Project Hyperion (A Kaiju Thriller) (Kaiju #4)

A loud crack makes us tense.

When it steps out from behind a redwood, not thirty feet away, I have to stifle a gasp. Its fur is thick like a husky’s, and a mix of light and dark brown that would let it blend in with the forest as well as our ghillie suits. It stands at least nine feet tall and has arms as thick as my legs. Not something you’d want to piss off. But when a deer slowly steps out behind it, munching casually on some ferns before wandering past and beyond our target, I realize that this giant is actually gentle. As I watch, I nearly forget what I’m there to do.

A rash of sightings brought us to the area, but there were no reports of attacks or even close encounters, so we’re not here to pick a fight. It’s more of an intelligence gathering mission, though I honestly thought it was going to just be a “quality time with the new girlfriend” kind of mission. While Collins takes video of the creature, I take aim with the air rifle. When it squats to pick some blueberries, there’s no mistaking that this is a male. He also provides me with a nice, wide target.

I pull the trigger and a gentle puff shoots the dart into the big guy’s right ass cheek. He flinches at the sting and stands to his feet. He takes a long, slow look around and then wanders off, disappearing into the forest. When he’s gone, I stand up and put my fist in the air. “Terrorist fist jab for shooting Sasquatch in the ass.”

Collins grins wide, bumps my fist and says, “That was amazing.” She looks at the camera, which now has definitive proof of Sasquatch on it.

“We’ll keep that to ourselves,” I say. “If people knew he was really here, he’d be a dead-squatch inside a week.”

“You don’t think he’s dangerous?” she asks.

“Hasn’t been so far,” I say. “But that’s why he’s got a tracker in his butt. We can keep tabs on him without getting him killed. The way I see it, our job is to protect all Americans, and that includes our very distant, very hairy cousins who have probably been living on this continent long before we crossed over from Mother Russia.”

“Does that include Maigo?” she asks.

She is the only person who knows about my mixed feelings for the creature. I didn’t want to tell her, or anyone, but it was eating at me and she was one of few people who knew the truth about the Tilly family. So I told her the truth, and while she didn’t share my mixed feelings, she understood them.

After thinking on it for a moment, I say, “No, I’m not even sure she’s from this planet, and whatever part of her was that little girl...she had her revenge. If Maigo comes back, and threatens people in any part of the world, the gloves are coming off.”





Epilogue II



Being an FBI agent out of the Anchorage, Alaska office meant you could be assigned one of two different kinds of investigations: a short case or a shit case. Cases were often short because to qualify for FBI jurisdiction, the crime had to involve multiple U.S. states, which was a problem for Alaska. Most crimes were local, and those that did cross borders (Canadian mostly—not many people fled to Russia) fell under the purview of the CIA, who seemed to never have enough to do. There was the occasional case involving a criminal who fled from the contiguous forty-eight to the wilds of Alaska, but searching the endless expanse of rugged, mostly cold, frequently dark territory fell into the second, shit-case category.

When Special Agent Kevin Jones’s foot sunk into an ankle deep puddle of wet sand and came back up missing a shoe, there was no doubt that he’d landed his third shit case that month. Of course, it also looked like it would be a short case, too, so that was something. The site looked like an old dig or a failed mine. Not that old, though, maybe a year or two. The forest hadn’t reclaimed it yet, just a few pine sprouts here and there.

“Damnit,” he said, fishing his shoe out of the muck and shaking it off.

“Told ya, you should’a worn boots,” Darrin Donovan said. He was a heavyset helicopter pilot that most of the division called Double D, on account of his name, though his size didn’t help. Truth was, everyone was jealous of the man because of all of them, he saw the most action. The quickest way to get anywhere in Alaska—sometimes the only way—was by air, and Double D could fly helicopters and planes. So he was always busy.

Jones flicked the mud from his shoe and slipped it back on, fighting to ignore the grit beneath his toes. “And I told you to go on a diet.”