Dog Day Sunrise: Dogs of Creation, #1

By Dionisios Efkarpidis

DIONISIOS EFKARPIDIS' stunning debut novel, Dog Day Sunrise, is told with "top-notch" pacing and storytelling, filled with twisted biohackers, bloodcurdling mutations, a kid with a bad hair day, and even a dash of profound and touching writing. Cosmos Leftezondakidis leads the ordinary underachiever, underdog existence, tending to his parents' Greek deli in Freedom Basin; a small quaint town built into the depression of a meteor crater, where exotic elements lie beneath its crust, fuel for the madness that terrorizes the town.

 

"A second flicker illuminated a pair of thick, black, serrated legs that bent over the splintered executioner's chair at an odd angle, supporting . . . something massive—its head nearly touching the ten-foot ceiling. Long armored arms hung at its sides, ending in five sickle-shaped talons. The clawed hand snapped out, and the executioner's head exploded with a crimson pop… The Butcher was free."

 

Engrossing, vivid, and disturbing, Cosmos' surreal adventure unfolds as the stakes get higher and the setting expands to reveal the secrets of Freedom Basin and Basin's Vault Prison, and the technological marvel of nearby City of Sol. With his dog Plato and accidental partners Reyansh and her celebrity-influencer brother Deva, this is a modern thriller told in the style of classic horror, studded with morphing monsters, haunted by modern moral questions and sub plots that promise to bloom (or explode) in the two volumes to follow.

 

Through it all, will Cosmos' dreams come true?

 

Read the entire series:

Dog Day Sunrise (Dogs of Creation, Book 1)

Who Let The Dogs Out (Dogs of Creation, Book 2)

Every Dog Has Its Day (Dogs of Creation, Book 3)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cosmic Boltz
• Release date: Apr 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798986883205

Book preview

DOG DAY

SUNRISE

Books by

Dionisios Efkarpidis

— Dogs of Creation —

Book 1: Dog Day Sunrise

Book 2: Who Let The Dogs Out

Book 3: Every Dog Has Its Day

— Short Story & Poem Collections —

(tba)

DOG DAY

SUNRISE

DOGS OF CREATION: BOOK 1

––––––––

Dionisios

Efkarpidis

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Copyright © 2022 by Dionisios Efkarpidis

All rights reserved.

Published by Cosmic Boltz LLC

Stamford, CT

No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is

purely coincidental.

For information about special discounts for bulk purchases or author interviews, appearances, and speaking engagements please contact:

www.DogsofCreation.com

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First Edition

ISBN: Electronic 979-8-9868832-0-5

ISBN: Paperback 979-8-9868832-1-2

ISBN: Hardcover 979-8-9868832-2-9

ISBN: Audiobook 979-8-9868832-3-6

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Library of Congress Control Number: 2022918548

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Cover art by Justin Ma, www.SquidBear.com

Cover & book design, editing, & production by Rodney Miles, www.RodneyMiles.com

Contents

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

About the Author

Be the First to Read

Chapter 1

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THE CORRECTIONAL OFFICER checked Sven’s ankles, waist and wrist straps. The wiry prisoner shifted in the electric chair.

So that’s what it feels like, mused Sven, as he pulled on the restraints.

You’re gonna burn, you sick fuck, snarled the officer before stepping back.

Sven took a deep breath and closed his eyes. How he longed for just one more kill, to feel the palpitation of pleasure and release triggered by the suffering of his victims. Like once, when an asphyxiated fat man’s face swelled like a pufferfish, bouncing up and down, hung by a bungee cord. Or the time he constructed a guillotine made of plastic and a Promaja knife. The dull blade jammed halfway through an old woman’s neck. Sven had to stomp down on the knife for full decapitation. Or when he converted a wooden barrel into an iron maiden and stuffed it with a prostitute. The sound of that delicious pain – gasp then scream, gasp then scream – was a rhythmic treat more satisfying than sex. Sven presumed her dead and discarded the body and barrel into a lake. The metal loops of the cask loosened and the wood burst, spilling her out. She survived (he should have used longer nails), and Sven was caught shortly after. Because of his innocent, alluring disposition and deceptive mannerisms, the media dubbed him Baby-Faced Butcher.

Sven’s morbid nostalgia was broken by the clicks of approaching footsteps. When he opened his eyes, the immense figure of Warden Davis stood before him. The black man wore a navy blue wool and silk suit with dark gray pinstripes. He was tall and muscular with biceps that threatened to tear the expensive fabric. Warden Davis’ booming, deep voice demanded both fear and attention.

Sven Johansson, we are not judge or jury, nor can we forgive you for taking the lives of sixteen innocent souls. We are vanguards of justice, ensuring you are punished for your crimes, for which you are sentenced to death by electric chair. Do you have any last words?

Sven gave a half-smile, the left side of his mouth curling up like the Devil’s tail. He closed his eyes and sighed, letting his mind drift back to the golden days of death.

May God have mercy on your soul, said the Warden.

The correctional officer wrapped electrodes around Sven’s scalp and covered his head with a black mask. The Warden walked over to the control panel. He checked the time: 7:01 a.m. His forefinger hovered over the double switch. He glanced at the prisoner who sat with Zen patience, then activated the chair.

Sven gyrated and growled, fingernails digging into the wooden arms. He stiffened for several seconds, then went limp. The Warden cut off the power, allowing the coroner to inspect Sven’s vitals. The coroner backed away with a look of confusion on his pale face.

Sven expanded suddenly into a mushrooming blob of flesh, ripping apart the orange jumpsuit and straps. Skin, bones, and organs dissolved into a frothy pink soup. Glowing blue veins coursed with electricity across the mutating mass, emitting hums and crackles like a blown transformer. The smell of sizzling flesh permeated the air. There was a flash-bang as lightning shot out of the bubbling prisoner and struck the fluorescent ceiling lights, shorting the power.

The emergency lights activated. The executioner stepped toward the chair, covering his mouth and nose, expecting to discover an overbaked corpse. A flicker of light revealed the splintered chair and Sven’s torn jumpsuit. Clumps of fatty, gelatinous matter ringed the floor.

A second flicker illuminated a pair of thick, black, serrated legs that bent over the splintered executioner’s chair at an odd angle, supporting . . . something massive—its head nearly touching the ten-foot ceiling. Long armored arms hung at its sides, ending in five sickle-shaped talons. The clawed hand snapped out, and the executioner’s head exploded with a crimson pop. The remaining officers, coroner, and priest rushed the exit door. The portly priest was in the rear, trying desperately to climb over the others. He glanced over his shoulder. The monster casually stalked forward on its grasshopper-like legs. The priest cried out and threw the Bible at it. A black blur swatted his chest, cleaving through sternum and throat.

The clustered, bleating cries coming from the men were a high-pitched horror that chilled Warden Davis as he pressed his back against the wall. He dashed for the secondary exit but something wet and hairy hit him and he slipped, falling onto his hands and knees. The steel doorknob glistened like a beacon beneath the spotlight. The Warden scrambled across a warm layer of blood and reached up for the knob. The creature’s head emerged out of the darkness. Two fist-sized, yellow-and-black snake eyes twitched back and forth. Beneath a flattened, scaly pale nose was a maw that stretched wide. The side of the creature’s mouth curled up like the Devil’s tail.

Sven, whispered the Warden.

An alarm blared. Sven squatted and jumped, smashing through the stone ceiling. Plaster and cinderblock rained down from the rupture, narrowly missing the Warden. The first light of the sun crept through the breach. Warden Davis could hear the sound of beating wings receding.

The Butcher was free.

She walked through the bedroom door wearing a white silk slip that floated about her mocha-colored skin, caressing her curves and breasts. She crawled onto the bed between Cosmos’ legs. Her long brown curls tickled his muscular thighs, the sensation arousing him. He looked down at her, past his bronzed pecks and tiled abs. She moved like a cat and teased him further with her hair until her face hovered over his. Hazel eyes bore into his dark brown pupils. Her wet, pink lips parted, exposing the tip of her tongue, glazed with sexual salivation. She began to pant as if the heat of his loins melted her into him. The panting increased, hot air coming out in short, fast bursts, losing its sex appeal. Then she woofed.

Cosmos woke from the dream with his golden retriever’s fishy pants wafting into his face. He licked Cosmos’ nose.

Plato, what the hell?

Cosmos wiped the saliva off of his cheek, tossed off the sheets and looked down. No toned pecs. No washboard abs. He looked more like a stretch of pale desert with patches of dried grass. Further down, everything looked smaller. It really was just a dream, he thought. The alarm clock blinked lazily as 7:05 a.m., in the typical exhaustiveness only a power outage would cause. He grabbed his phone from the nightstand. It read 9:10 a.m.

Shit!

He jumped out of bed and ran into the bathroom. He didn’t have time for a shower, only to fix his hair. Its current state made him look like a manic court jester. He inherited his mother’s thick black mane that sprouted out of a widow’s peak. It was angry hair that complimented a permanent scowl. After he brushed it up into a shape like a candle’s flame, Cosmos threw on a shirt and blue-and-white-striped tracksuit. He snapped the leash on Plato and exited the house.

Come on buddy, he told Plato as he placed him into the back seat of his BMW M3. Cosmos got into the car and sped out of the driveway and onto the road.

After several turns down a winding hill, the car fishtailed onto Route 317. It was a straight four miles to the store, and a hot, sunny, perfect summer day to speed. Trees saluted him as he increased his velocity, the path smooth and clear like a freshly resurfaced ice rink. He’d make it in time to intercept the delivery.

A police siren wailed behind him, with the red-and-blue rotating light bar reflecting in his rearview mirror. Cosmos pulled off the road onto a gravelly shoulder. He clenched his teeth at the sound of pebbles striking the lower door skin. He opened the glove compartment and frustratingly shoved aside papers and a prescription bottle, withdrew his registration and lowered the window. He heard the crunch of footsteps approaching.

Are you crazy?! shouted Officer Hutch into the window. Cosmos suppressed a laugh. The officer looked comical sporting a red handlebar mustache while gnawing on a toothpick. The large-lensed, polarized sunglasses with yellow rims reminded Cosmos