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Curse
of the
Komodo
Curse of the
Komodo
M.C. Berkhousen
Illustrations by Kalpart
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
Text Copyright © 2017 Margaret C. Berkhousen
All rights reserved.
Published 2017 by Progressive Rising Phoenix Press, LLC
www.progressiverisingphoenix.com
ISBN: 978-1-946329-43-1
Book & Cover Design by Kalpart.
Visit www.kalpart.com
Front Cover illustration by Kalpart.
For Connor and Evan Muse
Acknowledgements
I’d like to thank Amanda M. Thrasher and Progressive Rising Phoenix Press for their help in publishing this book. Thanks also to my supportive and helpful editor, Kathleen Marusak. Thank you Tim Herman, MS., Herpetologist, for providing information about reptiles and zoo procedures; any errors are my own. A big thank you to Connor Muse for a wealth of animal information and assistance with plot points; to Evan Muse who read an early draft and cheered me on, and to Jennifer Muse for reviewing the manuscript and providing ongoing encouragement. Thanks to Maxwell Kelso for his review of the manuscript and helpful feedback. Thanks to my writing critique partners: Pamela Kelso, Judith Scharren, Joette Rozanski, also the late Christine Holliday and the late Eileen Towse. Profound thanks to my beloved children, Amy, Jennifer and David, who gave me the heart to write, and to family and friends who always believed I could do it.
Table of Contents
Chapter Eight-Something Else About the Curse
Chapter Ten-Battle of the Tri-Morphs
Chapter Eleven-Home Sweet Home
Chapter One—Cursed
Blood dripped from Austin’s nose. Gramps shoved himself up from his chair and stared at me.
“What’s the matter with you, Luke? You hurt Austin. How could you do that?”
“He started it, Gramps.” I glared at my brother. “He’s always bothering me.”
“I didn’t hit him,” yelled Austin. “But he hit me, hard!” He brushed tears from his eyes then bolted up the stairs.
“I’m sick of all this fighting. You both are too old for this.” Gramps plopped down again in the chair. His face was red and he was breathing hard.
Gramps stabbed a finger at me. “When Austin comes down, I want you to tell him you’re sorry. And there will be no screens for the whole weekend. No TV and no computer games.”
No TV? My favorite shows were on tonight.
“That’s not fair, Gramps,” I cried. “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”
“But you did hurt him. This has to stop.” He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the chair. “I packed your lunches.”
I bit my lip. There was no point in arguing. Gramps was in charge while our folks were on vacation. Maybe he’d forget about the “no screens” by the time I got home from school.
“Did you sign the consent for the field trip, Gramps? We’re going to the zoo today.”
He pointed toward the kitchen. “On the counter, next to the lunches.”
“Thanks.” I found the paper and stuffed it into my backpack along with my lunch.
Austin thumped down the stairs. I licked my lips and tried to apologize.
“I’m sor—”
He didn’t let me finish. Shoving past me, he grabbed his backpack and stamped out the front door. I followed him. Austin jumped into the car and locked the doors. I banged on the window, but he ignored me. Gramps clicked the key fob and opened the door so I could climb in.
“You forgot something, buddy.” He leaned over the seat to hand Austin his lunch and the consent form. “You might need this if you want to go to the zoo today.”
Austin took the form. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. His cheeks were wet from crying and his nose was still bleeding. Gramps handed him a tissue.
Nobody talked on the way to school. Austin leaned his head against the window. He always did that when he was sad. He rubbed his eyes again, but the tears kept coming. I felt really bad. I wished I could take it back and start the morning over.
“One of these days you boys will realize it’s nice to have a brother,” said Gramps.
“I’d rather have a grizzly bear,” I muttered.
