Project Maigo (8 page)

“You come home.”

“And you?”

I smile at his concern. “Protocol says Siberia, if the Russians are still willing. You want to come?”

“Home sounds good,” Woodstock says, heading for a side door that leads to the roof stairwell. “We can be airborne in one minute.”

“I’ll catch up,” I say, as he charges up the stairs. When he’s gone, I turn to Watson, still packing his bag. “Watson.”

He glances up. “What?”

“Leave.”

“But I need—”

“She’s going to make landfall in the next sixty seconds. When that happens, she’s only a hop, skip and a jump from our doorstep. This hill is two-hundred-feet tall. We’re at the top, on the fourth floor of the hill’s tallest structure. You don’t want to be the filling in this brick tart if she decides to take a bite.”

“You don’t think...”

“I don’t intend to be here when she arrives.”

He nods quickly and stands, cords dangling from his bag like dreadlocks.

“Do me a favor and contact Collins. Tell her not to come home.”

He hasn’t stopped nodding yet. He heads for the stairs down, whistling for Buddy, who is quick to follow, while I make for the roof. Before I reach the stairs, the air-raid siren skips a beat and then pulses three times before continuing. I recognize the protocol. I wrote it. Something has changed.

I haul myself up the stairs, but I don’t run for Helicopter Betty’s open door. Instead, I run beneath the wash of the chopping rotors and stand at the edge of the eastern facing roof, hands planted firmly on the short brick wall.

A mile away, ocean water parts. A face emerges.

Not
Nemesis.

It’s another creature, like the one in Australia, and I’m assuming Hong Kong. Unlike the Australian creature, though, this one has a pug face, squished inward, lips permanently stretched up in a sneer, revealing large triangle-shaped teeth. Its eyes are wide and frantic, brown like Nemesis’s. As it hops through the shallows on all fours, moving like a short dog, I see it has the same thick black skin as Nemesis, as well as plated armor over its back, sides and limbs, mixed with rows of black spikes. As the thing emerges, it looks like some kind of canine-turtle-Nemesis hybrid.

Free of the ocean’s slowing grasp, the thing reaches the shore and breaks into a colossal sprint. I stand transfixed as the monster reaches the remains of what was once an ocean-side mansion and smashes through it, black dust billowing into the air. I note an orange glow beneath its body, but don’t linger long enough to discern its source. The monster is very definitely heading our way, and I don’t want to be here when it arrives.

This thing might not be Nemesis, but it’s at least a hundred feet long, and it’ll make short work of the FC-P headquarters.

As I leap into Helicopter Betty’s passenger seat and slam the door closed, I barely notice us lift off. I dig into my pocket for my phone, start the FC-P emergency app, designed by Watson, which allows me to communicate with local law enforcement, emergency response crews and every branch of the military. With the tap of a button I can speak privately with Woodstock, or with
all
response forces. Any conversation held through the application’s network will be known to every branch involved in a threat response. After quickly popping on the helicopter’s headset, which has been modified to work with my phone via Bluetooth, I start the conversation.

“Target is
not
Nemesis, but should be considered an equal threat.” I glance out the windshield as we rise up into the air. The creature is pounding its way through the charred remains of East Beverly. “Target is in the black zone. Risk of civilian casualties is low. Engage now. Weapons free. Let’s see if we can stop this thing before it reaches civilization.”

“Copy that,” says a voice, and my phone’s screen reveals the speaker as an Air Force representative. “Helicopter support is two minutes out. The heavy hitters are three minutes out. Over.”

“We’re moving into position.” This comes from the National Guard, who are now armed with tanks, among other things typically reserved for foreign theaters of war. “ETA, two minutes. Over.”

The way the app is set up, we could all talk at once. Saying ‘over’ isn’t really required, but it does keep everyone from talking over each other.

“Copy that,” I say. “Two minutes. Don’t hold anything back.”

After a series of confirmations, I turn to Woodstock.

“What’s the plan?” he asks.

“We need to keep it busy for two minutes,” I say.

I expect him to frown at this, perhaps unleash a string of curses, but instead, he grins. “Time to see how Betty’s upgrades work.” He activates the chopper’s new weapons system. The windshield fills with digital information, providing data about the outside world, possible targets and ammo. Although Woodstock has trained on operating Betty’s weapons while flying, the best performance was while he flew and I worked the weapons.

I wrap my hand around the second joystick, which has two triggers and four red buttons that allow me to switch between armaments. Feeling very much like I’m playing a videogame, I grip the joystick and fight to suppress a smile of my own.

The helicopter pitches forward and accelerates rapidly. Woodstock’s war-whoop is loud in my headset. My voice chimes in, but I’m not sure if I’m joining the cheer or just screaming. Feels like both. And maybe it is. After a year of failed cases, part of me is glad to be back in the thick of it. The rest of me is just trying hard not to crap my pants.

10

The destruction below us is a stark reminder of Nemesis’s power. The remains of charred homes look disturbingly like skeletons rising out of the earth. Where tall oaks and maples stood undisturbed since the English settled Beverly in 1626, there are now blackened, leafless limbs pushing through the soil, like giant hands, reaching for us. The homes that were more solidly built have west-facing façades that look almost normal. Some even have lawns and shrubs where the building sheltered the earth from the flames. But the east-facing sides are burned out and gutted. Nothing was spared her fury, not a single home or person who was still inside the circle of carnage. They’re still picking remains out of the debris.

All of this is fresh in my thoughts as we close in on the...whatever this is. “Needs a name,” I say to myself, but Woodstock can hear me.

“We could call it Fucktard,” he offers, with a twitch of his mustache. He’s enjoying himself entirely too much.

I looked at the shelled monster, plowing through the city’s remains, still headed straight for us. “Scrion.”

“The hell is a Scrion?”

I’ve been brushing up on my ancient mythology, hoping to turn up more information about Nemesis’s origins. If we can understand where she came from, we might be able to figure out a way to stop her, or kill her. “Scrion was the son of Poseidon. A bandit.”

Woodstock glances at me. “You know it’s Sciron, not Scrion, right? You’re not the only one who’s been catching up on their Greek myths.”

I frown and wave him off. “Scrion sounds better. Who’s going to know?”

Woodstock shrugs, indifferent. “And this ugly prick reminds you of him, why?”

“He was eaten by a giant sea turtle.”

“Makes sense, I s’pose,” he says. “But I still prefer Fucktard.”

So do I
, I think, but the codenames I come up with will be used by local law enforcement and the military. The powers that be, and the media, not to mention the vast number of people in the world without a sense of humor, wouldn’t appreciate it.

I lift my phone, which is actually more of a hand-held supercomputer that looks like a phone. We call it ‘Devine,’ which sounds like a transgender stripper, but is really just a cute way of saying DVIN (Digital Vanguard Intelligence Network). Granted, that’s the name of the network and not the phone itself, but we got a kick out of effeminately saying, “That’s just Devine,” when calls came in. It does everything modern smartphones are capable of, just a lot better, much faster and with a few bonus options the public will never see on their devices, like the ability to pilot a drone or paint an airstrike target.

I switch the communication app so everyone can hear me. “Attention all response units, target Kaiju designation is now Scrion. Images are incoming.”

Yeah,
Kaiju
. The word that came to define the giant monster genre that includes city-stompers like Godzilla and Gamera has become our official term for any creature that is...well, not natural, with the understanding that it be reserved for things capable of mass destruction. A snail with tentacles wouldn’t qualify—unless it was ten stories tall. Scrion? It’s a Kaiju for sure.

I aim the camera’s 75 megapixel camera through the front windshield and snap a photo, which is instantly sent to everyone with access to Devine. I switch the phone back to its private mode so not everyone can hear me talking to Woodstock. “Take us around. I want to get this thing from every angle.”

We bank left, low to the ground, the g-forces pushing me into the side window, allowing me to keep an eye on Scrion. It’s still moving forward, but tracking us with his round eyes and squished-up face. When its head can’t turn any further, the body follows.

My eyes widen.

It’s following us.

It
is
after me!

“Faster,” I say.

“Faster, why?” Woodstock asks and then banks the chopper the other way, intending to circumvent the monster. He understands when we level out and he’s still looking at Scrion head on, through the side window. “Shee-it. The son-of-a-bitch is chasin’ us!”

Betty’s front end dips forward as Woodstock pours on the speed, but Scrion is fast.

Very
fast.

Its wild eyes look frenzied, like it’s lost in some kind of drug-induced craze. Its jaw drops open. This thing is no Nemesis, but it could still make a quick snack out of us.

“Hard left on my mark!” I shout. Woodstock could hear me through the headset if I whispered, but the volume of my voice does a good job of communicating my urgency. “Then head for the ceiling.”

I crane my head back, face squashed against the window. The monster leaps, shoving off the ground with its powerful hind legs. As it lifts into the air, I get a look at its armored underside, which is covered in dark gray plates, split horizontally by three stripes of bright orange membranes.

“Now!”

Betty cants hard to the left. I couldn’t pull myself away from the window if I tried, and given the proximity of Scrion’s closing jaws, I would really,
really
like to lean back. But then I’m seeing blue sky above. The sound of a thunderous impact reaches my ears. It’s followed by a jolt of turbulence. Scrion is back on the ground, no doubt once again giving chase.

A curse from Woodstock reaches my ears. I’m about to ask what the problem is, when I see for myself. The streets in the ruined part of town have all been cleared of debris. Only a few of them are open to the public, to ease traffic in other parts of town. Travel through the rest of the ruins is restricted, because the streets are rife with sink holes and every structure is ready to collapse. It’s not a safe place to be. And yet, the Kaiju fanatics and sightseers can’t seem to keep themselves away.

Like the people below us. They’re driving some kind of small boxy car, and the driver is doing an okay job avoiding the potholes, but they’re not moving nearly fast enough. I can see the people inside moving back and forth quickly. They can see the monster coming. I wonder if they’re still having fun? Probably. Kaiju nerds are like that. They’d probably die with smiles on their faces. But it’s my job to keep that from happening.

“We can’t be sure Scrion will follow us if we turn away,” I say to Woodstock.

“What’s the plan?”

I look ahead. The road below heads straight toward the ocean before banking to the left and running straight out to Beverly Farms, which wasn’t affected by Nemesis’s self-immolation.

I nod at the joystick in my hand. “We’ll run interference. Head out to sea. Hope it follows.”