Project Nemesis (A Kaiju Thriller) (25 page)

The shoreline was gone.

She spun around. Darkness surrounded her.

She looked up and saw the stars, but they were slowly winking out, one by one. Then she saw a dark shape silhouetted against the lighter night sky—long, pointed streaks, like teeth.

She was inside the monster’s mouth!

The jaws closed over her just before she screamed. Then, as if she was stuck in a giant toilet, the water spun and flowed down. She shouted and grappled and reached for something to hold onto, but then the water pulled her down. Mercifully, she drowned before passing through the fifty-foot-long esophagus. Her body fell into the giant’s acid filled stomach where the rest of the booze cruise’s three hundred and forty-nine souls, and much of the ship, were already being turned into
a slurry
of human flesh, wood pulp and metal.

Despite the large number of prey consumed, her hunger not only continued, but expanded, like her body. She felt tight inside her own skin. Moving became harder work, which burned more calories, and fueled her hunger. She reached out with her senses, searching for more of her preferred food source, but the waters were empty. There were scores of them—humans, she thought—on land, but she still felt wary of the pain she’d felt and her tightening body would restrict her movement.

More than that, she had grown increasingly revolted by the thought of consuming humans. It wasn’t the flavor—she couldn’t really taste them—it was just the idea. Some part of her said that eating humans was wrong. It was an emotion she had never felt before, not since waking up, and not in the time before, which she was slowly starting to remember as hazy images. She didn’t know what, but something about her was different. And it was that same something that drew her south. Whatever force pulled her in that direction was bigger than her budding craving for justice or her unceasing hunger.

So she swam, following the coast, rubbing her itching body along the ocean floor and searching for larger prey that might satiate her hunger.

34

My bedroom is directly beneath the Crow’s Nest. It has the same distant ocean view as the massive workspace, just a few feet lower. But what it loses in height, it gains by having access to a stone deck fringed by a three-foot-tall, Romanesque wall complete with columns.
Iambic or something.
No, that’s poetry.
Doric?
No, Ionic. That’s it.

I shake my head and roll my eyes at myself. I’m dwelling on the stupid columns so I don’t have to think about anything else. I’ve seen things I’ll never be able to forget, despite how badly I would like to. People have died.
Thousands of them.
Because I failed.
I know it’s harsh, but it’s true. Had I taken the mission statement of FC-P seriously and actively pursued cases instead of just waiting for Watson to hand me something, maybe I would have caught wind of this sooner?

No, I tell myself,
Zoomb
covered their tracks too well. And with the General’s help, they managed to stay below everyone’s radar. I wonder if he had to call in favors. When the dust settles how many people will I be putting in cuffs?

Maybe no one.

“You already look like shit,” Collins says, somehow materializing next to me. “You can stop beating yourself up.”

After flinching and nearly falling two stories to the brick patio below, I say, “
Geeez
.”

She smiles and says, “You okay?”

She’s probably referring to my apparently obvious mental whipping, but I don’t feel like having a heart-to-heart about that. It’s too fresh. The smell of blood and smoke lingers in my nose, complimenting the screams echoing in my head. I’d told Collins and Woodstock to get some sleep and left Cooper and Watson with orders to wake us if anything developed, but I’m clearly not the only one avoiding bed. Dodging the emotional bullet, I say, “I thought you were old Mrs. Rosen.”

“Mrs. Rosen?”

“She was the last owner of this house,” I say.

“And you thought I was her?”

“Her ghost,” I say. “But I’ve never seen her. Watson seems to see her every time the wind blows, but even Cooper claims to have seen her once.”

Collins climbs on top of the wall and sits next to me. It’s dark out, but the full moon glows brightly on her freckled face. She waits for the rest of the story.

“Said she was sitting in a rocking chair,” I point up at the large windows of the Crow’s Nest. “Up there.
Just looking out the window.
When she spoke, the old woman disappeared. It’s funny, I always thought that Cooper and Watson looked up the death report on Mrs. Rosen and were teasing me, but now... I’d say just about anything is possible, and I think I need to change my Halloween tradition.”

She smiles widely at this, despite not knowing how disrespectful my Halloween tradition could be taken if Mrs. Rosen is indeed wandering the halls of this gigantic house. Of course, she hasn’t haunted me yet, so maybe she appreciates someone keeping the vigil.

“What would they have found in her death report?” Collins asks.

I hitch my thumb at the windows above us. “That’s where they found her, rocking chair and all.”

“You’re serious?”

“The worst part is that she sat there, baking in the summer heat for a month before neighbors noticed she never moved and called the police. I’m pretty sure that’s why we got the place.”

“Well, I think it’s interesting,” Collins says. She props her hands on the wall and looks up at the stars. “Not as many as I’m used to.”

I look up. Beverly’s city lights drown out all but the brightest stars, blocking out about sixty percent of what can be seen from the backwoods of Maine.

“The ocean view makes up for it,” I say, and then take a deep breath. Despite the heat, the night breeze is cool and smells of the sea.

“So,” she says, still looking up. “Where do you think this is headed?”

“I have no idea,” I say. “I’m kind of hoping Nemesis will drown or at least swim to Japan.”

“I wasn’t talking about that,” she says.

“Oh,” I say, and then figure out what she is talking about. “Oh! I, uh, where do you think it’s headed?”

“Well, you’re my boss now, right?” she asks.

Damnit
.

“And I’m willing to bet the DHS has a policy about inter-office fraternization.”

“They do,” I say. “But I see it more like an insurance policy.
Doesn’t cover pre-existing conditions.”

She laughs in a way that makes me think I’ll fire her if her joining the team screws things up on a personal level.

“Be serious,” she says.

“Okay. Serious.” I take a moment to collect my thoughts, and I have to admit, it’s a nice distraction from what I was thinking about before. “Sure, technically, I’m your superior now. But I would prefer to treat our professional relationship as more of a partnership.”

“I’m not sure I’ve earned that yet,” she says.

“In the past five years, I’ve basically sat on my ass and traveled around the country, taking mini-vacations while looking for various mythical creatures. The action we saw today constitutes the sum of my genuine experience dealing with the paranormal, and you were by my side for every second of it. So you’re just as qualified as me.”

“
Which is to say neither of us is qualified.
”

I laugh and say, “Exactly. But don’t tell anyone else.” I let out a breath, unsure of what to say next, but decide I can be upfront with her, which is one of the things I like best about her. “The truth is
,
I think that we should take it slow. We do need to work together now, and I don’t want to lose you—from the team, I mean.
And...maybe
I’m wrong, but I think you’ve got some...issues to take care of.” I raise my hands when she looks at me with serious eyes. “You don’t need to talk about it. Unless it affects your work here, it’s none of my business...until you decide to make it my business.” I’m not sure she gets what I’m saying, but then she replies.

“I was married,” she says, and then sighs. “The short version is that my husband was psychotic. Like actually psychotic. He nearly killed the mailman when he found the guy in the house. Thought I was screwing him. And before you ask, no, I wasn’t. The poor guy was sixty-two. He was in the house because it was hot and he looked close to passing out. I offered him
a lemonade
. My ex went to jail for aggravated assault.
Got five years.
He’s been out for two.”

“Wasn’t just the mailman, though,” I say, “
was
it?”

She shakes her head. “I was in the hospital for three days.
Lots of damage.
Nothing permanent.
I wanted to be ready if he came to find me, so I became a cop and learned how to fight.”

I remember the way she handled the highly trained soldiers, and her brawl with Endo. “I think you’re more than ready.”

“Please,” she says, waving her hand like it’s no big deal. “I’ve faced a giant fucking monster. I’m not afraid of my ex anymore.”

We both smile a little, but then I get serious. I’m an observant guy, so I’m pretty sure I understand what’s just happened, but I need to be sure. “So...did you just make it my business?”

She puts her hand on mine. “I did, but we’ll still take it slow.”

Her hand feels like an electric charge on top of mine, and all of my pent up stress and fear and anger is transmogrified into desire. Screw taking it slow, I think, but then a window on the floor above opens and I say, “That better be Mrs. Rosen.”

“We’ve got something,” Cooper says.

“Be right up,” I say.

“Don’t come here,” she says. “Get to the roof instead. I’ll give you the details in the air.”

I hear the helicopter’s engine warming up above us and wonder how long it will be before we get complaints from the neighbors. I hop down from the wall. “Where are we headed?”

“West Beach,” Cooper says.

I freeze with my hand on the sliding door to my room. I turn my head up. “That’s—”

“—Beverly Farms,” she says. “You can be there in ten minutes.”

35

Woodstock flies low and fast, performing the equivalent of a cross-town sprint that takes us in a straight line over the older neighborhoods fringing downtown Beverly, past “the Cove” and finally to the less densely populated but far higher tax bracket of Beverly Farms.

Woodstock marvels at the mansions as we fly past. While FC-P’s all-brick megalithic home is nothing to complain about, it’s surrounded by an average American neighborhood, doesn’t have a garage and is one of the oldest large buildings in town. The homes in Beverly Farms have horse stables, fifteen car garages, half-mile driveways and guest houses the size of the Rosen estate. We live in the home of Beverly’s old rich, whereas Beverly Farms houses the summer homes of the modern ultra-rich, though there are some normal neighborhoods scattered around the area’s wealthy.

We descend quickly, circling close to a home with ocean views, and land in the West Beach parking lot. The bumpy dirt and gravel surface isn’t ideal for a chopper landing, but Woodstock keeps us hovering right over the ground.

I look at my new pilot and give him a knowing grin. The low flight, the rapid landing and the residential fly-by aren’t exactly legal. Given the circumstances, no one is going to give us a hard time, but most pilots would follow the regulations out of force of habit.

He shrugs. “What’s the point of having the authority to fly however the hell you want if you don’t do it? Besides, I need to keep up my skills if I’m going to avoid being chewed or
blowed
up.”

“Good point,” I say and pat his arm. “Keep up the good work.”

He smiles and says, “I’ll give you some light from the sky.”

“Don’t go far,” I tell him. “In case, you know, something tries to eat us.”

He gives a salute, and I exit to find Collins already out and headed toward the beach. We’re both armed with Springfield Armory .45
ACP
handguns, which can drop a person or a rhino with a single shot, but the
weapons
are useless against our foe and do nothing to ease my trepidation as I step onto the sand.

As my shoes sink in the sand, my instinct is to kick them off, but I’m not here for surfing. I scuff through the darkness, filling my shoes with sand, catching up with Collins.

Boats in the water and SUVs in the sand illuminate a large, dark shape just off shore. When Woodstock brings the helicopter overhead and casts his bright spotlight down on the thing, Collins and I stop. The dark skin is instantly recognizable.

“We need to get everyone the hell away from here!” I say, and take a breath to shout a warning.

“Wait,” Collins says. “How deep is the water here?”

I’d been swimming at the beach just once, but I went out pretty far and don’t remember it being deep where the boats are. “Thirty feet, tops,” I say and understand her point. It’s far too shallow for the goliath creature to stay submerged in. We’d see much more of it. “So what the hell is this?”

We head for the water where a line of police officers have gathered. Some are crouching. Some are standing. But all are looking down at what’s in the water, which has apparently reached land.

“Hey,” I say in greeting, not wanting to spook the officers more than they already must be.

The group turns around. The oldest of the bunch, a man with stark white hair and a suit jacket rather than a uniform, says, “Get off the beach, now! This is a—”

I hold out my ID.
“DHS.
I’m Special Investigator Jon Hudson. ” I motion to Collins. “This is Special Investigator Ashley Collins.”

“Detective
Zandri
,” the older man says, “and I’m not sure you being here
makes
me feel much better. You were in charge up in Portland, yeah?”

“The Boston office,” I say, not feeling guilty for placing the blame for that debacle where it belongs, squarely on FC-Boston’s shoulders. That said
,
I’m not sure the outcome would have been much different if we had all the heavy arms I asked for.

“And what office are you?”
Zandri
asks.

“The one that deals with gigantic monsters,” I say.

“That what we got here?” he asks, motioning to the black mass bobbing up and down with the waves.
“A giant monster? ’
Cause this looks like a big floating sack of rotten shit to me. Smells like it too.”

He was right about that. The odor of raw meat and vinegar erased all traces of the ocean’s salty scent. “Mind if I have a look?”

“Knock
yourself
out,”
Zandri
says.

The
officers
part.

I flick on my flashlight and crouch by what looks like a black, textured comforter made of rubber.

“For the record,” Collins says, crouching next to me, “Cops hate it when federal agencies refer to themselves as special.”

I poke the black surface with my bare finger. It’s rough, like shark skin, but has zero give. I push harder and feel just the slightest bend, but maybe that’s the meat on the tip of my finger. “That’s my title,” I say.

“Doesn’t matter,” she says, handing me a knife and a Ziploc bag. “It sounds egotistical and creates tension.”

“Huh,” I say, both to Collins’s observations and the fact that the knife is barely scratching the surface. “What should I call myself?”

“If you have to, use ‘investigator’,” she says, “but if they’ve already seen your ID, just use your last name.”

I get a tiny flake of what I believe to be Nemesis’s skin into the bag and seal it up. I don’t think it’s going to be pertinent to our investigation, but we’ll learn what we can from it. There’s more than enough to go around, but I don’t know if continued exposure to salt water will degrade the sample. I look up, out to sea, and I can see a Coast Guard cutter illuminating a patch of black nearly a hundred and fifty feet from shore. Given the size and current toughness, I don’t think the rest of it will be going anywhere soon.

I stand and head toward the detective.
“
Zandri
.”

“Yes, special investigator,” he says.

Holy crap, she’s right, I think, and say, “Call me Hudson.”

He looks a little surprised and slightly placated, then seems to remember I’m looking at him and says, “What do you need?”

“Just inform your men that I’m going to discharge my firearm.”

He looks at the black thing. “I think
its
dead.”

I nod. “Yeah, it’s a husk.”

“A husk?”

“The creature that attacked Portland is growing,” I say. “It molts.”

“Like how a snake sheds its skin,”
Zandri
says. “But the reports I hear put the thing at seventy-five feet tall.”

“Taller,” I say.

“And it’s still growing?”

I look at the massive sack of skin floating in the water.
“Apparently.”
I draw my .45 and he gets the message. While he informs all teams present that I’m going to fire my gun, I walk back to the water and aim the weapon.

“See how much better that went?” Collins says.

“Watch it,” I say, “or I’ll make
Zandri
my new partner.”

“He wouldn’t look as good in body armor,” she says.

I look down the sight of the gun. For the purpose of my test, I’ll need to keep my grouping tight. I’m firing at close to point blank range, but the .45 has a good amount of kick. “There isn’t a single situation in which that man would look better than you.”

“I could be a Zombie,” she says. I can’t see her, but I can sense her smile. I let out a breath, allowing her presence to calm me.

I pull the trigger. The single
shots rolls
out over the ocean. I look around the gun, see the damage, and then pull the trigger nine more times, emptying the clip. As the last thunderous report rings out, I look around and see lights coming on in the bedrooms of homes lining the beach. I turn to
Zandri
and point at the houses. “Have someone tell them that was kids with fireworks.”

“They’ll see it in the morning,”
Zandri
says.

“Yeah, but at least they’ll be well rested when they see the monster skin covering their beach.”

He sends an officer running down the beach and then joins me beside the black fold of monster skin I just shot the shit out of. He adds his flashlight to mine.

“Holy mother,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say. It’s all I’ve got. I bend down and pick up one of the mushroomed bullets. It crumbles in my fingers. All ten rounds simply rest atop the skin in small divots created by the force of their impacts. Not one of them penetrated the skin. While a higher caliber might, it definitely wouldn’t get far.

“Detective!”
The shout is distant and shaky.

I look toward the voice and see a flashlight bobbing madly. The man
Zandri
sent away is running back.

“Detective!” he screams again, sounding shaken.

Zandri
steps forward to greet the officer as he stumbles out of the dark.

“Is it here?”
Zandri
asks.

The officer shakes his head, no, as he leans forward and tries to catch his breath. He points behind him.
“Down the beach.
By the old wharf.”

“What is it?” Collins asks.

“I—I’m not sure,” he says and points to the flotilla of skin. “It’s like this, but...bloodier. I didn’t see much. I just ran.”

When I take off in the direction the officer came from, Collins,
Zandri
and a few officers follow closely. Woodstock’s spotlight follows us for half the run, but then he must figure out there is something ahead of us because he takes the lead, following the surf line until he lands on a mass of bloody pulp.

I stop short when I see it.

“What is that?”
Zandri
asks.

I walk closer. It’s a body.
A large body.
And it’s been bitten in half. I can see the tooth marks lining the meat.

“Looks like a giant took a bite out of a king-sized apple,”
Zandri
says.

“A bloody apple,” I say.

“It’s a whale,” Collins says.
“A fin whale.
It’s the second largest whale after the blue. Grow up to ninety feet.”

“Ninety feet!”
Zandri
says and I understand that his outrage has nothing to do with how large the whales grow and everything to do with how much is missing.

Only about twenty feet of the whale rolls in the surf, which means it wasn’t bitten in half, “It was bitten in two tenths.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Collins says, but it’s just a whisper. She’s fixated, as I am, on the helicopter’s spotlight as it pans farther down the beach, illuminating three more partially consumed whale carcasses, lined up like a plate of sausages big enough for a god.

Nemesis.

“I think you were right about the creature,”
Zandri
says.

“It’s growing bigger,” Collins says, finishing the detective’s thought.