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

He lowered the weapon, looking for hints as to why he was here. The only thing that stuck out was the smell of fresh paint and harsh cleaning chemicals. The place had either been recently remodeled or some kind of mess cleaned up.

Stepping closer to the window, a new sound reached his ear. Three squeaks. Though Gordon had never been in the apartment before, he recognized the sound of a bathtub faucet being turned.

Someone’s in the bathroom.

Moving slowly, he headed toward the bathroom door, which was open a crack. As he got nearer, he could hear humming. It was a man’s voice. The song was Ave Maria.

As the humming reached a crescendo, Gordon kicked the door open. He pointed his gun at a fat, pasty white man wearing a pair of black knee-high socks and white boxers. As the man shouted in surprise and fell backwards, wedging himself between the tub and the toilet, Gordon finished the song, letting out a vibrato-filled, “Aaaaave Mariiiia,” that would make Pavarotti proud.

When Gordon took a bow, the fat man said, “W—who are you?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Gordon said.

“What do you want?”

Gordon shrugged. “I have no idea.”

The man’s balding head went from white to pink as his confusion slowly transformed into righteous indignation. He gripped the side of the toilet bowl, which had the seat up, and pushed himself up onto his knees. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

It was a question, but Gordon heard the threat in the man’s tone. Whoever he was, he believed Gordon should be afraid of him, not the other way around. Gordon looked into the man’s eyes and saw the glare of a predator. He grinned and matched the stare, which unnerved the man.

Gordon pointed to the sink. “Wash your hands.”

“What?” the man said. “Why?”

“Because that wasn’t sanitary,” Gordon said, motioning to the toilet bowl. “And I want you to get used to obeying orders.”

When the man just stared at him, Gordon lowered the gun toward the man’s leg and started counting down from five. “Five, four, three.”

The man turned on the sink’s faucet and quickly scrubbed his hands.

“Soap, too,” Gordon said.

The man obeyed, picking up a bar of soap and rubbing it between his hands. When the man finished, Gordon tossed a hand towel to him and said, “Let’s go.”

“Can I finish getting dressed?” the man asked.

Gordon twisted his lips. He didn’t like the man’s belligerent tone. In fact, he detested everything about him, though he didn’t understand why. “No. You can’t.”

The man grumbled, but followed Gordon out of the bathroom.

“Do you want money?” the man asked. When Gordon didn’t answer, he added, “Women? I can buy you one. Or three.”

“Turn around,” Gordon said, and the man complied.

“Just tell me what you want and—oof!” The man crumbled to the floor as Gordon pistol-whipped the back of his head. Gordon rolled the man over and quickly bound his arms and legs with plastic zip-tie cuffs.

“Actually,” Gordon said to the unconscious man, “Just stay here. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” With that, he opened his backpack and took out several bricks of C4, detonators and a half dozen grenades. “I’ll be right back.”





38



We’re in the air five minutes later, but Collins is still tucking in her shirt as we lift off, and half of Woodstock’s gray hair resembles a pom-pom. At least no one can see us up in the helicopter. I don’t think anyone would feel at ease knowing we’re the frontline of defense against the colossal monster stomping its way through the harbor.

As we turn toward the ocean, I look out the cockpit and find that we’re at eye level with Nemesis.

“Higher,” I say, “Must get higher.”

But Woodstock is already ascending, taking us to a thousand feet—out of leaping reach—before bringing us closer horizontally.

“How come it’s not destroying anything?” Collins asks, looking out the side window as we circle high above.

Nemesis is still in the harbor, following the water’s path. If she wanted to eat people, she could. I can see the streets below filling with people on foot. I count at least three accidents on Cabot Street alone, bringing fleeing traffic to a standstill. But the giant is still in the water.

What do you want? I wonder.

“Maybe it’s never been just about eating people?” I say. “She’s been moving steadily south. I think all of her victims just happened to be in the way.”

“Not steadily south,” Collins says. “We’re only a few miles from West Beach, right?”

She’s right. “She shed her skin last night. And ate at least six whales. Maybe she slept?”

“And grew,” Woodstock said.

I nod. “Yeah, that, too. So does anyone know where we can find a giant robot or flying submarine?”

“I’ve got a normal submarine,” Cooper says. Before we left, Watson and Woodstock got the helicopter radios tuned into the Crow’s Nest via a satellite uplink that connects directly into FC-P’s computers. It’s like a fancy, encrypted, government version of Skype. But without the video.

“How far out?” I ask.

“Twenty minutes,” Cooper says.