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

The I-shaped wound was now covered in a dark crust that resembled the skin on the girl’s feet and tail.

“What the hell?” she whispered and leaned down for a closer look. She touched the hard growth with her finger, but had forgotten she was still wearing gloves. She stood up and removed the gloves one by one. She placed them on the shelf from where the bottle had fallen and turned back to the body.

In the split second it took to discard the gloves, everything changed.

Maigo’s eyes were open.

Elliot’s muscles locked with fear and a scream built in her throat, but it never got the chance to escape. The last thing Dr. Kendra Elliot saw was Maigo’s now six-foot-long tail rising up from beneath the sheets.





13



I sit up with a gasp, clutching my chest and rolling my eyes around in confusion. The strange scent of earth and a glowing ceiling make the transition from dream to wakefulness a surreal experience, because the dream seemed more real than what I’m seeing. When my eyes finally land on Collins’s worried face, I remember where I am.

“You okay, chief?” Collins asks.

I groan and push myself up against the earthen wall behind me. “Nothing like waking up from a dream about being eaten by a bear and finding yourself inside a giant glowing stomach.” I look up at my hastily built shelter. It survived the night, and the storm, keeping us concealed and dry. With the morning sun on it, the wool blanket shimmers.

I smack my lips and clear my throat. I hate mornings. So little about them is good, but this morning is worse than usual. My morning breath is usually enough to sour my mood, but today’s aches and pains make waking exquisitely revolting in a way that only the Devil could appreciate.

“Here,” Collins says, before tossing a water bottle to me.

The bottle strikes my chest and falls to the ground beside me. I turn my head down and look at it, barely registering what has just happened.

“Nice catch,” Collins says, shaking her head.

I slowly reach for the bottle, pop the top and take a swig. Then another. And another. By the time the water is half drained, I’m feeling a little more awake. I flinch as something strikes my chest and falls in my lap.

An oatmeal cream pie from my backpack.

Collins laughs lightly. “Cat-like reflexes.”

I have no witty retort, so I unwrap the hydrogenated corn syrup foodstuff and shove it into my mouth. I mumble a “thanks” between chews, and then chase my breakfast with the remaining water.

“So much for rationing,” Collins says.

“I don’t plan on staying out here much longer.” When I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, I see that Collins isn’t planning on sitting still either. Just the opposite. She’s made herself at home and rummaged through my pack. My clothes are stacked in a neat pile next to her, along with a half empty bottle of water and a Chocodile wrapper.

My map is spread open across the poncho that I’d given her last night. She has two areas circled in red pen. With a fresh groan, I push away from the wall and kneel beside her.

She taps the bigger of the two circles with her pen. “This is where they are. You can see the road here, ending just after the Johnsons’ house. The land is just empty. It doesn’t show a Nike site or any other roads into the area.”

I look over the map, nodding.

Collins taps on the second red circle. “This is where I think we are, give or take a half mile in any direction.” She measures out the distance with her pen and compares it to the scale on the map’s legend. “About two miles. If you’re up for it, we can be there in under thirty minutes.”

I flex my spine side to side a little, testing my body. I’m sore, head to toe, but not seriously injured. After a good stretch, I should be okay to go. “No problem. What time is it?”

“Bout five thirty in the morning,” she says.

I shake my head. “Two days in a row. You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Please, you slept like a baby,” she says. “Snored like a monster, though.”

“Shut up,” I say, as I stand and start stretching.

“Louder than the thunder,” she says and begins packing my clothes.

“You don’t need to do that,” I tell her. “We’ll take the map and the weapons. Move fast and quiet. If we need to, we can come back, but I needed new clothes anyway.”

“I noticed.” She holds up one of my favorite T-shirts and turns it so I can see the big holes in the arm pits.

“Ventilation,” I say. I’m tempted to throw the shirt on and take it with me, but it’s bright orange. Done stretching, I tuck my handgun into the back of my pants and step toward the exit.

“You look sad,” she says. “Did you name your shirt, too?”

I stop in my tracks and tilt my head up. The air smells funny. I lean closer to the wool blanket and sniff.