This time she whirled around on him. “No, fuck you! How dare you put me in this position? You knew, Michael. You knew the whole time. And now this? You wine and dine me, and what? You think we’re going to shack up? That we’re going to somehow fall in love? That I’m going to suddenly not be a lesbian?”
Michael choked, gagged and spit the wad of half-chewed steak onto his plate. “What? You’re...” Michael’s mind spun in circles. A lesbian? Holy shit, he thought, the ‘girlfriends’ she told me about weren’t just friends that were girls!
His anger deflated. His shoulders sagged. “Dammit. I’ve wasted fifteen years of my life on you.”
“Wasted?” She got angry again. “Wasted!” She raised a fist and punched the table. The loud bang rose through Michael’s body like a wave of energy. When it continued well past the impact, he realized the feeling was physical, not emotional. The coastline tilted at an odd angle. His stomach lurched, reminding him of a roller-coaster ride.
The table slid into Deb, covering her in two plates of food and two glasses of wine. Her chair tipped back and spilled her to the deck. Michael fell forward, landing atop the table. He could see the ocean below him—far below—as he looked over the yacht’s side. We’re tipping, he thought, picturing a tidal wave beneath them. His scream was drowned out by the sound of rushing water, like a waterfall.
Before he could understand the source of the roaring water, the yacht reached the bay, slamming back down. Water rushed up over the side, knocking Michael back, filling his mouth. He coughed and crawled aimlessly across the deck, as the buoyant craft bobbed upright once again, throwing him down.
As water fell over him like a hard rain, Michael rolled over, expecting to see a wave crashing down toward him. The water was there, white and frothing, falling all around, but where he expected a wall of water was something else. The rough, black surface rose from the bay, shedding water like a second skin.
Skin...
His eyes moved higher, drawn by a luminous orange beacon high above. The color swirled, fluid, like a brilliant lava lamp. Recognition took root in his chest, just as Deb let out a scream.
At first, the news had simply called the giant ‘one of several Kaiju,’ but had recently referred to it by a name designated by the FC-P: Typhon. The monster’s human-like physique was what bothered most people, but it was the malicious, glowing eyes that caused Michael to vomit into the foot of sea water sloshing around him. It wasn’t just that they were pure evil, it was that they were staring down. Straight at him.
“Oh shit,” Deb yelled, and he caught a glimpse of her jumping overboard.
Michael’s numb mind had trouble coming up with a reason why she would jump from the boat in the middle of the bay. Unluckily, the answer was supplied for him. The ship lurched upward, the deck shoving into his backside. Giant fingers reached around both sides of the ship, claws digging into the deck below him.
He screamed louder than Deb had and ran for the stern, hoping to leap into the water. Instead, he fell into the rail and peered over the edge. He was already a hundred feet up and rising quickly. Before he could second-guess and jump, he was two hundred feet up. Three hundred. Even higher! The boat tilted back, but he clung to the rail, locking his arms around the metal.
Looking around, he could no longer see Typhon staring down at him. I’m above it, he realized, and then he looked to the side and down. The nausea he felt from the extreme height was dwarfed by the fright generated by two more Kaiju: Karkinos and Scylla, who had last been seen devastating Rio. They were rising out of the bay. The monsters were roaring and angry. Their glowing membranes lit up the darkness like the orange sun had returned for an encore.
Before Michael could scream again, the yacht accelerated. His arms screamed in pain as he held on tightly. The claws clinging to the deck tore away.
He was free!
Released from doom and sent...
Michael pulled himself up and found the wind in his face. At first, the view made no sense, but understanding arrived quickly. The yacht had been picked up and thrown, like it was nothing more than a kid’s toy in a tub. The dark waters of the bay were invisible below, but he could see the lights of civilization growing closer.
As Michael finally screamed again, he saw a window ahead. There was a shape in the window. A man. He was looking out, to see. Then he turned his eyes up, saw the yacht and met Michael’s eyes. Both men screamed right up until the end, when the 40-foot yacht plowed through the brick face of an apartment building, and in the distance, sirens began to wail.
36
“Betty, this is Bob,” I say, for the benefit of anyone who might be monitoring cell phone usage in and around the White House. It would be easier to use Devine, but activating the system in D.C. would put up a red flag that would let everyone know exactly where I was. “How’s that pie cooking?”
“About to put it in the oven,” Woodstock replies, his deep voice now thoroughly confusing any listeners, which makes me cringe, but he turns things around by adding, “S’pose you called to talk to the missus.”