Project Nemesis (A Kaiju Thriller) (34 page)

Epilogue II

Being an FBI agent out of the Anchorage, Alaska office meant you could be assigned one of two different kinds of investigations: a short case or a shit case. Cases were often short because to qualify for FBI jurisdiction, the crime had to involve multiple U.S. states, which was a problem for Alaska. Most crimes were local, and those that did cross borders (Canadian mostly—not many people fled to Russia) fell under the purview of the CIA, who seemed to never have enough to do. There was the occasional case involving a criminal who fled from the contiguous forty-eight to the wilds of Alaska, but searching the endless expanse of rugged, mostly cold, frequently dark territory fell into the second, shit-case category.

When Special Agent Kevin Jones’s foot sunk into an ankle deep puddle of wet sand and came back up missing a shoe, there was no doubt that he’d landed his third shit case that month. Of course, it also looked like it would be a short case, too, so that was something. The site looked like an old dig or a failed mine. Not that old, though, maybe a year or two. The forest hadn’t reclaimed it yet, just a few pine sprouts here and there.

“
Damnit
,” he said, fishing his shoe out of the muck and shaking it off.

“Told
ya
, you
should’a
worn boots,” Darrin Donovan said. He was a heavyset helicopter pilot that most of the division called Double D, on account of his name, though his size didn’t help. Truth was, everyone was jealous of the man because of all of them, he saw the most action. The quickest way to get anywhere in Alaska—sometimes the only way—was by air, and Double D could fly helicopters and planes. So he was always busy.

Jones flicked the mud from his shoe and slipped it back on, fighting to ignore the grit beneath his toes. “And I told you to go on a diet.”

“I’m not the one with mud in his shoe...or on high blood-pressure meds.” Double D grinned when Jones looked surprised, but didn’t say anything.

Jones wanted to argue, but he knew it was a losing fight. Double D seemed to know everything about everyone, and getting into it with the man really wouldn’t be good for his heart. So he focused on the reason for their visit—the DHS had flagged the sight and wanted someone to take a look. For what, they wouldn’t say, which is probably why it sat on a desk for a few weeks. Everyone was pretty well distracted by what had happened in Boston. When work had resumed in earnest, they discovered that crime had taken a nose dive. Cable news argued it had something to do with the Nemesis creature, that people were afraid it would judge them. Jones didn’t think that would last, but for now, it seemed they were stuck working old cases. When he rediscovered the order to explore an area of empty terrain, he’d jumped at it. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

“
You going
to start investigating?” Donovan said. “Or do I need to point out the obvious.”

Still distracted by his wet foot, Jones asked, “Which is?”

“
Ain’t
no
roads,” Donovan said.

He was right about that, too. The map of the area revealed no official roads, but he thought they’d see something from the air. Other than a few trails that circled back to the old dig site there wasn’t a single road connecting the site to the outside world. “So they flew everything in.”

“This site wasn’t made by hand,” Donovan said, motioning to the sloping dirt, piled rocks and the sealed mineshaft. “This took some heavy machinery. If they flew it in, and out, and took whatever was in the mine with them, it would have cost a fortune.”

Right again, Jones thought. Something big had gone on here, but not recently.

“What does the search request say?” Donovan asked.

Jones dug the folded-up piece of paper out of his pocket. Donovan wasn’t an investigator, but he’d been on more investigations than anyone and was pretty smart, to boot. He also knew the land better than most agents who preferred to stay in the city and beg for reassignment. While agents came and went, Donovan had been around for twenty years. He was an easy target for teasing, but he was also a valuable resource.
Though he came with a price.
“How many?”

“If this turns out to be nothing, we’ll make it a twelve-pack.” He shrugs. “If it’s interesting, my help is on the house.
Haven’t seen anything worth my while in a few weeks now.”

“Tell me about it,” Jones said, as he unfolded the paper and handed it to Donovan.

The large man took the paper and dropped a pair of reading glasses onto his nose.
“Huh, kind of vague.”

“I know,” Jones said, looking at the caved-in tunnel. “Looks like they blew the tunnel entrance, but it’s nothing a backhoe couldn’t get through.”

“If you could get a backhoe out here.”

“Right.”

As they got nearer, the size of the excavation revealed itself. “Must be twenty five feet tall,” Jones said.
“Nearly as wide.”

“Bigger,” Donovan said. He pushed his booted foot into the loose ground. “I think they filled in this whole area. He pointed to the caved-in tunnel. “That’s just the top.”

“But it would have been huge,” Jones said.

Donovan suddenly gasped and thrust his finger toward the top of the caved-in tunnel. “I think I saw someone.”

Jones’s hand went to his holster.
“Where?”

“Up at the top.”

Jones looked to where Donovan was pointing and saw a tunnel through the rubble. “Have a flashlight?”

Donovan produced one and handed it to Jones, who scrambled up the mound of rocky debris. Near the top, Jones drew his weapon, flicked on the flashlight and aimed both into the hole. It was roughly three feet around and at least twenty deep before opening up into a larger chamber.

“This is FBI, special investigator Jones,” Jones shouted into the hole. “Come out now.
Hands on your—
ahh
!”
Something large and black, like an arm, or a python, shot out of the tunnel, wrapped around Jones’s waist and turned him around before yanking him inside and folding him in half—backwards.

If not for the loud crack of Jones’s spine, Donovan might have remained rooted in place like a shocked deer. But that sound and the death it signified sent him running.

The chopper was just fifty yards away. The distance could be covered in seconds by a man in decent shape, but Double D was far from in shape and by the twenty-fifth yard, he was wheezing for air. He slowed and glanced back. There was no sign of Jones, or a pursuer, so he stood still for a moment and pitched forward, catching his breath. When he was sure that whatever took Jones wasn’t coming, he turned forward and stepped into a wall that sent him sprawling.

When he recovered from the fall and looked up, he found the silhouette of a man standing above him. But there was something off about the man. Not only was he large, but he was also oddly shaped...like he was wearing armor.

Was this the person who killed Jones?

“Who—who are you?” he managed to ask.

The stranger leaned in close revealing that he wasn’t wearing armor, or anything else—the armor was part of his body, which wasn’t silhouetted so much as it was solid black. Donovan was quickly convinced that this wasn’t a man at all.

But then, it spoke.

“General Lance Gordon,” the monster said.
“At your service.”

With glaring, very human eyes, Gordon looked Donovan up and down. He grinned, revealing his new, sharp teeth. “You’re a
bigun
, aren’t
you.
The kids are going to love you.”

“K—kids?”

Gordon drew back his three scaled fingers, clenched a fist and drove it into Donovan’s skull, shattering it like an ostrich egg beneath a sledge hammer. He looked at the thick armored flesh of his hand, now covered with gore and dollops of brain matter. “
Mmm
,” he said, and slurped some off. Then he cupped a hand to his mouth and said, “Chow time!”

Dear Reader,

You are just one more epilogue away from finishing the book and I wanted to take a moment to thank you for reading. I hope you have enjoyed the journey and that you will come back for more adventures. If you did enjoy the book, please show your support by posting a review at Amazon.com. The Amazon website works on algorithms, meaning the more people review my books, the more Amazon will recommend them to other readers. And the more people buy my books, the more I get to write them, which is a good thing for both of us (assuming you enjoyed the book). While other indie authors are paying for five star reviews, I'm depending on you, the actual reader, to voice your opinion. So head on over to Amazon when you finish the epilogue and tell the world what you thought of this book. And while you're there, feel free to click the "like" button and the customer tags. They all help.

Thank you again and please forgive this intrusion. Back to the book!

--
Jeremy Robinson

Epilogue III

Two thousand feet of frigid water covered her like a blanket, providing darkness to sleep, pressure for comfort and nutrients to heal. Her body ached all over, in part from the wounds received during battle, but also from her violent growth. Her joints throbbed now, as did the muscles pulling the carapace back down over her back. The protective covering, more for the fragile wings hidden beneath than for her body, would fuse together in a few days. Until then, it had to be held in place.

In the days after leaving Boston and entering the depths, she shed the reflective plates covering her wings. Many had been damaged in battle, but they also itched like a burning fire. Her gleaming white skin dulled and clumps of black, hard flesh had begun to form. In a month, she would be back to her more bulky, impervious form.

Soon after that, she would be ready.

She could feel them.

All of them.

Humans.

All their hate and anger, jealousy and loathing.
It pulsed across the globe like radio waves, drawing her attention to the strongest signals. The ocean helped muffle the call to action, but there was no escaping it. Right now, her attention was torn in several different directions. She wasn’t sure how, but she had names for the places: Syria, North Korea, Moscow, Iran,
Washington
, D.C.

The call from these locations felt strongest, but there were flaring tensions all around the world, and she wanted to stomp them out of existence with all of her heart and soul. The silence would be bliss. She longed for it.
Craved it.
But it would not come until justice was served, vengeance was had...or every last human being was dead.

Her gut twisted uncomfortably. Her mind burned with a fury that would exact retribution without concern for what lay between her and her target, but another part of her, which felt foreign, tempered her bloodlust with conscience...and a sense that allowed her to detect a second signal. The pulse was weaker, but always there, fighting for her attention.

Her mind called it a distraction.

Her conscience called it love.

When the mind gave love any thought, an image would emerge.
A woman with light brown skin, dark almond eyes and a smile that said everything would be okay. Weary from her endless indignation, she focused on the woman’s face—and slept.

For months.

And then, somewhere in the world, someone murdered a little girl.

A drone dropped a bomb, killing a family.

A man was robbed, and then shot.

A woman, bound and gagged, was sold.

The list of offenses struck with such force and frequency that the lingering image of the woman’s face was forgotten. The ocean flickered orange and then glowed brightly for a half mile in every direction, bringing light to that area of the deep for the first time in millions of years. Panicked fish scattered or twitched in shock. But the light soon faded.

Nemesis was rising.