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

Not that Ted is hard to deal with. He’s kind of like a grown up version of Chunk, from The Goonies—chubby, funny and he occasionally breaks into a jiggly dance. He’s also brilliant with computers and electronics. I’m pretty sure he got posted to my team because, like me, he doesn’t exactly fit the company profile. Anne Cooper, on the other hand, does. Cooper, who I call Coop, mostly because it bothers her, is a straight-laced administrator who does things by the book, even though so little of our mandate is in any book not written by a fiction author, a lunatic or both.

They’ve been with me for three years now, manning the home front—a house perched atop Prospect Hill in Beverly, Massachusetts. From the top floor you can see the ocean and, on a clear day, Boston. It’s a nice place to live and work, but it’s not the great outdoors.

Believe it or not, I’m not on vacation. I’m working. Watson’s family just happened to have a cabin in the area, and I felt like being nostalgic for a night before beginning my “investigation.”

With a shake of my head, I push away thoughts of the ridiculous day I’ll have tomorrow and hop up the steps to the front door. Despite the apparent disuse of the cabin, the porch wood feels firm beneath my feet. Maybe it’s faux worn, I wonder, like those beat-up looking hutches made for rich old ladies who want to have rustic kitchens without the actual rust.

I dig into my pocket for the key while scanning the area. Most of the trees are pines, though a few maples line the dirt road, their leaves glowing lime green in the afternoon sun. There’s no mailbox or even a number on the cabin. As I pull the key from my pocket, I lean back and peer down the road. Nothing. And there wasn’t a single house on the way here, which suits me, because while I don’t have any doobies, I do have a twelve-pack buried in a cooler full of ice.

I’m not supposed to drink on the job, but I’m not technically working right now and I’m pretty good at warding off hangovers. Besides, I’m pretty sure that even drunk off my ass, I’ll be able to figure out the mystery of Sasquatch.

Yeah, Sasquatch.

Fucking Sasquatch.

I work for the Department of Homeland Security, and I’m investigating a rash of squatch sightings in the northern woods of Boonie-town, Maine. When the DHS was created in 2002, in the wake of 9-11, the bill was loaded with “riders,” tacked-on provisions that wouldn’t normally pass if they weren’t attached to something guaranteed to pass, like the creation of the DHS. Riders usually have nothing to do with the actual bill, but the one that created my division did. The DHS has seventy Fusion Centers around the country. They’re hubs where intel and resources from federal and local law enforcement agencies can be pooled in an effort to openly share information between departments—something that might have helped avoid the events of 9-11. Each hub has its own lead investigator tasked with investigations that affect multiple law enforcement agencies, and that are a threat to national security. That’s me, lead investigator, except my Fusion Center has yet to be involved in any serious investigation. Fusion Centers are most commonly identified by the city they’re in, such as Fusion Center – Boston, my closest neighbor in the DHS, otherwise known as “those assholes in Beantown”.

The Fusion Center I head up is known as Fusion Center – P. The P is for “paranormal”. Seriously. The supernatural paranoid who added the rider believed the end of the world was nigh and that it would be a supernatural event. That’s also why we’re located in Beverly, Mass, next door neighbor to Salem, Mass. Salem being the apparent gateway to hell and home to the gruesome Salem witch trials, as well as scores of modern witches like Susan Beacon, who claimed she caused the “perfect storm” with a curse. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t praise the good Lord she made that claim before my stint at the FC-P began or I would have had to investigate it as a threat against the United States.

FC-P is the seventy-first Fusion Center and it doesn’t technically exist. You won’t find us in any public documentation. Despite its creation, the FC-P is pretty much an embarrassment. That’s why the ‘Paranormal’ on our IDs was reduced to the letter P.

The deadbolt unlocks smoothly, barely making a sound. I push the door open and step in. The dim room holds two comfortable looking rocking chairs, a dining room table, a wood stove and what appears to be a large, black bean bag. I try the lights, but nothing happens.

The breakers, I think, vaguely remembering Ted saying something about them being shut off. I move to take a step into the cabin, and freeze before I leave the doorframe.

The bean bag moved.

I reach for my gun, but find it missing. It’s in the truck. Haven’t worn it in two years. Imaginary creatures and specters don’t normally pose a threat.

Before I can think of what to do next, the screen door finally decides to slam shut behind me. The bean bag explodes with motion, rearing up a round head the size of a large pumpkin. Two large black eyes fix on me with unwavering focus.

Moving with slow, measured movements, the bear stands. It’s just about the same height as me, but is probably upwards of seven hundred pounds. I raise my hand in an “its okay” posture, like the bear will understand it, and I back away, but I don’t get far. My back smacks into the closed screen door, which makes a loud snapping sound.

The spooked bear huffs angrily, throws itself forward and charges.