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

“What? How do you know?”


“I grew up with a Nike site in the woods behind my house. I played up there with my cousins when I was a kid. Drank up there with my friends when I was older. Never did figure out how to get inside the bunker, but the site was surrounded by a six-foot-high chain link fence. No razor wire. I think the signs and armed guards were deterrent enough.”

“Other sites in higher risk areas could have had more of a barrier,” she says.

“Sure, but they would have been topped with barbed wire. Razor wire wasn’t developed until the ‘80s and this style wasn’t used until at least the ‘90s. Also, why have a Nike site way the hell out here? They defended coasts and population areas. Willowdale is neither of those things.” I reach up and rub one of the blades between my fingers, a thin layer of rust coating my fingertips. I slide my rusty index finger over my tongue. Tastes chemical, not metallic. I spit. “The rust is fake. Someone doesn’t want visitors.”

“Ahem,” comes a deep voice that spins both Collins and me around. Her hand goes to her hip, but she doesn’t draw, which is probably a good thing considering the shotgun leveled at her chest.





8



“Mind telling me what you’re doing on my land?” the man asks. He’s dressed like a local—blue jeans, flannel shirt, Red Sox cap—but it feels too local, like a costume rather than genuine attire. And it’s far too warm for flannel. It’s only 6 in the morning and the temp has to be pushing mid-eighties. Going to be a scorcher today, but this guy is dressed for Fall. I give a quick up and down glance. He’s lanky, maybe a buck eighty, but he’s got an unnaturally thick torso. The flannel is hiding body armor, I’m sure of it. Definitely militia material.

“Just in case you missed the uniform,” I say, “you’re pointing that thing at the Sheriff.”

He turns the barrel toward me.

Better.

Then I realize I’m not armed, unless you count the one and a half inch keychain blade still in my hand. But that’s like bringing—well, a one and a half inch knife to a shotgun fight.

“Sir,” Collins says sounding just as calm as ever, “I’d appreciate it if you lowered your weapon.”

“Not until y’all tell me what you’re doing on my land.”

Y’all. Not a Yankee.

“Doesn’t look like your land,” I say, motioning to the sign.

“Bought the site in ninety-five,” he says. As he speaks, he puts a hand to his cheek and scratches twice, with all four fingers. I know a hand signal when I see one, even if it’s cleverly disguised. He’s just invited some friends to the party. Things are going to go from bad to worse fairly quickly unless we can disarm this guy—mentally, not physically. Without knowing what we’re up against, I’m not about to start a shootout.

“Cool beans,” I say. I’ve always hated the phrase, but it’s ridiculous, non-threatening and shows a good degree of disinterest. “Listen, we don’t want any trouble. I’m with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. A bear in the area has ransacked a cabin nearby. Nearly mauled the old guy down the road.”

“Mr. Johnson,” the guy says, catching me off guard.

“You know him?”

“We’ve met,” he says. “In town. He the one that called you out?”

“Yeah,” I say, but then regret it. If these people are as dangerous as I think, I don’t want them anywhere near the Johnsons.

“Look, sir,” Collins says, and I note that she’s not doing any normal cop stuff, like asking for a name. “We just need to know if you’ve seen the bear. Big black bear.”

“Maybe seven hundred pounds,” I say. If he’s patrolling these woods, he’s likely seen the bear I encountered and the more accurately I describe it, the more likely he is to believe our story. “Has two cubs.”

The man’s doing a great job of hiding his thoughts and emotions, but I see a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. He’s seen the bear.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ve seen her, but not for a few days.”

The guy has just unknowingly admitted to patrolling the woods.

“Well, give us a call if you do,” Collins says and puts on a crafty smile. “I’d tell you to be careful, but I can see you know to handle yourself.”