Project Nemesis (A Kaiju Thriller) (18 page)

26

By the time I reach the far edge of town, my legs, lungs and just about every other part of me is burning with the kind of tired I know is going to hurt worse in two days than it does right now. But I’m pretty sure I’ve got about ten seconds until I feel a crushing pain and then nothing at all.

In my darker moments, usually when I’m bored, I have imagined what it would be like to be on death
row,
or a POW before a firing squad or diagnosed with something terminal. It’s morbid, but what does it feel like to know you have just seconds, minutes, hours or days left to live? Granted, anyone can kick the bucket at any time for a million different reasons, but to know, without a doubt, that death looms just over the horizon is different. I know that now. I can feel death thundering up behind me, brazen in its approach.

It moves in for the kill with a squeal.

From the side?

As I turn to face my end, I see a flash of blue slide up next to me.

The Mustang!

Collins throws the door open from the inside. She doesn’t say anything.
Doesn’t have to.
I throw myself and the girl into the car and before I’ve had a chance to right myself or close the door, Collins hits the gas.

The car’s acceleration combined with a hard thump from behind that pushes the car forward, knocks the door shut—on my legs. I shout, thinking I’ve been bit, but then realize the pain isn’t that bad. The girl moves herself off of me, giving me space to pull my legs in and right myself in the seat. Once upright, I slam the door closed and pull the girl into my lap, quickly adjusting the seat to accommodate both of us. In the few seconds it’s taken
me
to do all this, Collins has accelerated to 50 mph.

I close my eyes and sigh with relief.

“Hudson!” Collins shouts. “Snap out of it!”

I sit up
fast,
my relief shattered, and bump my head into the girl’s elbow. I turn to Collins to ask what’s wrong when I see a flash of movement in my periphery. I glance back in time to see a large, clawed leg land just behind the car.

My head twists to the speedometer. 55 mph. Collins shifts and gives the engine all the fuel it can handle. 60mph.

I look back and the creature has only fallen behind enough that I can see its whole body. It’s definitely bigger now, but no less agile. It runs on four legs, just like the first time I saw it outside the secret
BioLance
lab. The spines on its back are longer now, and the carapace they’re attached to is thick and looks harder than tank armor. With every step it takes, the membranes on the sides of its neck and body glow brighter.

The whine of the Mustang’s gears grows higher. Collins takes her foot off the gas for just a moment to push in the clutch and slam into the next gear, but in that momentary lag, the monster strikes.

Its jaws drop open to reveal monstrous, scimitar teeth, a thick wriggling tongue and a throat that’s glowing orange, though more dully than the membranes on the neck. A roar vibrates the entire car, along with my teeth, and the creature lunges forward. As the giant jaws snap shut, the Mustang’s gears catch and we surge out of reach.

I watch the speedometer climb.

70 mph.

The angry monster leaps after us, keeping pace.

We hit the hill leading toward the
McMansions
and their unharmed occupants.

75 mph, fighting gravity.

We seem to find a momentary equilibrium with the creature. Is 75 mph its top speed? How is that even possible? But then I look at the speedometer again.

80 mph.

It’s keeping pace. Does it think the car will grow tired? Does it know the car will eventually run out of gas? Or has it detected the homes full of people up ahead and it’s happy to just follow us?

85 mph.

“We need to get off this road,” I say.

“There aren’t any side roads,” Collins points out, but I already know this.

“We need to run,” I say.
“On foot.
Through the woods.
Three different directions.”

The girl whimpers at this idea. Collins balks. “Why the hell would we—”

She figures it out.
“
Damnit
.”
We passed somewhere between fifty and a hundred people in the jam-packed family neighborhood. By continuing any further we are sentencing each and every one of them to death.

“Kid,” I say. “I saw you run. You’re fast. Just keep to the trees. Find a cave, or some fallen trees to hide beneath. If it comes your way, I’ll distract it.”

It’s not exactly a wonderful pep-talk, but I’ve just offered to take the fall for her if it comes to it. So when she says, “Are you stupid?” I’m a little surprised, but then she explains by pointing at the speedometer.

90 mph.

Yeah, it’s a stupid plan. But I can’t very well lead this thing into a neighborhood to save my own skin. Odds are, I’ll be eaten anyway and then have one more thing to answer for upon reaching the Pearly Gates. I’m still not sure how I’m going to explain breaking into my neighbor’s house to look at
Juggs
magazines when I was sixteen.

“Collins,” I say. It’s just a name, but she knows what it means. It’s time.

She lifts her foot from the gas.

Before she can hit the brakes, a large shape comes over the top of the hill. At first I think it’s a giant grasshopper head, but then the rest comes into view. Woodstock! The helicopter pulls up hard and swivels to the side just in time to miss being crushed in the monster’s jaws.

As the chopper circles fast, the monster spins around and roars before lunging and missing again.

Collins’s foot finds the gas pedal again, and we race up the hill while the creature pounds after the chopper, which is now well out of reach.

It must remember the helicopter, I think. I didn’t think we hurt it much, but given how fast it went for the chopper, we must have made an impression. That doesn’t give me any kind of satisfaction. It’s far larger now and the helicopter’s machine gun will be even more useless.

When we reach the top of the long hill, Collins pulls over in front of a three-story home with a three-car garage. The owner stands by the garage, waving us over. Collins pulls into the driveway and rolls down her window.

“Looked like that thing wanted your car bad,” the man says. His eyes are wide and his skin probably far whiter than usual, but he’s speaking clearly. “Pull into the garage. We can close the door and hide you.”

Collins gives the man a nod and accepts his offer.

“We have a bomb shelter in the back if you want to hide,” he says.
“Been gathering the neighbors.”

I climb out of the car with the girl and look down the street. Where there were rows of families lining the streets, there are now just a few stragglers rushing this way, led by a woman in a nightgown.

“That’s Deb,” the man says.
“My wife.
She’s a lot faster than me on account of the arthritis.”

I nearly make a sarcastic remark about not needing the man’s medical history, but if that creature had reached the top of the hill, a lot of lives might have been saved because of this man. Still might be. “Thanks,” I say.
“For what you’re doing.”

“Who’s this?” he asks, looking at the girl in my arms.

Before I can answer, the girl turns to face him and I see a flash of recognition. “Joy?”

“You know her?” I ask.

He nods. “I’m her softball coach.”

“Found her in town,” I say. The message and my tone carry the weight of what this means. “She’s going to need help finding her family when this is all over.”

The man looks grim.
“All right.”
He reaches his hands out to the girl and she slides over to him.
“I gotcha, Joy.”
With a nod, he departs. As they head for the back of the garage, I see the girl bury her face into the shoulder of a man she clearly trusts. Her body shakes with deep, heart-breaking sobs.

I storm back into the street, looking toward town and wishing I could grow into a giant version of myself, like in one of those Japanese
kids
shows, and beat the living shit out of this thing. Collins joins me, watching in silence as the helicopter becomes a speck in the distance.

I can’t see the creature past the ruins of the town, but its frustrated roar pierces the air one last time.

When my phone rings, Collins and I both jump. I answer it quickly. “What?”

“Just got the live satellite feed,” Watson says.

“Little too late,” I growl.

“The request was delayed by the Deputy Director’s office. They wanted to confirm the legitimacy of your request. Why? What happened?” he asks.

My face turns red with anger. Having satellite coverage might not have done much to save lives, but any future delays might. Of course, there is another question along these lines. “I asked for you to warn all law enforcement in the area. Why wasn’t anyone in town notified to evacuate? Half the town was there for a damn farmer’s parade!”

“We called,” Watson says, sounding upset.
“Three times.
Got the same secretary each time.
Said she was trying to get the call out, but no one was answering on account of the parade.”

I sigh. It’s not Watson’s fault, but he needs to know what’s at stake. “Still tracking Collins’s phone?”

“Yeah.”

“Ashton is about one mile south of our current location,” I say. “Take a look.”

Five seconds pass and then I hear him curse, again and again as he scrolls through the town.

There’s a click and I can tell by the switch in audio quality that I’m on speaker. “What happened?” It’s Cooper. She must have been standing beside him when he zoomed in.

“Short version,” I say, “is that our big problem is a hell of a lot bigger now. Ted, scan south and zoom out a bit. See anything?”

Watson’s voice has a quiver to it as he replies. The top view of the town’s destruction and gore is probably shocking. “Just lots of trees and—wait, there’s a helicopter. It’s pretty high, though.
Headed in your direction.”

“There’s nothing behind it?” I ask.

“Like in the air?” he says. “No.”

“Or on the ground?”
I say.

“No, nothing,” he says. “Should there be?”

Part of me thinks, God no, but the rest of me realizes that if the monster isn’t coming back, it has continued its rampage toward Maine’s most dense population.

I ignore the question. “
Coop,
please inform Director Stephens that Ashton, Maine has been destroyed. Hundreds, possibly thousands are dead. Tell him that if he delays a request from me again I will personally put a bullet in his head.”

“That’s not going to help,” she says plainly.

“Then translate it into whatever kind of threat will help.”

“Done,” she
says,
all business, no emotion. It’s cold, but it helps me focus.

“What kind of response do we have available?” I ask.

“National Guard is on stand-by, as are SWAT teams in Portland and Northern New Hampshire. Heavier hitters are farther out.”