WHO WILL SURVIVE A NIGHT OF MESOZOIC MAYHEM?
Deep in the mountains, there is a
House that time has abandoned to rot.
Its carcass remains as nothing more than a
bad memory of a horrid nightmare.
Inside its labyrinthine halls stalk primeval terrors
the Earth has not seen in 66 million years.
Their talons sharp, their teeth sharper.
Their appetites hungry.
This Hell is their Home.
And their Guests have arrived...
WHO WILL SURVIVE A NIGHT OF MESOZOIC MAYHEM?
Deep in the mountains, there is a
House that time has abandoned to rot.
Its carcass remains as nothing more than a
bad memory of a horrid nightmare.
Inside its labyrinthine halls stalk primeval terrors
the Earth has not seen in 66 million years.
Their talons sharp, their teeth sharper.
Their appetites hungry.
This Hell is their Home.
And their Guests have arrived...
"I cannot deal with this foolishness right now!” Azi Midas sighed as he dropped their phone into their lap, removed their designer glasses, and rolled their eyes. He ran a hand through their dreads, pinned back against their scalp, and bundled with a hair tie in the back. Azi identified as non-binary, which meant they didn’t exclusively consider themself a man but felt somewhere outside of that binary, often preferring “they/them” in addition to “he/him” pronouns. The California sunset showed through his gorgeous penthouse suite, illuminating the androgynous features on their Brown skin. He was pampered, with expensive skincare oils and makeup and accompanied by equally luxurious silk pajamas: the best a spoiled rich kid could ask for.
He sat in a pile of what needed to eventually become packed luggage so that they could go on what others called “a fun time camping,” but what the wealthy called “actual Hell.”
But he wasn’t packing, was he? No, he was far too distracted as he dealt with the drama of Cameron and Stella.
Drama Stella didn’t even know about.
Drama that Azi was one hundred percent the perpetrator of because he’d decided that he and Cameron should hook up. And he needed to hook up with Cameron because it was the easiest and fastest way to get Azi’s ex out of his life.
So they did— behind Stella’s back, of course. “Sleeping with your childhood best friend’s boyfriend to break up with your partner” does not go over well.
One problem begets another. The story of Azi’s messy life.
Besides the chaos of his exploding phone, he half-watched a YouTube video titled “First Time Camping Supplies and You!” by “What’s up! It’s your boy, Campy Charles!” or something asinine like that.
Azi got whiplash as he jumped between texts. “Oh, yeah, I’m totally excited, Stella! Can’t wait to get eaten by a bear!” to “I swear to God, if you tell her, you will wake up without hands, Cameron,” back to “Girl, what if there is a killer in the woods? Should I hit on him?” and then again to “I will put you in a woodchipper if you even think about telling her, Cam.” His threats and patter were occasionally distracted by brief interludes from “your boy, Campy Charles.”
The only real reason Azi decided to attend this excursion was that when Scott Barlowe had pitched the idea of a pre-graduation camping trip, Stella had excitedly said “yes” and mentioned bringing Cameron, who was not allowed to be alone with Stella… because if those two were alone, Cameron would blabber and Stella would brutally murder Azi.
All attempts to subtly tell Stella that Cameron “sucks and is stupid and she should totally break up with him” seemed to have been laughed off, so that didn’t help. And despite Cameron’s insistence, Azi had forbidden him from breaking up with her because Azi had assumed that Cameron would screw it up somehow. Because Cam was inept and stupid and sucked. It was a stalemate—a regrouping until a better plan could be formed later. A tactical retreat.
Did Azi have any regrets about that situation? No. He was an affluent pre-law student who deserved everything that was handed to him. They wore nice suits, had an ensemble of expensive watches and rings, and even got a penthouse on campus, all funded by the Mom and Dad Foundation for Spoiled Rich Kids™. He didn’t think about other’s feelings because he always found a way to talk himself into thinking he was in the right. How could he not be? He was rich. He’d broken up with all his partners with this narcissistic method. They’ll get over me faster and leave me alone if I sleep with someone else. Really, I’m providing them with a service. I’m helping them move on. And for the most part, he was correct; he really never heard from his exes again. Out of sight, out of mind and all that.
It didn’t matter that his most recent ex had dated him for an entire year. That she’d been there for him and his problems. It was always a simple matter of a problem and a solution. The problem is she’s getting too serious, and I’m getting bored. Therefore, the solution is to sleep with someone and never see each other again.
The new problem, however, was that it usually wasn’t Stella’s boyfriend who was the next casualty of his sexual crusade. It went down at a party at one of the LGBTIQA+ clubs Azi frequented. Cameron was babbling on and on about something. Azi didn’t care when Cam looked like hot damn. An idea hatched in his spoiled rich mind. Cameron was receptive to this dark design. One thing led to another, and the two ended up having a fun night becoming accomplices. Azi’s justification then was, “Oh, Stella will just break up with him anyway.”
Then she didn’t, ruining everything.
To “save their friendship,” Azi needed to drive this third wheel out of Stella’s life, Thelma and Louise-style. If that meant camping… in the woods… with no sauna… so be it. It was the most significant sacrifice Azi ever made— he felt like he deserved the Medal of Honor.
As the sky turned from red to purple in the penthouse’s floor-to-ceiling window, their phone lit up with a blue glow contrasting with the encroaching darkness. It wasn’t a text from Stella or Cam, and thankfully, the scourge of Campy Charles had ended. It was an email from Scotty titled “IMPORTANT: Forgot to Mention!”
“Climbing equipment? Scotty wants us to bring climbing equipment? Is this… ?” Azi frantically returned to the loving arms of Campy Charles to see if they had missed the memo about this being the usual camping affair.
“Dude! Hell yeah! You see the new email! Scotty says we need climbing gear. Scotty Dog is so extreme!” burped out Brett Ayala as he tossed a beer with a perfect spiral at Frankie Bucek, who caught it like he had just won the Super Bowl.
Brett, Frankie, and Chad Buffton were the living embodiments of the song “Who Let the Dogs Out?” They decided to make packing into a sport, like they seemed to do with everything. Brett was in charge of getting the beers, Frankie was in charge of getting more beers, and Chad was in charge of actually packing for the camping trip. It was a lot of man for such a tight space, but it felt appropriate with the band posters, football flags, and leftover pizza boxes that filled the hot, tiny, smelly dorm.
“Where are we gonna get climbing gear this late?” Chad asked as he wiped the sweat from under his brow. He was an absolutely massive gym rat. A pale White Midwesterner with muscles to spare, gelled-back blond hair accompanied by thick sideburns, and a chin that could fight an ox. He looked like a polar bear sitting in a daycare as he packed away supplies on the dorm room floor.
Chad hadn’t always been like this, however. He used to be skinny. A little nerd from the suburbs who loved video games, anime, and dinosaurs. He probably would have worked for a museum if the popularity bug hadn’t caught him first. Becoming a sports medicine major was the happy compromise of jock and dork.
There were parts of his old life Chad wished he could return to, such as old friends he regretted becoming estranged from, but the Buffton Facade was too ingrained by senior year. So here he was, hanging out with his boys like some nerd werewolf who needed to keep his real passions closeted lest they burst out and wreak havoc on London or his social standing.
“Relax,” Frankie reassured, “I can borrow some from the rockclimbing club.” He ran a hand through his hair and smirked. “I know a girl,” he said, which sounded much more impressive when he omitted the part where the “girl” in question was his sister.
Frankie Bucek was of Italian heritage, with an artificial tan and black hair laced with pomade like he was auditioning for the lead in Grease. He always wanted to be on top of the group. “The Alpha,” as his masculinity podcasts would call it. A good seventy-percent of the time, he was a fun party animal that was great to be around, but Chad always hated that other thirty-percent. The times when Frankie would feel a need to put him or Brett down to show he had some unnecessary grip on their friendship. He also consistently needed Chad to bail him out of his problems, be they financial or social, to the point where Chad had stopped keeping track of how much Frankie owed him. He was exhausting, but hey, that was Frankie.
“Frankie the Man!” Brett applauded and then chucked another beer at his dear leader.
Frankie caught it and, this time, managed to pack it into the cooler, but only because he still hadn’t opened the other one that had just been thrown at him moments before.
Brett Ayala, in comparison, was a lot chiller— some might have said happier. Mexican with a more profound natural tan, he kept his ash-brown hair long and pulled back into a man-bun, and sported a mustache. He had been friends with Frankie since before college and always appeared to be his hype man.
“If we’re gonna do this, we’re gonna do it right. Doing man shit. I mean campfire, I mean beers. I mean football, throwing axes. I mean beers, I—” Frankie laughed as he caught himself drunkenly repeating.
Brett hissed with inebriated laughter as well.
Chad laughed, too, but thought maybe Frankie needed to calm down on the drinking. Or maybe Brett did. It was more of a supply-and-demand issue with the beer-chucking and chugging. When Scotty had invited him on this trip, he’d secretly wished he could go alone without the entourage. He’d loved camping as a kid and would have loved to avoid the added stress of dealing with the wolf pack. But Chad knew that if he went to a social outing and did not invite Frankie, he would make everything much more annoying and dramatic. And Brett, while delightful in his own way, was a package deal.
Frankie paused momentarily to let the beer settle back down his throat. “But I hear Scotty is gonna bring some axes to throw at trees! And the rock-climbing stuff? Aw, man! I hear this isn’t your momma’s camping trip. We gotta go hiking to get there. Scotty found this crazy spot!”
“Yeah, I hear it’s more like your daddy’s camping trip,” Chad piped in.
The two bros looked in awe at this lukewarm joke and laughed over it. There was a tinge of fakeness to the laughter that made Chad feel self-conscious.
“Fuckin’ Chadster!” they exclaimed at the same time.
Frankie rolled his eyes as he took another swig of his beer.
Chad smiled on the outside and retreated deeper on the inside. He snuck a few textbooks into his backpack when they weren’t looking.
Bernard Armester took off his peacoat as he entered his favorite campus jazz club, Smooth Sax. The artificial heat inside replaced the chill night air, flushing his White Lithuanian cheeks with red warmth. Nice low lighting created a welcome atmosphere that directed all attention to any performers on stage, this night being a local Bay Area ensemble named the Fallopian Tubes.
In all things, Bernard was dapper on a budget, chill and smooth like a whiskey rock. He liked to keep his medium-length brown hair combed back and his face at a perpetual five o’clock shadow. His attire was thrift store chic, befitting a music theory major. He silently made his way over to the bar— not his favorite stool, but it would do. He ordered a red, the fanciest box wine a campus bar would offer, and turned to watch the performance.
Most days, Bernard would stay in his dorm after class, writing music or pursuing other hobbies from his childhood, like playing retro video games or watching anime. He’d moved away from his hometown in Illinois to pursue college but, thanks to the internet, had never truly felt a need to go out much. Maybe it was comfort, laziness, or both. No matter the reason, it meant Bernard had an incredibly solitary college life, a loneliness he was mostly okay with. Mostly.
Thursdays were a bit different. This was his church. Here, he was surrounded by people he knew enjoyed one of his passions. It was the one place his loneliness was alleviated, even if only for a couple of hours. He smiled at being one face in a crowd of likeminded fellows.
Bernard knew he had a camping trip in the morning, but he felt like he could wing preparation for it. When Scotty invited him during Poetry and Jazz class, Bernard surprised himself and agreed to the trip. Maybe it had been his conscience screaming at him, forcing him out of his comfort zone. He had loved camping with his dad as a kid, so it wasn’t entirely out of his wheelhouse of interests.
He noticed this Thursday was busier than usual, but that was no mystery. It was almost Memorial Day weekend, and it was also close to graduation. Where he had a camping trip, others had decided getting smashed at the nicest bar on campus would suffice. Bernard’s reclusive heart was satiated by reflection, good music, and okay wine.
The only thing that would ruin that reflection would be if Ed Chimley was here and, speak of the devil, Bernard noticed he was. Ed was a cocky asshole who thought he was God’s gift to music and seemed to make a point to try and one-up Bernard in everything he did. He was a lanky, pale-skinned man with light-brown hair that would droop to one side of his face. He had a permanent smirk on his lips, a sharp nose, and eyebrows that came off as a bit angry. His style also opposed Bernard’s. Where he wore budgeted items in an aesthetically pleasing arrangement, Ed would wear expensive designer clothes, but in no way that seemed to actually work. Tonight, he wore a red polo under a green coat, black skinny jeans, and honest-to-goodness cowboy boots.
Thankfully, Ed was on the opposite side of the club, loudly critiquing the band to a group of uninterested women as a failed display of intelligence. Just a few more weeks, and then I never have to see him again, Bernard thought. He longed for the day when he could graduate and get away from nuisances like Ed— people who would leave their best friends because some abstract concept like popularity made a house call. People like his estranged friend, Chad Buffton. Bernard sighed. He didn’t want this type of reflection tonight. He sipped his wine and quickly scanned to see if anyone else he wanted to avoid was lurking around.
That’s when he noticed Anne Flores looking at him from one of the tables, and the second she registered that he saw her, she turned as red as his wine and quickly looked away. Anne had always been a shy girl, but that’s why Bernard liked her. They were both music theory majors who were quiet and kept to themselves. She was a mousy, short Filipina woman with long black hair she kept in a ponytail. Large, thick-rimmed, circular glasses and drooping bangs made her look like she was withdrawing from the world, accentuating her shyness. Unlike Ed, she wore clothes that swallowed her whole but still worked fashionably.
Bernard remembered seeing Anne on the email chain for tomorrow’s trip, so that would be fun. He realized he had questions about that, like the climbing gear email. He fixed the open suit jacket that hung on his stylish V-neck shirt and walked over to her table.
“Oh, hey, Bernard! Wow, you’re here, at my table. How’s it hanging, my dude? I mean, how are… is… how’s your night? Good music, huh?” Anne said in a flustered torrent while Bernard settled into the chair. A flush set into her cheeks as she took a massive gulp of her goblet and coughed.
“Yeah, I like this band,” Bernard said with a quick midwestern drawl. “You’re going on Scotty’s camping trip, right? I think I saw your school email on the list?”
She shifted her stance in an attempt to appear more professional. “Uh, yes. Why yes, I am. Sure am. Scotty asked me in Asian History 101. You?” It was not successful; she now looked uncomfortable and stiff.
Is she okay? Bernard wondered. She sure is acting strange. She did knock back that pinot noir pretty quickly.
“You see the message about the climbing gear?” Bernard continued, shrugging off her behavior. He hadn’t talked to her much, but every time he did, she always seemed a bit strange. He just figured that was Anne being Anne.
“Oh, uh, yeah. That’s been settled. Have you checked recently? Chad mentioned Frankie has that all covered.”
“Chad? Like Chad Buffton and Frankie Bucek? They’re coming, too?” Bernard cursed Scotty’s rapid-fire approach to inviting people under his breath as his heart sank a little. It’d been years. The sting was still there, but maybe they could be adults about it.
Chad and Bernard grew up in the same neighborhood and had been the best of friends right up until Freshman year of college. Bernard had noticed Chad slowly drifting more and more into the party scene, one that always felt fake and uninteresting to him. One day, Bernard had called up his friend, heard Frankie make fun of him in the background, and never called again. He’d taken the hint. Chad had found his new tribe and Bernard was not welcome. Too much of a nerdy loner to hang with the cool kids. They hadn’t spoken since, only seeing each other in passing on campus. He made a mental note to bring a pair of headphones and his guitar to keep himself away from those jerks.
“Yeah, they can be a handful, but at least we have some of the music group there to keep them away,” Anne said with warmth, then hiccupped. “Anyway, see ya there! I gotta—” she pointed in several directions before running to the women’s restroom, holding her mouth.
Bernard looked dumbfounded. When you gotta go, you gotta go, I guess.
It took him a moment to notice a quick detail she had mentioned before bolting. “Wait, some of the music group? Who else from the music gr—” he was cut off by his answer.
“Ohhh, tough luck there, Bernie!” Ed teased as he sat where Anne used to be, with the back of the chair swung around to face forward like a D.A.R.E. representative about to go off on the youths.
“Hi, Ed. I was just leaving—”
“Leaving to go pack for the Scotty trip, yeah?” Ed finished as he checked out his fingernails like an absolute cock. “I’ve been packed since yesterday. I saw Scotty inviting Felix on the quad, and he practically begged me to come.” Which Bernard betted was not how Scotty would have recalled it.
“Ohhh, cool. Yeah, see you there, I guess.” That was all Bernard could muster without blacking out; even that took everything he had.
“You hear about this place Scotty found? It’s up north. Donkey Ridge. About all the abandoned mineshafts up there.” Ed then stood up and placed his hands on the table. “Who knows what lives in those tunnels, right?” he grinned. “Anyway, see you there!” Ed sauntered back to the women he’d pestered, who left as they found the window of his absence to be perfect timing.
Bernard sat there, not even caring about the weird ghost story or whatever Ed was going on about.
Maybe I can fake my own death and not go?
“Perfect. That’s the money right there,” Ellis Wheeler whispered gruffly, having strained as far back as possible into what photographers call “the artist lean.” Ellis was a masculine-presenting non-binary Puerto Rican who wore professional attire acquired from a very wealthy, very recent, very disliked ex. Ellis only wore these fancy clothes around the campus so the ex could see them. Any opportunity to get some anger out on that asshole was something she enjoyed passive-aggressively thinking about a lot.
Being a fine arts major focusing on photography in architectural and industrial design, she had struck gold. At this exact moment and at this precise angle, the full moon had become eclipsed by the campus clocktower just as the hour was about to chime. Their vest restricted their chest, the neck button on their buttonup shirt choked them, and skinny dress pants constricted their legs uncomfortably. She muttered expletives about her ex trying to ruin even this for her. But she couldn’t be stopped. Their hands gripped the Fujifilm camera as they stood in the most awkward stance in the center of the cobblestone campus plaza. The time was now.
“Hey, Ellis! How’s it goin’?” Scotty cheerily chuckled as he walked right into the shot like he was some sort of bodyguard for the goddamn moon.
Ellis didn’t have many friends. By nature, she was introverted. She didn’t hate people and wasn’t unpleasant; she just got in her head a lot and preferred doing things her way. Especially within these last two weeks, she felt closed-off thanks to her ex’s actions. So while she didn’t have many friends, she did have a Scotty.
By his very nature, Scott Barlowe was infectiously friendly, fun, and impossible to hate. A Black, skinny man with a short afro, he had enough energy to power a city and acted like an overstimulated puppy whenever he saw any other human being. At this moment, however, Ellis considered Cruella DeVille’s solution to yapping dogs.
“You excited about the camping trip tomorrow?” Scotty pressed on like an oblivious whelp yapping at a grizzly bear.
“Yeahp,” Ellis responded through gritted teeth. Their grip on the camera almost crushed the device.
Scotty got the hint and stepped to the side, ignorant that he was still blocking the shot.
Ellis’s muscles ached as she watched the clocktower hand tick away, counting down the slow death of the perfect shot. She was genuinely excited about the trip since Scotty pitched it to her while studying at the library. Now was just not the time to talk about it! “I’ve been packed for two days, Scott. I am… absolutely ready. As ready as I can possibly be.”
“Good to hear, good to hear. You’re gonna love this place I found. You’re never gonna believe it. I found it by accident when I was recording footage with my drone. I know you and I are the big campers in class. Did you know Bernard and Chad camp, too?”
Ellis side-eyed Scotty with annoyed panic. Outside of Chad and Bernard’s names, she didn’t know them at all, let alone their camping enthusiasm. Nor did she care at this pivotal moment.
Scotty waved a hand, resetting himself. “Anyway, we’re gonna hike up a nice mountain trail, go through a cave. It’s great!” Scotty nodded as he got the hint again and took another step, still blocking the goddamn shot. “The place we’re setting up camp, I don’t want to spoil the surprise, but it’s right up your alley! Oh, yeah, bring that camera!”
“Uh-huh, uh-huh.” Hell hath some fury like a she/they internally containing their scorn, as the saying surely went.
“I am a little concerned, though,” Scotty persisted. “I looked into things more and found a lot of reports of wildlife mutilations in the area. Like a lot a lot of reports…”
Ellis was too busy seething to notice the alarming new detail.
Scotty took a moment to process his concern, then shrugged it off. “Eh, shouldn’t be a problem. Just don’t try to pet the mountain lions, I guess. I have bear mace, just in case. Should be fine. I won’t bring it up to anyone else. It’ll just make people nervous for no reason.”
Ellis nodded as Scotty seemed to work out whatever he was talking about as the moon continued its retreat around the planet.
“Anyway, I’ll let you get back to whatever you are doing. So excited! It’s gonna be great!” Scotty cheered at a high pitch and skipped back to his dorm room, occasionally swinging off-course to high-five or chat with others along the way.
Ellis looked up at their shot, and it was terrible. It was ruined, the moment was off, it was boring and bad, and it sucked now. It was the internal scream not heard ‘round the world.
Dave Bruno’s Oh Fck! Dinosaurs! is an unhinged, blood-splattered rollercoaster that fuses creature feature chaos with juicy, character-driven drama. Equal parts brutal and hilarious, the novel drops a dysfunctional group of recent college grads into a hellish compound where extinct nightmares stalk the halls. Sharp claws, sharper teeth, and a hunger for flesh—these dinos are not here to entertain.
At the center of the chaos is Azi Midas, a rich kid with a penchant for bad decisions, whose tangled love life and selfish choices have left a wake of emotional wreckage. He’s accompanied by Stella, his furious best friend; Cameron, the guy he slept with; and Ellis, the ex still trying to pick up the pieces. Add in estranged childhood friends Chad and Bernard, and the dangerously unstable Frankie, and you’ve got a powder keg of unresolved tension and bitterness—all while raptors and other Cretaceous nightmares tear through walls.
What sets this book apart isn’t just the relentless action (which it has in spades), but the interpersonal drama that feels just as volatile as the dinos. Bruno paces the story like a slasher flick on fast-forward, balancing gory set-pieces with moments of self-reflection and emotional reckoning. The characters aren’t always likable, but they’re painfully human—flawed, scared, angry, and clinging to whatever scraps of connection they can find.
With sharp dialogue, pulse-pounding tension, and buckets of blood, Oh Fck! Dinosaurs! delivers exactly what it promises: prehistoric terror with a modern, messy twist. Think Jurassic Park meets Mean Girls with the emotional messiness of a bottle episode gone feral. It’s funny, violent, and unexpectedly heartfelt—a chaotic romp that doesn’t hold back and doesn’t care if you’re ready for it. I grew up a fan of Jurassic Park and this was hit perfectly. Highly recommended for fans of splatterpunk, creature horror, and high-stakes drama.