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

Collins drives with one hand on the wheel, the other covering her nose and mouth. But the smell isn’t the worst of it; the sight we find upon reaching downtown Ashton is something I will never be able to forget.

The first thing I notice are the bodies. Not one of them is whole. There are legs, arms, torsos, heads and unrecognizable heaps of guts. I realize I’m trying to count the dead, but there are too many of them and they’re...all mixed up. But there must be hundreds. And it’s not just people. Bits and pieces of horses, cows, goats and assorted other farm animals are scattered around, mixed with human remains and strewn fruit and vegetable crops.

When I feel my stomach tensing and taste bile in my mouth, I divert my attention away from the dead and look at the structural damage. A few of the buildings have been destroyed, blown out into the street. That’s where it entered town, I think. Almost all of the rest are in a partial state of destruction. They’ll have to be demolished before the town can be rebuilt, but it’s possible they could contain survivors. At the center of town, just a block ahead where a small traffic circle wraps around a park and gazebo, is a stark white church engulfed in flames. If anyone sought refuge in God’s house, they were dying horribly now if they weren’t dead already.

And there isn’t a thing we can do about it. I would like nothing more than to rush out of the car and save some lives, but there isn’t a single sign of life anywhere, and there’s no way for Collins or me to put out a fire, stabilize the buildings or—if it’s still nearby—combat the creature. Besides, I don’t think I’d make it five steps before collapsing and puking my guts out.

When my eyes come back to the carnage, details leap out at me. An array of shiny metal is mixed in with the dead. A tuba. A trumpet. Red and white uniforms. A marching band. I turn to the side and find a ruined food stand. Its still-standing sign reads “Fried Dough! Yum!” The corpses on the sidewalks are mixed with balloons, popcorn boxes and blood-soaked cotton candy.

In a flash, I picture this classic scene of small town Americana—the smiles, the laughs, the families. Then the horrible slaughter that followed—the screams and the horror of seeing parents, or children, killed. Eaten. Tears fill my eyes.

My vision is blurred when I see movement in the distance.

“What is that?” I ask, wiping my eyes.

Collins is wiping her own eyes when she says, “I’m not sure.”

Blinking away the last of my tears, I see a girl, no older than ten, limping down the center of Main Street. She’s injured, but neither the wound, nor the destruction, nor even the layers of dead covering the street are slowing her down.

“It’s still here,” I say.

Collins sucks in a quick breath, adrenaline sharpening her eyes.

“Turn the car around,” I say.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’ll be right back.” I throw open the door and sprint toward the girl. My first step lands in a slick of blood that nearly topples me to the ground, so I look down and pick my steps, trying to see the bodies as obstacles. It doesn’t really work, but watching my feet helps me avoid some missteps that would have destroyed my psyche and left me in a fetal position for a few months.

I find the girl by colliding with her. We both spill to the ground—she to the bare pavement, me against the back of a half eaten horse. She screams as we fall, but stops when I say, “It’s okay. I’m here to help you.”

Her head snaps up toward me. Her big blue eyes glimmer with tears and her soot-coated cheeks are covered with clean streaks from crying. She’s out of breath, but already getting to her feet. The blue and white checkered dress she’s wearing is covered in blood, which from what I can see, is not hers. With her two braids, she looks a little like Laura Ingalls from Little House on the Prairie.

“You can’t help,” she says. “You can’t—you’ll just—you can’t.”

She’s hysterical, and really, who can blame her? I’m almost there, too.

Then her face screws up with fear and her eyes drift high above my head.

Fuck. My. Ass.

I turn around and face the big white church on the opposite side of the traffic circle. A shape, as black as the smoke, cuts through the rising cloud. A massive hand reaches forward and claws at the building’s roof, which peels apart like it’s made of gingerbread and frosting. Orange light glows through the smoke, getting brighter until the head slips through and bites down on the tall steeple, shattering it.

The beast is bigger now. It’s impossible to tell just how much, but the church isn’t small, and the creature is making short work of the building. But it hasn’t seen us, yet, so that’s—

The shrill scream tenses all of my muscles. I freeze in place, half standing and watching as the giant stops its assault on the church and cranes its head toward the girl.

And me.

Stand still, I tell myself. Stand still and you’ll just blend in with the dead and it won’t be able to see you.

But this girl is not Collins, and we are decidedly not on the same page.