Leaning against the driver’s side, Louis’s foot taps the wet pavement as his fingertips pinch his cigarette way too tightly; the paper has already begun to fray at the pressure of his fingernails. He takes long drags and his head whips left and right, looking up and down the highway. Dixon sits in the passenger’s seat, the window down, letting in a cold, wet breeze from the darkness.. His fingers brush over the buttons of the 8-track player as the stereo keeps on truckin’. A matchbook sits wedged between the tape and the deck, keeping the music playing through the bumps and turns of the highway. Dixon listens intently to the lyrics as they try to clear their heads.

Masquerading as a man with a reason

My charade is the event of the season

His belt is still on; it’s too damn tight, and he stays bound to the car. A hatchback speeds by, and he jumps slightly in his seat, the belt digging into his hips.

Tossed about I’m like a ship on the ocean

I set a course for winds of fortune

Louis finishes his cigarette, watching the car pass into the night, flicking the butt to the road and digging in his back pocket for his pack of Camels. He finds the last cigarette in the pack and shoves it between his lips. He digs around any nook and cranny on his person for a lighter, but he keeps turning up empty.

“Damn it,” he mutters.

Carry on, you will always remember

He reaches into the driver’s side window and rips the matchbook from the 8-track’s slot. 

Carry on, noth-

“The fuck?” Dixon practically spits as he slaps the dashboard. His fingers ring in pain.

Louis ignores the flaring Dixon and lights up with one of the matches, tucking the book into his back pocket with the now-empty pack of Camels.

“We’re both edgy. Cool it,” he says between drags.

“I was listening to that, you shit.”

“Music Appreciation 101 can wait, Dix. We have more pressing problems.”

Dixon raps on the dash, fingers tapping a chaotic beat on the receipts and papers coating the molded plastic surface. The fingers are still throbbing. His tongue glides over the side of his top left molar.

“Man, what’s there to talk about? We go to the cops.”

“And tell them what, Dix? Tell them about the 80 pounds of-”

“Louis-”

Louis takes a long drag of the cigarette and throws it to the ground. He braces himself on the door frame, leaning in to stare at Dixon.

“Don’t fuck with me on this, Dix. This is my life, here. My fucking life.”

Dixon unbuckles himself and spills out the passenger door.

“Man, this isn’t something you can just bury-” he flails as he whips around the front of the Comet past the dented foil that was a bumper, “this is serious shit. This isn’t just you and me fooling around in your room or whatever. This is real shit.”

Louis glides over the sea of gravel beside the road, grabbing Dixon’s collar and shaking him.

“Just. Fucking. Don’t.”

“Then what are we going to do?”

He releases Dixon’s collar in a huff, taking a couple of steps back. His hands are as flat as a board and raised as a buffer. His gesture is meant to diffuse tension. He looks around for any answer at all – but anywhere but the car. 

“I don’t know. Just give me five minutes, please.”

Dixon slaps the hood of the car so hard his bones vibrate. His fingers throb even harder.

“It’s been thirty minutes already,” he says, “we don’t want to make this worse.”

“Can’t we just – I don’t know – could we find a ditch? Dump it? Isn’t there a river?”

Dixon’s eyes narrow at Louis, his teeth crunch and scrape together as his jaw tightens. Louis wipes his eyes with the heel of his palm.

Louis pleads, “Nobody needs to know, Dix. Please don’t fuck me on this. Nobody around. It’s late. We just have to dump it.”

Dixon turns to the hood of the car, staring down the front, unable to see the bumper. In an instant, he gives a low groan, banging and punching the hood over and over. Louis stares silently, eyes wide and watery. Dixon’s punches are wild and emotional. The hood is dented, and blood pools in the dips of the surface, and his hand is latticed by flowing crimson. 

Dixon’s assault ends as suddenly as it began, and he walks back to the passenger seat. The door slams, and he turns to the driver’s seat, where Louis peers through the open driver’s side door.

“There’s a bridge up ahead,” Dixon says tonelessly.

…

The Comet pulls up just in front of the bridge. The two men step out and slump to the trunk. They pause for a moment, and Louis nods to Dixon. Louis unlocks the truck and reaches for a bundle, but Dixon shoves him aside, lifting the oblong shape and throwing it over his shoulder – all 80 pounds. The white cloth has ruby stains. Wordlessly, they walk to the center of the bridge, over the deepest point of the small riverbed, over the densest tangle of brush.

“This should be good,” Louis says as he wipes damp hair from his face.

“Nothing good about it,” is all Dixon says as he drops the bundle.

The undergrowth rattles and crunches on impact, and they stare over the side as the plants seem to erase all traces of their task. Then there is silence aside from the crickets and the early morning wind.

Then they hear the low moan from the undergrowth, and then come the cries from the bundle.

Thank you for reading. Please feel free to share your thoughts in the comments. For more short stories check out my fiction selection.

The post Short Story: “Dump” appeared first on hpkomics.com.

Captain Edward Newton very much enjoyed his travels and Egypt had proven to be delightful. It was certainly a step up from India, in his learned opinion. Though he could not judge India too harshly, as he was sure he was still rattled from the rather short war in Bhutan. The treaty ultimately afforded him time to explore a little more of the various colonies in the Empire.

His wanderings had greatly worn him out, however. He had been considering his exit plan for months, since the start of the war, back home to England. Back to the countryside. By the time the war was over, the Captain had a rough idea of how he would retire. His father had been in ill health even before the trip to India, and it came as no surprise that Lord Newton ultimately passed. The estate, while fairly modest compared to some of the estates of officers he served with, was a blessing. Captain Newton was still not prepared to call himself the new Lord of Newton House. It seemed the travels were more than just a reward for service to the Empire. He had to make an impression. Time to wander and think. Time to ascend his personage.

The impending Lord’s plan was simple. He would deal in antiquities and turn his estate into a museum of his travels. Unorthodox to be sure, but as he was yet unmarried he needed something to occupy his time besides the bloodshed of heathenistic foreigners in India. As far as Egypt went, Cairo was a source of a great many antiquities for his eventual museum. No shortage of poor men willing to part with trinkets for his potential museum at a pittance of the Empire’s coin.

His travails through Cairo had led him to a particularly questionable alley of the brown men, dealing in all manner of plunder from ancient tombs. Tablets, jars, and small clay markers with picturesque carvings could be found resting on any number of rugs and crude wooden shelves in the alley. As he walked by, expectant brown eyes would cast their listless gaze upon him in hopes he would purchase wares. Captain Newton – or was it Lord? – no, that would wait until he was in the homeland – however, was disinterested in the standard trappings of foreign souvenirs. He wanted a genuine mummy.

Captain Burroughs, back at the Blue Jewel Hotel, had mentioned the mummy vendor over drinks, and after a little liquid coaxing finally gave Captain Newton a set of directions to find the vendor. The vendor was said to have fantastic mummies of great quality and character. Surely any of them would make a great exhibit at Newton House. It would be the centerpiece of his museum project.

Captain Newton reached the end of the alley and saw the ramshackle shed erected against one of the modest Cairo buildings. As was described by Burroughs, outside the shed sat a rather tired-looking Egyptian fellow, and next to him were several mummies on public display. Open to the elements, hastily wrapped in meager cloth to shield them from the sun. The unmistakable silhouette, however, was easily recognized.

Captain Newton approached the man.

“Are you Sherif?”

The man cast his eyes upward and did not respond immediately. He grunted as he rose to his feet.

“Yes, I am Sherif. What do you need?”

Captain Newton shuddered at the lack of respect he was being shown, but a genuine mummy would be worth the temporary embarrassment.

“Mr. Sherif, I am looking for a mummy, preferably one of the best quality and novelty you can provide.”

Sherif, again silent, simply stared at Captain Newton, as though he was audaciously determining Newton’s character. After a few painful moments, the vendor took a deep breath and trudged over to his makeshift shed. He pulled up a dingy key from a necklace just under his linen shirt. Inside the shed, Newton was surprised to see another ten mummies packed inside together so tightly, like a logger’s stack. There was an exception of one such mummy, however. At the back of the small shed, resting against the wall was a rather well-preserved, mummified corpse. The other mummies of the shed were propped against the she’ds walls, as though to give this specimen room, either through fear or awe.

It was one of the most impressive mummies Newton had ever seen and he needed to have it for Newton Hall.

“How much for the mummy in the back, Mr. Sherif? The central fellow?”

…

It had taken some haggling but Captain Newton had managed to procure the mummy for a little over a single pound. Mr. Sherif had turned out to be a rather shrewd negotiator and the whole affair had left the Captain exhausted. The heat, smells, and dust of Cairo had proven to be overwhelming. He had returned to his room to rest and await the packaged mummy. He would later have a porter ship the mummy back to England, on his behalf, as he continued his travels abroad. His work was not yet done, but with finds like this, he would make a strong showing in the coming season.

Sure enough, within a couple of hours, and several snifters of brandy, a rapping knock at the door confirmed the delivery of the mummy.

The porter wheeled the crate into the room and promptly exited. Captain Newton, entranced by his new prize, grabbed at his service knife and began to pry the crate open. The screech of heavy nails on wood made him wince, but with the lid pried off, he was able to view his hard-won prize.

Satisfied the deal was met with Mr. Sherif, Newton realized just how tired he really was and decided on an afternoon nap. He slid the lid of the crate in place and wandered over to the bed, opting to sleep in his current clothes. He’d never felt so tired before. Not since his return from the battle and leading his sepoys.

Sleep overtook Captain Newton.

…

It was early evening when Captain Newton woke up. His vision was blurry and he was still very much exhausted, yet something seemed off to him. He felt dirty as he had slept in his clothes, and the Cairo heat had made him sweat through, down to the bed linen. Even now in the early twilight, it was still warm and the air in the room was stuffy. It was getting darker by the moment and his eyes still struggled to adjust to the increasingly dimming lighting.

And yet, something felt off.

As the room came into focus, he saw a figure standing at the foot of his bed.

“Porter? Excuse me, is there something-”

His throat tightened and a cold sweat began to pour from his temples. The figure was not a hotel porter. It was thin and gnarled. Captain Edward Newton shifted nervously back toward the headboard and turned his gaze to the crate.

The lid was on the floor.

The Captain’s sweaty palms dug deep into the pliable bed as the shadowed figure placed its gnarled hand at the end of the dirty right boot. Leathery, thin fingers grasped at his toes.

The stench of sand, time, and rot was unmistakable.

…

It was early morning when Sherif arrived at the alley where he sold his mummies. The sun had not risen over the horizon and the alley was silent as he approached his shed.

At first, he was alarmed to see the figure of the man propped against the makeshift shop. Sherif pulled a small knife from his pants, ready to discourage any would-be thief. He had done it before and would do it again. As he stepped closer to the stall, however, he took a deep breath in relief. The door to his shed was still firmly locked, and the figure did not move.

Curiously, a quality white linen was draped over the figure. Though overnight it had been marred by dust and what appeared to be brownish-red flecks.

The mummy he had sold to the fussy British man was back. This did not shock Sherif.

He was just relieved that he had insisted on money upfront this time.

Thank you for reading. It’s been fun to revisit some earlier pieces I have written.

In the meantime, if you want to support me and my work, consider visiting my Ko-fi page or commissioning me.

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The post Edward Newton’s Cairo Trip appeared first on hpkomics.com.

I feel wind course through my feathered crest as I bolt across the plain. My clan has tasked me with the hunt today. The raid on our home by a brutish beast has left us tired.

Exhausted.

Skittish.

I cannot help but turn my gaze over the plain as I run. Running is freedom. It is a gift. But the freedom is smothered by fear and caution. Nothing feels right.

I was too young to defend our home yesterday. I was ordered to guard the females and the children. I did as I was told.

But I was not proud. It had to be done. But my spear could drink no blood.

I had shepherded the non-fighting remains of the pack into a reinforced cave we had claimed, and from the mouth of the cave, I watched. I watched Rra’gaash leap with his powerful legs into the air and land on top of the Thick-Chest. I watched Rra’gaash’s latching claw dig deep into the titan’s back – perhaps right between the ribs. The feet of the Thick-Chest stomped the plain, kicking up dust and grasses, and his short tail had thrashed at the air, like a swinging log.

From my charge, I had watched the Thick-Chest roar in pain as Rra’gaash sunk his teeth deep into his neck. The Thick-Chest screamed and waved a massive club above its head, attempting to dislodge Rra’gaash. In that moment, it had failed to notice the three other hunters of my pack sneak up from behind. What I’d have given to be among them.

I watched their whistling sticks unsheath with powerful flicks of their tails. Each sunk deeply into the side of the Thick-Chest. It stormed and howled.

Rra’gaash only tightened his jaws on its neck.

I watched the Thick-Chest flee into the darkness, leaving behind its club. As it left the outskirts of the village, it was only then that Rra’gaash loosened his grip and fell to the dirt. The blood stain around his mouth was beautiful.

Now I track its scent. This is my test, to kill the wounded beast. I smell blood upwind, and I push harder, faster than I ever have before.

Within hours I find a watering hole. Many have been there, including my quarry. I sniff the air eagerly and see one of the whistling sticks. It is half sunk in the mud and small waves of water lap at it. I pry it from the muck and take in the scent of blood beneath the smother of mud. 

Not too old. I am close.

I lean down toward the water and lap at it, quenching my thirst for the moment. This is the furthest out from my clan’s hunting grounds I have ever been. Who knows where I could get my next drink?

I taste the blood on the breeze and I continue my hunt. Soon, I am upon him, but he is not alone. There are four of his kind, including him.

I creep low to the ground, but my gait is awkward as I move through the dried grasses. I hold my breath and shift the blades as silently as I can. I hear him speaking in a language I cannot identify. My clan knows little of the Thick-Chests beyond their aggression.

I am close enough now, mere strides away, peeking out from between golden blades. I see him, his chest pockmarked with welts and bruised, crimson holes. He is smaller than the others. He gestures as another one of his kind studies his wounds. My quarry winces and roars as his companion pokes at a whistling stick wound in his side.

My quarry hurls a heavy, clawed fist at the inflictor of his pain, and then barks something. I cannot make it out, only the urgency.

I panic.

He rises to his feet and points in my direction. I sink deeper into the grass. I feel my pulse quicken. I realize it is not at me he points, but the direction from whence he and I both came.

Back to the clan.

I carry little on me but a whistling stick and my teeth and claws. There is little I can do now. He is well-defended. I slowly reverse from my current position. I must get a head start.

My feet brush past dried grass and onto hard, cracked earth. I creep back, further still.

I feel something crack beneath one of my feet. Worse still, I hear it. I dart my eyes towards the Thick-Chests, and they are alert now.

I do not clear away in time, and one of their heavy clubs sails through the air and strikes my head. I bounce along with it upon the ground several times, following the trajectory. I shake away the pain and dizziness as best as I can as I try to rise to my feet, but I am not fast enough. I feel one of their large feet strike me right in my ribs. Pain jolts me to awareness and I thrust the whistling stick between my claws at the source of the pain and feel the resistance as it snaps in half, digging deep into the foot.

Another kick sends me flying.

I land on the ground, hard. My breathing is like wildfire in my chest. But I see the Thick-Chest, a large one, fall back in agony and I watch blood gush from its foot. His massive maw and rows of teeth are exposed as he cries out as crimson dances from the waving foot.

I begin to crawl. I must keep moving.

Soon I feel strength returning to my legs and I am on my feet. I dart off, hearing the thumps of their clubs bouncing along the ground, each one missing me.

I was a hunter, but now I am a messenger. I return to the clan, but each second is agony. I feel hot blood staining my green and orange skin. I feel it dampen my feathers. I press on.

I do not know how I make it, but I return to our hunting grounds. My legs give out from under me and I collapse a few strides away from the communal fire. I feel dryness in my mouth, but I am conscious of dirt and mud clinging to the foaming drool bubbling from between my teeth.

I can barely breathe now. My chest feels sticky from where I was kicked.

Rra’gaash approaches me. He looks concerned, perhaps angry that I came back in such a state. In my last few moments, I tell him about the Warband on the way to the clan.

I feel like my chest is on fire. My eyes begin to close.

The last thing I see before my final sleep is Rra’gaash looking down upon me. He looks… thankful.

Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this world of intelligent dinosaurs, inspired loosely by the concept of the Dinosauroid, please let me know. I have another story I have written that I will post later.

In the meantime, if you want to support me and my work, consider visiting my Ko-fi page or commissioning me.

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