Project Nemesis (A Kaiju Thriller) (22 page)

“It’s alien,” Stanton said.

“From where?”

“We don’t know!”

“And the second thing?”

“We were able to analyze its stomach contents,” Stanton said. “It—it ate people.
Exclusively.”

Upon hearing this, Gordon lowered the gun and laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

“It’s true!” Stanton said, misreading Gordon’s humor as disbelief. He pointed to his PC. “Everything I have is on the computer. See for yourself!”

When Gordon finally controlled his laughter, he wiped a tear from his eye, raised the pistol in the air and put his finger on the trigger. “I believe you, Paul, I just don’t like you.”

When Endo saw the muscles in Gordon’s arms flex, he acted on instinct, knowing that he couldn’t allow Stanton to die. While
Zoomb
might have only had a limited knowledge of the creature then, someday they would uncover the rest.

Paul Stanton’s death now fell into Endo’s unacceptable range, while Gordon had just made his own life forfeit. Endo stepped forward and kicked up hard, striking Gordon’s hand. The strong General didn’t drop the weapon, but his shot went high, punching a large hole in the wall above Stanton’s head.

Endo followed the kick with a second strike to the back of the General’s leg that dropped the man to one knee.

With a growl of frustration, Gordon struck out hard with his club-like arm, but Endo had already leapt back and drawn his weapon.

“Arms up, General.”

Gordon didn’t move. He just looked back and stared at Endo. Through grinding teeth he said, “I should have known you would betray me eventually.”

“Drop the weapon,” Endo said.

When Gordon didn’t comply, Endo added, “I know you’re fast now, but you also know how fast I am. I will kill you before you can get a shot off. Now drop the weapon!”

Stanton got to his feet, his face full of fear and anger. “Forget that! Shoot him!”

Gordon must have known that Endo would obey his new master because he dove to the side. Endo fired, striking Gordon’s shoulder. But he didn’t have to fire again. Gordon struck the large window with enough force to shatter it. He and a thousand shards of glass fell from the 50
^th
story.

Endo and Stanton dashed to the window and looked down.

A second crash of glass sounded from below. Ten stories down, the General began pulling himself back into the building, though a second shattered window.

“How is that possible?” Stanton asked.

“He has the alien’s DNA inside him,” Endo said, telling the truth. “He is no longer fully human.” Endo turned to Stanton. “Make me your personal body guard.”

“W—what?”

“Hire me,” Endo said. “And give me access to everything you have on the alien. It is the only way you will survive.”

Stanton seemed to be considering the request. “You can protect me from him?”

“I am the only one who can protect you from him,” Endo said.

Stanton thought on it for just a second longer and then nodded.
“Done.”

“From now on, I go where you go,” Endo said.

“Yes!” Stanton shouted.

“Is there another way out of the building?” Endo asked.

“There’s a helicopter on the roof,” Stanton said, “but the pilot isn’t here.”

“I can fly it,” Endo said, and then led the
Zoomb
CEO on a
pell
mell
sprint to the nearest stairwell and charged up two flights to the roof. He got the chopper started and lifted off without incident, but he couldn’t help feeling the General would suddenly leap out and crush his skull. Once they were fifty feet above the Prudential Tower, Endo’s fears faded some, but as they flew away, he saw Gordon standing in Stanton’s office, watching them.

He knew at that moment that neither of them would be safe until General Lance Gordon was dead. He also suspected the same would be true for anyone who looked at the man the wrong way. Endo always knew that Gordon was cold and remorseless—maybe even a sociopath, but the man was now part something else.

Something not human.

Something that ate people.
Exclusively.

And that, Endo thought, is unacceptable.

31

The rhythmic chop of helicopter blades reaches into the darkness and pulls my eyes open. The sky above is the most beautiful shade of orange—sunset on smoke. My head lolls to the side. I see grass. And blood.
And Collins.
She crawls toward me, her orange curls bouncing, her eyes blazing with a radiance that brings a smile to my face. She’s shouting something, but I can’t hear her. And then, I can’t see her, either.

I wake, once again, to the sound of a helicopter. But the sunset is gone, which I find disappointing. I look up and see a window. The sun is just a streak of dull purple on the horizon. Night has fallen and I’m in the helicopter. Motion draws my eyes down, and I see Collins again. She’s sitting in the seat next to me, eyes closed. I’m lying down, I realize, when I see my legs over her lap. Feeling safe, I close my eyes and give in to the exhaustion and pain.

The third time I wake
up,
it’s in response to something wet on my cheek.
A kiss?
“Collins?”
I ask sounding a little confused, but equally hopeful. I groggily push myself up and open my eyes.

The black, brown and white face peering at me isn’t even human. On the bright side, it was a kiss. “Hey, Buddy.”

The Australian sheep dog wags his stumpy tail. I’m not sure what happened to the rest of the tail, but I’ve never asked. Buddy Boy—Buddy or Bud for short—belongs to Watson and has been our unofficial mascot for the past five years. He has full reign of the house and the walled-in grounds that serve as home base for FC-P, including my bedroom.

I sit up in bed and Buddy joins me, lying down next to me so his paws hang off the side. He’s not normally known to initiate
a snuggle
, but I think he senses my injuries, which I am now sensing as well. A groan escapes my lips as a pounding headache grows in my skull and sends roots down into my spine. Muscles ache in places I didn’t know I had. And a sharp sting draws my hand to my forehead. There’s a bandage there, beneath which I can feel a few small lumps.
Stitches.

“You caught a piece of shrapnel when the plane exploded above us.”

I look up and find Collins standing in the doorway. Her tan uniform, which had become a torn, dirty mess, has been replaced by a pair of jeans and a form-fitting black tank top. Both must belong to Cooper, because while the two women are nearly the same height, Collins has a lot more curve and these clothes are snug. Her hair has been pulled back into a wavy orange ponytail that looks a little like dragon fire.

“It’s nothing major,” she adds, “but an inch to the left...”

Buddy jumps up, stubby tail wagging, and greets Collins. He licks her hand then gets his forehead under it. Like a well trained human, Collins starts scratching.

“Knocked you out cold,” she says.

“Why am I here?” I ask, but then I clarify, “Why am I not at a hospital?”

“That’s where we were headed,” she says, “When Ted called. He insisted we bring you here.
Said you would want to be brought up to speed as soon as you were awake.”

She looks worried that this was wrong, so I speak quickly. “He was right. And, for the record, I’m glad you came with.”

“You’re my boss now, right?” she says, but I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic.

She strikes me as the kind of person I can be straight with, so I ask, “Are you joking?”

She looks confused, bumbles over her reply for a second, and then asks, “Weren’t you joking? I mean, you were—serious?”

“I’m not really sure what you just asked me,” I say, “so let me make the whole thing official. I need a partner. Someone I can trust.
Someone with brains and guts, and someone who can put up with my personality flaws, which in your case might include gawking, drooling and the installation of a webcam in the bathroom.”

When she laughs, I do too, and man does it hurt.

“The point is, while I have never really needed a partner before now, I have also never met someone who compliments me as much as you do—and I don’t mean that in a
webcammy
way—”

“I know what you mean,” she says.

“Good,” I say.
“So yes.
I was serious. And once we defeat the giant man-eating monster, we can do something quiet like search for a Yeti in Colorado or something.”

She steps forward and extends her hand. “In that case, I accept.”

I take her hand and shake it, but I note that Buddy has left her skin wet with slobber.
“Might want to wash your hands.
That dog licks his balls like he’s training for puppy porn.” It’s actually not true. The poor dog is neutered. But I like to see Collins smile.

We both laugh and it must have been loud, because a second later, the door opens and Watson leans in. His pudgy face is a sight for sore eyes. While Cooper is a trusted co-worker, Watson is a good friend, perhaps my only real friend, though I think the number of names on that list is growing.

“Good! You’re awake.” He leans back out. “He’s awake!” Then he leans back in and points to my dresser.
“Water and painkillers over there.
Come out soon, there’s a lot to catch you up on.”

“How long was I unconscious?” I ask.

“Two hours,” he says.

“And there’s a lot to catch me up on?” I shake my head, and more quietly say, “What could have happened in two hours?”

It wasn’t a real question—I have a very good idea of what could happen in two hours—but Watson answers it anyway. “For starters, Portland got leveled.”

Then he’s gone and he takes Collins’s and my smiles with him. He gives a whistle and Buddy leaps from the bed, following his master.

“I’ll let you get dressed,” she says.

I look down and find myself wearing just my boxers. My chest still has grass stains from my drunken romp in the woods. “Just like old times.”

Collins manages one more smile before she leaves the room and closes the door.

I make them wait fifteen minutes, but when I finally do emerge, clean, shaven, dressed and freshly bandaged, I’m far more awake and useful than I would have been if I’d just stumbled back out to work. The headache is starting to subside
thanks to the four ibuprofen I took,
but I wouldn’t be surprised if I had a concussion. I probably shouldn’t be up at all, but Jack Bauer wouldn’t stay in bed, so I won’t either. Of course, Jack Bauer wouldn’t have showered, peed or eaten, either.

FC-P is located in what was once the solitary home at the pinnacle of Beverly’s tallest hill. It’s a four-story brick mansion with about an acre of landscaped yard surrounded by a solid, four-foot stone wall that the neighborhood kids like to walk on top of. In the time since the mansion’s construction, the rest of the hill was sold off and turned into residential neighborhoods. We occasionally get kids playing ding-dong-ditch, but we’re mostly left alone except on Halloween, when the kids come in droves to see the house. We don’t give out candy or anything, but I put on a wig, backlight myself in red and I rock in the third story window. I’m supposed to be a hunter of all things paranormal. If I don’t make somebody believe in it, I’ll be out of a job someday.

Course, job security for FC-P will likely never be a concern again, that is, if the creature doesn’t end up wiping out mankind.

The main work area, what Cooper calls “the Crow’s Nest”, is on the fourth floor, which we’ve gutted so that it’s a wide open space. It’s actually quite striking, with its large windows, ocean view and shiny wood floors. But we’ve kind of dulled the beauty of the space by filling it with computer stations, work desks, wall maps and cork boards covered with reported sightings of the world’s weird, none of which have amounted to anything—until now.

I take the grand staircase one step at a time, clutching the hardwood banister. The old rug—a maroon and blue oriental affair—is still soft, which speaks to its quality. The same family owned the house for more than a hundred and fifty years before the final living member—a one-hundred-and-four year old woman whose grandfather built the place—died, and the government seized the property because of unpaid taxes. FC-P inherited the home a year later.

When I reach the top of the stairs, I see everyone standing around the flat-screen TV mounted on the far left wall of the Crow’s Nest.
Cooper, Watson, Collins and Woodstock.
My team, new and old.
I can hear the melodic voice of a news anchor, but can’t make out the words. Either the news is engrossing or I’m a ninja, because no one seems to hear me coming. When I catch sight of what’s on the screen, I know it’s the former.

The scene on the TV is an aerial view of what I assume is Portland, recorded before the sun went down, perhaps just minutes after the highway confrontation. It looks like an asteroid struck, or a laser from outer space carved a path through the city. A path of destruction, miles long, stretches through residential neighborhoods, a business district and then through the downtown itself.
Fires burn everywhere.
Buildings are leveled. People swarm through the streets, fleeing the city. The shot pans up toward the bay just in time to see the creature slip into the ocean and disappear.

“Has it been seen since?” I ask, making everyone but Cooper jump.

Cooper turns around on her heels. Her jet black hair is still straight and perfect, hanging just above her shoulders. Her power suit, which I’ve told her she doesn’t need to wear, is unwrinkled and as smooth as her face. She’s an attractive woman, but I’ve never been interested. She is far too serious and doesn’t find me funny.
At all.
Her piercing blue eyes lock onto mine and she says, “No one has seen it since. Not on land. Not at sea. And everyone is looking for it.”

“Coast guard?”
I ask.

“Everyone,” she says.
“Coast Guard.
Air Force.
Navy.
Police.
Fishermen.
The whole world is watching the ocean off Maine, looking for signs of the...what are we calling it?”

“Nothing yet,” I say.

“I have an idea on that,” Watson says, but Cooper continues.

“Canada is also helping with the search, and many coastal European nations have put their militaries on alert in case it decides to cross the ocean.”

“It won’t,” I say. “It will head south.”

“How do you know?” she asks.

I think back to how General Gordon sensed the thing to the south.
Called it
Maigo
.
None of that will go over well with Cooper’s logical mind, so I say, “A hunch,” which isn’t much better.

“South to where?” she asks.

I shrug. “But wherever it ends up, we need to be ready for it. Coop, I need you to get IDs for Collins—” I point to her and then to Woodstock, “and for Woodstock.” I look at the man. “If you’re on board, I mean.”

“Hells yes,” Woodstock says. “
Me
and my bird are all yours.”

I give him a nod of thanks and say, “Then coordinate with the Navy and Air Force. The second I start making requests, they better respond like I’m the damn President.”

Cooper nodded. “We briefed Stephens on everything, including
Cugliari’s
failure to respond to the crisis in Portland. He’s also seen the footage and there is no doubt that this crisis and its management falls under the purview of our office, and our office alone. He promised that all future requests would be fast-tracked and granted without question.”

“Good,” I say and turn to Watson. “Now, what have you found out?”

“I know who the creature is,” he says.