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

I look up the road. Nothing but trees. “I don’t see any neighbors.”


She puts the truck in gear and speeds over the rough road. I barely feel it.

Betty, your days are numbered.

We only drive thirty seconds before I see a large log cabin with a sculpted yard, perfectly managed flower beds and a tall U.S. flag snapping in the breeze. Retirees for sure. Possibly ex-military. The gravel driveway crunches under the SUV’s tires.

“That’s Mr. Johnson,” Collins says.

I see the old codger sitting in a rocking chair on the wraparound porch and take note of the U.S. Marines cap he’s wearing. If there is anything I respect, its folks in the armed services who are braver than I am and who risk everything in service to their country. Technically, my job is similar, but I hardly think Sasquatch is a threat to national security, though given the number of calls Mr. Johnson has made, he might disagree. But I won’t give him a hard time. He looks down at us, staring over his aviator glasses and takes a long drag from a bright orange can of Moxie soda. Not ribbing this guy is going to be tough.

I pull down the sun guard and flip open the mirror.

“Don’t bother,” Collins says. “There isn’t anything you can do that will make you look like a DHS agent.”

There are rings under my eyes, a twig in my cap and dirt smudged on my cheek. I pluck the twig from the cap and then use it to rub the dirt from my face. I lick my thumb and finish the job with my own spit. I slap my face, three times on each side, adding a little color and helping the coffee wake me up. I look at Collins. “Better than nothing, right?”

“S’pose.” The word carries just a hint of an accent.

“Georgia.”

“What?”

“You were raised in Georgia.”

She just looks at me for a moment, twisting her full lips.

“I’m good with accents and local dialects,” I explain. “Kind of a hobby.”

She just opens her door and hops out.

I follow quickly, nearly falling out of the SUV as I open and close the door. Mr. Johnson is already on his feet, standing at the top of the porch. He waggles his hand at me. “What’s wrong with this one?” he says to Collins. “Looked like he was having a seizure in the car there.”

The accent is thick and slow. A Mainer through and through.

I straighten myself up and put on a grin. “Mr. Johnson.”

The man’s eyes widen slightly and his white caterpillar eyebrows rise. “You told him my name?”

“Mr. Johnson,” Collins says. “This is Jon Hudson. He’s an investigator with the—”

“U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service,” I say, climbing the steps. I hold my hand out to shake his.

He looks at my hand, then back up at me. “Jeezum Crow, boy, you look shot at and missed, shit on an’ hit.”

I nod. “Had a run in with a rack a poundahs.”

He returns my smile and shakes my hand. “Ayah.” We’re speaking the same language now.

“How ya doin’ this mornin’?” I ask him.

“Oh, fair t’ middlin’,” he says. “Be a lot better if not for that shoot’n an hollr’n last night.”

“Won’t happen again,” I say.

Johnson gives me a one-eyed squint. “How’s that?”

I nod to Collins. “Officer Collins here was just telling me about it. Couple of kids up to no good. She ran them out of town.”

“That right?” he asks.

Collins clears her throat uncomfortably. “Won’t be bothering you again, Mr. Johnson. Made it clear I’d throw them in jail next time.”

“But that’s not why we’re really here,” I say. “Is it Mr. Johnson?”

He walks along the porch, aided by a cane. “Follow me.”

Collins pulls me back and lets Mr. Johnson get a few feet ahead of us. “What’s a rack of pounders?”

“Six pack,” I say. “I was being honest.”

“Over here,” Johnson says. He stops at the side of the porch, leaning on the railing. He points out at the woods. “Seen ’em walking out there. At night mostly. Sometimes during the day, though they keep to the shadows. Just shapes. Sounds.”

“Sure it’s not a bear?” I ask.

He whips around toward me and hitches a thumb at Collins. “You already sound like her!”

“Just trying to consider all possibilities.”

“Ain’t no bear. I’ve seen bear. Hunted bear. Whatever it is out there, it walks on two legs. Comes ‘round least twice a day. Usually dawn and dusk. Maybe in the night, but me and Sally—that’s my wife—turn in ‘round nine, so I wouldn’t know.”

The man’s testimony is plain and simple. He’s not claiming to have seen brown fur, a large head or any other traditional Sasquatch feature. He just knows that something is walking in his woods, and that it’s a biped.

“Served in Vietnam, sir?” I ask.

“Walked the Ho Chi Min Trail. Yes, sir.”

“Then I believe you,” I say.

“Well, damn,” he says. “It’s ‘bout time someone did.”

“But,” I say quickly. “There is one other possibility I’m not sure you’ve considered.”