the bag about fifty yards out of camp and hoist it into a tree. That way, if any bears come wandering by, they spend the night trying to get into the tree instead of your tent.

At first, we were all really good about loading up the bear bag, ’cause none of us wanted some nosy bear sneaking into our tents. But there were a couple of problems. First, we weren’t seeing any bears. We weren’t seeing any tracks. And after a couple of days we started thinking maybe there really weren’t any bears, and that they were just a story made up to scare everybody.

And second, sometimes you’d put six Snickers bars into the bear bag, but you’d only get three back the next morning. So we all started getting a little lax about loading our best snacks in the bear bag.

One night after everyone had gone to bed, I went out for a little night hike. When I came back I was trying to be as quiet as I could, so I didn’t disturb anyone. There was one tent on the outskirts of camp, and as I got close I could hear a couple of the guys talking inside. One of the boys was saying, “Dude, quit moving around . . . you’re kneeling on my glasses!”

“Oh, sorry, I thought you were wearing them.”

“I am wearing them!”

Well, I started to walk around when I heard one of the kids go, “Shhhhhhhh!

And man, I froze, ’cause I believe in Bigfoot and I was sure someone had just heard him. But nothing happened, so I finally took another step and heard, “Shhhhhhhh! There it is again!

And this time I realized, “Ah, they hear me!”

But just to make sure I took another step and sure enough, “Shhhhhhhh! There it is again!

Followed by: “What do you think it is?”

“I bet it’s a bear!”

And a horrified voice: “I didn’t put all my stuff in the bear bag!”

“Where is it?”

And in pure panic: “It’s right here!

And the next second ZIP! went the zipper, and the next instant Pop Tarts, licorice, candy bars, power bars, raisins, bubble gum, and trail mix comes flying from the tent.

The next morning, we all searched the bushes for whatever was left of the guys’ snacks, but never did find any of it, which proved there was a bear in camp.

But I sure ate good that week.