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

He just stared at her.

“Your body won’t reject it. By this time next week, you’ll feel twenty years younger. You won’t need to take any meds.”

He regarded her for another moment, then spoke. “Kendra, if this works out, you won’t have to look over your shoulder for Endo ever again. And I might just take you up on your earlier offer.”

She grinned, hoping the General was just joking. But he never joked, which made his departing words so much more horrible.

“If it doesn’t work out, better that you don’t look over your shoulder. It’ll be easier for you that way.”





5



I wake with a groan. My head throbs with pain. I think my eyes have been plucked out until I reach up and rub them. Moving sucks. My body aches, every inch of it. I think I’m feeling pain in places I didn’t know existed. What the hell happened?

My eyes manage to open for a moment, before the pain doubles and I close them again. But I saw enough to remember where I am. The cabin’s faded blue, painted wood ceiling is hard to forget. The previous day’s adventures come back to me like a flip book in honey, which is to say, slowly. The long drive. The awful music. The bear. A stab of pain lances from my feet, up through my body and explodes out of my forehead. That sonuvabitch bear!

That’s why my body hurts. But it doesn’t explain the headache. Then I remember the rest of my day. With the bear gone, I got the power on and assessed the damage. They’d probably been staying in the cabin for just a few days, but they’re bears. Wild animals tend to be less tidy than people, even me. Although the bedroom and bathroom were unmolested, the bear family did a number on the living room and kitchen. Most of the damage was cosmetic, but there was enough baby bear shit on the floor to ruin my night, and the braided rug in the middle of the living room smelled like bear piss. I picked up the poop, broken glass, scattered pots and pans, and a deck of cards the cubs had been chewing on. I rolled up the braided rug, wincing at the smell, and dragged it outside. The backdoor, through which the bears had entered, hadn’t been damaged. Not by the bears, anyway. Judging by the rot setting in, whoever closed this place up for the winter, forgot to shut the back door. I closed the door, which had warped, but managed to get the deadbolt locked. By the time I finished, the place looked respectable again, but it was also 10 pm and the pain from the abuse I’d taken was starting to stiffen my joints.

The only source of entertainment in the cabin was an old radio, and I wasn’t about to turn that on. I’d had all the 80s jams I could take. So I sat back in one of the living room’s cushy rocking chairs, propped up my feet and cracked open a beer.

Then another.

And another.

And that’s pretty much where my memory ends. I somehow made it to the bed. Must have been nearly midnight at that point. And now, here I am, swimming in pain.

Three loud knocks ricochet through the inside of my head like bullets. I clutch my head and whine incoherently into the pillow. It’s not the bear. Bears don’t knock. Whoever it is can wait.

Three more booming knocks and I swear I’m in a war zone. I squeeze a pillow over my head lest I end up with post traumatic stress disorder. The knock comes again, louder, more persistent. I’m about to shout, “Go away,” when the person at the door beats me to the punch.

“Willowdale Police,” a woman says. Her voice is like a foghorn. “Is anyone there?”

No, I think. I’m not here.

Boom. Boom. Boom. “I know you’re there, and I don’t have a whole lot to do today, so please, open the door.”

My eyes open against the pain. It’s dull in comparison to the agony this woman’s voice is causing me. I spin out of bed, onto my feet and nearly fall over. I catch myself in the doorframe. Am I still buzzed? I looked up into the living room. The morning light streaming through the windows feels like hot pokers in my eyes. I let them adjust for a moment, then notice the beer cans littering the floor by the rocking chair. I count them quickly. Eight empties.

Geez.

“Willowdale Police!” the woman shouts, punctuating the words with another volley of cannon fire. “Please open the door.”

“Willowdale,” I whisper to myself. Watson never gave me the name of the town, just directions. Willowdale is where the Sasquatch sightings have been reported. Lucky for me, I already have a mamma bear suspect. Maybe two suspects if the woman at the door is as brutish as she sounds.