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

Woodstock flies low and fast, performing the equivalent of a cross-town sprint that takes us in a straight line over the older neighborhoods fringing downtown Beverly, past “the Cove” and finally to the less densely populated but far higher tax bracket of Beverly Farms.

Woodstock marvels at the mansions as we fly past. While FC-P’s all-brick megalithic home is nothing to complain about, it’s surrounded by an average American neighborhood, doesn’t have a garage and is one of the oldest large buildings in town. The homes in Beverly Farms have horse stables, fifteen car garages, half-mile driveways and guest houses the size of the Rosen estate. We live in the home of Beverly’s old rich, whereas Beverly Farms houses the summer homes of the modern ultra-rich, though there are some normal neighborhoods scattered around the area’s wealthy.

We descend quickly, circling close to a home with ocean views, and land in the West Beach parking lot. The bumpy dirt and gravel surface isn’t ideal for a chopper landing, but Woodstock keeps us hovering right over the ground.

I look at my new pilot and give him a knowing grin. The low flight, the rapid landing and the residential fly-by aren’t exactly legal. Given the circumstances, no one is going to give us a hard time, but most pilots would follow the regulations out of force of habit.

He shrugs. “What’s the point of having the authority to fly however the hell you want if you don’t do it? Besides, I need to keep up my skills if I’m going to avoid being chewed or blowed up.”

“Good point,” I say and pat his arm. “Keep up the good work.”

He smiles and says, “I’ll give you some light from the sky.”

“Don’t go far,” I tell him. “In case, you know, something tries to eat us.”

He gives a salute, and I exit to find Collins already out and headed toward the beach. We’re both armed with Springfield Armory .45 ACP handguns, which can drop a person or a rhino with a single shot, but the weapons are useless against our foe and do nothing to ease my trepidation as I step onto the sand.

As my shoes sink in the sand, my instinct is to kick them off, but I’m not here for surfing. I scuff through the darkness, filling my shoes with sand, catching up with Collins.

Boats in the water and SUVs in the sand illuminate a large, dark shape just off shore. When Woodstock brings the helicopter overhead and casts his bright spotlight down on the thing, Collins and I stop. The dark skin is instantly recognizable.

“We need to get everyone the hell away from here!” I say, and take a breath to shout a warning.

“Wait,” Collins says. “How deep is the water here?”

I’d been swimming at the beach just once, but I went out pretty far and don’t remember it being deep where the boats are. “Thirty feet, tops,” I say and understand her point. It’s far too shallow for the goliath creature to stay submerged in. We’d see much more of it. “So what the hell is this?”

We head for the water where a line of police officers have gathered. Some are crouching. Some are standing. But all are looking down at what’s in the water, which has apparently reached land.

“Hey,” I say in greeting, not wanting to spook the officers more than they already must be.

The group turns around. The oldest of the bunch, a man with stark white hair and a suit jacket rather than a uniform, says, “Get off the beach, now! This is a—”

I hold out my ID. “DHS. I’m Special Investigator Jon Hudson. ” I motion to Collins. “This is Special Investigator Ashley Collins.”

“Detective Zandri,” the older man says, “and I’m not sure you being here makes me feel much better. You were in charge up in Portland, yeah?”

“The Boston office,” I say, not feeling guilty for placing the blame for that debacle where it belongs, squarely on FC-Boston’s shoulders. That said, I’m not sure the outcome would have been much different if we had all the heavy arms I asked for.

“And what office are you?” Zandri asks.

“The one that deals with gigantic monsters,” I say.

“That what we got here?” he asks, motioning to the black mass bobbing up and down with the waves. “A giant monster? ’Cause this looks like a big floating sack of rotten shit to me. Smells like it too.”

He was right about that. The odor of raw meat and vinegar erased all traces of the ocean’s salty scent. “Mind if I have a look?”

“Knock yourself out,” Zandri says.

The officers part.

I flick on my flashlight and crouch by what looks like a black, textured comforter made of rubber.

“For the record,” Collins says, crouching next to me, “Cops hate it when federal agencies refer to themselves as special.”

I poke the black surface with my bare finger. It’s rough, like shark skin, but has zero give. I push harder and feel just the slightest bend, but maybe that’s the meat on the tip of my finger. “That’s my title,” I say.

“Doesn’t matter,” she says, handing me a knife and a Ziploc bag. “It sounds egotistical and creates tension.”