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

I mentally take my “let’s take it slow,” decree to an imaginary firing range, shoot the shit out of it and then light it on fire.

As she walks closer to us, we watch her in silence. The light dims as a cloud moves in front of the morning sun and Collins opens her eyes a bit wider.

“Hey,” she says, sleepily. “What’s going—holy shit!”

Her eyes pop open, locked on the wall of windows.

I spin around and nearly fall out of my chair.

We’re a mile from the ocean. Powder Hill, the tallest in the area, is two hundred feet at its peak, which is the land the Rosen residence was built upon. Being on the fourth floor adds another forty feet. We’re pretty used to looking down at the rest of the world from the Crow’s Nest, which I think was the intent of Mrs. Rosen’s grandfather, but the object blotting out the sun stands just as tall.

Nemesis wades through Beverly Harbor like a kid walking out of the surf a foot from shore—the water coming up to its knees.

I stumble to the window and rest my hands on the glass, frozen in amazement. It’s over two hundred and forty feet tall. Pushing three hundred at least. While still lithe for a towering monster, its body has some extra bulk where, what were once bumps on the elbows, knees and high ankles, have grown into horrible looking spikes. Plates of thick armor cover much of its body, along with twisting coils of thick flesh. The thing’s hands are now massive and while the thumb appears to have grown in a way I’d expect, the index and middle fingers have fused into a single, double tipped digit, while the ring and pinkie fingers have receded. The pinkie isn’t much more than a claw protruding from the side of the hand. The tail looks even more deadly as each of the three pronged blades looks to be the size of a 747 wing. Its facial features have lost all traces of humanity—except for the eyes. Those remain deep brown. Its thickly plated black brow is furrowed, and its lips are upturned in a permanent sneer that reveals its mammoth tusk-sized teeth. Overall, Nemesis is still recognizable as the same creature it was before, it’s just a shitload bigger, and exaggerated in dangerous looking ways.

The membranes on its neck flare to life, glowing orange. It steps forward, and I feel a light rumble. Then it turns its head, looking straight at me, and roars. The glass under my hands vibrates from the sound, which is hard to describe. It still sounds like a mix of different pitches, but it’s so loud and powerful, that I’m sure there is nothing on the planet that can match it. Which I think can be said about every aspect of the creature…alien…god, or whatever she is.

When Nemesis looks away and stops roaring, my mind is freed. Every citizen in Beverly and Salem is now wide awake. Panic is going to spread quickly.

I turn to Cooper. “Coast Guard. Navy. Air Force. Go!” I turn to Collins. “Get some clothes on!” As Collins, now fully awake, dashes out of the Crow’s Nest, I turn to Watson. “I don’t think Nemesis is stupid. She’s here for a reason. Find out what it is.”

Before he can reply, I run out of the room to give Woodstock the worst rude awakening of his life.





37



General Gordon felt like a man possessed as he was guided—compelled really—down a path to which he did not know the end. It would end. He felt sure of it. He just didn’t know when, or where, or how. Only that it was a road he had to travel alone—without delay or mercy.

His first stop had been his private locker at the Zoomb offices. He had a small cache of weapons and explosives hidden away. Endo had questioned him when he stuffed the backpack full of C4 explosives into the locker—not out of judgment, but out of curiosity. Gordon had explained that there might come a day when any evidence leading to them might need to be erased. If it became necessary, they would have everything they needed to destroy the fiftieth floor of the Prudential Tower. A drastic measure perhaps, but in addition to destroying physical evidence, it would send a message to anyone else who might have anything incriminating—don’t screw with General Lance Gordon.

Fully armed, Gordon stole a car and drove.

He didn’t know where he was going, he just worked his way through Boston’s winding streets, following the speed limit, stopping for lights and letting the occasional pedestrian cross in front of him without laying on the horn.

After nearly five hours of driving around the city, he’d almost drained the economy car’s gas tank, but he pulled over and parallel parked near the corner of Clarendon and Stuart streets.