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

South.

Why is it heading south? I’m under the impression that this thing was created in a BioLance laboratory, so why would it head in any direction? Why wouldn’t it just stay put? Or wander aimlessly? Or mark its territory like any other predator? Of course, it doesn’t really resemble anything on Earth, predator or otherwise. But why south? Is it some kind of instinctual migration? Maybe it’s part bird? I could ask these questions endlessly and go mad from never having the answer, so I’m glad when Woodstock interrupts my thoughts—until I hear what he has to say.

“That explosion did a number on my bird. Everything’s gone screwy. Probably something electrical. Melted wires, maybe. I’m flying manually right now, but I got no altimeter, compass, fuel gauge—nothing.”

None of this sounds good, but we have a mission to complete. “What are you trying to say?”

“I gotta put her down someplace where I can fix what’s wrong,” he explains.

“We need to get to Ashton,” I say. “The helicopter can wait.”

“Not sure you’re understanding the situation,” he says. “Either I put her down, someplace nearby, or we’re eventually going to crash, probably sooner than later.”

“The police station isn’t far,” Collins says. “You can land in the parking lot.”

I’m about to object, but Collins puts her hand on my arm. “My car is there.”

“Helicopter will be faster.”

“Not if we crash,” Woodstock says.

“And you haven’t seen my car,” Collins adds.

My first real investigation is falling to crap all around me and FC-Boston is on their way, hoping to take it away. If they beat me to the punch and manage to stop this creature, I’ll be out of a job along with Watson and Coop. Then again, the odds of them handling this situation without having any idea of what they’re up against is as unlikely as Michael Jackson making another comeback. And that means people’s lives are at stake—the morons from FC-B and thousands of locals.

I turn to Collins. “How fast is your car?”




Fifteen minutes later, I have my answer as Collins pegs the gas pedal to the floor and all 440 horses propel us down the main street of town, which is lined by the police station, post office and general store. Not a soul in sight. The cop-blue Mustang belongs to Collins, but she’s installed some upgrades—a siren and LED police flashers on the dash—in case she needs to respond to an emergency from home. Despite moving down the road like a rocket, people will see and hear us coming more than a mile away.

We made it to the station in one piece, though the landing was a little rougher than usual. Woodstock borrowed the station’s second, currently unused cruiser and was headed home for parts. He promised to meet us in Ashton just as soon as he finished with repairs, which I think is good of the man considering he’s not in law enforcement and he knows there’s a chance he might die horribly as a result. I respect that kind of bravery and sense of duty. I just hope I don’t get him killed.

After raiding the police station’s armory for body armor, a couple of high caliber magnums, two shotguns and plenty of ammo, we leapt in the car like a couple of Duke boys on the run and left a cloud of dust behind us.

And now, once again, I’m terrified.

Collins drives like a maniac and Maine’s back roads aren’t exactly straight. One wrong move and we’re going to pancake into a tree at seventy miles per hour. So I keep my mouth shut and let her focus on driving.

She glances over at me.

“Road please,” I say.

She turns back to the road, but just long enough to see that the next turn is still a few hundred feet off. She looks back. “You’re missing something.”

“What? I—”

She puts her hand to her head. I duplicate the move, realizing what she’s telling me. When I feel my short prickly hair, it’s confirmed. My beanie cap is gone. The thing is so much a part of my head that I can still feel it there, like an amputee’s ghost limb.

“You shouldn’t worry about it,” she says. “Look better without it.”

Was that a compliment? Before I can blush, I catch a glimpse of fast approaching trees. My head snaps forward. “Turn!”

Collins downshifts and drifts around the curve like a pro before straightening out and accelerating.

After I catch my breath, I loosen my grip on the “oh shit” handle and say, “Can I ask you a serious question?”

She glances at me, but doesn’t speak. I take it as permission. “What the hell are you doing out here in Podunk country?”