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

In my mind, I know that Woodstock’s helicopter moved faster in the air than Collins’s Mustang can on the ground, but holy Hell, I feel like I’ve been strapped to a bullet. Trees whip past in a blur. Street signs with town names come and go before I can fully read them. I have no idea if we’re going the right way, but I trust that Evel Knievel Collins know where’s she’s going.

“Jim, this is Ashley, do you read?” For the past five minutes, Collins has been trying to raise Ashton’s small, but efficient police force. So far, they’re not answering. She puts the radio down and pushes the gas pedal a little closer to the floor.

When I catch enough letters of a “Welcome to Ashton” sign to piece together the message, I say, “Any other reason they might not be replying?”

She mumbles her answer through grinding teeth.

“What?” I say.

Her teeth are still clenched, but she enunciates the word, “Parade.”

Shit.

“Seriously? For what?”

“Summer-Fest Farmer Parade,” she says. “Lots of tractors, horses, things like that. Ends in a field where the parade becomes a farmers’ market. And there’s a corn maze for the kids.”

Kids.

The tires squeal as we take a ninety degree turn like it’s a broad curve. The front end bursts through the brush on the left hand side of the turn. If there had been anyone coming the opposite way, I don’t think anyone would have survived.

Despite what she’s just told me about the parade, I say, “Ease up. We’re almost there and it would be good if we didn’t kill anyone on the way.”

We take a sudden right turn, but she slows down enough to stay on the right side of the road, which is good because we’ve entered a residential neighborhood of identical, megalithic homes. The McMansions have invaded the far north, I think, and then I note all the people standing outside their homes.

“Does the parade come through here?” I ask.

“Uh-uh.”

What the hell are they all doing outside?

“Okay, listen,” I say, intending to come up with some kind of action plan—defensive perimeter working with whatever local police are in town, evacuation plans, things like that—but then the people outside their homes hear the siren and turn around to face us. They’re panic stricken. As though rehearsed, each and every one of them then points down the road, which crests ahead before leading downhill.

I squint in the sunlight streaming through the windshield, but see smoke rising into the air, thick and black. “What’s ahead?”

“Downtown,” she says and punches the steering wheel three times.

We’re too late.

Collins slams the gas pedal to the floor and we launch a few feet in the air as we crest the hill. The car slams back down on the downhill slope. The tires squeal as they catch, and I’m pinned against my seat as we accelerate rapidly. Whoever built the new neighborhood clear-cut the old trees and planted new ones, so our view of what’s below is clear, though part of me wishes it wasn’t.

Downtown looks to be mostly brick buildings—the kind scattered throughout all of New England—but it’s mired in smoke. The sun shines off lines of parked cars, but I can’t see any movement. The road is littered with debris. Still, it’s clear we won’t be speeding through town. As we close the distance, passing through older neighborhoods with tall trees and smaller homes, I lose sight of the town, but it’s not long before we see the first signs of damage.

Collins brakes hard and swerves, barely avoiding a collision with an old station wagon that’s been crushed in the middle. I look for bodies when we pass, but see none. They either got out and away, or—

Another car. A small one. It’s so flat that I can’t make out what it used to be, but the red-smeared window tells me that the owner was still inside when it was compressed.

Collins slows.

“Keep going,” I say. “No way they survived.”

She shakes her head in anger and continues past the car. Then fifteen more. Then thirty. And they’re all like the first two—empty or bloodied. But not all of them are crushed. Some are on their roofs. Some have been peeled open, and judging by the blood splatter, their occupants plucked out.

“Why are there so many?” I wonder aloud.

“They were waiting for the parade to pass,” Collins explains.

For the creature, it must have been like finding a buffet.

The last few cars are unharmed. The doors are open. The occupants gone. The monster didn’t waste time with them. Why not?

I roll down my window, hoping to hear signs of life, battle or the creature’s whereabouts. But I don’t hear anything. Instead, I get a pungent waft of farm—hay, manure and horse shit—mixed with blood, smoke and vinegar. My stomach turns and I quickly roll up the window.