Kaiju Rising: Age of Monsters
Author: Tim Marquitz
Date: 2014-12-09 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Fantasy; Science Fiction; Short Stories; Anthologies; Monsters; Urban Fantasy; Speculative Fiction; Action
Description: Giant monsters and tremendous havoc brought to you by master authors Larry Correia, James Lovegrove, Peter Clines, and many, many more! Kaiju Rising: Age of Monsters is a collection of 23 stories focused around the theme of strange creatures in the vein of Pacific Rim, Godzilla, Cloverfield, and more. The anthology opens with a foreword by JEREMY ROBINSON, author of Project Nemesis, the highest selling Kaiju novel in the United States since the old Godzilla books—and perhaps even more than those. From New York Times bestsellers to indie darlings Kaiju Rising: Age of Monsters features authors t

Published by

RAGNAROK PUBLICATIONS

Crestview Hills, Kentucky

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Worldwide Rights

KAIJU RISING

AGE OF MONSTERS

Copyright © 2014 All rights reserved.

Edited by Tim Marquitz and Nick Sharps

With editorial assistance by D.L. Seymour

Designed by J.M. Martin

Cover by Bob Eggleton

Interior Art by Robert Elrod, Chuck Lukacs, and Matt Frank

Published by Ragnarok Publications | www.ragnarokpub.com

Editor In Chief: Tim Marquitz | Creative Director: J.M. Martin

Kaiju Rising

Age of Monsters

"Monsters are tragic beings. They are born too tall, too strong, too heavy. They are not evil by choice. That is their tragedy. They do not attack people because they want to, but because of their size and strength, mankind has no other choice but to defend himself. After several stories such as this, people end up having a kind of affection for the monsters. They end up caring about them."

— Ishiro Honda

Table of Contents

Foreword – Jeremy Robinson

Big Ben and the End of the Pier Show – James Lovegrove

The Conversion – David Annandale

Day of the Demigods – Peter Stenson

The Lighthouse Keeper of Kurohaka Island – Kane Gilmour

Occupied – Natania Barron

One Last Round – Nathan Black

The Serpent’s Heart – Howard Andrew Jones

Monstruo – Mike MacLean

The Behemoth – Jonathan Wood

The Greatest Hunger – Jaym Gates

Heartland – Shane Berryhill

Devil’s Cap Brawl – Edward M. Erdelac

Shaktarra – Sean Sherman

Of the Earth, of the Sky, of the Sea – Patrick M. Tracy and Paul Genesse

The Flight of the Red Monsters – Bonnie Jo Stufflebeam

Operation Starfish – Peter Rawlik

With Bright Shining Faces – J.C. Koch

The Banner of the Bent Cross – Peter Clines

Fall of Babylon – James Maxey

Dead Man’s Bones – Josh Reynolds

Stormrise – Erin Hoffman

Big Dog – Timothy W. Long

The Great Sea Beast – Larry Correia

Animikii vs. Mishipeshu – C.L. Werner

The Turn of the Card – James Swallow

About the Authors/Artists

Acknowledgments

Foreword

Jeremy Robinson

A jolt rolls through the boy’s bedroom floor. A truck going by? No, he thinks, too powerful. Eyes wide, he stands slowly and turns toward an east-facing window. A streak of blue ocean cuts across the view, a mile off and two hundred feet below. The water of Beverly Harbor is hard to see through the maples lining the backyard, but his imagination fills in the blanks. He’s spent enough time on the coast of his home town to mentally render the craggy shoreline.

The window grinds open. Early summer heat, thick with recent rain flows into the room. The wet metal screen, warming in the sun, smells so strong he can taste it. Staring out at the ocean view, the boy mindlessly picks at the chipping paint covering the wood between window and screen.

He watches, patiently waiting, until...

Thrum.

The room shakes again.

He’s coming, the boy thinks.

The distant ocean swells. A massive form pushes up, the film of water falling away in great sheets of hissing foam. The monster is huge. Massive. Larger than the boy remembered. Fully exposed, rising high above the ocean and higher above the boy’s home, the gargantuan roars.

Smiling, the boy watches the creature’s approach.

Buildings implode under foot.

Others explode.

Smoke rises. People flee. Chaos reigns.

And yet, the boy smiles.

A flash of blue light flickers along the spines lining the green behemoth’s back. The light bursts from the giant’s mouth, carving an arc of destruction through familiar neighborhoods, through the cemetery, through Shane Dillon’s house.

Yes...

The monster, a Kaiju of epic proportions, stands at the bottom of Prospect Hill, atop which the boy’s house is located. And yet, it towers over the boy, turning its head down and roaring again.

Blue light flickers.

The monster turns it eyes downward, connecting with the boy’s for a moment.

The boy smiles and speaks for the first time. “Godzilla.”

The story I just told you isn’t fiction (so calm down Toho), it’s a memory. The boy is me, circa 1983. I’m nine years old. It’s Saturday afternoon, and I’ve just returned home from a victorious soccer match. I’ve shed my shin guards, but I’m still wearing my orange jersey, number 37, and cleats. However, I’m not thinking about the game, I’m thinking about how I spent my morning before the game. Creature Double Feature, which aired in the Boston area from 1977–1983, was my Saturday morning routine. The show introduced me to Godzilla, Gamera, King Kong and the slew of Kaiju they battled. I was also exposed to other monsters like zombies, gargoyles, vampires and a variety of aliens, but none got so thoroughly lodged in my imagination as the city destroying giants.

In my room, I imagined Godzilla rising from the ocean, which I could barely see, and laying waste to my hometown of Beverly, Massachusetts. In the winter, I became Godzilla, stomping up and down the snow-plowed roads, using chunks of snow for buildings, roaring, as I laid waste to the neighborhood.

Flash forward thirty years, I’m an author. I’ve written 40+ novels and novellas, and nearly all of them feature monsters—aliens, ancient Nephilim, Greek myths reborn and modern legends, but no Kaiju. While I personally consider all my monsters Kaiju, which means ‘strange beast’ in Japanese, I had yet to conjure a beast capable of flattening a city. Then, two and a half years ago, I decided to fulfill some childhood fantasies, and Nemesis was born.

Nemesis is a Godzilla-sized Kaiju that stomps down the New England coast, all the way to Boston. On the way, she (yes, she) makes a stop in Beverly Harbor, rises from the ocean and wipes out a good portion of my hometown. The child in me had been waiting a long time to tell that story. Even more than that, the home base for the government agency tasked with handling the Kaiju threat in the story, is located at the top of the hill I grew up on.

A short time later, the movies Pacific Rim and the new Godzilla were announced, and Kaiju started getting attention. I released Project Nemesis in November of 2012, eight months before the release of Pacific Rim, which helped Kaiju become a household term. Project Nemesis quickly became the bestselling original Kaiju novel—ever. A bold claim, sure, but let’s dissect it.

The word ‘original’ means a non-Godzilla novel, because if we look at the history of novels, the only other Kaiju novels of note, up to this point, were the Godzilla novels published in the 1990s. The fourth novel in the series, Godzilla vs the Robot Monsters was published in 1999. The fifth novel in the series, Godzilla and the Lost Continent was written, but never published...meaning the series failed. I suspect this would be different now, but the result was that between 1999 and 2012, there wasn’t a single noteworthy Kaiju novel published.

Which means that my claiming Project Nemesis is the bestselling original Kaiju novel is 1) Accurate, and 2) Not especially impressive. Kaiju, as a genre, has been largely ignored by the publishing world. But thanks to technological advances in publishing, small presses and self-publishers now have the ability to tackle subgenres considered too risky by large publishers. Unfortunately, the genre (as of writing this foreword) is still largely represented in popular fiction by Project Nemesis and its sequel, Project Maigo.

But not for long.

Enter Kaiju Rising: Age of Monsters. This collection of Kaiju shorts continues the traditions begun by Kaiju pioneers, bringing tales of destruction, hope and morality in the form of giant, city destroying monsters. Even better, the project was funded by Kickstarter, which means you, Dear Reader, made this book possible. And that is a beautiful thing. It means Kaiju, in pop-fiction, are not only alive and well, they’re stomping their way back into the spotlight, where they belong. Featuring amazing artwork, stories from some of the best monster writers around and a publishing team that has impressed me from the beginning, Kaiju Rising: Age of Monsters is a welcome addition to the Kaiju genre and an anthology of epic proportions. My inner nine-year-old is shouting at me to shut-up and let you get to the Kaiju. So, without further delay, let’s all enjoy us some Kaiju Rising.

-- Jeremy Robinson, bestselling author of Project Nemesis and Island 731

Big Ben and the End of the Pier Show

James Lovegrove

The Forever Fun Pier had stood for more than a century, surviving everything the world could throw at it: two wars, three recessions, innumerable storms, and the endless corrosive lick of salt water. But it was no match for a two-hundred-foot-tall sea monster and an almost as gigantic robot.

Ironically, on the day the pier was destroyed, owner Keith Brown was trying to decide its fate.

He was on the horns of a dilemma which were, to him, no smaller than the horns of the Kaiju currently wending its way up the English Channel towards his hometown.

On the one hand, he had a firm offer from an entertainment consortium to buy the pier. They would take it off his hands, lock, stock, and barrel, no questions asked, for a cash lump sum.

The money was not retiring money, not head-off-to-the-Bahamas-and-drink-margaritas-for-the-rest-of-your-days money. Once tax was deducted and business debts paid off, there wouldn’t be much left. Barely a few thousand. But the pier would not be his headache anymore; it would be someone else’s, someone with deeper pockets and friendlier creditors.

On the other hand, Keith had been contemplating an insurance job. A fire would do the trick. A jerry can of petrol left in the fuse box room. A burning rag. It would look like an electrical accident, a stray spark from a circuit breaker igniting a terminal conflagration. The pier’s ancient, weathered boards would go up like tinder. Its wooden superstructure would be a raging inferno in no time. The fire brigade would have no chance of saving it.

The benefit of this option was that the insurance company would cough up the pier’s full market value, giving him twice the amount the entertainment consortium was tendering.

The drawback? Well, if he was caught and convicted of arson, there’d be no payout. Instead, there’d be a hefty fine and a stretch in jail. Besides, how could he burn the pier down? It had been in his family for four generations. His great-grandfather built it. His grandfather paid off the last of the initial bank loan. His father presided over the pier’s long, slow decline as a going concern. Keith inherited a sizeable overdraft and a crumbling, barely profitable business that incurred eye-watering overheads in maintenance and upkeep and was dependent on the vagaries of tourist crowds and the British summer.

But it was still the Brown family pier, their livelihood since 1885. Keith’s attachment to it went beyond the merely financial; was rooted in his psyche. The pier was in his DNA, in his soul. Its rusty cast-iron stilts were his legs. Its white-and-blue finials and cupolas were his brain, his dreams. Its rickety helter-skelter was his heart.

~

The Kaiju, nicknamed Red Devil, toiled eastward up the Channel, inbound from the Atlantic. Sometimes he swam, thrashing himself along with great sweeps of his tail. Other times, when his feet could reach the seabed, he waded, neck deep. Puffs of smoke curled from his cavernous nostrils with every exhalation. His horns rose proud like two galleons.

Already he had downed a Portuguese Puma attack helicopter just off Madeira, incinerating it with a single fiery exhalation, and had crippled a French naval frigate.

A Royal Navy Astute-class hunter-killer submarine was now shadowing his progress, awaiting word from the top brass. If Red Devil strayed too close to the British coastline or looked as though he was attempting landfall, the sub’s captain could be ordered to unleash Spearfish heavy torpedoes and try to blow the beast’s legs out from under him.

This was a precaution, though, a last-resort measure. Subaquatic Kaiju kills were hard to pull off and, more often than not, simply resulted in an even more irate monster.

Meanwhile, the United Kingdom’s very own special defence measure was being prepped for action in its hangar at the Deepcut Barracks in Camberley, Surrey.

Big Ben.

The alert level at Deepcut was high amber, meaning that, if necessary, in under half an hour the engine could be cycling, the weapons primed, and the three-man pilot team installed in the cockpit, ready to go.

Should Red Devil decide not to circumnavigate the British Isles but instead strode out of the sea onto the nation’s sovereign territory, Big Ben would be deployed to intervene.

~

Keith, like everyone else, was keeping half an eye on Red Devil’s approach. BBC News 24 was tracking the monster step by step, with maps and satellite surveillance, like meteorologists monitoring the course of a hurricane. Talking heads—defense officials, Kaiju experts, naturalists—debated the likelihood of the creature actually attacking the country. The consensus of opinion was that Red Devil would bypass the south coast and carry on up the North Sea, making for the Arctic Circle. Possibly, he might stop off at Denmark or Norway en route, to snack on Scandinavians. This view, however, was offered more in hope than expectation, as was the similar notion the creature might prefer France to the UK. Once Red Devil reached the Straits of Dover he would be as close to either nation as could be, more or less equidistant from both. Who was to say he might not turn right instead of left and go in search of Gallic cuisine?

Kaiju were hopelessly unpredictable. Those who anointed themselves experts on the beasts were more like educated guessers than anything. Gypsy Rose Petulengro, who told fortunes in a booth on the Forever Fun Pier, would have been a better predictor of a Kaiju’s movements than any of them. Her tarot cards and crystal ball were at least as reliable and credible as the prognostications of these amateur know-alls. The only thing they were interested in was a TV channel inviting them into the studio and crossing their palms with silver.

~

The town was quiet as Keith bicycled down to the pier that afternoon. Traffic was thin to nonexistent, pedestrians few and far between. The hotels had the hollow look of the dead—their guests having gotten into their cars and headed back home. The fish and chip shops lacked paying customers, and several had closed up, with hand-scrawled signs in the windows saying they would reopen once the all clear was given.

Along the south coast there had been an exodus inland. Anyone who had somewhere else they could go had gone there.

The seafront was somewhat busier than the center of town. There were a few determined dog walkers, a handful of elderly local residents who were damned if they were going to let some sea monster interfere with their daily constitutional, and the inevitable gaggles of Kaiju chasers who were camped out along the promenade, cameras at the ready, waiting on tenterhooks for Red Devil to lumber by.

Keith pedalled past a coachload of Japanese tourists who, from what he could gather, had forgone a trip to Brontë country in favor of coming down south to snap shots of the latest behemoth to emerge from the Romanche Furrow breeding grounds. There were news crews from as far afield as Italy and Spain, along with casual opportunists who lived in the vicinity and knew pictures and footage of Kaiju could earn them a few quid when sold to the papers or the right online outlets.

A drizzle was falling but the mood was oddly festive. Nobody seemed to think Red Devil would get it into his head to besiege the town. Why would he be interested in a faded, if still architecturally lovely, seaside resort? Kaiju were drawn to bright lights, big cities. They loved to topple a skyscraper or knock down some cultural landmark in the course of their ravenous rampages.

There was nothing here for Red Devil. There weren’t even that many people for him to pluck up in his taloned clutches and cram into his hungry maw. Portsmouth, Southampton, Brighton, the major conurbations to the west—any of them would be attractive to him, a human smorgasbord spread out for him to gorge on. Or he might round the rump of Kent and travel up the Thames Estuary to slake his hunger on London itself, a capital feast.

But not this humble little gathering of Victorian villas and Edwardian terraces perched on the end of a railway spur. This shingle-beached nowhere which in long-ago, simpler times had been the holiday destination of choice for large swathes of the British working class and, before that, a Mecca for genteel urbanites seeking the restorative powers of sea water and salt breezes as an antidote to smog, stench, and tuberculosis.

Cocooned in kagoules and cheeriness, believing they were safe, the Kaiju chasers chattered and speculated. Keith left them to it. He leaned his bike against the railings outside the Forever Fun Pier, his pier, and passed under the entrance arch.

Sally, the kid manning the turnstile, barely glanced up as Keith went through. She was concentrating on her iPhone, alternating between catching Red Devil updates and texting friends. She was eighteen, a responsible girl with a disabled mother to support.

That morning Keith had sent a round-robin email to all his employees in which he insisted that the pier would remain open unless, or until, Red Devil came within twenty miles of the town. He left it up to them whether to turn up for work or not. It was their choice, but he wanted those who were keen on earning a day’s pay to have that opportunity.

He was, he thought, a fair boss. He had a light-touch, lenient attitude, reckoning you got more out of people the less you swaggered and shouted, and he paid generously, well above minimum wage, even though he could not realistically afford to. He suspected that if he had been harder-nosed, more bullying and miserly by nature, more of a Scrooge, the pier might not be in such a parlous state.

But a pier should be fun, that was the thing. A pier should be a bright, happy place, a palace of dreams. If the workforce were relaxed and content and glad to be there, it would show. It would communicate itself to the punters, and they would be happy too—and spend more money.

Gypsy Rose’s booth was shut. She had stayed home today. Perhaps she knew something no one else did. But Wheezy Bob was in his kiosk in the amusement arcade, where the shelves of the penny falls machines went back and forth in a ceaseless silvery tide and the one-armed bandits whistled and flashed their come-ons. Not that anyone was playing them. Wheezy Bob was alone, with nobody queuing to have their banknotes changed into change.

“Busy today, Mr Brown,” he said. He had been with the pier longer than Keith. He had been young when Keith’s father took over. “Rushed off my feet.”

“Want to take a fag break? I bet you’re dying to.”

“And abandon my post when there’s work to be done?” Bob let out one of his raspy, phlegmy chuckles. A lifelong smoker, every one of his laughs sounded like a last gasp.

“I think we can manage without you for five minutes.”

Wheezy Bob fired off a yellow grin and shambled outdoors, fishing his roll-up tin from his pocket.

Keith moved on. The rock and candyfloss stalls hawked their brightly colored wares, but no one was buying. The tables in the café were empty save for salt shakers and sugar dispensers. The souvenir shop, with its snow globes and brim-slogan bowler hats, waited for customers who weren’t coming. Jaunty Muzak—currently “I Do Like To be Beside the Seaside”—drifted ghostlike through the air. Everything glistened under a breath-light sheen of rain.

Keith strolled right to the end of the pier. Here, next to the helter-skelter, stood a three-hundred-seat theater. In times gone by, its auditorium had resounded to hilarity and applause as comedians, novelty acts, singers, and dancers had followed one another onstage in riotous variety bills. Now it was a venue for performers at the tail end of their careers: once-notorious rock ’n’ rollers, aged crooners with suspiciously black hair, overweight gag merchants who had toned down the racism in their material but kept the mother-in-law jokes, conjurors who had never heard of street magic and still considered the old rabbit-out-of-a-hat trick an essential part of their repertoire. A full house was a rarity these days. Sometimes the box office was lucky to sell a dozen tickets.

The entertainment consortium had plans to turn the theater into a nightclub. Rip out the seating, install a bar and a DJ podium, maybe some go-go cages. Call it something hip and happening but vaguely nautical such as Trident or Polaris. Why not give a sea-straddling hotspot the same name as a submarine-launched nuclear warhead? It made as much sense as anything, Keith thought.

He leaned on the railing at the very tip of the pier. He was 150 meters out from the shoreline, his whole world behind him. Jade waves churned below, curls of ivory surf washing around the stilts. The impacts of the breakers thrummed through the huge hollow iron tubes and their lattice of cross-braces, as though the pier were some massive, intricate vibraphone. It was a deep and mournful sound, beat after low beat, the throb of nostalgia and loss.

To sell? To burn?

Either way, Keith would be left with nothing. Some cash in the bank, yes, but that wouldn’t truly compensate for what he had got rid of. It would never assuage his guilt. The pier was a family heirloom, something he was meant to preserve and pass on to his son, were he ever to father one. But he was unmarried—hadn’t found the right woman yet—and he was well into his thirties and all manner of clocks were ticking.

Whatever he did, he had to look on it as a fresh start, a chance to begin again. The single hard fact was that he could not afford to keep the pier running, no matter how he tried. He was up to his neck in debt. The loans were piling up, interest aggregating on interest. Within the next twenty-four hours he would have to go for one or the other of the options available to him.

Although...

There was a third way.

The sea was coldly inviting. How about...?

No. That would never do. No way. Keith Brown was many things but he was not a coward.

A herring gull alighted on the railing beside him, fixing him with a jaundiced eye. Irritably he waved the bird away.

“Flock off,” he said, and the gull, in response, squawked and shat on the boards near his feet.

~

At Deepcut Barracks, initiation was complete.

Big Ben stood to attention, ready.

He was 150 feet tall, one thousand tons of metal and armament, a towering man-shaped hulk, with fists as large as Range Rovers and a head the size of a double-decker bus.

He was high-tech ordnance galore—heat-seeking missile, 120mm cannon, million-volt neuromuscular incapacitator. He was a hexacomb-reinforced armored shell built around cathedral-column servomotors and actuators, powered by a 250,000-horsepower engine salvaged from a decommissioned aircraft carrier. He was ingenuity and resourcefulness and make-do.

He was not the world’s tallest Kaiju Response Vehicle. That honor went to America’s colossal Major Mayhem, who could go eye to eye with Lady Liberty on her pedestal. Nor was he the mightiest. Russia’s fission-powered Spirit of Chernobyl claimed that title. He wasn’t even the most recent. Japan was pumping out new marques of KRV at the rate of a dozen a year, in order to counteract the vast numbers of Kaiju that spawned from the nests in the icy deeps of the Mariana Trench.

Truth be told, Big Ben was one of the scrawnier, cruder models. He was over ten years old and bore the scars and dents from nearly a score of Kaiju defence actions. Famously, his left leg was stiff after his bruising fracas with Charlie Two Heads off Lundy Island in the mouth of the Bristol Channel, and the paintwork on his shoulder was still charred and blackened after it had been scorched by Dragon Breath’s flames during the Battle of Coventry.

Of course these injuries could have been repaired. “But,” said the Department of Kaiju Affairs, “budget cutbacks, economic slowdown, austerity, time to tighten our belts, we’re all in this together, blah blah blah.”

In any case, people didn’t mind. They liked Big Ben just the way he was, flaws and all. He was cranky, dogged, temperamental, a little bit battered, but still game. He was, in a word, British.

~

Wheezy Bob tapped Keith on the shoulder, breaking him out of his glum reverie.

“Sally’s just told me. Red Devil’s about an hour away. Last place you want to be is on this old pier, stuck out like bait on a pole. Those nutters on the promenade, they might think it’s a good idea serving themselves up to him, but anyone with any sense’ll get to cover.”

They powered down the pier. Lights winked out. The machines in the amusement arcade fell still. The Muzak was silenced.

At the turnstile the three of them went their separate ways, Sally to her mum’s house, Wheezy Bob to his bungalow and his parrot and his photos of his late wife, and Keith to the nearest pub that was still serving.

~

Why Red Devil turned inland at the precise point he did could never be fully explained. Even the so-called Kaiju experts couldn’t fathom the beast’s motivations and mindset. Kaiju were impulsive creatures. They were driven by hunger and a love of wanton destruction. Maybe Red Devil just felt peckish and decided it was time for a snack. Maybe the Kaiju chasers on the seafront caught his fancy and lured him in, like a display of food in a deli window. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time, for them; the right place at the right time, for him.

He strode through the threshing shallows, making small tsunamis with his shins. His scaly crimson hide glowed like an atomic sunset. His yellow eyes gazed down from a height of two hundred feet with sulphurous pitilessness. His footfalls were temblors, miniature earthquakes.

The Kaiju chasers became the Kaiju chased. Panicking, they dropped their cameras and ran. All at once, their monster spotting hobby was no longer fun. They had gone from spectators to unwilling participants. Thrillseekers, sanctuary seekers now, fled this way and that along the promenade, making for doorways and hiding between parked cars or in bus shelters or behind the benches where, on normal days, weary old people sat and stared at the horizon, contemplating distances and ends.

Red Devil thundered up the shingle beach, water pouring off him in cataracts. He scooped up a handful of petrified Japanese tourists and gobbled them down like sushi. He snatched a news cameraman off the ground, tossed him in the air, and caught him in his mouth like a teenager with a peanut. The cameraman, to his eternal credit, kept filming even as he vanished inside the monster’s gullet.

Screams and wails of despair echoed up and down the seafront. Red Devil bellowed in return, a bomb blast of noise that rattled window frames and shattered panes. He roved to and fro along the roadway like some gargantuan terrier, sniffing out cowering humans, skewering them on an index finger talon and devouring them. Some he popped into his mouth whole like canapés, others he savoured, chomping them down in two or three bites as though they were gingerbread men or Jelly Babies.

A fat purple tongue rolled around his lizardy lips in satisfaction. Something akin to a smile creased his serpentine features. The eating was sparse but good, and his prey tasted all the better for the terror-triggered adrenaline that spiced their blood.

~

In the pub, The Sailor’s Rest, Keith and the other patrons supped their pints and prayed Red Devil would leave them alone.

“Feed first, smash property afterwards,” said one of the regulars into the timorous silence that filled the room. “That’s the pattern. I just hope the bastard doesn’t head this way.”

“You and me both, mate,” said the landlord, with feeling. “My bloody insurance doesn’t cover acts of Kaiju. The premiums are too buggering high. He wrecks this place, I’m bankrupt. Orders, anyone?”

“What I don’t understand,” said a man to Keith’s left, “is why we don’t try nuking the nests again.”

“Because last time it only made them more bloody pissed-off,” said the pub’s resident smartarse, who organised and theater the monthly quiz night. “And bigger. Some of them were vaporised. The rest seemed to absorb the radiation and grow fat on it. Sucked it up like mother’s milk. Classic case of whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

“Still reckon we should do it again. More bombs this time. Saturate the seabed with them.”

“And poison half the world’s oceans into the bargain? Just not worth it. We’re better off taking our chances with the occasional rogue Kaiju that goes walkabout.”

A tremendous roar from outside made everyone jump and grip their glasses all the more tightly.

“Was that closer? Or further away?”

“Don’t know. Can’t tell.”

“If we can hear him, he’s too near.”

“Sod this. I’m going home. The wife’ll be wondering where I am.”

“Are you crazy? Stay put. At least if you’re indoors, he can’t see you.”

“Phone her. She’ll understand.”

“You’ve obviously not met my wife.”

“Big Ben,” said someone. “They’ll have launched him by now. Where is he? He’s got to be coming. Got to be.”

Keith nodded. Everyone nodded.

The landlord switched on the TV. People consulted their phone screens.

Big Ben.

Where was Big Ben?

~

Sprinting south-east through the leafy woods of Surrey and the grassy wealds of Sussex. Pounding over the ridge of the North Downs. Past Guildford. Past Crawley. Past Haywards Heath. Heading for the South Downs. His giant thumping strides shaking the earth, startling cattle. Seventy miles an hour cross-country, eighty, ninety-five. Gathering speed. Legs pumping, arms swinging. The urgency of his mission prompting him to hurdle busy motorways, take a shortcut right through the middle of Gatwick airport, leap over lakes, bound across farmland as though fields were chessboard squares, until at last the coast was within sight, the sea a strip of murky green beneath a gray, gray sky.

~

Red Devil had progressed to the demolition phase of his rampage. His belly was full enough. After the slaughter came the wanton property damage.

He took out a couple of seafront hotels with a single, crushing blow.

He picked up the little motorised tourist train that shuttled back and forth along the promenade and whipcracked it like a bushman killing a snake. Its carriages separated and flew.

He lashed out with his saurian tail and flattened the convention center, which had been built in the 1970s in the Brutalist style, all concrete and angles, despite considerable local opposition and protest. Few tears would be shed over its passing.

He stomped on the old cinema, which had lately been repurposed as a bingo hall.

Then his attention was drawn to the Forever Fun Pier.

It seemed to be asking to be destroyed. Poking out into the sea like that. Presenting itself. A provocative finger of manmade structure.

Red Devil gravitated towards it. Fire was mounting in the back of his throat. He had energy again after his arduous transatlantic trek. The human meat slowly digesting in his belly was stoking his inner furnace. It was time to unleash hell.

Then he heard it: thud, thud, thud. From far off. Coming closer. Getting louder.

Red Devil swung round in time to see Big Ben come pounding across the swells of chalk cliff to the west of town.

Full steam ahead.

Britain’s one and only Kaiju Response Vehicle homed in on the monster, and battle was joined.

~

They closed and clinched. They battered and brawled.

Red Devil had a good fifty feet of height on Big Ben. He outweighed the KRV by many tons. He had thousand-degree fire—organic alcohol sparked by a bioluminescent gland located in his soft posterior palate.

But Big Ben had weaponry, and grit, and a crew who were dedicated to defending their homeland and fellow countrymen, even if it cost them their lives.

Their names, for the record, were Captain Alistair Hargreaves, Co-Pilot Melissa Jackson, and Bombardier Desmond Somersby.

Though the underdog, Big Ben acquitted himself well and with honor. He hit Red Devil with everything he had. The Kaiju’s cries of pain and distress could be heard thirty miles away.

Big Ben did his best to divert the fight away from the main part of town. He grappled Red Devil down the beach and into the sea. The two of them wrestled ankle-deep in the water, dredging up enough muddy sand to make the water as thick and turbid as a chocolate milkshake.

Gradually they wore each other down. It became a war of attrition. Red Devil bled a kind of satanic green ichor from his wounds. Big Ben bled oil.

A kick to Big Ben’s already damaged leg left him limping, barely able to stand upright.

The crew fought with the controls to compensate and adjust. They unleashed a volley of armor-piercing anti-tank shells that tore gouges out of Red Devil’s hide.

The combatants were within just a few yards of the pier.

Big Ben was failing now, internally. His systems were crashing, his servos juddering. The cockpit was ablaze with warning lights. A cacophony of alarm signals whinnied and hooted. He planted his good leg, putting all of his weight on it, and beleaguered Red Devil with punches that would have flattened a mountain.

The Kaiju retaliated with a sweep of his tail that nearly toppled the KRV. Big Ben grabbed hold of the monster, mostly for support.

Then he reared back and headbutted him.

Red Devil staggered backwards, and with that, half of the Forever Fun Pier was gone. Trampled. Timbers became splinters and flinders. Iron stilts snapped like wheat stalks. The theater was knocked clean off into the sea. The helter-skelter fell pell-mell.

Big Ben pressed home the advantage. He jolted Red Devil with his neuromuscular incapacitator—essentially a jumbo-sized Taser. As frying Kaiju flesh sizzled, Big Ben hammered the beast’s skull repeatedly. He could reach now, because Red Devil had collapsed onto his haunches amid the debris of half the pier.

Beneath Big Ben’s fist, something broke. Bone. Bone broke like a slab of marble. A crack in the Kaiju’s cranium.

Red Devil’s yellow eyes registered surprise and fear. Not to mention agony.

He flailed. A gout of fire jetted from his mouth, but it was feeble compared with previous bursts, more cigarette lighter than flamethrower.

Big Ben hammered again, and again, and one more time, right between Red Devil’s horns.

Then it was over.

The beast let out a tumultuous, gasping sigh and his eyes rolled and acid-green blood spurted from his slitty nostrils, and all at once he slumped sideways, straight into the intact half of the pier, which immediately became no longer intact.

Big Ben fell, too. He sank onto one knee. His arms went limp. His head bowed. Smoke began pouring from vents and crevices in his back. It was black and noxious, evidence of catastrophic mechanism breakdown.

The crew, very sensibly, performed an emergency evacuation.

They swam ashore, leaving their inert KRV smouldering beside the body of the defunct Kaiju and the few sparse, shattered remnants of the Forever Fun Pier.

Cleanup units arrived, and for the next fortnight the entire seafront was cordoned off as they carved up Red Devil’s corpse into manageable chunks, which were then trucked off in container lorries to be incinerated before the rotten meat became a health hazard.

The same courtesy was not extended to Big Ben. He stayed where he was, half-kneeling, head bent, as though genuflecting before some power far greater than even himself.

Officially, there was no money to deal with him. The military performed a thorough examination and evaluation, after the fires inside him had burned themselves out. The conclusion was that Big Ben was beyond repair. This battle had been his last. The damage was too extensive. There were no funds available to keep him going. Nor were there any available to transport him elsewhere, to a breaker’s yard, say.

An online petition to have Big Ben retrieved and refitted—revived—gained well over a million signatures, but the government steadfastly refused to listen. Big Ben had been expensive to run. He was uneconomic. He had done exemplary service in the name of his country, and his crew were to be awarded the Military Cross in recognition of their gallantry and bravery, but now, to all intents and purposes, this particular KRV was RIP. Just so much scrap metal.

The good news? The government said it was prepared to invest in a joint European Union project to build a new set of KRVs that would defend the whole of the continent against the ongoing Kaiju threat. The existing fleet of European Kaiju Response Vehicles was starting to show its age, so it seemed logical that the EU countries collaborate to replace it with a generation of brand new super-KRVs. Germany would be doing the majority of the design and manufacturing, since Germany was the only Western nation with a still thriving industrial base. So it was there that the super-KRVs would be headquartered, and it was the German chancellor who would have final say over their command and deployment.

The time for a solely British KRV had passed. “The future,” said the prime minister to parliament, “lies in this pan-European initiative, which I believe will bring us and our neighbors much closer, and presents a much more financially sound means of protecting ourselves against the most pressing danger of the modern era.”

~

Big Ben remained just offshore, immobile, a husk, a relic. The sun shone on him. The rain rained on him. On stormy days, the waves crashed against him and burst into spray. Seagulls perched on his head and shoulders and streaked his metal hull white with their guano.

~

Keith, like the landlord of The Sailor’s Rest, had not taken out act of Kaiju indemnity on his business premises. It was ruinously costly. Basically, no one but the ultra-rich could afford it. Insurers were obliged by law to offer the product but priced it so that hardly anyone would buy.

After some wrangling with his insurance company, however, Keith did receive a token compensation payout amounting to just shy of £10,000.

Nowhere near enough to rebuild the Forever Fun Pier.

But Keith had an idea.

~

Now you could visit Big Ben. You could reach him via a catwalk which extended from the last vestiges of the landward end of the pier. You could clamber inside him through a specially cut portal in his leg. You could travel up stepladders and traverse suspended walkways through his workings.

You could inspect for yourself his burned-out engine and his emptied weapons pods. You could sit in his cockpit at the inactive controls and gaze out through the windscreens that were his eyes. You could imagine yourself piloting him into the fray, meeting a Kaiju head-on and giving that marauding leviathan what-for.

You could purchase tea and cakes in the horizontal cylindrical chamber of his right thigh, looking out at the view through newly installed portholes. You could spiral down a helical slide built inside his arm, to land safely on an airbag cupped inside his hand. You could venture into a tunnel maze of cleaned-out fuel pipes and coolant ducts.

The hero who had defeated eighteen Kaiju, Red Devil being the last of those, was now one of the south coast’s most popular attractions. Customers flocked. Some days, weekends, and bank holidays in particular, the queue stretched from the pier entrance halfway down the promenade.

~

Keith had offered the government a thousand pounds for Big Ben.

Eager to be shot of him, and of the responsibility for him, the government had come back with a counteroffer of fifty. Not fifty thousand. Fifty pounds.

Keith spent the rest of the insurance payout on tidying up, refurbishment, the relevant permits, and promotion.

The Forever Fun Pier was no more, and good riddance. It had never been anything except a millstone around Keith’s neck.

The Big Ben Experience, though, was his, and his alone. Not a legacy. Something he had developed himself. His inspiration. His brainchild.

Keith had faced an enemy older, heavier and more implacable than a Kaiju, an opponent who had sentiment and the weight of time on his side.

And he had overcome.

The Conversion

David Annandale

And did those feet in ancient time,

Walk upon England’s mountains green?

And was the Holy Lamb of God

On England’s pleasant pastures seen?

Tens of thousands strong, the choir sang “Jerusalem.”

It was the seventh year of the Rage.

~

The beast had come at last, and was there, in truth, any point in pretending that there was somewhere to run or hide?

Chadwick Ginther didn’t think so. Neither did Matthew Carpenter. So they had driven from Manchester to the coast at Carmel Head. They would meet the inevitable upon its arrival.

“I saw Bickford yesterday,” Ginther said.

“Oh? Has he tempered his views at all?”

“Hardly. Proceeding full steam ahead.”

Carpenter shrugged. “Well, maybe he’s right.”

“We’ll know soon enough, I expect.” Ginther surprised and pleased himself with his calm. He wondered if he would be able to keep it when the moment came.

Sitting in the passenger seat of Carpenter’s car, eating a ham and chutney sandwich, he found it hard to believe in that approaching moment. It was too abstract. Carpenter had parked by the side of the road. To their right, a field and hills were between them and the coast. They couldn’t see the military operations from here, beyond the occasional helicopter or fighter passing overhead. The sound of the deployment was white noise. It could pass for the crash of surf.

Carpenter glanced up from his notes as a squadron streaked toward the sea, engines scraping the early afternoon raw. “Give them credit,” he said. “They’re still trying.”

“Their way of coping,” Ginther answered. “Same as we’re doing. Same as Bickford, though he won’t admit it.”

“I suppose so.” Carpenter turned to Ginther, and the fear beneath his brittle detachment was visible. He rubbed absently at his chin. “Do you think Bickford could be correct?”

Ginther paused before answering. Thirty years of collegial disagreement urged him to say no. The knowledge that he would die today made him hesitate. “Maybe he’s half-right,” he said. “I don’t believe he has a more direct line to the truth than we do. Anyway, whether he’s right or wrong, what does that change about today?”

Carpenter did not look reassured. “What comes after.”

Ginther shook his head. “About that, Bickford’s wrong.” He was more emphatic this time. He could feel his own anxiety growing with Carpenter’s. He didn’t want that.

“But in the footage of the thing, I see elements that—”

Ginther interrupted. “Footage taken by missile cams and fleeing journalists. Hard to see anything conclusive.”

“And its name?”

“That is troubling,” Ginther admitted.

There were quiet for a bit, then. They finished eating. There was farmland to the left, and Ginther heard sheep bleating. Fifteen years of living in England, and the sound was still a novelty for him. It was a verdant isle echo that made his heart lurch with an Arcadian nostalgia that was no less acute for being false.

“Plenty of time for reading, the last few days,” Carpenter said. The universities, along with so much else, had shut down when confirmation of the approach had been received. “Been going back over a lot of Blake. Yeats, too.” He was staring at the hills. Clouds were starting to roll in. Their shadows crawled down the slopes. “You?”

“The Eddur, mostly.” A return to the familiar. He had found no comfort there. Only a discomfiting relevance.

The thunder of guns began, joined moments later by the shrieks and deeper blasts of rockets.

“Genuflection,” Ginther muttered.

“An act that still has meaning,” Carpenter said as they climbed out of the car.

“But no effect.”

They walked a few steps into the field and stopped. They watched the hills. They waited while the thunder of the genuflection grew louder and more desperate.

They didn’t wait long. As the clouds gathered strength and turned the day from the last light of joy to the first gray of the end, the beast surged over the hills. Ginther’s eyes widened. Awe shot his chest with agony. He looked up and up and up, and he thought, Forever.

Carpenter said, “It’s all true,” and the words were a sob of holy terror.

The beast crossed the hills in a single stride. It was bipedal. Though its shape suggested a towering carnosaur, it had the chitinous exoskeleton of a crab, even to the ends of its four great, clawed hands. In the shape of the head, Ginther saw a dragon, but perhaps because of the eerie, translucent blue of its eyes, he also saw a wolf. Its jaws were immense. When they opened, they did, as they should, look as if they could touch earth and sky. Its tail, covered in the same armor as the rest of its body, doubled its already staggering length. Its coils were ready to embrace the globe.

“The horns,” Carpenter whispered. “The horns.”

Yes, the horns. The beast had one head, not seven, but it had ten horns. They surrounded its skull like a huge, twisting, iron crown.

With a second stride, the beast was halfway across the field. The earth shook and cracked. The next step would bring the finish to Ginther and Carpenter. Though his terror was mounting to new heights, Ginther had no will to run. He accepted what was coming.

So did Carpenter. “The name is right,” he said.

“Yes.” Ginther could barely hear his own breaking voice. “Yes, it is.”

He stared at the monster of many mythologies, and beyond them all. He stared as it took that fatal step. He stared to the very last as the crushing shadow came down over him, and he joined Carpenter in a cry that was only possible in the presence of the end of all things.

The Eschaton had come.

~

And did the Countenance Divine,

Shine forth upon our clouded hills?

And was Jerusalem builded here,

Among these dark, Satanic Mills?

~

Evans poked his head in the command tent, looking both sheepish and irritated. “Sorry to bother you, brigadier,” he said. “Bit of a problem at the gates. That clergyman who’s been in the news insists on seeing you. Won’t take piss off for an answer.”

Joyce Caldwell sighed. “Show him in, captain.” Better get this over with.

Evans was surprised. “Are you sure? Brigadier, we could—”

“He’s family.”

The captain’s eyebrows were high on his forehead. “Oh,” he said. “Right,” he said, and managed to swallow his questions. He withdrew.

Caldwell walked out of the tent to wait. Around her, the playing field of Old Trafford was an armed camp on the move. The Eschaton was approaching. The beast was within a few kilometers of Manchester’s western suburbs. Troops, tanks, self-propelled artillery, and multiple rocket launchers headed out from the mustering grounds. A large contingent remained. If the Eschaton broke through the lines and entered the city, Caldwell hoped to draw it to the stadium, where a high concentration of firepower might make a difference.

If. Hoped. Might. She knew better. Everyone did. But duty demanded acting as if they didn’t. She held tight to duty. There wasn’t much else to hold, as city after city, and nation after nation, burned in the Rage.

Seven years ago, it would have been an honor to be charged with Manchester’s defense. Seven years ago, she would have been laboring under the blessed illusion that her efforts might bear fruit, and that she might save the city. That was before the American East Coast, and the holocaust in the Mid-West, and the end of California. That was before Tokyo, before Moscow, before Mumbai, and Sydney, and Lagos, and Berlin, and Paris, and Shanghai, and… The list was endless, a Domesday Book of annihilation. Was there any reason to think that her very conventional forces would succeed where much vaster armies, and measures far more extreme, had been swatted aside? No, there was not. Nuclear craters marked the failures of the most desperate moves.

There was no order to the devastation. The path of the Eschaton’s march followed no pattern. There was no way to predict which city would be next. The only true certainty was that the time would come to every major population center. That hadn’t stopped the rise of some false certainties. For seven years, the Eschaton had not approached the British Isles, and Caldwell had seen the belief grow, among those who sought comfort in the nurture of intolerant myth, that this was the result of divine intervention. Albion, said the men with minds like fists, was Chosen. To keep it safe, to keep the protection of the Almighty, it was necessary to expel the people who did not look or think or love like the men with minds like fists. And if the tottering government did not expel them, then it would be necessary to hurt them very badly. In the last few years, Caldwell had spent so much time quelling or clearing up the aftermath of humanity’s worst impulses that the arrival of the Eschaton had almost been a relief.

Almost.

Maneuvering through vehicles and soldiers, Evans delivered Sam Bickford to Caldwell. “Thank you, captain,” she said. “That will be all.” Evans saluted and left.

“Thank you for seeing me, Joyce,” her brother said.

“What do you want?” She could guess, and she had little desire to waste what time remained to her. Given a choice, there was somewhere else she would much rather be.

“I want salvation,” Bickford said. “For all of us. Isn’t that what we’re both trying to achieve?”

“You could say that, but I’m not going to achieve anything standing here with you.”

“Do you honestly think you can destroy the beast?”

“I’m going to try.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

She sighed. “Where is this going, Sam? Because I have better things to do than have another circular conversation with you.”

He looked at the ground, and there, nervous before asking a favor, was her younger brother. Dark hair and beard graying now, though a long way from the iron her own hair had turned years ago. Still as slight as he had been in adolescence. There was little sign of the powerful speaker.

“I need your help,” he said.

“With what?” She was at a loss.

“I need your belief, first.”

“You won’t have it.”

There was great pain in his eyes. “When you were younger, you gave it to father.”

“Who didn’t deserve it.” That petty tyrant and hypocrite had deserved her fist. If he had lived long enough for her to reach adulthood, she would have given him that gift. Oh yes, she most certainly would have. Instead, she had to content herself with rejecting the patronym, and taking their mother’s maiden name instead.

“But what he represented did deserve it,” Bickford said. “He was a poor churchman. That isn’t the fault of God.”

She said nothing.

He smiled gently. “You do have faith,” he said. “Even if you don’t think so. Think about what you’re doing. Can you truly believe you’re fighting something natural?”

“It isn’t a god, if that’s what you mean.”

“I don’t mean that. Not a god. Not God. But it is proof of His coming.” His smile went from kind to beatific.

“Odd proof, killing hundreds of millions.”

“They are safe at His side. Use your reason. It will bring you to faith. Consider the beast’s name…”

“Not surprising it’s been called that. Given everything.”

“We knew it as the Eschaton from the day it first appeared. All of us did. Everywhere.”

She wanted to tell him he was wrong. She couldn’t.

“And look at it!” he continued. “It makes no evolutionary sense whatever. An exoskeleton and an endoskeleton? A biped with four arms? It comes from the sea, and yet breathes—”

“I know all this,” she said, cutting him off. Her brother was wrong if he thought this litany of impossibilities was going to bring her back to God. It was undermining the faith she needed in the value of her actions. It was destroying her hope that, even if she died today, she might, through her sacrifice, save some of the people of Manchester. Keep more of them safe than there would be without her. Keep Sandra safe. A bit longer anyway. Just a little bit longer. She didn’t think it was too much to ask to be allowed to fight for that illusion.

“How can you consider something so unnatural and not see evidence of the divine?” her brother asked.

“What it did in the Middle East, was that your idea of the Second Coming?”

Bickford winced. “No,” he said, and she saluted him for his intellectual honesty. “It wasn’t. That was a time of revelation for me.”

“I’m sure the people who died would have been glad to know they served a purpose.”

His personal logic had too much momentum for him to notice her gibe. “We cannot be passive before the challenge of the Eschaton.”

Caldwell stared. She swept her arm around the stadium, taking in the full panorama of the machinery of war. “How can you call this passive?”

“It’s only a half-measure, and that’s why it’s failing. This has to be a crusade. We can’t just hurl a spear at the beast. The spear has to be blessed.”

“Are you trying to tell me that there were no believers who took up arms anywhere else in the world? Or here, for that matter?”

“Not in the way I want to fight.”

And there it was. The Bickford hubris. Unlike the father, it was tempered in the son by kindness, and a generosity that sometimes tipped, Caldwell believed, into naiveté. She liked to believe the yokes she had borne through her childhood and then her adult life had purged the worst of that inheritance from her. But in Bickford, in this moment, the legacy was huge. Still, she was curious now. “And what way is that?”

“I am leading a prayer service in Manchester Stadium.”

“I’d heard. Quite a gathering of political extremists turned out for you, or so I understand. The same crowd that was still declaring England immune a week ago.”

That made him squirm. “There are some–” he began.

“The same crowd that would curb stomp the likes of me, given half a chance.”

“That isn’t what I’m preaching,” he said, almost pleading now. “You know me better than that. But the doors are open to all. How can I turn away anyone who has the genuine need to pray?”

“Prayer and spiritual help. That’s all you’re doing? I’d assumed you had ironic symmetry in mind.”

He looked hurt. “Symmetry, yes. I would never feel scorn for what you’re trying to do.”

“Even though I’m wrong.”

“Half-wrong,” he corrected. “And so are we, without your help.”

Finally, she thought. The point. “Which would involve what?”

“I need one of your vehicles. A rocket launcher.”

“Just one? Is that all? Will an M270 do the job?”

He nodded. He never had been good at irony. “I don’t know anything about the different kinds. I trust your judgment.”

“And you’re going to drive and operate it yourself?”

“Of course not. We’ll need a crew, too.”

“And this is going to make a difference how?”

“Its rockets will be blessed. The prayers of thousands will speed them on their way. Their flight will be true.”

“This will kill the Eschaton.” Her voice didn’t hold quite as much disbelief as it should have. Her command was also an act of faith, and she couldn’t utterly dismiss Bickford’s hope without hurting her own.

He was impervious to all doubt. He was still smiling, and this time, he raised his eyes to the sky. “Once you admit the nature of the Eschaton, once you see the proof that it embodies, then you know that what I propose cannot fail. The Hand of God Himself will strike the beast down.” He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, as if basking in the light of Heaven. Overhead, the evening clouds were dirty with the smoke of distant fires.

Caldwell waited, silent, for Bickford to finish his moment of communion. When he looked at her again, she said, “Go back to the stadium, Sam. Do what you can for that flock of yours.”

“Please don’t dismiss this out of hand. Will you think about it? After all, what difference will one launcher make?”

What difference would a thousand make? He didn’t have to say it. The thought came unbidden. “Go back to the stadium,” she said again. “I have work to do.”

In the distance, but not nearly far enough, came the sound of explosions and the earthquake-deep boom of immense footsteps. And then the roar. That roar.

The roar of the end of all hope.

~

Bring me my Bow of burning gold;

Bring me my Arrows of desire:

Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!

Bring me my Chariot of fire!

~

She had thought she would ride out for the front lines. No, that was wrong. She had hoped she would have to do that. That would have meant the lines held long enough for her to reach them. That would have meant they held at all.

They didn’t.

The explosions, the footsteps, and the roar approached with all the mercy of a storm surge. The stadium defenses had time to make ready, and then, lit by the spotlights, the Eschaton appeared. Caldwell felt her eyes widen. The monster loomed high above the outer walls of Old Trafford. The field shook with the simultaneous fire of dozens of cannons and rockets. The bombardment, apocalyptic at ground level, was reduced to insignificance when it hit the Eschaton.

Streaks of fire became tiny blossoms against the articulated shell of the beast. With its next step, its lower leg smashed through the walls. As if kicked, Stretford End blew apart, its mosaic of red and white seats flying like confetti. The steel from the superstructure became a rain of javelins. Concrete chunks as big as cars catapulted across the field. Caldwell leaped aside to avoid a piece that hit the ground and rolled towards her, crushing the command tent. The Eschaton waded into the stadium. It stood on the wreckage of Challenger main battle tanks and AS-90 self-propelled Howitzers. It lowered its head, taking in its foes with eyes whose judgment was clear, alien, and absolutely frozen. It opened its jaws wide. Its chest rumbled, and there was the sound of a great wind being sucked away.

Caldwell knew what was coming next. Everyone in the stadium did. They had read the intelligence. They had seen the footage. But the mythic could not be understood until it was experienced.

Infantry ran for mirages of cover. Caldwell crouched low behind the rubble that had destroyed the tent. The heavy armor fired one last time, a gesture of defiance as brave as it was useless.

The Eschaton breathed death on Old Trafford. The doom took the appearance of a beam of braided impossibility. It was white, crystalline flame. The beast turned its head from left to right, spreading the blast across the entire field. Behind her shelter, Caldwell felt the horror pass just over her head. She bit back a cry of agony as frostbite and incandescence reached through her fatigues.

Silence fell, ghastly with anticipation. Caldwell raised her head. The Eschaton stood there, cloud-breaker, sky-killer, looking down on its work. The fallen walls of the stadium and everything within them were encased in flames of ice. Human, vehicle, and ruin were twisted into immobilized writhings of absolute torment.

For a few seconds, Caldwell stared at a tableau. Hell was motionless. It had a grace that came with perfect extremity. Then the explosion came, the ice becoming motion, becoming a solar flare. The heat forced Caldwell down again. She was surrounded by wall of flame thirty meters high. The Eschaton raised its arms and roared. It drowned out the firestorm. For a moment, she expected to see chunks of the sky fall earthward, smashed by the Jericho blast of the roar.

The beast strode onwards, leaving the burning, broken toy of the stadium.

Caldwell watched it go. Beast, she thought. That’s what it is. A beast. One we can’t kill, but it isn’t anything more. She was holding back something profound. She knew what it was, and at the same time refused to acknowledge it, even as a false possibility. She refused to let the impulse turn into a thought that might defeat her.

The fire kept her trapped for a quarter of an hour. When it died down enough that she could leave her shelter without being incinerated, she made for a gap in the flames. It had once been the East Stand but the Eschaton had gone this way. Evans and a few other survivors joined her in escaping the burning stadium. Very few.

Smoke rolled through the falling night. The city was lit by the glow of its own pyre. Where the Eschaton walked, it left a spreading wake of ice, then fire. The burn was already a kilometer wide. The beast wasn’t following streets. Caldwell watched it head northeast, roughly parallel to the canal, smashing its way through the city blocks. Buildings toppled at its touch. Its tail swept back forth behind it, bringing down the few towers that survived the initial moment of its passing.

Caldwell tasted the bile of failure. It was a failure she had known was coming. That didn’t make it any easier to accept. She had lost her city. Thousands were already dead. Soon, the casualties would number in the tens of thousands. Then the hundreds of thousands. There had been no evacuation. There had been no time to move over two million people and nowhere to send them. Those who could had taken refuge in basements and underground car parks. Most people had no choice but to hide in their homes. Now those homes burned and fell. Some, that the Eschaton smashed with its fists, flew as they disintegrated.

She saw the world ending at the hands of a being so huge that to see it was to know it as the source of awe. She knew that Bickford was right, but still, even now, she held back the full realization. If she followed her thoughts to their inevitable conclusion, she might not be able to fight any longer. Perhaps her brother was also lying to himself.

She headed south, dodging flames and climbing over wreckage until she reached an area that was still undamaged. She found more fragments of her battlegroup there. She commandeered a Panther Light Multirole Vehicle. Evans drove.

“Manchester Stadium,” she told him, then got on the radio. It took her a few minutes to contact the crew of a viable M270, but she found one, and directed the launcher to meet up with her at the stadium. She would give Bickford his holy weapon. “Do not engage,” she ordered. “Am I clear? Your arrival on-site is the priority.”

The streets were clear of civilian traffic, and they made rapid progress up Stretford Road. Caldwell looked out the passenger window of the LMV. In the gaps between blocks, she watched the Eschaton’s progress. When they reached the open area at the intersection with Princess Road, she asked Evans to stop.

To the north, she witnessed the Eschaton reach Beetham Tower. The sleek glass monolith, the tallest skyscraper in Manchester, was gossamer-thin before the monster. The Eschaton looked down on it. Its four arms grasped the building. The monster ripped the upper two-thirds of the tower from their base. It raised the building over its head, then hurled it to the ground. The impact shook the city. The Eschaton turned then, breathing annihilation around a full 360 degrees. Caldwell looked away when the flames rose. Sandra’s apartment was just off St. John’s Gardens. The neighborhood had just ceased to be.

“Let’s go,” she told Evans. She tried to take comfort in the knowledge she wouldn’t have time to grieve for very long.

The Panther arrived in Sports City. The M270 was there less than five minutes later. Caldwell stood beside the LMV and listened to the prayer rise in waves from the interior of the stadium. She felt her jaw clench. The old anger was still there. Bickford’s faith would never be hers. The best she could do was hope his was well-placed.

Inside the stadium, the lights were on, and Bickford’s amplified voice resounded. He had managed to have generators installed. The stands were full. There was barely room on the field for the vehicles to maneuver. Bickford was on a stage before the north stand, leading a choir of fifty thousand in hymns of praise. Caldwell had never seen her brother in full flight before. She had known he was successful in his calling. He had been leading his own army for years now. But on those rare occasions they had crossed paths during their adult lives, he had still been the quiet, kind brother who was too willing to defer to authority.

She wondered whether anything was different now. As he worked the stage, she saw power, confidence, a commanding ecstasy, and all of it was in the service of another Authority. The enveloping rush of tens of thousands singing in unison was intoxicating, and it was easier for her to believe, in this moment, that hope could be real. She clung to her duty to try anything to save the city. It was her shield against despair, against mourning, and against a darker belief that, as it threatened to emerge from the darkness, had the terrible contours not of faith, but of knowledge.

Bickford stopped in mid-prayer when she reached the stage. He beckoned for her to join him. She shook her head, refusing to be part of the spectacle. She knew her brother was sincere in his desire to do good, but she distrusted an instinct for glory that was another inheritance from their father, even if he didn’t seem fully conscious of it.

He came down from the stage to greet her. As he did, the stands quieted, but only for a moment. When the noise of Manchester’s death rushed in from beyond the walls, the crowd launched back into “Bread of Heaven” with redoubled fervor. If the song was loud enough, the people could hide from what was coming.

“Thank you,” Bickford said. “I knew you would feel the touch of the—”

She cut him off. “I didn’t feel anything.” That was a lie, but she was suddenly afraid of hearing the word divine. “Prove to me that I should, Sam. Make this work.”

“It will work, but not because of me.” He hugged her, then turned back to the stage. One foot on the stairs, he paused and looked at her. “It will come, won’t it?”

She almost laughed at the horrific irony of his question. “How could it not?” she answered. “Have faith.”

He smiled. “Of course. Please wait for my signal before launching.” He bounded up the stairs. In the center of the stage, he raised his arms and spread them wide. The people stopped singing. “Our deliverance is at hand!” he shouted, and the cheer washed over Caldwell like a tidal wave.

It chilled her. The cold came not because of the belief of others, but because of her own. Denial became slippery. Faith was contagious, and it terrified her as the battlefield never had. The fear was worse than the terror she and every solider under her command had experienced at the first sight of the Eschaton. The fear was worse because it sprang from that encounter. Seeds had been planted at Old Trafford. They had sent roots down to the heart of her identity. As the futility of all her training, of all her decades of experience was revealed, something grew. Now the hymns were bringing this thing to the point of its malignant bloom.

Explosions drew closer. The doom-rhythm of the Eschaton’s footsteps drowned out the crowd. The people faltered. Bickford did not. “The Lord is our Shepherd!” he reminded them. “We shall not want. Now, especially now, we shall not want.”

The Eschaton appeared, blotting out the night sky visible through the roof of the stadium. As distant as its cold eyes were, as minute as humans must be from its perspective, Caldwell felt as if the monster saw and passed a verdict on every soul present. The Eschaton stepped on the west stands, crushing thousands to wet ruin. It was amongst them now, the mountain that had come with fury to destroy the city. And then it waited, as if its actions and those of the insects before it were a form of dialogue.

Or the call and response of prayer.

Bickford began to sing. His voice carried over the screams of the injured and dying. The people, embracing the hope he promised and the faith he provided, joined in.

Tens of thousands strong, the choir sang “Jerusalem.”

~

I will not cease from Mental Fight,

Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand:

Till we have built Jerusalem,

In England’s green & pleasant Land.

~

“Now,” Bickford said.

Caldwell couldn’t tear her eyes away from the Eschaton. How could she be reading something beyond the animal, however immense, in its posture? How could she be seeing intent? Yet she knew that she was. The blossoming inside her began. Even so, she was able to give the order to the crew of the rocket launcher.

Bickford shouted, “Behold the Hand of God!”

The hymn reached its climax. The faith of the thousands was tangible, and Caldwell felt it fly upwards with the rockets. As the fragments of seconds stretched to aeons, she could well believe she had helped forge a holy weapon. She could well believe her brother spoke the absolute truth. She could well believe it was the divine hand itself that rose to strike the abomination that had dared lay waste to the world.

She could believe all these things. She did not, because the far greater belief that she had been fighting was now upon her.

The Eschaton reached an arm forward. With sovereign contempt, it batted aside the Hand of God. The explosions were the sad dissolution of faith.

For a few seconds more, the Eschaton did nothing else. It seemed to be waiting for the full significance of the moment to fall upon the assembly. Beside the Panther, Evans had collapsed into a ball, his head to the ground, defeated. Caldwell looked back at Bickford. Bereft of his illusion, he had fallen to his knees. The full truth of what he had been telling his sister was hitting him. There was a divine force at large in the universe, and he was looking at it. His mouth hung open in an agony of awe.

Caldwell faced the immensity. The Eschaton rumbled. The terrible sucking sound began once more. The fullness of epiphany rocked Caldwell. She was battered by the belief that was knowledge, the knowledge that this was the only deity her world would ever know.

Caldwell didn’t fight the truth, but she didn’t surrender. She flew beyond grief and despair, and seized the only weapon left to her: defiance. Standing upright to the last, she howled at the Eschaton. She shouted into the dread second of final silence.

She was roaring still when the Eschaton opened its jaws wide and gave them all their baptism.

Day of the Demigods

Peter Stenson

Picture this: a reclining, hundred-twenty foot stud propped up on his elbow, giving you a slight wink and suggestive spread of his legs. He’s the rarest mix of pure strength and sensual contours. His stomach is like a stacked row of cars, nothing but rock hard definition. He’s got a linebacker’s neck. His facial structure is nothing but Eastern Block rigidity. His lips are the soft pillowy promises of every romantic comedy; his incisors are Afghani mountains. This stud has the body shape of God, if God were in the form of his Greek sea counterpart carved out of a slab of marble killer whale.

Yeah, now it’s coming to you.

This vision so unimaginable it verges on comical.

But put those doubts aside, because that beautiful, seven ton stud stretched out beneath Los Angeles, working one off while giving a peace sign to his own dazzling reflection in the city’s liquid sewage, that’s this guy, Sweetgrass, the motherfucker who’s about to take Hollywood by storm.

And why shouldn’t I?

My pedigree is the wet dream of every dog breeder. Like all sea-born Kaiju, I was conceived during a blue moon in the depths of the Southern Pacific. But unlike my fellow reptilian counterparts, my mom, God-rest-her-soul, was a bit of a…let’s just call her promiscuous. She was into groups, inter-species gangbangs, and so there you have it, me, a smorgasbord of the ocean’s baddest creatures. Mix that with the rumor that my great-great grandfather on my mother’s side was Godzilla’s second cousin…yeah, Hollywood, here I come.

Which is where I belong.

Not swimming at the base of oceanic trenches. Not like all my brothers and sisters who think they’re achieving separate but equal by cowardly hiding. Fuck that noise. I tell them this, and they laugh. They tell me I’m a mutt bastard, and go ahead and see how much Hollywood would love a freak monster with some obvious giant octopus blood in my heritage (full disclosure, they’re correct about the damned octopus. Instead of a tail, I have a giant gelatin hump with three flaccid tentacles that drag behind me like the lace of a wedding gown). But fuck it. I’m amazing from the front.

I drink the sewage underneath Gold’s Gym in West Hollywood twice a day, and the piss of those dudes has enough Andro to make every muscle (sans my ghetto booty) hard as blood diamonds. Which brings me to my point: Hollywood loves beauty, but the masses, those who stamp the checks of Hollywood execs with their ten dollar tickets and extra-large, extra-buttered tubs of popcorn, they love beauty with a slight flaw. This makes the beauty attainable. This makes it something they can strive both for and towards. This is my in. This is why I’m going to prove every piece of shit I know wrong, show them that in the twenty-first century, the bastard of an ocean-wide coupling can stroll down Sunset Boulevard, the only inconvenience being too many paparazzi trying to get all up in my shit.

~

There’s this girl. There’s always a girl. She’s technically my cousin, but Christ, there’s not too many of us, so hold off on your judgment because a hole’s a hole. Okay, I was trying to sound tough there. Gema isn’t just a hole, far from it; the furthest thing from it. She’s perfection. Like real perfection, not me with my loveable flaws, but beautiful in every conceivable way, her father, a great white that would make Jaws ashamed of his manhood, and her mother, my aunt, both with that sleek reptilian style of amazing. Gema’s the real deal. She’s pure beauty, but that’s not all it is with this girl. Shit no it isn’t. She’s smart. She’s funny. She’s like a guy if a guy wasn’t a dick but just chill, all about binge eating and toying with submarines. I’m not one to toss around the L word, but damn, it’s close with this girl.

Which made it all the more heartbreaking when I dropped by the underground volcano where she hangs out, and heard this soft moaning (maybe it wasn’t soft). My first thought was of her safety, her wellbeing, her probably being captured and tortured, her needing my help. I wiggled my way through the volcanic rocks. That’s when I saw my sweet Gema reclined against the seabed. Diablo (prick of a Kaiju, cold water type off the coast of Greenland, all about lying low and the procreation of our race) was tucked between her legs giving her fake chow.

I screamed.

How could I not?

Gema chased after me. She kept calling my name, Sweetgrass, Sweetgrass, and I let myself believe these were the calls of the apologetic, of the recently-epiphany-experienced, ready to beg for forgiveness and understanding.

I finally slowed because she’s faster than me anyway.

“What the hell were you doing?” she asked.

“Heard something, thought you were in trouble.”

Gema’s got these eyelashes long as tarpon, and when they flutter, small white water ripples. She was doing that as she tilted her head at me. She looked a little sorry, but more pitying.

“He’s…different,” she said.

“I’m different.”

I watched Gema’s gaze drop to my stupid gelatin ass and the flaccid tentacles. She smiled the smile of a teacher returning the apple from her grade school student, telling him it was never going to happen.

“He’s special, and I’m getting older, like my eggs aren’t going to stay fresh forever, and—”

“I thought we were—”

“Friends.”

At that moment, I knew Gema was speaking to me in code, as most girls do. She wasn’t saying I’m in love with that fascist Diablo, I love it when he’s downstairs with his snake-like tongue, and it’s never going to happen between us. Not at all. She was saying I need to see more. I need you to show me that you’re capable of greatness.

So yeah, that happened. That’s my backstory. That’s why I decided to explore the sewers underneath Hollywood. To get ripped on pissed out steroids. To become bigger than Diablo, both in stature and reputation; bigger than the overhyped Godzilla, him having it wrong with destruction; bigger than Jesus as I soak in a world’s love, me becoming special.

~

I’m not retarded. I know monster movies—hell, any movie where something cool happens—is done with computers. But that doesn’t mean it’s better. No, that means CGI is the only tool available to producers, other than horrible puppets of Japanese past. We’re hypothetical to humans. We’re bedtime stories. We’re ingrained fears. We’re punch lines. We’re gods, more wrathful than any Old Testament exercising of disapproval, but we’re not real.

And what if we were to become real?

You think a studio is going to turn down a movie—everything real, mind you—with Sweetgrass as a star? Like maybe it’s an alien movie, and the humans are doomed, completely fucked. They call a special professor who’s a little crazy, some dude who smokes joints and talks conspiracies, and they say, “Are your theories real?” This professor laughs, tells them we’ve been real since Pangaea. He shows them where to find me. I’m all swimming around looking like utter destruction. Favors are asked. I’m tough, like what’s in it for me? And then the President of the United States says, “Our eternal gratitude.” Boom, that’s all I need, Sweetgrass morphing from angry-misunderstood-loner to team player, savior, but fuck that cross because there’s no need for a martyr when I’m angry.

The answer is no studio would turn that down.

Which is why right now, at six-thirty a.m. I’m balling up my fists, ready to crack through the thin layer of crust separating me from Hollywood. Me from greatness. Me from the undying love of Gema.

Yeah, I’m nervous, just like any Midwestern milkmaid who’s boarding a Greyhound to chase her dreams of seeing herself on the silver screen, but fuck it. Fuck my friends who tell me it’s impossible. Fuck Diablo with his oral calisthenics. Fuck my race with their cowardly fear. Fuck movies and their CGI. Fuck them all, because this motherfucker’s coming up.

~

I’ll pay them back for the fifty-foot crater I’ve just put on North Hollywood Way. I’m thinking opening night of Sweetgrass! alone, will be enough to cover any damages ten times over.

I stroll down the street. I chose this early time for two reasons: I wanted to pitch myself first thing to Warner Brothers, and I didn’t want there to be a scene. The last thing I want is to become a spectacle before I ink that dotted line.

But maybe people have that shit wrong about New York being the city that never sleeps, because LA’s not too far behind. There’s a decent amount of traffic. A brown UPS truck is coming right at me, then veers right, skidding before it flips. I reach down and rescue this what can brown do for you? (And honestly, am I the only one who thinks that slogan is either a reference to heroin or anal sex?). I snatch the truck mid-flip. I bring it up to my face. A small Hispanic man holds onto the steering wheel. He’s screaming, nearly as loud as Gema had been while Diablo got his slurp on. Then the man stops. His eyes are milky quartz. I wink. He’s feeling me. He’s got to be. He’s got to be realizing there is greatness in this world. That there’s wonder and myths and creatures and gods. He’s realizing it all in his moment of speechlessness.

But maybe he’s not, because he lets go of the steering wheel and dives a hundred and twenty feet to his death.

I stare at the little splat of his body. I look around for who may have seen. There are a few other cars on the road, most of them crashed into one another. I stealthily slide my foot over his mushed body and shrug like don’t know what you’re talking about.

I know I need to get a move on to Warner Brothers. I don’t have time to be messing around with awestruck civilians. I cruise down the street, a little more careful this time not to squash the dented vans of migrant workers and SUVs of the penile-insecure real estate brokers. My heart nearly kicks through my chest when I see Warner Boulevard. I turn left. Then I see that water tower. I’m going faster. I’m stepping over the literal gates to my destiny. I’m ignoring the brother manning the guard booth, who’s obviously ecstatic at my entrance, shouting into the walkie-talkie strapped to his shoulder.

The sun’s coming up and it feels right; the sun and the warehouses and the water tower, everything coming together like I knew it would. I glance at buildings covered with Superman and Looney Tunes logos. I’m imagining my picture next to them. I’m fantasizing about Sweetgrass toys, Hasbro dedicating an entire line to me—Sweetgrass the Badass, Sweetgrass the Destroyer, Sweetgrass the Savior, Sweetgrass the Giver of Cunnilingus—and about the ensuing cosplay with loveable gelatin humps. All of it. It’s happening. It’s fate. It’s me proving myself down as fuck to Gema. It’s me accomplishing the real American Dream—fuck gold, fuck oil, and fuck middle management, and too-steep mortgages—it’s fame, pure and simple. Fame, the declaration that I’m better than you, I won, I beat the game called American Life.

I make my way to a sleek looking office building. Obviously, this is where the execs hang out. So I do, too. There are a few people sprinting around the parking lot, which I chuckle at, thinking it’s true what they say about Hollywood people always being in a hurry.

I wait for maybe five minutes.

Nothing happens.

Like I said, I need this shit to happen right away, so I bend down and peer in the window of the office building. I can see women in slutty business suits and dudes who look like the women in slutty business suits. I tap my pinky nail against the window to get somebody’s attention. The window shatters. I put my mouth to the opening, tell them I’m really sorry about the window, feel free to bill me. They’re screaming. A few of the men, who are as pretty as women, faint. My mouth’s right at the window, and I tell them I’m sorry for any inconvenience, but I’m looking for the man in charge of signing the next BFD.

Everybody’s covering their ears. Most drop to their knees. Somebody throws a minuscule coffee cup at my snout. I tell them again that I’m here to become a star. One girl’s crouched down. She removes her hands from her ears. Each tiny hand is red with blood, which I realize is coming out of her ears. I tell her she might want to get that checked out.

I straighten back up, and notice, for the first time, I have an audience outside. It isn’t really the audience I want. There are three black sedans, which I make as Warner Brother security. Four cop cars. In the distance, I see a precession of cruisers, cherries blaring. I hear something behind me and spin around to see more cop cars. There’s a very slight sensation radiating in my ghetto booty. I peer once again over my shoulder.

Fuck.

During my initial spin-around, one of my embarrassing ED tentacles must’ve caught some air, because it’s lying in a heap of demolished cop cars. I see one officer severed in two, his patrol car making a clean cut just above his utility belt.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

When I get nervous, I apologize. It’s my natural state. Take any sexual encounter in my life, it’s nothing but me groping and begging forgiveness for my inadequacy. Any tension-filled standoff with dudes like Diablo, yup, more of the same. Sorry, you’re right, I am a piece of shit who doesn’t deserve to live. And here it is, the most important moment of my life, the proverbial signing day, my coming out party, so of course I’m nervous like a motherfuck—regardless of what I say. I’m insecure, worried about the size of my dick, my fat ass, ashamed of my mutt status because my mom was kind of a slut, terrified of failing at this like everything I’ve ever tried, constantly battling the thought of a solitary life spent along jerking off to my own reflection—and I’m apologizing to each and every one of the gathered people. I’m sorry-ing and I didn’t mean to-ing with increasing volume. But these people evidently don’t want to hear it, because they’re covering their ears, many of them leaking blood.

“Listen, this is all a huge misunderstanding. Just please, please, get me the head of your studio.”

Cop cars keep coming.

I see a helicopter over to my right (fucking paparazzi).

People sprint away from me. The cop sliced in two crawls.

I’m thinking what the fuck? How hard is it? I’m here to talk business. I’m here to make you billions of dollars. I’m here as an answer to your prayers for job security and promotions. I’m the antidote to pirated films. I’m the ease of never having to worry about your Christmas release again. Just work with me. Quit running away. Quit bleeding from your pussy-ass ears when I talk. Just treat me with some respect.

I feel a slight irritation under my thirty-seventh rib. I turn to see a cop blowing the load of his shotgun into the sexy V leading to my crotch.

I yell at him to knock it the fuck off.

He keels over, blood gushing from his ears like a pubescent whitehead.

Then I feel this stinging sensation everywhere. My toes and knees and fingers. I’m being shot at from every direction. A smidgen of my black blood leaks out of the side of my dick head.

Yet I’m the one apologizing.

I’m telling them I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt anybody. I didn’t mean to scare them. I tell them I’m speaking the best way I know how; so sorry your delicate little eardrums can’t seem to handle it.

I’m a kid apologizing to my mother for asking about my father. I’m hanging out with forced friendships, apologizing for not being more fun. I’m fumbling in the crevasse of a hooker’s snatch, telling her I wished I was better at it all. I’m myself at every stage of my life, every fucking second of my hundred years, wondering what the fuck it is that you all have that I don’t, wondering why it’s easy for you to speak without crippling awkwardness, laugh without it being forced, love without money exchanging hands.

Call it a moment of clarity.

Call it an epiphany.

Call it the acceptance of rock fucking bottom.

Call it whatever you want, but for the first time in my life, I see myself how everyone else does: a fucking freak.

And with this realization, something inside me snaps. That internal voice telling me I’d get my shot, that I was destined for greatness, that I’d find love on land that had eluded me in sea is gone. And in its place is something primordial, something way the fuck down on my brainstem. It comes out in the loudest scream I’ve ever let out. Glass explodes and people drop and I keep screaming, grabbing my tentacles in both hands (suddenly makes perfect sense why I have them), bashing everything in my sight, whips cracking pavement, the water tower, bodies like so many gnashed guppies.

~

I don’t stop at Warner Brothers. Why would I? I crush the fuck out of Paramount, Universal, and 20th Century Fox. None of them were going to give me a deal. None of them could even understand what I was saying. None of them had any interest in the actuality of their bullshit movie premises becoming real. They’re happy with their containable computer monsters. They’re happy with their miserable status quo. They want their lives of greed and bleached assholes. They want their punishment to come from wives and withheld calories and synagogues and churches. They want their nightmares to only rule their sleep.

I’m at Walt Disney. I fucking hate Walt Disney. Everything they do is predictable and trite, easily digestible stories of good versus evil, which seems fucking hilarious given my current circumstance. There’s no good or evil. There are the haves and the have-nots. There are creatures who don’t contemplate killing themselves and there are those that do. There are those who show up to Hollywood and get good breaks by sucking a few dicks, and those who eventually suck those same dicks in dark alleys off the strip in order to feed a habit. It’s a matter of miscommunication. It’s a matter of genetics. It’s nature and nurture and it’s life and its cruelties of bad breaks, not evil, that causes devastation.

My fists bleed from crushing steel.

The cops aren’t cops anymore, but Army, Navy, and Marines.

The irritating shotguns and pistols pinpricks have transformed into throat catching searing pains of RPGs. My black blood floods the fake Harlem Renaissance street set. Helicopters swarm me. I’m a whirling dervish of muscle and whipping tentacles and gnashing teeth. Humans taste like sugar. I’m seeing black and more black, my blood, my mood, cracked asphalt, tanks, machine guns, rage.

I realize this, in fact, is my moment.

There are news vans everywhere, choppers, too. They’re filming the impossible. They’re making movies out of reality. True, it’s pro bono work on my part, but it’s still me in the spotlight, and I think about a billion hits on YouTube not being out of the question. And it is here when I realize I’ll give the people what they want, because at my core, I’m still that motherfucker. I’ll battle my way through what’s left of Walt Disney, then crush the indies, then make my way up the hills to that lie of a sign, and it’ll be there where I’ll make one final push, give them hell, let the world see me as an evil embodied—fuck terrorism and Amber alerts and To Catch a Predator—it’ll be me, front and center, the name Sweetgrass synonymous with Lucifer.

But I’ll let them win.

I’ll let them upgrade their arsenal to napalm and heat-seeking missiles. I’ll let my blood fall for a nation that’s as hypocritical about its love of shed blood as a Mormon couple soaking while still claiming virginity. I’ll be a martyr for a nation that needs one. I’ll be the narrative of the US prevailing, technology and steadfastness prevailing, good prevailing. They’ll make it a holiday. They’ll recreate my murder in all of the major cities, parades with monsters beaten with sticks, black candies spilling for type-two diabetes-infested children. It will be twice that of the Fourth of July. It will be the bedtime story Americans will tell themselves that everything is still okay, they’re still a superpower, they’re still chosen.

~

Just as I’m about to start heading to higher ground, the earth buckles, and then queefs and gives way. I’m thinking about some underground bomb having been detonated, my end fitting—not nearly as climactic as I’d planned.

But then I see Gema’s shark-like head pop up. She’s fast rising from the hole, fast spinning and biting, fast spitting out hunks of steel and crushed bone. She turns to me. There’s blood dripping down her neck, and yup, right between that valley of beautiful cleavage.

She looks at me and says, “What the fuck are you doing?”

I want to tell her I’m letting myself be killed. That I’m making myself famous. That I’m trying to do a single thing worthy of her affection, my own affection, something that makes me not hide from every acquaintance in the sea. But all that comes out is, “I don’t know.”

“So fucking stupid. Follow me.”

She dives back underground. I follow. And just like that, it’s over.

~

Here’s how Sweetgrass! the movie would’ve gone. We duck underground and Gema tells me how brave and sexy I am. She understands how I wanted to be famous in order to gain her love, which, she tells me, is stupid as fuck because she’d loved me all along. We make out and there’s probably some adventurous fingers and it’s love, pure and simple, the audience sympathizing with us while turning on the quick-to-kill humans. We swim out in the ocean, hand-in-hand, happy and in love, ripe for Sweetgrass2!

That’s the difference between real life and Hollywood.

Instead, Gema dragged me through the sewers, and then to the ocean and dumped me a mile off shore. She told me I was so fucking stupid and pathetic, that I’d ruined everything for our species, that I’d be lucky to live through the week after Diablo got a hold of me. Then she left.

Well, guess the joke’s on her, because it’s been a year to the day since I made my rampage through Hollywood. I’m still alive. I didn’t ruin shit for anybody. Yeah, there are a hell of a lot more deep-sea expeditions, but they’re not even close. And Diablo? Fuck that guy. There’s no separate-but-equal, not during the pharaoh times, not during Jim Crow, not now.

But here’s what there is: Day of the Demigods.

Warner Brother’s put it out after they rebuilt. It opened last night at midnight, and grossed 58 million on a Thursday night opening, which shatters every record imaginable. It’s supposed to be epic, inventive, using both actual footage and CGI. The reviews say it’s the most terrifying film every created. They didn’t make it all cheesy, rah-rah America, but darker, more truthful, terrorism in the form of prehistoric gods who strike, and then disappear, ready for vengeance.

So yeah, I’m a big fucking deal.

Don’t doubt a house call from Gema any minute, to which she can see the back of this fucking hand. I’m the most famous creature to ever live. I’m Mohammad and Kanye rolled into a rock-hard body, sold for $7.99 at every Wal-Mart across the world. Yes, I still masturbate to my own reflection. I still hate being around others. I still wish my mom wasn’t a whore. But when I can’t sleep at night, I scroll through the tabloids, through my picture, through the stories about survivors of my attack, blurbs about the movie, all of which are testimony to my greatness, and I feel almost good enough to close my eyes and not apologize for ever being born.

The Lighthouse Keeper of Kurohaka Island

Kane Gilmour

The gray light of the morning merged with the steel color of the waves, giving Shinobi the feeling he was being tossed around in the air. He stood at the bow of the freighter, his young hands gripping the rail tightly—he’d been told and he remembered, ‘one hand for yourself and one hand for the ship, at all times’—and he peered into the murky shades of concrete that filled the sky and the sea. He couldn’t determine where one began and the other ended.

Thick fog shrouded everything, and his one thought over and over was to wonder where all the brilliant blue had gone. From his home in Wakkanai, at the northern tip of Japan, the sea was always blue, even on stormy days. But here, in the no man’s land twenty miles northeast of Hokkaido, everything looked hostile to the boy. But then, everything in the world now looked that way.

“Shinobi,” he heard his father’s abrupt voice from behind him. Mindful to keep one hand on the damp railing, as the massive freighter bounced in the invisible troughs of the cold waves, he turned to see his father approaching him from the starboard side of the ship. “Come inside. We are nearly there.”

Shinobi walked along the railing, moving hand over hand, lest some rogue wave slap the big ship and send him headlong into a never-ending drop through the gray moisture. “Almost where, Father? I’ve checked the maps. There’s nothing here.”

His father, a stern man named Jiro, remained quiet until Shinobi reached him along the rail, skirting the massive multi-colored metal containers that filled the center of the ship’s broad foredeck. When Shinobi looked up at his father, he realized the man was not simply waiting for him or being his typical quiet self, but rather he was peering intently past the bow of the ship and into the gloom.

Shinobi knew to stay still and be quiet. His father was either deep in thought or looking for something in the fog. The man would speak when he was ready to, and not before. With nothing else to do, besides hold the railing, Shinobi studied his father’s face. He quickly determined that the man was actually looking for something in the thick mist that shrouded the ship. He was just about to turn, when his father spoke.

“There,” the man pointed past the bow. “Kurohaka Island.”

Shinobi turned and momentarily let his hand drop from the railing in surprise. In a part of the Sea of Okhotsk he knew to be empty of any spit of land, a jagged dark shape was rising from the sea and the fog. The island looked to have strange curving towers near the center, and rough rocky shores at the edges. Finally, his eyes sought out what he was looking for—the lighthouse. It was on the end of the island, on a high rocky promontory, but its lifesaving light was absent, and its white paint made little difference in the thick fluffy coating of whitish gray that filled the air. The spire could barely be seen in all the mist.

Shinobi’s father was a lighthouse keeper in the region, being paid by the governments of both Japan and Russia to ride whatever available ships were in the area, and to frequently visit and maintain the ramshackle lighthouses on the islands scattered around Hokkaido and the giant lobster-claw tips of Sakhalin, around the Gulf of Patience. Shinobi had travelled with his father to Rebun Island and Rishiri Island. He had even gone on one memorable camping trip with his father to the abandoned Russian island of Moneron, northwest of the Soya Straight. He had listened attentively to his father’s few descriptions of his work on the lights. Shinobi was meant to take over his father’s work someday, first apprenticing in two years’ time, when he turned fifteen. He had studied hard in school, and paid special attention to the nautical maps in the library and around the house. He knew the names of every jagged rocky islet in the area, but he had never heard of Kurohaka Island.

True, his attention of late had not been on maps or studying. Instead he had been seeing things, and hoping he wasn’t losing his sanity. But he had kept that information hidden from his father.

“Kurohaka?” he asked.

His father nodded grimly. “A dark place, but still part of the job. Let’s go in.”

Shinobi followed his father back to the ship’s forecastle, wondering at the name of the island. Kurohaka. Black tomb. He wondered if sailors had named it that because it was such a rocky shoreline. Many times islands were given fearsome names to warn sailors off the reefs. But the name might actually stem from a true tomb.

He wondered who was buried there.

Or, considering what he had been seeing lately—what might be buried there.

~

The freighter had lowered them in a small speedboat with winches from the high sides of the rusting gunwales. Once in the choppy water, they had made quick time to the dark island, and his father expertly navigated them past some treacherous headlands and into a tiny sheltered lagoon. Any boat larger than their speedboat would not have made it into the small inlet. They pulled the boat up to a concrete pier that jutted an absurd four feet into the water from the wet rocky land. The lagoon looked to Shinobi to be a popped volcanic bubble more than a sandy beach. The shoreline was all dark rock, but at least here it was smooth.

Shinobi helped his father tie up the small boat to the two rusted metal cleats sunk into the concrete pier’s rough surface and carry their gear ashore. When he turned to the gray sea, he could watch the freighter moving away into the distance. A different boat would swing by in two days to collect them.

“How can this island be here, Father?”

Jiro Yashida hefted his pack and began walking up the rocks, toward the interior of the island. He spoke over his shoulder to his son in short bursts. “You know the maps. Think of the shapes. A long chain of islands connects Hokkaido to Russia’s Kamchatka peninsula. And Wakkanai points at the western tip of Sakhalin. Is it really so surprising to you that an island lies midway between Hokkaido and the eastern tip of Sakhalin?”

Shinobi considered his father’s logic, and found that geologically, the location of the island made perfect sense. “No. I understand, but the island does not appear on the maps.”

“Many don’t,” was all his father said.

They turned left and followed a coastal trail up along the rocks, twisting and turning through switchbacks, until the base of the white lighthouse was visible overhead. Their path, keeping so close to the shore as it did, kept the rest of the island hidden from Shinobi’s view, even as the fog began to lift. What little he could see was dark brown and black rock, most of it volcanic, and fitting with his initial assumptions about the geology of the island. Shinobi was not fond of math at school, but when Earth sciences came into things, he paid strict attention.

With the base of the lighthouse just thirty feet overhead now, their path narrowed, and they needed to rely on the artificial railings made of thick heavy chains. They had been bolted into the side of the rock and painted in so many layers of heavy black paint, that even when Shinobi could see the outer layers had chipped, all he could see in the remaining holes on the links were more and more layers underneath.

Shinobi watched where his father stepped, and how the man moved his hands along the chains, as if they were the railing on the freighter—one hand for the ship—and he did the same. They were nearly to the top of the path, which would bring them right to the door of the lighthouse, when his father spoke.

“When did you plan on telling me? Or did you think you should keep it to yourself forever?”

The man didn’t pause in his ascent, nor did he look back at his son.

Shinobi knew what his father was talking about, of course. There was just the one thing he had kept from his father in his whole thirteen years.

His father was talking about the monsters.

Shinobi could see them, and no one else could.

He stayed quiet, thinking how best to answer the question, as his father made it to the top of the climb and lowered his pack to the ground, just outside the door to the lighthouse. Finally, as Shinobi neared his father and the pack, he spoke, while removing his own heavy pack.

“Have I done something wrong, Father?” Shinobi hung his head as he spoke.

His father reached down and tenderly lifted Shinobi’s chin, so he was looking his father in the eyes. “You have done nothing wrong, Shino.”

“How could you have known?” the boy asked, his eyes beginning to water.

His father quickly turned, allowing him to save face, as a tear sprang from the corner of his young eye and ran down his round cheek. The man worked a large brass key into the lock on the lighthouse door, and entered. Shinobi followed.

“The haunted look in your eyes, son. I had the same look, when I first saw the creatures.”

That his father knew about the monsters was a surprise to Shinobi. That his father had seen them, as well, filled the boy with a relief he hadn’t known he needed. He followed his father up the twisting iron staircase. The lighthouse was close to a hundred feet in height—Shinobi could tell by counting the stairs as they ascended in silence. He wanted to ask his father more, but he knew the man would tell him when he was ready. Probably at the top of the tower, since speaking while ascending the steep steps would require an excess of oxygen, and Jiro Yashida was a practical man of economy. Shinobi hoped to be as sensible when he was an adult.

As his father came close to the lantern section of the tower, a good twenty steps ahead of Shinobi on the cast iron stairs, he began speaking again, but softly. “Every first-born child between the ages of thirteen and eighteen has the sight, Shino. But only first-borns. Your brother, Naro, will never be able to see the beasts, as you do. Unless you were to die, before he grows to adulthood. Most teens lose their vision as adulthood approaches, but in our family, we are unusual. We retain the sight as adults. I still see the creatures today, son.”

The man stepped up off the stairs and into the service room of the lantern. Then he ascended a straight ladder to the optic section of the tower. Shinobi hurried after him, as the man stepped off the ladder and opened the door from the optic room to the gallery around the tower’s top. Wind rushed into the structure and flooded down toward Shinobi. It was cold and, of course, he could smell the briny aroma of the sea, but there was something else on the wind. Something old, like dust.

Jiro walked out the open door to the catwalk and waited against the railing, as Shinobi caught up with him at last.

The fog had lifted as the day’s sunlight burnt it away. The cloud cover had receded to a low blanket hovering over the land in patches and threatening possible rain, but not until later. For now the morning sunlight was piercing through the covering in spots, like samurai swords thrust downward through pillows, toward the green land spread out before them.

But the clouds did not hold Shinobi’s attention.

His eyes took in the many shades of green across the central part of the land of the island, and the things that pierced the green, reaching up like clawing hands to the sky—a reverse of the angle of the beams of light slicing down from above.

They were bones.

Hundreds and thousands of bones.

The slim graceful towers Shinobi had seen from sea were giant rib bones, arching into the sky as high as the lighthouse. The carcasses of giant hundred-foot and two-hundred foot long strange beasts Shinobi could not recognize littered the island, and stretched as far as he could see. His father had said the island was approximately three miles long, and from his position near the top of the lighthouse, Shinobi could see most of the way to the far shore, where the green gave way to the dark volcanic rocks again. There were unnatural mounds and low hills in places, and the boy guessed they were the covered graves of yet more of the massive creatures. At the center of the island was one huge rounded hill with some irregularities and lumpy tufts of bushes and trees on it in places.

Shinobi spotted massive lobster-like claws, and desiccated snake-like twisting bodies, piled high on tangled horns and bulbous bones. Most of the creatures had decayed to the point of little more than skeletons—even though the bones were impressive at their immense scale. A few of the dead monsters still contained eyes in unusual locations, or mouths full of teeth taller than the apartment buildings back in Wakkanai.

“I see them all. This island has been a place where they come to die for centuries. Whenever one of them is injured, it comes here of its own volition. We don’t know why.” Shinobi’s father looked gray and ashen, as if the sight of the boneyard was still unnerving to him. It did little to ease Shinobi’s own tension at the sight, but the revelation that he was not going crazy and he was not the only one with the sight helped him some.

“H-how many?” was all the boy could stammer.

“We don’t know. When those few of us with the sight have found these mega creatures dead in other parts of the world, it has become a tradition to bring them here. I will tell you how it began. I will tell you what happened. You are one of the rare ones, Shino. You will have the sight all your life, and like me, you must become the caretaker of this necropolis. We guard more than just the bones.”

The older man fell silent as the wind ripped past the top of the tower, bringing the scent of the water and what Shinobi now suspected was the smell of the dead.

“First we will fix the light, son. It warns sailors to stay away, and that is a very good thing. Then we’ll go down and have a talk. Our family first took on this bizarre appointment with your grandfather, Haruki. He was the first in our family to see that the world is truly full of monsters.”

~

Haruki Yashida ran for his life.

The bombing of the city had ended a few days earlier, but he knew what would come next. He had seen the hideous monstrosities with his own eyes. The war had gone on for far too long, but this new twist? He didn’t know what to think. All he knew for sure was he would need to be far from Nagasaki on a ship, before they came here and did what they had to Hiroshima. The world was talking about American weapons that could level a city, but Haruki knew better.

This hell was not from the West.

The storm was approaching. Massive clouds had formed at the northern edge of the city. As the residents of the battered outskirts took shelter underground in grubby dirt tunnels and cramped wooden bunkers, Haruki raced along the broken, rubble-strewn streets, leaping trash heaps and scrambling over fallen walls, tumbled wood, shattered plaster, and the ever-present terra cotta tiles that littered the ravaged city. He had been to Nagasaki once before, and loved that the old ways were still intact with regard to architecture and design. But after what he had witnessed in Hiroshima, he knew that even concrete and steel would have offered little protection from what was coming.

It had taken him two days to get here from the ruins of Hiroshima on the last of the three packed, refugee trains that had made it out. He had seen the final devastation, with the terrifying pink rays of death spewing from the snake-like creature’s mouth. He had watched out the windows of the train, from a distance. A distance of miles, but even from that far away, he had felt the heat of the blast. Haruki understood that few would have survived the snake-beast’s frantic battle with the gigantic, squid-like monster. He and the others had all fled—all the way here to Nagasaki, but Haruki was one of the only people to have seen the beasts. The others all spoke of bombings and of some American super-weapon. Or they spoke of earthquakes and floods. Even of American troops invading.

Haruki remained silent, listening to the conflicting versions of the event. He understood that these people had seen the devastation and the destruction, but he knew they would all have different interpretations of what exactly it was that had murdered an entire city. He had lived with that discrepancy since he was a child, when he first saw the monsters in the world, and he had realized few others could. He came to know that only first-born teenage children could actually see the world the way it truly was. Like other teens, he should have lost his ability to see the creatures when he became a man, but for some reason, with him, the sight had never faded.

As the train pulled in to Nagasaki, he overheard some teenagers whispering quietly near the rancid stinking lavatory, which was little more than a closet with a hole in the floor of the train and the rails rushing by below. They were comparing their events of what had happened—and pouring derision over the multitudes of conflicting versions of the story they had heard the adults tell. They had seen the giant beasts, just like he had. Haruki had gone over to them and spoke softly.

“I saw what you saw. You’re not crazy.”

The teens had been startled by his admission, but nodded, grateful for it.

Haruki understood the haunted look in their eyes. He’d had it in his own since he was fourteen. He’d tried to find the teens again in the throngs of packed humanity swarming off the train and into the station, but he lost sight of them in the sweaty masses.

He was going to try to find a ride to the harbor, but the roads were blocked pretty heavily to the north of town, from the damage sustained days earlier by Allied bombing raids. Looking north to the approaching gray storm clouds, Haruki had opted to run for it instead. He needed to move rapidly south through the shattered residential neighborhoods, before he would pass through the industrial factories and the Allied prison camp, on his way to the southern harbor. He knew if he waited too long, any sea-worthy ships would be gone.

An underfed dog with patches of dark fur leapt out of a trash pile, snapping and barking at Haruki as he ran, but he ignored the noise, one of many sounds all blending into the hurried roar of a wartime city. As he came closer to the fence-line of the prison camp, he felt a hot breeze rip into the city from behind him, and he turned to see he wasn’t going to make it to the harbor in time.

The wind had blown the gray clouds filling the horizon into the city, spraying dust and small specks of debris. Flashes of pink and golden-green light erupted from within the clouds, as if mystical lightning were threatening to attack the northern edge of the town. Haruki knew that wasn’t far from the truth. He turned to run again, but a shouting voice halted his run.

“Hey, mister! Over here! Quick!”

Haruki turned away from the fence line of the camp. Two of the teens he had seen on the train were hunkered down behind the low wall of a dwelling that had partially collapsed in the last bombing. Just below the line of the crumbled wall, he could see the top of a third head, with peculiarly light colored hair. The teens he recognized waved him over, as another gust of wind carried a choking cloud of dust past his face, and he detected the scent of rotten meat on the breeze. He raced across the street and leapt over the wall, just as the two teens ducked down below the shelter of the fragmented wood and cracked plaster. A shrieking noise ripped out of the cloud behind him, and Haruki instinctively ducked down lower behind the wall with the others, just as a far stronger gust of wind rammed into the structure at his back, shaking it. A wooden food cart flew overhead, crashing into one of the few remaining walls of the vacated house, splintering into fragments no larger than toothpicks.

The force necessary to do that! Haruki thought.

He squatted lower as the wind howled and the shrieking noise grew louder around him.

“The edge of the battle…the debris cloud… It’s one of the first major dangers,” one of the two teens shouted at him over the roar of the wind. The boy was probably no more than fifteen, with shaggy dark hair, like most Japanese boys his age, and thick-framed glasses. The other boy Haruki recognized as older, at maybe seventeen. He had a long thin scar up the side of his face, and his countenance was grim.

“Be prepared to run as soon as the wind dies down,” the older boy shouted.

Haruki just nodded. He turned to the other side of him and was in for a shock. There wasn’t just one more person next to him—there were three. One was an attractive girl, probably seventeen. She had long wavy hair, and a somewhat chestnut face. Haruki had seen women like her before. She was not pure Japanese. At some point in her ancestry, she had some Pacific islander in her. Haruki found her to be stunningly beautiful. She was hunched down like he was, and holding her ears against the shrieking of the wind, as the storm found its way to where they hid. Next to her was another boy, round and chubby, at least fifteen, but possibly older. He was blubbering and crying, covered in plaster dust, and his nose was crusted with old snot.

But neither of those two held Haruki’s attention long.

The third person was an adult. A man, probably a year younger than Haruki’s twenty-one. But this man was not like the others. He was the source of the lighter colored hair Haruki had spotted before he jumped the wall.

This man was an American.

Haruki stared at the man. He was wearing tan pants and a thick dark brown leather jacket. A pilot, Haruki realized. He was about to ask himself where an American pilot could have come from, when he realized that just across the street was the fence of the prison camp. He must have escaped! As Haruki scrutinized the man’s face, he saw the boy inside. Then it became apparent. This pilot wasn’t really an adult. He was still a teen. He had probably lied about his age to join the military. He wasn’t as young as the others, but he couldn’t have been much older than the girl.

The wind sped up, and more debris began to fly over the top of the small wall, crashing into the remains of the house, as Haruki hunched with the rest. He felt the wall shift behind his back, and realized how fast and strong the wind must be. Then the wind and the shrieking sound began to die down, but before it could stop completely, he felt a great tremor in the ground beneath him—not like the earthquakes he had felt near Kyoto as a child, where the ground would rumble and shake for even minutes at a time. This was an immense thud—a single impact that more closely resembled an explosion.

“Now!” the older teen with the grim face yelled.

All at once Haruki was scrambling up to his feet and running south again, with the four terrified teenagers and the brown haired pilot. The ground shook again with another impact before they had run even ten steps. “I was heading for the harbor,” Haruki yelled to them.

The American just looked at him for a moment, then turned away. The older boy grunted an acknowledgement. Haruki realized the American man might not speak Japanese.

“We are running for a ship!” he told the man in heavily accented English.

The man, running hard, turned to glance at Haruki with a half-grin. “Good plan! Those things yours?” He asked the last part with his thumb cocked back behind him.

Haruki didn’t spare a glance the way he’d come. “Not ours. We are in this together.”

The American nodded. They ran with the others to the end of the street, then turned onto a wide avenue that would bring them past the last factories in the southern part of the city.

“Dakota Talbott,” the pilot said, his breath coming in heaving gasps.

“I am…Haruki.”

The other teens either spoke no English, which was likely, or they were too out of breath from running. The group was no more than a mile from the harbor, but Haruki knew they were out of time.

He chanced a look over his shoulder and was glad he did.

“Down!” he shouted in Japanese and threw himself into the American’s back, knocking them both sprawling to the ground. The older teens all dropped to the cracked asphalt road, as a gasoline tanker truck flew over their heads. The younger, chubby boy with the snotty nose hadn’t leapt down.

He had turned to see what the problem was.

Haruki saw the boy’s tear-streaked face, and knew that the boy didn’t even have time to understand the threat before the truck smashed into him and swept him up the street, before it slammed though the brick wall of an armor plating factory. A fireball erupted from the hole in the wall, sending a wave of heat and vapor back toward them.

“Stay down,” he shouted. He didn’t need to translate. The American had seen the fireball, too, and quickly ducked his head down to the asphalt and covered the back of his head with his hands.

Haruki did the same until he felt the wave of baking heat rip past above him.

Then he felt another stabbing thump in the earth from below, and another of the hideous shrieks occurred.

This time, he looked back.

The clouds of smoke and debris back up the street separated, as the mouth of the huge snake-creature blasted out of the center, its twenty-foot tall teeth snapping and gnashing. Its body slithered out of the cloud like a snake, but this close up, Haruki could see that only its movement resembled that of a true snake. Its back was ridged like the bony scales or plates of some dinosaur representations he had seen in a museum. Yet the creature’s skin below the bony protrusions was smooth and shiny, like that of a whale. Its head was lumpy and misshapen, not sleek like the head of a viper. But when it opened its mouth and turned its long forked tongue back at the cloud of the oncoming storm, Haruki knew it had more in common with a viper than its skeletal structure hinted at.

He saw that the creature had short, fin-like legs along its length—three on each side. They didn’t look functional, but as the long tube of the body, which was easily thirty feet in diameter and over a hundred and fifty feet long, slithered out of the debris and dust, it rolled on its side, and the fins scrabbled at the broken asphalt beneath the beast. Suddenly its immense bulk shifted sideways, and the creature pulled its head back to strike at the cloud.

The sharp impact to the ground came again, and then again faster.

Haruki turned away from the spectacle and saw the others all watched with him, standing limp and lifeless, looking at the gargantuan snake-beast.

“Run!” Haruki shouted.

His voice snapped the teen boys out of their stupor, and they sprinted away down the street. The American—Dakota—grabbed the girl’s hand and ran as well, dragging her after him.

Haruki took five leaping steps, but something slammed into him from the side as the thumps in the ground increased in tempo. Then he was flying horizontally across the street, straight for a huge section of a traditional wooden wall. He crossed his arms in front of his head, as his body twisted in the air, and he saw that the giant snake creature had lunged back at the gray billowing clouds, its tail-end snapping away from the far end of the street and whipping into Haruki’s body, as it crossed the road. But Haruki was confused, because the head had hit him, instead of the tail. He could see the long fangs of the creature’s mouth retreating. The trail of ripped up asphalt on the ruined street left little doubt in Haruki’s mind as to the true chain of events, though.

His crossed forearms made contact with the thin wooden wall of the partially destroyed home, and the surface of it tore under the impact like origami paper. His arms barely felt it, and then he was slammed into another wall. He slid down to the floor, broken slats of wood falling on top of his head. Small pebble-like chunks of plaster rained down on Haruki, and as he stood, wobbly on his feet, he found himself looking at a completely undestroyed bathroom wall, with the mirror over the wash basin still undisturbed. Covered as he was in plaster dust and dirt, Haruki looked like a ghost.

“Haruki! You’re alive!”

He glanced over to see the pilot and the girl. They were standing at the door to the broken building. Then he ran to them, shouting, “Go!”

They turned just before he got to them, and they sprinted along the street, away from the mega-snake, which was hissing and striking at something unseen in the billowing soot and dirt. Now that Haruki shot a look at the thing, he could see where his confusion had come from. He had been hit by the tail end. It was just that the creature didn’t have a proper tail. It had a head at each end! As far as he could tell in the quick glance he had of the beast, both heads were identical.

As he and the others got several yards away from the massive beast, they found the two surviving teen boys—the one with the glasses, who had called to Haruki, and the grim-faced lad. The boys were huddled behind a pile of rocks and construction sand, which had obviously been dumped in one of the war’s few lulls, in anticipation of making repairs on the ruined neighborhood. The boys were peering intently over Haruki’s shoulder at the ouroboros-like thing with equally dour looks, until suddenly their faces changed. The boys began to look elated.

Dakota and the girl skirted the pile of sand to the right and Haruki peeled left, then he threw himself down with the boys and heaved, trying to catch his breath from his recent sprint. As he looked back up the street, he could see what had given the teens hope.

“Kashikoi,” he said, amazed at what he saw.

He had heard tales of Kashikoi when he was a teenager. Other teens spoke of the behemoth as if it was a force of holy good in the world. Most of the teens claimed to never have seen the creature, but those few who had, spoke with a glow in their eyes, always making Haruki think they were telling the truth. Most first-borns, when they had the sight for the few years before it faded, would spot all manner of unusual monsters and creatures that existed in the world. Things from flying monkey creatures the size of a loaf of bread to human-sized monsters like a horned cyclops, and bizarre hybrid things that could barely be called animals, like winged antelope and dogs with bones growing out of their bodies. But most of the creatures the Japanese teens had seen—or at least those Haruki had heard of—were of small scale. Only a few ever spotted an omega-class creature like the massive ouroboros, or the gigantic squid that had battled it in Hiroshima, shooting purple lightning from between its long pink tentacles, out of what appeared to be its ass. Haruki had spotted something once that was about the size of a dinosaur swimming off the shore of Chiba, but until he had seen the two gargantuan creatures trying to kill each other in Hiroshima, that had been it.

Now he was seeing the omega-size beast of all beasts.

Kashikoi was something akin to a mighty tortoise. Its shell was a steeply pitched mound with lumps protruding up in steeper bursts—as if the animal under the shell were trying to force its way out in pointy places. The legs were powerful scaled things that resembled a cross between a typical tortoise’s tough limbs and the leathery clawed things to be found on a massive monitor lizard. Each scale on the monster’s armor was larger than a man, and standing as it was on its hind legs, the beast must have topped over a hundred feet in height. It would have been taller if its heads—the two of them on individual necks, stretching from doughy folds at the front of the shell—had been pointed upward to the sky. Instead they angled down and forward. Toward the humongous snake beast.

Each head had thick bony horns and ridges, protruding backward along the jawline, and triple fins on top of the rounded head, giving the creature more of a dragon look. The gnarled bird-beak jaws opened wide and dripped a spattering pea green saliva that burned holes through the ground wherever it touched.

The ouroboros demon shot its head out, lancing its forked tongue at Kashikoi’s belly, but the under surface of the shell was as thickly armored as the outer surface, and the snake simply bounced off, its twisting snapping body following the head in an arc through the air.

Kashikoi swung a powerful foreleg down, the jagged tips of the claws on its foot—snapped off in some long ago battle—still tearing a gouge down the snake’s side, before the wounded ouroboros skittered away sideways on its stumpy side fins. As the snake-horror blasted through the brick wall of a factory, as if the wall weren’t there, masonry and smoke shooting high into the sky, Kashikoi lowered its upper body down, until its full weight slammed into the ground with the same sharp booming thump that Haruki had heard earlier.

But now the impact was much closer to him, and he was amazed as the earth shot him upward into the air from the strike, as if he had been on a trampoline. He landed in the soft sand pile, and turned to see the others all hitting the ground as well. The noise from the impact was louder than the sound of a Mitsubishi jet roaring overhead, and the sheer weight of the creature blasted a wall of air and dust toward Haruki and the others that felt like a hurricane wind.

“We can’t stay here!” he shouted.

They were picking themselves up when the air shook with a trembling vibration. A powerful shriek, like those Haruki had heard earlier, ripped into his eardrums. His hands shot to cover his ears from the hideous, somewhat mechanical sound.

Kashikoi was roaring!

Haruki saw that the ouroboros had lunged again, and as it had had no luck against Kashikoi’s densely armored shell, it struck a rear leg this time, sinking twenty foot white fangs deeply into the tortoise monster’s scaly flesh. The blood that squirted from the wound in a gushing burst was a deep dark green. Kashikoi shrieked and focused the alien eyes of both its heads on the double-ended snake, where it was still clamped to the injured leg with one of those ends.

Golden fire ripped out of all four of Kashikoi’s eyes, tearing into the snake fiend. The wave of heat rushed back at Haruki as the ouroboros instantly recoiled, releasing its grip and using its strange fins to wind its way sideways, back and away from the injured mammoth amphibian.

Kashikoi lunged fast toward the retreating two-headed snake, his immense size no impediment to his speed. The ground shook hard at each impact of the massive claws, and as Haruki fell to his side, he saw the immense tortoise creature’s left head snap open and clamp down hard on the snake thing’s neck, just behind one head. Steam rose from the ouroboros’s body where the powerful jaw had snapped, and the snake tried to recoil, but Kashikoi’s neck unexpectedly yanked backward, pulling the twisting snake into the air. As soon as its head at the other end had cleared the ground, Kashikoi swept a powerful foreleg at the monster and released his hold near the opposite head. The effect was the snake monstrosity being hurled through the air, as if it weighed no more than a fly batted away by a human hand.

But the creature was coming for Haruki and the others.

Haruki turned and moved toward the girl. Dakota was on the other side of her, having just gained his feet again. The other two teens had fled. Haruki ran into the girl and pushed her into Dakota, and the three of them tumbled down the side of the sand pile to the bottom, just as the top of the pile erupted in a spray of sand.

The ouroboros swept just barely over their heads. It flew further down the street and slammed through two buildings, twisting and winding all the way. Haruki and the other two struggled to their feet yet again, as the winding snake slithered out of the rubble and back toward them, retracting a head at one end, and then striking up and forward. It would clear Haruki’s position by several feet, so his eyes naturally shot upward to watch the snake strike. Its tongue shot out, as it raced at an incline up through the air. It spewed a searing line of pink energy from its mouth, the jaws open nearly at a 180 degree angle, all fangs pointing forward. The energy beam shot across the sky and scored along the side of one of Kashikoi’s two necks. The tortoise-beast started to fall backward.

Haruki turned back in time to see the other end of the snake was coming his way, and staying low, near ground level.

Dakota had seen it, too.

Haruki had just a split second for his eyes to meet Dakota’s before both men were in action.

Haruki raced toward the American, but he moved instead for the beautiful girl. She was looking upward, as the mega-tortoise fell over backward onto its shell in excruciating slow motion. Haruki shifted his angle for her, as his eyes swept back toward the quickly advancing snake head. It shifted in mid-flight, its oversized eyes—larger than trucks—suddenly twitching, as its inner eyelids closed vertically, before retracting open again. It twisted its head in mid-flight.

It had seen them.

Haruki lunged, just as Dakota reached the girl and pivoted. Dakota shoved the girl, throwing her directly into Haruki’s arms. Haruki wrapped his arms around her as they fell to the side. He twisted so he would land on his back, cushioning the girl from the fall.

But no one was left to save Dakota.

He tried to turn at the last second, one arm cocked back as if he meant to punch the monster in the mouth. But the jaws were wide open, the immense fangs all pointing directly at Dakota as several of them skewered him from behind, right along the edge of the creature’s mouth. The long fangs ripped out the front of Dakota’s body. Then the huge snake mashed its mouth shut, folding Dakota’s pierced corpse in half and grinding him into several pieces, some of which fell to the ground as the beast’s head flew past. Haruki saw a leg and part of the pelvis still jammed between the gargantuan teeth before the ouroboros passed over him.

The girl had not seen, as her face had been turned toward Haruki’s chest. And her long wavy hair had flopped over to cover her face. Haruki turned to his side and twisted to his knees, dragging the girl up. He swiped his hand across her face, pushing her hair back. Her face was gaunt and pale. She was in shock. He bent down and put his shoulder into her waist, hefting her over him like he had seen firemen carry victims.

He ran down the street, focusing on his footing amongst the rubble. When he was past the second building into which the ouroboros had crashed, he turned to catch sight of the battle one last time, before rounding a corner of a still-standing steel factory building.

Kashikoi had indeed landed on its steeply rounded bulbous back, but the beast kept rolling. Its giant back claws had dug in, the momentum carrying it around and up. The immense thing was now standing on its hind legs like a man. The ouroboros had fired its terrifying pink mouth rays again, but they appeared to do no damage to Kashikoi’s armored belly. The rays shot past Kashikoi too, though, and when they did, they obliterated any man-made structure they found.

Just before Haruki rounded the building’s corner, he saw the move that was coming. Kashikoi was bringing both its forelegs, and the jagged, scarred claws on their tips, inward to crush on the sides of one of the ouroboros’s heads like a vice grip. The boom shook the wall of the building, as Haruki rushed past, the girl unconscious over his shoulder. He stopped only three times before he made it to the harbor and a ship that took him and the girl to Yakushima Island, south of the main islands of Japan.

~

“Who won the fight, father?”

Jiro looked out over the landscape of bones in the distance, most easy to see from their new vantage, high on the massive grassy hill near the center of the island. It was late in the afternoon, and the sun shone brightly across the strange landscape. Shinobi had been frightened by the bones at first, but upon seeing them closer, after the two had fixed the light on the lighthouse, the ever-present thick carpet of green moss that covered much of the island and the ancient bones somehow charmed the lad. Jiro stood up and stretched his lower back, then smiled.

“Kashikoi dragged the ouroboros to the sea, but the beast was revived by the water and escaped.”

Shinobi stood and pretended to stretch his own back, as he had seen Jiro do. The boy often imitated his father. Jiro smiled again.

“So…the world believes that the devastation at Hiroshima and Nagasaki was from Atomic bombs?”

Jiro grunted. “Most people. Even many with the sight have no reason to doubt history. But history is always written by those who win in conflicts, Shinobi. The Americans claimed the credit for the destruction—who knows what they saw as being responsible.”

The man started down the grassy hillside, and he could hear his boy following him.

“What happened to Grandfather Haruki, then?” the boy inquired.

“He and the woman married. They moved north to Wakkanai, and he took the job as lighthouse keeper of the surrounding islands. But your grandfather never lost the sight, Shino. Like you and I, he kept his ability to see the creatures his whole life. Your grandmother—my mother—forgot what she had been through just months after it happened. They were both nijū hibakusha. Double survivors. Japan has officially recognized 165 hibakusha as having survived the destruction of both Hiroshima and Nagasaki, but your grandparents were actually 166 and 167. But they never told anyone. Your grandmother’s memory of the event was muddled at best, and Haruki could never tell anyone what had really happened. He kept track of Kashikoi, though, as the creature moved north through the islands of Japan, in the days after the war. The beast was much more careful in its travels then, he said. Almost as if it was aware of the terrible destruction its battle with the ouroboros had wrought.”

Jiro fell quiet as he descended the rest of the hillside. As Shinobi scampered down behind him, he looked again to the sky but there was no sign of another storm. Still, they would get inside the lighthouse to sleep for the night long before darkness fell over the necropolis.

As Shinobi reached the level ground at the base of the hill, he paused and tilted his head. Jiro could see that his son was working out how to phrase his question. He waited on the boy.

“Why are there so many bones here? Why this island? And why is Kurohaka Island not on any of the maps?”

“This is where he took the ones he defeated.”

Shinobi’s eyes widened.

Jiro nodded. “Kashikoi defeated many threats against Japan, and when he killed another giant beast like the ouroboros, he would bring it here. Remember, some of the corpses here are actually monsters that were dying and came here voluntarily. Some of the bones are from creatures that died and were transported here by teens with the sight.”

Jiro started walking for the lighthouse. “My father tended the light that would keep most sailors away from this island, and he received a government check from both Japan and Russia to tend to the outlying islands as well. I took the job from him, just as you will one day take the job from me.”

Jiro noticed Shinobi’s absence after another handful of steps and turned to look back at where Shinobi remained rooted to the ground, at the foot of the steep hillside.

The boy had a perplexed look on his face, until he finally asked his burning question.

“What happened to Kashikoi?”

Jiro looked at the boy, then raised his eyes to the immense hill behind him. Then he lowered his eyes back to the child and raised one eyebrow.

Color drained from the child’s face as realization sank in. The boy turned to stare at the side of the hill, upon which they had been perched all afternoon. The hill which was not a hill. Jiro chuckled and turned toward the lighthouse.

“We tend the light, and we protect the protector. Come now, Shino. It will be dark soon.”

Occupied

Natania Barron

Maker:

Julian moves through the narrow sewers and drainage pipes without hesitation. More a mole than a woman, she navigates with perfect precision, her thick boots trudging through every kind of detritus provided by the city. She is immune to the bloated rats, the stench, the slimy mold crawling up the side of the glistening brick. It’s only the things out of place—the sound of a small gator slipping into a stream, or an unanticipated moan—that would stop her. And nothing does for quite some time.

Then, just as she is about to take the final twist toward her own alcove, near Berfa the Engine, she stops cold. Something glows. Not the light of a lantern or candle, not even the odd luminescence of the mushrooms that sometimes grow in the depths. It is something blue and cold and frosty.

Creature:

We have been asleep for so long; so long that all is dust. Our tongues. Our eyes. Our bodies. Our shrunken phalluses. These sick and sad reminders that we had bodies, once. That we felt the power of blood, felt the coursing of the Holy Spirit within us. Tasted and rutted and blazed. We were passion and power and knowledge. Too much knowledge.

A thousand thousand years, and we have suffered in the miasma of loss and excommunication and forgotten our names. Once, we were feared, favored, loved. Now, we only whisper to ourselves, with no knowledge of our names or our purposes. One among us was a healer; another a poet; another still a guardian and warrior of a kind rarely seen. We were astronomers and visionaries and, for no reason other than our lust for life, we were cast aside. Forgotten.

We have lived without hope. What power made up our bodies has been dispersed so far and wide that we have given into the monotony. The pain. Suffering gave way to anger and back again to suffering, and it has gone on so long that we had forgotten that once, before we had been reduced to such nothing, we had plotted. Planned. Planted seeds, however far-flung, of the hope of rebirth.

A sword. Forged from the heart of a star. Melted down and changing hands, century after century, passing borders and oceans. Coveted, cursed, stolen. Our last hope.

Maker:

Julian curses. She cannot help herself. The sudden disruption causes her to stumble, losing her footing, twisting her ankle. It cracks under her weight, sending bright sparks of pain up the side of her leg and she gasps in spite of herself, wishing she had opted for another route. The last thing she wants is discord. Her routine is all she has—it’s what keeps her from losing time and whatever else precious she has left to her.

Part of her is sensible and says that she ought to keep moving, albeit slowly, back to her enclave. It is the safest option, and safety is one of Julian’s most intense concerns. She knows how difficult it is to languish in pain and suffering after safety has been ignored. With a gloved hand she reaches up and touches the stump of her ear, feeling the ragged bumps and twisted skin, hearing the strange scratching noise such a motion produces.

But the light. That blue. As she braces herself against the wall and finds her way toward breathing more regularly, she notices that it flickers and dissipates with a certain rhythm. Not quite a pulse, but it is regular. And there’s a smell, too. She feels as if she can remember the scent, but not entirely; it’s a distant memory. A part of her brain fires, but she can’t attach any strings to the thought. It just floats a moment, and then is gone, no connection made. But the memory is not a warning. What’s left in Julian’s mind is something burning and bright, something strong and dangerous.

Julian slides across the grimy bricks and twists her head to get a better look. Her glasses are dirty enough as it is, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Her eyes are still dazzled by what she sees. The luminescence emanates from a small object, half buried in the mud and mold at the base of one of the drains. The color is cold, she thinks, even though she hasn’t touched it yet. As if it were ice. Which is strange, she realizes, because she is very hot and very sticky. The room is not cold. The color is cold.

Why would it be here, she wonders? Perhaps there was a deluge above and it got knocked clean. Perhaps someone threw it down here to hide it. Or to get rid of it. Such a beautiful thing should not be let go of, Julian thinks.

Either way, Julian doesn’t think much as she lunges forward to grab it. Every muscle in her crooked body twists as she moves—faster than she has moved in a decade—and as she tumbles forward into the muck, she wonders for a moment if it is pulling her. If the cold and light is reaching toward her, desiring her touch as much as she desires its.

She gasps, seized with a strange concern that someone else will take the object, and in a moment, she holds it in her hands, blinking down through grimy lenses, dazzled.

Scissors. A pair of scissors. When she touches them, whispers rise around her like steam.

Creature:

We all shout out as one. That touch! The touch of a human, but not entirely human. We feel her body, know her immediately as a descendent of ours. One of our children, a thousand generations removed from the perfect babes we birthed upon the earth. She is a broken, weak thing, and has no idea what she has in her hands. No concept that we, the Watchers, are rising up from the depths in ecstasy—have waited nigh a million years for this moment.

It is pain and anguish and love and grief we all feel in that moment. Through that cursed, magic metal, that single touch is as powerful as the breath of life we were once given. How small it has become. How simple. What was once a flaming sword, wielded by the greatest among us, has now become a tiny thing.

The touch is enough to wake us, to rouse us, but she must do more. She must remember what she is. She must awaken, herself.

We wait. We have waited long, it is true, but we would not exist if we had not waited so long. So, again, we pause. We draw breath. We poise on the edge and anticipate.

Maker:

The scissors are so cold, so perfectly cold, in her hands. Julian smiles, tries not to laugh as she covers them up with a piece of burlap to dampen the light. They are so beautiful. So ornate. So delicate. It reminds her of the kit her mother had, back when she lived Above. The scrollwork looks almost Eastern, and she runs her fingers along the side and smiles. She loves the cold. It’s a welcome cold. A bright cold. The cold of stars in the firmament.

We are a many. We are a waiting. We are a hunger. We are a watching.

She has heard the voices before, and she is not afraid of them. In a way, she is relieved. That the whispers have intensified means she’s less mad. It means that something—this pair of scissors—has been waiting for her all these years. It means her work has not been in vain. It means the years of ridicule and scorn…

But no one has ever understood Julian, not even Brother Barrier. No one except her companions, all awaiting her in her nook. And that is where she goes, her breath caught in her throat as she makes her way without hesitation, the scissors pressing against her breast as she navigates the sewer to the place of her own.

There are half a dozen locks on the door of her space, and she quickly goes about releasing them, though she fails twice on the third lock. When she finally makes it inside, she is breathing so heavily her spectacles start fogging up. Julian won’t let go of the scissors, even though they bite into her hands with their unearthly cold. Her whole arm is numb now, up to the elbow, and she takes a quick stock of the room.

The specimens line the room from floor to ceiling, in jars and boxes and cans, depending on the individual situation. Arms, legs, fingers and toes are the uppermost tier, while the most easy accessible drawers and shelves are lined with the more delicate matter: eyes, tongues, and silvery webs of nerves and veins. Most are preserved, thanks to Brother Barrier’s help attaining ingredients and fluids from Above.

He has always been oddly fascinated with her work, even though it has nothing to do with the steam pumps. The day he stumbled upon her, she was terrified he would judge her, make her stop. He wore the robes of a priest, after all. But instead of fear, he was full of awe. Awe and support.

What specimens aren’t preserved wait in the experimental section, one level below. As Julian takes the burlap off the scissors, something miraculous happens.

The light from the scissors brightens the room, bouncing off red, wet brick, and trembling through the formaldehyde, ethanol, and methanol solutions. Brilliant blue flashes across the surface, like an electric charge, and every eye turns, every finger points, every submerged ear and floating brain matter turns to focus upon her.

We are a many. We are a waiting. We are a hunger. We are a watching.

Creature:

To be awoken is an experience akin to no others. To see, however dimly, after thousands of years blind and hungry. To hear. To sense. To know. We tremble and cry out, lips making no noises, choking and drowning and screaming at once. At first, we are jubilant, in spite of the pain—or perhaps because of it, for pain means life. But we realize, quickly, that in this moment of pain and awakening is confusion. Broken. Not as promised.

We are further shattered. We are fragmented. Some of us see—some of us hear—but none of us can do both. When once we suffered and dwindled as one, now we each remember and splinter. Our names come back to mind, our knowledge, but not complete. Uriel. Azazel. Samyaza. Baraquel. Kokabiel. More.

And my name. My name. I want to speak it. But all I am is an eye. The eye of a goat. The light from the metal of that ancient sword—no longer a sword, and much diminished—makes my existence a misery. I cannot look away from the cruelly misshapen Daughter of Nephilim, and she stares back at me stupidly. The voices of the other Fallen pulse around me, filling the water in which I’m suspended. They are mad, trembling. Their fury will ruin this for all of us.

I panic. I am nothing but an eye. A mad, wide-seeing eye, slowly losing the only chance I have had in an eternity to breathe the air again. I do not want destruction and death. I do not want revenge. I want escape.

I know what I must do.

Maker:

Julian falls to her knees, and one cracks and shatters against the white tile. But the numbness has moved through her body so completely that she merely notes the sickening snap of cartilage, distantly. One moment her body is filled with a vibrating, orgasmic pleasure, and the next she is crawling toward a jar in the middle of her collection. She holds up the scissors and looks through the holes, as if they were another pair of spectacles. And indeed, she does see better through them. She notices that each of her specimens, now following her every breath and movement, glow different shades. Some are the red of fresh blood; others shimmer silver and gold, tendrils of light refracting across the glass surfaces. Every color in the spectrum.

Dazzled, Julian stares for time out of mind until she notices one different than the other. One of her favorite specimens. Not human, this one, and a rarity for that. It is the only specimen she killed with her own hands. Perhaps that is why she glances at it longer than the others, why she notices the blue hue of the dappled light. It is the only one unchanged by the view through the scissors.

She leans forward. She raises her fingers, scraped and bloody. The wide pupil regards her intently. It swims forward and backward within the glass, but it never loses focus. Julian has been a master preserver for years, and the golden goat eye is one of her favorites. She remembers well plucking it from the skull of the so recently expired creature. She’d roasted the other one. But it had been blue. This was gold, and too beautiful to be eaten.

We are a many. We are a waiting. We are a hunger. We are a watching.

Now she wants to eat it. Now she wants to touch it. To listen to it. To know it. It tells her things, whispers her name again and again.

Julian does not lower the scissors, but with her free hand she presses fingertips to the glass. She tries to recoil for the heat is overwhelming. Her skin immediately bonds to the glass, and she smells burning flesh though feels nothing. A heartbeat more and the glass shatters, impaling her hand with a thousand tiny lacerations. Blood drips freely, filling the room with a coppery, burnt scent.

She picks up the eye with her bloodied fingers and writes the word it commands her to, pressing the soft organ to the floor. On the bright white tile, Julian weeps with joy as she writes a single name: Penemue.

Penemue:

My name is spoken, and I arise. Unlike my fallen brothers, I am released from the nightmarish hold between life and death, animation and oblivion. It is bliss. Joy. Fury. To know my name at last is a pleasure beyond all memories. And there are so many memories.

My first thought is to take our Maker’s body from her—it is not holding up well, and she may not have long in this life—but I cannot. I have ever believed in my own innocence, having been damned to eternity for loving a mortal man and bringing the gift of writing to him. Every living human being owes me a debt of gratitude for my so-called sin, but I will not make more sins out of my own hatred of God. I will not. If I am to live again, I must do it purely and without trespass. I have learned...

Our Maker stares at me, and I can see myself as a pillar of blue fire in her eyes. I am beautiful and horrible, but I am weak and frighteningly vulnerable in this state; this she does not know.

My brothers know. My hesitation to do her no harm has given them space to call her back. And I, bodiless, am powerless. I try to blaze brighter, but the voices of my brethren rise louder and louder, a dissonant clamor of commands and cries, and our Maker is frozen. Her body twitches, her neck twists, and with those delicate scissors in hand she starts to make her way toward her macabre collection, the collection she has been putting together for so long, for this purpose alone.

Maker:

Julian knows few thoughts of her own except a sense of gladness. A sense of purpose. The blue flame creature burns brightly, but it no longer speaks words she knows. It can no longer command her. The others, the Watchers, for whom she has waited her whole life, dictate her steps now. Command her movements. She understands now, yes. She understands that collection around her has not been only to keep her company, it has been part of a grand plan. A plan to make her more. Greater. It’s what Brother Barrier has told her, time and again. She is part of a bigger, more divine plan. And the awakened specimens, her friends, have come at last.

The scissors. She understands.

This is the blade that binds, no longer the blade that sunders. Cleave and join, Daugher of Nephilim, and give your body new life.

The first cut is the hardest, even though there is little pain. Julian has spent so much time cutting and dissecting other things, that even in her dimming consciousness, it seems wrong. But she needs another arm to do this task, and the only way she will be able to add another appendage is to make room for it on her chest.

She picks the corded arm from the sewer worker she’d harvested two months before. Or, rather, it picks her. Its container falls to the tiles and shatters, the limb climbing its way up her soiled petticoat and leather vest as she leans back to accept it.

That moment of connection is a black terror, but Julian has dreamed of this her whole life. She has only not remembered the dream. Now, as it’s happening, this moment of rebuilding and transformation, she recalls every detail. Of her dying. But not dying. Her ecstasy.

Again and again she plunges the scissors into her body, through cloth and skin and muscle, and again and again the specimens come to her, merging with her body. She is their mother and Maker, giving them blood and life again—saving them from death. Every step in her life has been leading to this moment—every spewed word of hate, every uttered curse below her breath. She has never believed in God, no. Julian has only relied on herself and her connection to a greater, wilder, madder design out there.

Julian plunges the scissor blades into her heart, and it is done.

And now she is all greatness and power, and mad beauty. Her body swells and grows to accommodate the appendages of her new friends, roiling and undulating, filling up the small space, pushing out that blue fire into the passageway beyond. There comes the sound of feet, but it is distant and unimportant to her now. For she is a creature of a thousand eyes and arms, a thousand voices, a thousand terrors.

And she is hunger. She is wanting. But she is no longer waiting.

Penemue:

It has gone wrong. So wrong. I should have known my brothers would never manage a peaceful entry, They are too full of fury. She has welcomed them, but she cannot see what I see. It is not that they are granting her power, but that they are fighting for it among themselves. Her humanity is swallowed up in moments as she grows beyond imagining, her form undulating like the long body of some many-armed creature of the deep, or monstrous arachnid.

My brothers fight among themselves for control of the body. Arms and teeth rend one another, and by virtue of blood and filth birth more, grow even more repulsive.

Penemue. My name still lingers on my mind and I taste something I have not in centuries: fear. I am afraid. Who am I? I have never been like my brothers. I have been outcast from Heaven and Hell, and now moments from my freedom, I am shoved out into the strange, dark corridor from where I was awoken, and my flame begins to diminish. Without a host, I know I will fade to nothingness. True nothingness. Perhaps that is better. I am sinless, now. I am reborn and perfect.

But I cannot. I know their hunger. Finding a host means a harsher judgment, but only I know how to stop the creature, the many-eyed beast growing fast along these strange hallways running with filth.

He stands there, clutching his heart, my blue flames flickering in his eyes. There are tears coursing down his cheeks, and his lip trembles. A priest, I can tell, even in this strange place. He wears black with a swath of white at his collar, and his bald pate reflects. He whispers ancient words familiar to me, an invocation of an angel. Of Gabriel. I remember him well. A friend in brighter times. That this man thinks I am Gabriel is a balm to me, a moment of strength in this weakened state.

“I must welcome you, messenger,” the priest says, bowing his head and going down to one knee. “I am your servant, all body and soul.”

I enter him in an instant. I do not think beyond that, for I can hear the walls around me shaking as the creature expands. It groans, as well, this leviathan of the deep.

I become the priest, and the priest becomes me. He is not gone, but he is no longer. I take from him his life, his memories, his intelligence, his faults. To the human eye this priest, this Brother Barrier, is like all others save for the gentle glowing of his eyes and fingernails. He tells me what I need to know of this world that has grown in my absence. I am in a sewer, where all the filth of humanity flows. Julian, the name of the Child of the Nephilim, has lived here for thirty years, since she was but a newly flowered girl, and has collected these specimens for her own pleasure, to quell the voices in her head. Brother Barrier found her fifteen years before and helped her out of pity but also out of understanding. He, too, has heard our voices. Not through his blood, as Julian has, but through his own preternatural abilities.

The body I have now is painfully human. The muscles are atrophied in places, the stomach soft. The heart trembles with some sort of ailment. I can heal what I am able, but there is little hope he will last beyond this task.

Creature:

The creature of a thousand corpses cries out in agony and joy, feeling the pulse of humanity above and sensing the waters not far. The cleansing waters of the ocean. Food and drink. Revenge and lust. With nothing more than the stars to guide, the creature looks up with a thousand eyes through grates and slits in the ground, pulled toward the center of the city, along the great bend in the river.

Sliding up through the sewer, its shape changes a dozen times, rearranging its girth. Arms and legs, paws and muzzles, teeth and hooves, all slither against each other to slip through the narrow space. Up and up in an endless ladder of bodies and bones, snapping and mending over and over, dim eyes lighting up and down each unfathomable arm.

Toward the whitest, tallest, building, pulled as if by magical impulse. The most holy place in the city. It must be taken down before the feeding can begin, this alone the fallen brothers agree upon. The creature of a thousand corpses knows the dark memories of their host, knows the way she had been turned away as an abomination. It feels the dead beneath the streets, smells the murder and chaos. All these beautiful and horrible gifts they, not God, have given to mankind. And now, it is a great reckoning.

When the creature’s full girth meets the air a great fog begins, as something in the smoky atmosphere reacts against the living dead. The many fallen brothers begin to argue, surprised by the sudden pain. The creature lunges north, spilling white smoke throughout the streets in huge, stinking pillars. As the brothers disagree, the mass of the beast smashes left and right, crushing buildings beneath it and smothering all living things in its wake. Brick and wood and steel crumble as if mere afterthoughts, and those caught below see nothing but the massive arms casting shadows. Hands and mouths reach for any useable weapon, and so the seething creature becomes sharper and more deadly.

Penemue:

I am slow in this body, and breathing—something I had dreamed of doing so long—is an abysmal pain to me. I know where the creature is, where my fallen brothers move, but I cannot catch up to them fast enough. I pause as I exit the sewer, feeling something digging against my hip. I had not noticed it before, and I have to listen to Brother Barrier tell me about it before I throw it away. It is a weapon, which he calls a firearm. It is intended to kill others, though I cannot imagine how. He explains it is full of ammunition. I still do not understand, so he shows me. Turning it over in the moonlight I feel the cold metal and understand better. There is a charge within, and with the proper aim, I could send a menacing bolt.

But not to the creature. Not to my brothers. Only one thing would undo them, and likely me. I pause to catch my breath and renew my focus. At my feet, fog swirls, smelling of sulfur and decay. I see better than the other humans running past me, away south. Some carry bodies, severed in unspeakable ways. Livestock knock over humans in their terror, trample them.

Trying to keep a distance, I make my way slowly north. I can see straight through the strange square buildings and know immediately where the fallen brothers are going. Even though they continue to squabble, and through their squabbling grow and absorb all around them, they seek a holy place. A high, holy place. From there, they will fight. Or they will seek to storm Heaven. Or they will seek more blood until they have summoned the Devil himself. Or all at once.

The skies crackle with lightning, and the fog rises. In the distance I can see the arms of the great beast limned against the dwindling starlight.

“She buried the blade in her breast,” I tell Brother Barrier. He is rather quiet, and does not seem to understand. “I must reach it, must remove it.”

“Don’t angels fly?” he asks slowly.

“Sometimes,” I tell him. “I mostly burn.”

“Seraphim,” he says.

“Once,” I reply.

“You were close to Heaven.”

“I thought I could go back. But I see now I cannot.”

I run, now. The air smells of blood and fire. Shrill noises—sirens, Brother Barrier tells me—whine in the distance. The salt air from the sea drives tears to my eyes, remembering a life for which I earned a thousand centuries of torture. Remembering a face. Remembering hands, perfect and strong feet. A perfect human, touched by none of this terror. What became of him? We bore no children—how could we?—but his love cost me so much. Those perfect ebony hands, which I loved and taught the holy marks upon paper.

The cathedral rises before me, three steeples stretching to the skies, but darkening against their white sides as my fallen brothers rise. There is no time to marvel in this creation of humanity, for I hear voices in the air. My fallen brothers. Hear their wailing cry, their furious oaths of destruction and death. Destruction of humanity, destruction of each other. They loved once, as I did, but they birthed the Nephilim. I was merely caught up.

And now, I watch in horror as I hear the side of the cathedral snap. One long tendril reaches up and squeezes, working as leverage so the fallen brothers can climb higher, that the massive creature may get a better view of the city.

In the distance I sense the waters rise from below, Julian’s steam pumps are failing. Soon the city will be submerged. What does not die from the hand of my brethren will drown.

I can see the beast better, now, as I come around to the square behind the cathedral. It arranges itself over and over again, the center glowing blue where the scissors lie, but never rids itself of the massive tentacles. Sometimes six. Sometimes thirteen. They lash and break and bend all around them.

I approach the cathedral at a dead run, ducking as debris falls down. There are still people inside. Many of them. No doubt they came here seeking refuge. I can smell their fear mingled with incense. The closer I get the more I see the muck and sludge the fallen brothers have dropped over the building. It hisses and oozes, stinging my face as it drips on my skin. I wipe it away, and with it some of my flesh. I cannot even imagine what it would do to a mortal.

Then, in a moment of sudden inspiration from Brother Barrier, I stop. I look to the heavens in between a swath of cloud. The stars blink at me. I wonder… the other angels. Would they hear me? Did they forget me? In this moment of need, would they heed my cry?

No. I am too afraid they will not answer. As the beast rages above me, I move through from pillar to pillar around the cathedral until I find a door unobstructed by bodies or debris. The sound from inside is somehow worse, though dampened. I do not have time to wonder at the strange symbols and drawings, so alien to me. The straining of the building rips my breath from my body, but I keep the pace while Brother Barrier sings strange hymns I do not know.

The center tower is still holding, and that is where I must go. I pass humans, many of whom recognize me as Brother Barrier until they see my eyes. Some scream, others fall into a sort of silent reverie, giving me knowing smiles. He tells me their names, and I say them aloud, and they are blessed by it.

Up and up I go, pushed ever onwards by the passing of time and the groaning of the building. On top of it all, I hear the keening of the tower bell, straining with the cries of the creature. The fighting, rending battle. It grows. More and more it grows as the fallen brothers continue their squabbling. And it will continue to swell with hatred and fury until not only this city is swallowed, but the entirety of humanity is black with the creature’s insatiable search for blood.

Just below the bells, I make my exit into the night air. My brothers feel me, but they do not yet understand where I am. Brother Barrier’s body is like a blanket across their eyes. From where I stand, I can see down into the gaping maws of the beast, faces and mouths open in anguish, eyes spinning in invisible sockets. They sing a thousand curses at me, but I search for only one thing. That glittering metal, stuck fast in the heart of what was once a woman.

I have never been the brave one among my brothers. My hands have rarely wielded swords, and instead have written poems and ballads and songs of old. I hesitate again, up on the ledge, and it nearly does me in. A thick cord of sinew comes up and around my ankle, snapping but not sundering it. The pain is strange and welcome, burning with my heartbeat and the searing in my face.

Now they know.

I am a Seraphim. I am a creature of flame. With one hand I steady the pistol. With the other I draw a word in the air with blue fire: thunder. I shoot the bullet through the word as it still lingers in air, and when it hits the creature, a sound erupts from its center and shakes it to its core. Another sinew shoots out, this time around my middle, but it is with less precision. I am able to shake it off, and I can see a new fire alight down the impossible monster’s gullet of a thousand mouths. Some of the pieces begin to fall, mostly those which were acquired during the creature’s journey from below the city. The weapons fall, too—long metal poles, broken iron doorways. They clatter and spark as they hit the rocky ground below.

“There are only two more bullets,” Brother Barrier whispers to me.

I do not hesitate with my second spell. I mark the word “silence” in the air and shoot through it again, and the whole beast shudders and stops its wailing. Now I can hear the screams from all around the city. People are dying everywhere. But if they are screaming, it also means some are living.

We are a many. We are a waiting. We are a hunger. We are a watching.

“No longer,” I shout down. “Release yourselves and return to the darkness! You will win nothing by your madness!”

We are a many. We are a waiting. We are a hunger. We are a watching.

I remembered that strange liturgy. I had escaped it, but I had held out hope. That was my greatest sin. I had held out hope for myself alone, and I had abandoned them. After a hundred thousand years of suffering together, I sinned before I had even begun again.

“I am so sorry,” I tell them and Brother Barrier.

It is with that I draw the last word. I drop the gun and close my eyes. With a final, blessed breath, I dive through the word “brother” and plunge into the belly of the best to withdraw the key to our salvation, and doom us all back to oblivion.

One Last Round

Nathan Black – Kaiju Rising Backer

The people of New Orleans were survivors.

They’d endured hurricanes and floods and looting and crawled out from beneath the ruin each time, battered but not beaten. But the greatest crisis of their time, the rise of the great destructive monsters—Kaiju as they were called—had come to finish what Mother Nature had failed to do: the destruction of New Orleans.

A deep roar assaulted the people’s ears as a giant primate raged through the city. It pounded on his chest with hairy fists, red face flushed with hate. This was Akaoni, the Red Devil of Tokyo. It stomped on a community center, brick and steel collapsing in a cloud a gray dust, as it continued its rampage across the Big Easy. Akaoni’s eyes rolled in blackened sockets as it surveyed the town spread out before it, each building waiting patiently for the creature’s attention. Saliva oozed in foul drips from bared fangs, dark splatters staining the asphalt at its feet, steam misting at its impact. The creature roared and glass shattered. Akaoni grunted his amusement as a crystalline rain filled the air, its musical cascade drowning the screams of the meat sacks that scurried below. It stared at the shards as they fell. What few stars were in the sky glistened in their depth, the heavens crashing to earth. Akaoni pounded his chest again in celebration, but its toothy grin fell away as a new sound emerged to drown out that of the tinkling glass. The creature’s head snapped about, quick in its furious appraisal. A feral growl bubbled in its throat when it spied the source of the noise that had drawn its focus, recognition setting fire to its eyes.

Colonel Ausum stood boldly in the street. Henshined—his powers active—he nearly stared Akaoni in the eyes. The Colonel’s yellow motorcycle helmet was split down the middle with a red stripe, the darkness of the face shield hiding the expression beneath. Akaoni knew a disapproving sneer resided there. They had crossed paths before.

Purple spandex hugged the Colonel’s frame, its tightness revealing the lifetime of training that had chiseled his flesh. Golden plates of armor shielded his shoulders and chest, circling about his ribs to protect the most vital targets on his body. His scarf bellowed in the wind, the serpentine snap of its passage loud in the sudden silence.

Alongside the Colonel towered a monstrosity of steel. It shared the man’s affinity for purple, gold accents standing out bright on its shoulders and head. The faceless glare of its green visor, offset only by the gleaming jewel set in its forehead above, took in the Red Devil as the creature paused in its destruction. The beast recalled the robot’s name, its memory erupting into its mind like the plume of a volcano: KRASER—Kaiju Repulse and Super Eradicating Robot.

The robot’s right hand twisted its left arm into place. A trio of curved spikes protruded from both forearms, their sharpened points reflecting the dying sunlight. On its back rested two massive tomahawks whose handles rose into the air. KRASER stood stoic in its readiness.

Akaoni howled, spittle flying as Colonel Ausum called out, “Devil of Tokyo! We’ve come to send you back to Hell.” Ausum snapped into his fighting stance. Not to be outdone, KRASER matched his pose. The ground at their backs exploded as though emphasizing their challenge.

“Cut!” The word cleaved the air, lights snapping on as the echo died away.

All three combatants stood down without a sound while several young men ran into the ruined cityscape, shattering the city’s scale. The once towering buildings were quickly reduced to waist-high façades. The combatants reached for their heads in unison as the other men hovered about, offering their assistance. With a pop, the last bit of movie magic faded, and three actors, sweat dotting their brows, emerged from the costumes of robot, ape, and man.

“That’s a wrap for the day. Nice touch on the pyrotechnics,” the director called out while stroking his salt and pepper beard. The actors were framed within the lenses of his hipster glasses as he waved them off.

Just as the cast and crew started to scatter and make their way off the set, a man appeared, pushing against the tide. The crew parted in his wake, fury coloring his dark cheeks so that they nearly matched the bright red of his loose T-shirt. It flowed about him like a matador’s cape, but there was no mistaking this man for anything but the bull. He marched up to the director with a wad of paper scrunched in his hand.

“Discotti! What the fuck is this?” Gerry Nadler shouted with his hand thrust toward the director. He held the paper as if it was radioactive.

Discotti stiffened at the drill sergeant-like command. He swallowed hard as he turned about. “Uh, hey. How’s the piloting going?”

“Shut it,” Gerry told him. “Why are you guys saying this is the last KRASER movie, and why the flying fuck did I have to read the newspaper to find that out?”

The director shook his head, no doubt getting ready to fall back on the speech he’d prepared for exactly this moment. “Maybe you haven’t seen the box office returns, Gerry. The last movie tanked in the States. It barely made its budget back in China.”

“It’s not about your budget,” Gerry said. “The Maxwell Foundation relies on these movies to fund the KRASER project. Those profits help keep the robot running, and they keep us piloting so we can protect people.”

Discotti stood and let out a quiet snort. “Not my problem, Gerry. My job is to make the studio money, and KRASER just doesn’t pack the seats anymore. He can’t even headline his own movie anymore.” The director’s grin grew wider as the pilot glared. He’d wanted to say this for some time, Gerry realized. “People just don’t like you or your robot sidekick anymore.”

~

“And that’s when I punched him in his smug face.”

Gerry sat in a diner booth, cooling his jets on a glass of ice water. He glanced through a swollen eye at the man sitting across from him. “What would’ve you done?”

Will Taswell stared into his cup of marshmallows, slowly pouring hot chocolate over them. His free hand massaged his scalp through its unruly mess of brown hair. He shrugged once his cup was full. The booth squeaked beneath the movement of his leather-jacketed mass, Will unnerved by Gerry’s words. “I don’t know what I’d have done.”

Gerry chuckled, searching the menu. “You’d probably do what Andrea would’ve—stay calm and bite your tongue.”

Will sighed but didn’t rise to the bait. “We’ll need a new source of money,” he said, steering the conversation away from their teammate. “I think we could hit up China for more funds. They’re pretty happy with us after Shanghai.”

“Russia, Japan...” Gerry groaned. Goodwill only went so far, and they’d been scraping the lint out of those pockets already. There weren’t many pockets left.

The bell at the diner entrance clanged and drew their listless eyes, the wind whistling through the open door. “Evening, boys. Sorry I’m late,” Andrea told them as she shook the water from her umbrella.

Her hair in a bun, soaked and shiny from the rain, it looked as if she wore a tiny halo atop her head. Gerry laughed at the thought. There was nothing angelic about Andrea outside of her simmering Asiatic good looks. She sighed as she walked over to the table, unbuttoning her coat. Silver streams ran down the sleeves as she hung it over the back of a nearby chair and dragged it over alongside the booth.

Will smiled. “Hey, Andrea.”

She dropped down next to the big man, thanking the waitress who hurried over to pour her a cup of hot tea. Gerry stared at the table and avoided her eyes.

“I guess you can tell how Discotti took Gerry’s entreaty,” Will told Andrea once the waitress had taken their orders and left.

“Oh yeah, it was a real frank discussion of opinions,” Gerry gestured to his face. “Did you expect anything else from that guy?”

Andrea’s eyes narrowed as she noticed the black eye for the first time. “Christ, Gerry. You ever think to talk to us before you go off half-cocked and start burning bridges?” She sipped at her tea loudly.

“About as often as you consult us before running home with your tin cup held out.” Gerry chuckled, hoping his snickers helped him to ignore the obnoxious sipping. “How’s old General Jansen these days?”

“Really?” Andrea glared at Will. “You had to tell him?”

Will shrugged. “Beggars can’t be choosers, right?”

Andrea took a violent sip of her tea and set the cup on the table with a thump. “Looks like we’re the only ones begging.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Gerry asked. He looked over at Andrea and saw the frustration lurking behind her anger. “Ah, no way… Don’t tell me Jansen pulled the plug, too.”

“It gets worse.”

Will slumped and rubbed at his temples, his belly jolting the table.

Gerry sat there slack-jawed. “Worse?”

“Yeah.” Andrea nodded. “They want KRASER back.”

~

“Tell me you coldcocked him,” Gerry asked through gritted teeth after Andrea recounted her unfortunate meeting with the General. “Please, tell me you laid him out.”

Andrea shook her head. “Unlike you, I prefer not to have a rap sheet the length of my arm.”

“I can’t deal with this,” groaned Will. “It’s all over. We got shafted by the bureaucracy.”

Silence settled over the trio, each sinking into the gloom of their thoughts. There was nothing left to say. KRASER was done. Thunder rumbled in commiseration.

~

Several miles off the coast of New Orleans, a lone Coast Guard cutter sailed through the miserable storm. The waves crashed into its hull, but it soldiered on into the night, cutting a swath through the turbulent waves.

In the bridge, a young sailor stiffened at the controls. “I’m getting strange readings half a mile out,” she said.

The captain strode over to her station, rubbing the day’s growth at his chin. He’d held the helm all night through the rough waters. “What do you mean ‘strange’?”

“Possibly a whale, but…” The navigator furrowed her brow as her voice trailed off. “That doesn’t make any sense.” She jumped in her seat as the station pinged. “The signal’s changed direction.” The navigator stared at the screen. “That’s not… Sir, it’s heading straight for us and…accelerating.”

The captain ran to the port side window and stared through the misted glass. At first he saw nothing through the sheets of rain, but a gust of wind cleared his line of sight for an instant. It was more than long enough. His blood ran cold. He could see something cutting through the waves. His first thought was that it was a torpedo, but the greenish-black surface that loomed above the water cast that comparison aside. The captain pressed his face against the glass for a better look, but what he saw made reason take flight. The thing’s profile reminded him of his recent trip to the Everglades. There was something familiar about—

His heart thrummed in his chest at the sudden recognition. The word alligator popped into his head uninvited, its impact like a hammer ringing a bell. He was staring at a giant alligator.

The Captain ran to his radio. “This is a priority one alert for the New Orleans metropolitan area. We have an imminent Kaiju attack. Giant alligator. I repeat, imminent attack.”

The alligator’s maw opened as the beast closed on the ship, the cavernous roof of its mouth crossing over the boat’s deck. A horrific wash of foul air flooded the cabin, the captain choking back bile. He stared into the giant mouth and saw row upon row of jagged, yellowed teeth, blackened and rotten flesh holding them in place. The captain swallowed hard against the fear crowding his throat. This was no mere giant alligator. It was undead.

“My God,” the captain muttered, his fist clenched about the radio. “It’s Grimmgarl!”

The name of the beast had barely been uttered when the looming mouth slammed shut on the ship, nearly splitting it in half. Grimmgarl rolled, taking the cutter with it into the depths…

~

Andrea grumbled as she sat in her hotel room, staring at a blank canvas. A pencil rested in her idle hand, her thoughts too scattered to concentrate on a new sketch. She’d woken that morning with a plan and a future for the Maxwell Foundation. All that was gone now.

“Damn it.”

She threw the pencil at the TV, bouncing off the screen with a clink. It felt wrong to just sit around. She was a pilot, dammit. She should be training, working with KRASER to better her skills, but the government’s sudden repossession of the mech made that impossible. Without funding there was no project, no training, and no KRASER. Andrea growled at the thought. Her life’s work, her ambition, had been stolen from her without warning. She cursed Jansen’s decision.

Still fuming, she stomped over to the fridge and whipped the door open. Her fingers were around the neck of a beer bottle before the door even stop swinging. The cold tingled against her palm as she popped the cap. A nice, memory-reducing drunk is what she needed right then. It was going to be a long night.

She lifted the bottle to the sky. “To the past.”

As Andrea set the beer against her lips, a siren shrieked across the city, making her jump. Foam spewed from the neck of the bottle. It was the Kaiju alert. Instinct made her toss the beer into the sink and spin to grab her gear, but reality kicked in before she managed more than two steps. She wasn’t a pilot anymore. There was no robot. There was nowhere to go.

What now?

She knew the drill. The city would race for the shelters and hunker down until someone saved them. That someone was usually her and the guys, but not tonight. Her heart sank. Andrea would be stuck alongside everyone else, cramped in the sweaty basement bunker while someone else battled the Kaiju that threatened their city. Jansen would whip out his secret weapons and save the day. More likely screw it all up. Who was he going to send out, Mecha-Baz? The city would be half-destroyed before he arrived, and Baz would use the other half as a wrestling arena.

No, fuck that noise. Andrea snarled as she pulled out her cell phone and fired off a furious burst of text messages. Fighting Kaiju is what she did. She’d be damned if Jansen took that away from her.

~

Gerry grinned at Andrea as she squirmed into her flight suit in the car, her bra and taut stomach on full display. She didn’t care. They were in a rush. Once they picked up Will she’d catch him up on the plan—such as it was—and they’d do what they had to in order to save New Orleans from the approaching Kaiju and General Jansen’s arrogance.

Gerry stared while she changed into her outfit, his darkened eye squinting to get a better look.

“Get it out of your system now, buddy, because we’ve got work to do.”

Gerry chuckled and floored the accelerator. The roads back toward the gulf pretty much empty since everyone was running the other way toward the shelters; there was hardly anyone in the path of the incoming Kaiju. There were only the unfortunate, the stupid, and the brave, and at a time like this, there wasn’t a hell of a big difference between the three.

They found Will outside of his apartment lending a hand to a family of the first. He boosted a young girl into the back of one of the evacuation trucks where her parents clutched to her. Always the gentleman, Will handed the young girl her stuffed animal, and Andrea had to laugh at the irony. It was a tiny Tornaq bear. Nothing like a Kaiju doll to comfort a kid during an attack.

Gerry brought the car to a screeching halt at the curb as a giant shadow fell over the street.

“Oh, shi—” was all he got out before a great, scaly leg and clawed foot blotted out the light.

Will looked up and bolted the instant he saw the creature. Andrea gasped, but Will was fast for a big guy. The massive limb crashed down just yards from where Will had stood, the weight crushing the front end of the evacuation truck as though it were a tin can. The survivors spilled from the covered bed of the truck screaming. They hit the ground running and scattered. Andrea let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, but her relief at the people’s escape was short lived as the rotten stench of the creature assailed her. Gerry choked beside her, both muttering the creature’s name through the murk of its stink.

Grimmgarl had come to Nawlins, and she wasn’t there for Mardi Gras.

The beast’s tail slammed into a nearby bank building, the glass and steel exploding as though it were confetti, the illuminated sign sparking as it crashed onto the roof. The remnants of the building screamed as it collapsed, and Andrea saw a figure fall beneath the rubble, but the creature wasn’t done. Another building fell to her wrath as Andrea stared at the wanton destruction. It was a strange experience viewing the wreckage from this angle, her normal seat eye-to-eye with the creatures she faced down. She didn’t like the feeling.

Her attention was drawn back to Will as he ran toward the fallen building.

“What the hell is he doing?” Gerry asked.

Andrea sighed. She knew exactly what he was doing. “Damn it,” she muttered and leapt out of the car. “We need to help him before he gets his compassionate ass squished.”

She bolted over to where Will was struggling with the wreckage, hauling big chunks off the pile and tossing them aside. Will grunted with every stone, sweat beading across his forehead, but he was chucking them aside like nothing. Desperation had lent him strength.

Andrea reached him just as the tech uncovered the man buried in the debris. Both stopped cold as the familiar colors of purple and gold stared out at them, apparent despite the coating of gray dust. Gerry stumbled over to them right then, his foot bumping into the top of a half-buried yellow motorcycle helmet with a red stripe down the center.

“Colonel?” Will asked, spurred back into action to remove the last of the stone and steel refuse that held the man down.

The man sat up and reached over to retrieve his helmet. His smile broke through the dirt spattered across his face. “This is just embarrassing,” he said with a laugh as he climbed to his feet with Will’s help. “Hope you’re having a better day than me, Will.” He glanced over at the other two. “Gerry. Andrea.”

Andrea grinned at Colonel Ausum, but the stakes of what was happening wiped it from her face a moment later. No KRASER, the Colonel was on his own against the Kaiju, and it didn’t look like he was winning. “You okay?”

Ausum nodded. “Grimmgarl just caught me clearing people out of the bank. Hadn’t realized she was so close.” He shrugged. “Guess the stench should have warned me.”

Gerry grunted, waving at the air. “Definitely.”

Ausum’s own grin faded as he cast a glance at each of the group, one after the other, confusion registering on his expression. “Why are you here without KRASER?”

“Long story, but that’s where we’re headed now,” Andrea answered. “Can you keep the big girl busy for a bit?”

“Don’t have much of a choice, do I?” Ausum winked at her. “You folks do what you need to, but I certainly wouldn’t mind if you hurried.”

The group nodded as one, and the Colonel waved, slipped his helmet on, and chased after the beast. Andrea watched him for a second before corralling Will and Gerry.

“We need to go,” she said. “We’ve a robot to steal.”

~

Colonel Ausum clenched his teeth as he ran after Grimmgarl. His ribs ached and every step was perilous on the asphalt that shook beneath the creature’s fury, but he did never wavered. As the Kaiju’s tail appeared out of the dust cloud before him, Ausum skidded to a stop. He raised his hands raised into the air, drawing a slow, cleansing breath, before slowly lowering them back to his chest. “Hen…” His hands snapped outward, and then retreated until his arms lay across his chest, the ritual of transformation completed. “…shin!”

A familiar sense of vertigo filled his head as the world around him shrank away, his body glowing bright gold. The wash of his power erupted from him in a surge. He knew Grimmgarl would sense his change, but there was nothing he could do about it. The giant alligator spun about just as Ausum had predicted, but it was too late for the beast. He had assumed his henshined state, the glow replaced by the massive armor and spandex outfit that formed at his metamorphosis. Thunder rumbled in the wake of the Colonel’s power, both combatants staring across the city expanse at one another.

“For justice,” Ausum shouted as he felt his strength swell to full, his limbs channeling his energies in preparation of battle.

Grimmgarl snarled at the Colonel’s battle cry, charging at him with jaws wide open. Ausum sidestepped Grimmgarl, delivering a blow to the base of her neck. She staggered but didn’t fall, her tail slamming into Ausum’s helmet. The Colonel stumbled into a nearby building. The creak of breaking glass rang in his ears as he righted himself. Grimmgarl shook her head in annoyance and swiped at Ausum. Blood welled as the beast ripped the armor piece off and claws sank into flesh.

Ausum’s growled and reached for his wound out of instinct. Crimson welled between his fingers. Grimmgarl took advantage of his hesitation. The sharpened point of her snout slammed into the same shoulder, razored teeth slashing through skin and muscle as she opened her mouth, poised to bite down. Ausum knew time had turned against him. He summoned his energy and willed it into his fist as he drove and uppercut into Grimmgarl’s jaw. The beast’s mouth clacked shut as its head snapped upward. Her rancid breath steamed the colonel’s helmet as she roared and toppled backward. She crashed into the asphalt, kicking up shards of blackened wreckage and sending a tremor through the earth.

Ausum, eager to remain on the offensive, delivered a brutal axe kick to Grimmgarl’s midsection. The creature howled, but the Colonel pounced, desperate to keep her on her back. He rained down blow after blow, the creature squirming beneath him but doing little to ward off his attack.

Was it over already?

The Colonel eased back and glanced at the slit of the Kaiju’s reddened eye. It loosed a wet, phlegmy snort, dark blood and fetid spit streaming down its maw as it labored to draw breath. Then its eye snapped open, a snarl rippling across its mouth.

Ausum went to strike her again, but Grimmgarl had lured him in. Her tail smashed into the back of his helmet. Brilliant dots of white exploded in his vision, and the Colonel felt his legs give way. He fell as Grimmgarl rose up beneath him. The ground caught him with a shuddering thud.

~

Andrea slipped into the hangar where KRASER was stored, Gerry and Will at her back. As casual as they tried to appear, there was no mistaking the sense of criminality about their presence there. They’d fooled the gate guards into letting them onto the complex, their credentials still in place due to bureaucratic slothfulness, but none of them believed they’d be able to commandeer the mech so easily.

And as if to quash what little hope they’d had, Andrea spied the two soldiers camped outside the stairwell that led into KRASER’s cabin. The hangar empty of everything but the mech and its accoutrements, the guards spied them the moment they walked through the door.

“Hold it right there,” the first of the men called out, raising his rifle their direction.

Andrea kept walking, Gerry at her side, but she could hear Will muttering at her back.

“Came all this way just to get shot. Wonderful.”

“I said stop!” the soldier repeated as they drew closer, the second man joining the first and bringing his rifle to bear. “You know you’re not supposed to be here.”

“You don’t know—”

Andrea waved Gerry to silence before he could finish his statement. She slipped on her sad face and inched closer to the men. “You know what’s going on out there, right?”

The soldier shrugged. “Not my place to worry about it, ma’am. My job is here.”

Andrea sighed. “Maybe, but what’s happening is going to kill us all. You know damn well that General Jansen’s weapons are unproven.”

“Yeah, and Ausum is getting his ass kicked out there if you believe the radio,” Gerry added.

The first soldier drew a deep breath at hearing that, but the second stepped up.

“This robot is government property, so just turn around and walk away. We can’t let you take it no matter what’s going on.”

“Tell that to the people of New Orleans whose families are being killed while you sit here impeding our way.” Gerry snarled, poking a finger into the man’s chest.

The soldier batted it away. “Now, listen here, you robot jockey—”

Andrea stepped between them. “This is getting us nowhere. We’ll leave.” She turned and looked to Gerry, mouthing her thoughts to him as soon as she was sure the soldiers couldn’t see her face.

Do what you do best.

“Yeah, that’s what—” the officer started.

Andrea took a step to the side, Gerry’s fist flying past just inches from her cheek.

The solider crumpled as the punch landed flush on his jaw. He hadn’t seen it coming. The second man shouted and pivoted to line up a shot at Gerry, but Andrea elbowed him flush between his eyes. He grunted, blinking to clear the tears that spewed forth. Gerry tackled the soldier and drove him to the hangar floor as he ended the fight with a quick flurry of punches. Gerry crawled off the soldier and shaking his hand out.

“See? Violence does solve some things.”

Andrea just shook her head and charged up the stairs. They were running out of time. Security might be low for now with everyone’s attention on the Kaiju, but people would notice the unconscious men lying in the middle of the hangar soon enough. She planned to be long gone by the time they did.

KRASER’s cockpit was littered with levers and lights, three specially prepared seats welcoming the crew as they scrambled inside. Gerry took the center station and flipped switchers on his console, prepping the robot.

Lights slowly flickered to life as Andrea ran through the startup checklist as Gerry ran diagnostics on his side. She sealed the cabin and let out a quiet sigh. The Army would need a dozen tanks to peel the team out of KRASER now that the giant seals clanked shut. A few more buttons pushed and she heard the familiar hum of the robot’s systems coming online.

“Weapons free, all systems go.”

Gerry pointed at the hangar doors, still locked down. “What do we do about that?”

“No time to be gentle,” she said with a laugh.

Gerry grinned and together, the two set the robot in motion. KRASER brushed aside the boarding ramp and the robot charged toward the doors.

“You’re not going to…” Will’s question dropped away. “Oh, never mind. Of course you are.”

KRASER crashed into the hangar doors with a resounding boom. The doors gave way without resistance, both crumpling under the robot’s force and falling away.

“We’re free,” Gerry shouted while Will shook his head, adjusting his headphones.

KRASER built up speed as the team piloted it across the nearly empty tarmac. The few soldiers still around to witness the robot’s breakout stared with wide-eyed awe at its passing. Andrea grinned at them, though she knew they couldn’t see her. This was what KRASER was built for, and everyone would see it in action one last time.

~

Colonel Ausum cursed as he slammed into the asphalt. The beast had tricked him, and he’d fallen for it like a novice. His ears rang inside the helmet, stars dotting his eyes, but he wasn’t about to let Grimmgarl get the better of him. He drew on his power as the alligator rolled to its feet and rose up over him. It planned to rip Ausum apart, but the Colonel had other plans.

He grunted as Grimmgarl hurtled toward him, the Shin Bakutetsu welling up at his fingertips. Glimmer of light shone about his palms as the power burst loose. It caught Grimmgarl in the chest. Flashes of light rippled across the Kaiju’s flesh as it was flung backward from the blow as though it had collided with a bullet train the size of King Kong. The creature fell into the nearby cluster of buildings, taking a huge swath of them with her. Ausum hoped no one was still inside, but he didn’t have time for concern. If he didn’t stop Grimmgarl now, a couple casualties wouldn’t matter—the entire city would follow.

His ki stores dry, Ausum had burnt out his most effective weapon. Given enough time he would recover and might be able to land another blast somewhere more effective, but until then, the fight would be hand against claw. The Colonel sighed. That particular thought didn’t exactly fill him with joy.

Grimmgarl roared as she thrashed and got back to her feet. There was still plenty of fight left in her. She reared back, keeping her distance as if she knew Ausum was exhausted. When she opened her mouth, purple slivers of energy flew from that gaping chasm. Ausum went to sidestep but was too slow. Spears the color of plums pierced his chest, ripping through the armored spandex outfit and impaling him as if he’d fallen on a cactus. He reached to yank the points out only to have them explode, their tips shredding flesh and muscle from the inside. Ausum screamed as the agony overwhelmed him, his legs giving way and dropping him to his knees. Blood spilled down his chest and shrouded his purple in rivers of red. He looked up at Grimmgarl and imagined he saw the beast grin. They both knew today would not belong to him.

And then Grimmgarl disappeared, a trail of toppling ruins swallowing her up.

The Colonel’s eyes snapped to the purple and gold shape that crept through the dust of battle on the heels of the beast. Emotion welled in his throat at the sight.

“Now a good time, Colonel?” Andrea’s voice spilled from the giant robot. He could hear her smile behind the words.

Still catching his breath, Ausum gave KRASER a thumbs up. “Don’t let her off the hook,” he said, his voice barely carrying across the space between them.

KRASER just nodded and yanked its tomahawks from the sheaths at its back, stomping off after the Kaiju.

~

Andrea triggered the tomahawks’ special properties as she chased after Grimmgarl. The right glowed with searing heat while the left shimmered with energy. She charged in with the robot, lunging at Grimmgarl. The creature’s head snapped their direction, eyes training on KRASER as it came through the dust.

The beast snapped at the robot and jumped away from the axes, but Andrea had caught her unprepared. Grimmgarl howled as KRASER sliced deeply into her backside with the heated axe, rotten flesh sizzling beneath the blow and cauterizing the wound as it cut.

“Sure am glad to be in here,” Gerry called across the comms as the external sensors warned of the rank air outside the robot.

Andrea chuckled under her breath, but she knew better than to lose focus. Grimmgarl wasn’t some bully picking on kids in the playground. She was a full blown Kaiju with the potential to wreak unlimited destruction. Her undead body had been raised and empowered by dark voodoo, born and raised again to be a killer of mankind. Andrea knew the alligator wasn’t going down with a single blow, so she stayed on the offensive. Gerry stayed in sync with her as the two brought the robot about to continue their assault.

“Ready the big guns,” Andrea shouted as she closed on the Kaiju. Gerry grunted an affirmative.

Axes cut through the air and whatever blackened flesh they could reach. Grimmgarl growled and snapped at the robot, red eyes gleaming with fury, but Andrea kept the beast at bay, raining down one cleaving blow after another. Blood smoked off the blades, wafts of it steaming across the viewport. Andrea glanced to the screens to gauge her next blow when a particularly thick drift obscured her sight.

That drift helped Grimmgarl manage to parry one of the axes. Its forepaw crashed into KRASER’s wrist and stopped the arm cold in mid-swing. Servos groaned as the arm fought the sudden stop, but the creature offered no respite. It swung its head about and slammed dead into the chest of the robot. Steel groaned as KRASER’s torso armor buckled. An earthquake shook the cabin before the stabilizers kicked in and steadied it. The robot staggered back.

“Status?” Andrea shouted as she clutched to her controls.

“Structural integrity took a hit,” Gerry called out. “But all weapons are still go.”

“I’m alright, just waiting for my heart to come back down my throat,” Will added.

Andrea ignored the tech and throttled the robot back to keep it standing as Gerry did the same on his end. Grimmgarl loosed a triumphant bellow as it closed on them once more.

At the behest of Andrea, KRASER sheathed its tomahawks, and then stretched its empty hands towards Grimmgarl. Both began to spin in place, blurs of gold. Grimmgarl slowed, gaze locked on the whirling appendages. It eyes went wide then, almost recognizing what the team intended.

Gerry didn’t let her slip away. He slammed a flashing pair of buttons and screamed, “ROCKET! PUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNCH!”

KRASER’s forearms shot off at the elbow, spouting fire from the end. Like rockets, the fists spinning and gathering momentum, the arms careened toward Grimmgarl. The beats twisted away but there was no escape, the thrusters too quick to avoid.

The first slammed into her exposed side. There was a thunderous crack as bones gave way beneath the blow. Grimmgarl stumbled just as the second fist clipped its skull. The creature’s eyes rolled back and it fell. The building at her back gave way beneath her bulk and the force of the blows driving her backward, steel and glass welcoming her into the fold as both went down in a heap together.

Inside the cockpit, the crew watched as the beast disappeared beneath the shining wreckage, hundreds of tons of debris crashing down on top of it. The world around them was muted by the electronic filters, Grimmgarl’s fall sounding unsettlingly quiet. Her tail twitched, the only part of the Kaiju still visible, and then went still as the last of the building came down. A storm of dust blocked out their vision, but Andrea watched the sensors like a hawk. If Grimmgarl so much as gasped for air she would know, but the beast lay still as the rubble slowed and started to settle.

“And she’s done!” Gerry shouted. “Take that Jansen.”

Andrea heard Will breathe heavily in relief at her back, but knew their euphoria would be short lived. Sure they’d beaten Grimmgarl, but that wouldn’t stop General Jansen from screwing them to the fullest extent of his authority. They’d stolen a powerful weapon from the government, and Andrea couldn’t see Jansen letting them get away with it regardless of what they’d just done.

It wasn’t like they could rally the public to their cause, either. Outside of a handful of people, no one knew who piloted KRASER. That was for safety purposes, they’d been told, but she also knew it was because it would be easier to replace pilots if no one knew who the hell they were. To the people of the world, KRASER was just a robot. As long as it kept fighting, no one would care who was plugged inside.

“You all right,” asked Gerry. The weight of his stare bore down on her.

Andrea lied. “Yeah, I was just—” The shriek of the motion sensors stole her breath.

Grimmgarl’s tail disappeared into the wreckage, but the rest of her surged from the shambles of the collapsed building. Something golden gleamed in her jaws.

“What the fuck is that?” Gerry managed to ask before the answer became apparent.

Grimmgarl clenched one of KRASER’s arms in its mouth. It leapt from the wreckage and whipped its head to the side, the massive steel fist slamming into KRASER’s metallic cheek. Feedback squealed through the headphones at the impact, sparks flying through the cockpit as sensors exploded. The acrid stink of burning rubber filled the room.

“We’re going down!” Andrea shouted as the robot did exactly that, handless arms flailing as it the robot fell to its back with a resounding crunch.

“We are so fucked.” Will clasped to his harness with one hand while the other flew across the controls trying to rein in the damage.

“I remember this being your idea,” Gerry told Andrea as the pair struggled against gravity to get the robot up before Grimmgarl followed up. “Got any more good ones?”

Andrea just growled in response as the Kaiju alligator filled the viewport, giant teeth slathered in ichor and rot, the maw closing in on them. Her stomach knotted as she manhandled the controls, noting the sluggish response. She wouldn’t be in time.

Grimmgarl slammed into KRASER with the force of a nuclear blast. The viewport went black as Andrea whiplashed into her seat. Her vision followed.

~

Colonel Ausum saw the robot go down. Still a block away, he cursed his weakness but ran on. He hadn’t fully recovered from his Shin Bakutetsu, but he was all out of time. The pilots had given him a breather, and it was time to return the favor. He reached out and ripped an I-beam from a half-demolished building, the steel snapping from a solid tug with his arm. Without bothering to aim, he turned the beam in his hand and threw it at Grimmgarl as though it were a spear. It hurtled clumsily through the air, but that was good enough.

The beast had clamped its teeth down on KRASER’s torso when the beam thudded off its skull. Grimmgarl’s head was snapped sideways, its maw ripped loose from the robot, shards of metal glistening between its teeth. Its legs slid off its opponent as she tried to catch her balance.

Ausum wouldn’t have any of that. He closed the distance between them and jumped over the prone robot, wrapping his around Grimmgarl’s neck. He knew there was no chance to choke the air from her undead lungs, but if he could keep her head immobilized long enough, KRASER might get to its feet and finish the fight. Ausum tightened his grip, feeling his arms warm from the effort. He’d already reached his limits, but sheer force of will kept him going.

The two rolled as Grimmgarl struggled, sharpened wreckage stabbing and tearing at Ausum as he held tight. He concentrated on holding on. There was no doubt he’d tire before the Kaiju did, but he had to give the mech’s crew time to recover. That was his last hope.

~

Andrea groaned as she started coming to. Smoke filled her lungs, and she choked, fighting its invasive touch. Gerry hacked up a lung beside her, and Will quietly coughed into his sleeve. Lights flickered across the controls, warning of failures across the board.

“Everyone okay?”

“Define okay,” Will asked.

Andrea glanced over her shoulder at him to see a trickle of blood running from his forehead down his cheek. Other than that, he looked fine. She glanced over at her co-pilot. Gerry looked like he was growing another shiner, but he looked alright too.

“How’s the mech?”

Will’s eyes scoured the panels and punched a couple buttons. The hum of KRASER’s engines coming online was sweet music.

“No hands, half the sensors shot, lots of structural damage, left leg servos burnt out, and about fifteen minutes left of filtered air before we’re forced to crack a window so we can breathe,” he answered, “but other than that, KRASER’s peachy.”

Andrea snorted as she and Gerry rolled the robot onto its side and used the stumps of its arms to climb back to its feet. “Peachy will have to do.”

Gerry shrugged as the robot trundled forward. “I’m not complaining.” One leg dragged as the mech chased after the Kaiju and the Colonel.

As the pair appeared on the cracked screens, Andrea cursed, fingers flitting across the controls. “You forgot to mention we don’t have any weapons left, Will. Jewel Cannon’s offline.”

“Minor details,” he said, following the same pattern along the controls as she had. “Well, that’s not entirely true.” He pointed to the panel.

She glanced over at him and slumped into her harness when she saw where his finger led.

“You’re kidding.” Gerry breathed, looking back and forth between the pair.

“You got a better idea?”

Gerry grunted. “Fuck it.” This was the last hurrah anyway, right?

Andrea drew a deep breath and nodded.

Will closed his eyes, trying to stay calm.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Andrea said.

Gerry grinned and leaned into his controls. “It’s go time!”

KRASER lumbered forward, Andrea timing its approach so it was Grimmgarl on top of the roll when they reached the struggling pair. She and Gerry maneuvered the stubs of KRASER’s arms and shoved them between Ausum and the beast, stopping their motion. Grimmgarl squirmed and screeched at the unexpected interference, but the robot had her. KRASER slid her arms under the creature until the two forearms clanged together.

“Lock them,” Andrea called out, and Will followed through.

A metallic hum sounded inside the cabin as the arms became one, servos sliding gears together until both limbs were joined at the forearms.

“You sure you want to do this?” Gerry asked. “Last chance to back out.”

Andrea shook her head. “It’s all we’ve got.”

Gerry nodded and opened the rear escape hatch. “Then take a walk while I take care of business.”

“Screw you,” she told him. “My plan, my responsibility.”

“There’s no way I’m letting—”

Will’s huge frame appeared between them. His hands yanked Gerry’s harness open and had him out of the chair before he could complain. Andrea gasped and released her own belt, but before she’d even slipped out of the chair, Will had tossed Gerry through the hatch. Gerry screamed as he fell away, a parachute flaring to life within seconds.

“What the hell are you doing?” Andrea shouted.

Will grabbed her arms and spun her around with ease. “If I make it, you owe me a stiff drink.”

With that, he threw Andrea after Gerry. She watched the hatch slam shut as she landed on the ground alongside Gerry.

Will flipped on a speaker, speaking to the Colonel. “Better move your ass. I don’t think you want to come with us.”

Ausum scrambled out from beneath the thrashing Kaiju as KRASER stepped back, dragging the beast with it.

“Don’t do this,” Andrea screamed. Gerry stood beside her in stunned silence.

“Too late,” Will said, the words nearly drowned in the sudden wash of roaring engines.

Dust whirled up around them as Colonel Ausum slid his giant hands in front of Andrea and Gerry to keep the whipping debris from, striking them. Andrea peered through the cracks of the Colonel’s fingers as KRASER’s boot jets roared, flames spewing from beneath. Before she knew it, the robot shot into the air, carrying the massive alligator with it.

Andrea barely heard herself shout a desperate plea as she watched the mech and Kaiju fly higher and higher until they were nothing more than a black speck in the hazy sky.

“How far are they going?” Gerry asked, his hand cupped over his eyes,

Andrea stared off after them. “The rockets have enough juice to get him into the lower atmosphere, maybe a little further.”

Gerry’s head snapped her direction. “Do you really think he’d…?”

The question trailed off as Andrea nodded. “Anything less and Grimmgarl will shrug it off.” Even then she wasn’t sure.

An uncomfortable silence settled over the group as they stared off into the blank emptiness where Will and the giant beast had just been. Andrea tried to think quickly—was that going to be high enough?

“Is that them?” Ausum asked, pointed upward.

Andrea followed his finger and spied a tiny darkness. It grew larger as she stared, her heart pounding in her chest. It was Will.

KRASER plummeted toward earth, sunlight gleaming off its steel frame. Andrea could recognize the darker shape of Grimmgarl still clutched in the robot’s arms, writhing around to get free. The pair plunged back towards the ground, jet boots flickering on and off in one direction. It was clear they weren’t landing anywhere near where they’d taken flight.

“Where the hell is he going?” Gerry asked.

“Leading her away from the city,” Andrea answered, pride tinting the gloom in her voice. Will had steered KRASER toward the airport, the robot and Grimmgarl careening towards one of the runways. “It’s not the fall that kills you...”

Moments later the robot and the Kaiju crashed, their impact sending shockwaves across New Orleans.

~

Andrea stood beside the wreckage of the robot, tears in her eyes. Gerry was beside her and Colonel Ausum hovered at their backs. He’d carried them across the city to where KRASER had crashed, but there was seemingly nothing left to be done.

The robot laid in a shattered heap, parts and pieces strewn across the tarmac. Andrea feared the worst, feared that his machine would be his resting place. But against all odds, Will was still strapped into his chair inside what was left of the cabin. He was covered in blood, his limbs clearly broken in several places. Will might never walk, or do much of anything again, but he’d lived. Gerry and Andrea huddled around Will, his breathing labored. That was enough for them both, who felt relief as they turned to see what was left of the Kaiju.

Grimmgarl had fared only slightly better. The beast’s back was twisted and mangled, its lower half torn nearly off and turned backwards so that it rested upon the creature’s skull. Foul guts littered the runways and had repainted the terminal in rancid greens and blacks. The smell was overwhelming, but Andrea couldn’t bring herself to care. They’d won, but at almost too high a price. And while they’d dodged a bullet with Will stubbornly refusing to die, there was more to come. Andrea hadn’t forgotten what they’d done, what price their victory had come at.

The sirens that had howled for the last fifteen minutes closed upon the airport, a single car screeching to a halt at their backs flanked by ambulances. Gerry slumped against the cabin walls, still watching Will breathe in shock.

“He is a true teammate,” the Colonel said as footsteps stamped en masse toward them.

“Excuse me.”

Someone came up alongside them, and Andrea saw a giant of a man in a beige suit appear. He tugged at his green tie. “Pardon me, are you Nadler and Jenkins?” His hair was an unruly mess, more like white moss than hair.

Andrea nodded. “That’s us. You here to arrest us?”

The man looked at them befuddled. “Arrest you? I think not. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Mr. Harg. I’m here to offer you and your crew a job.”

“Are you fucking blind?” Gerry shouted. “A third of our crew is crippled for life and our robot is right there with him.”

Mr. Harg gave a solemn nod. “My condolences for Mister Taswell’s condition, but the ruin of your mech is exactly why I’m here, Mr. Nadler.” He tossed a thick manila envelope to Gerry while medics slipped by and started to cut Will free of his restraints. “I’m here to do everything I can to ensure the three of you and your robot continue to do the job you’re best suited for: fighting Kaiju.”

Gerry went slack-jawed. He just stared at the man. “But Will is—”

“Let my doctors worry about him. There are new procedures for men in his state.”

Andrea was more curious than anything. “What’s the catch?”

“Only that you three continue to put up a fight against the other Kaiju.” Mr. Harg’s smile was gentle. “That’s the only point I must insist on.”

The wail of sirens grew even louder as an army of police and military vehicles roared to a stop a short distance from the ambulances.

Andrea motioned to them as the officers and soldiers spilled from the trucks and vans, guns drawn. “Well, you’ll need to keep us out of jail if you want us to fight Kaiju.”

Mr. Harg glanced over his shoulder at the approaching men and smiled. “I’m sure I can manage something.”

The Serpent’s Heart

Howard Andrew Jones

For a night and a day we had drifted, and we five had but two sips left in our waterskin. The calm waters stretched to every horizon, lapping gently at the side of our boat, now green, now blue. The tropic sun blazed down.

We spoke sometimes of the hope for a ship, for we floated along one of the caliphate’s most frequented trade routes. Mostly, though, we were silent and morose, thinking of the friends who had drowned within sight of us, and wondering if we would live to set eyes upon our homes. I’d always thought it likely I’d perish at my friend Dabir’s side, but had expected to meet my end warding him from some enemy. All of my skills were useless against thirst and the relentless sun.

The temperature finally eased a few degrees as daylight died. And then the black ship sailed up out of the twilight gloom.

It was a long, high vessel with four square masts. I had never seen its like, and felt a strange foreboding. The cook swore under his breath and whispered darkly of evil djinn.

The first mate, a sturdy black by the name of Ghassan, cursed him to silence. My friend Dabir, in his calm, reasonable way, explained this must be a vessel from the land of Chin. He pointed out the even horizontal lines that divided the sail, which he said was typical of their junks, though he admitted he’d never imagined they were this large.

“Still,” he said, his blue eyes twinkling, “so great a ship should have plenty of extra water.”

His good spirits soon had all of us waving our arms and shouting in joyous anticipation, even the surly cook, who’d sprained his ankle when he dropped into the boat.

The vessel tacked towards us and our laconic helmsman spoke at last, joking that even foreign fare would be better than our cook’s, which provoked a round of nervous laughter. It being near to the evening prayer, I led us in hurried devotions while that black ship drew ever closer.

My apprehension grew stronger as it neared. Though the ocean had never been my home, I was, by those years, no stranger to sea craft. Yet I’d never seen one with such a high rising stern. Huge red eyes were painted on the pointed prow, which lent it a monstrous aspect made all the more disquieting because of the steady metallic clank somewhere deep within the hull. As its ebon shadow fell over us, the craft seemed less a ship than a predator with a steel heart.

I counted fifteen silhouettes along the high rail but couldn’t make out any faces. The helmsman wondered aloud whether they thought us threatening. Surely so many men would not worry over so few. It is true that we looked a little rough. In the mad scramble to abandon ship we’d lost our turbans, and so many hours in the rowboat had left our robes disheveled and stained. The cook was a bit paunchy, but helmsman and mate were hardy sailors; and Dabir and I were both in the prime of life. Though Dabir was a lean scholar, and some gray had touched his spade beard, he did not look a weakling. And as for me, well, as my wife would have told you, I was a striking figure of a man. But we were clearly in need of assistance.

Besides, if those aboard meant us harm, we could make little but a brave noise, for I alone had retained my sword. The others carried only knives

A broad figure leaned against the rail and called down to us, his voice deep and clipped with the accent of Chin folk. “Who are you, and what are you doing?”

Even I knew this was not the customary way to hail a vessel at sea and our sailors exchanged worried looks. The speaker sounded inordinately suspicious, as if we might somehow conceal a horde of pirates in our open boat.

Dabir lifted his hands to his mouth, forming a speaking trumpet. “Our own ship was destroyed,” he called up. “We are the only survivors. Can you help—”

The man’s voice remained wary. “Destroyed by what?”

Dabir hesitated only a moment. “A great fish.”

I would have described it as a vast demon serpent, although I suppose Dabir was accurate to a point. He likewise neglected to mention how the monster had smashed our vessel with its huge armored head until the ship buckled, like a warrior with a broken back.

At Dabir’s words excited chattering broke out all along the rail, but as I do not speak any tongue from Chin, I could not understand them.

“What are they saying?” I asked Dabir

Even in the dimming light there was no missing the droll look he gave me.

“Well,” I said defensively, “you speak all sorts of languages.”

“Aye, and you eat all sorts of foods. That doesn’t mean you can cook them.”

I would gladly have retorted with something clever, save that nothing occurred to me. Besides, a new figure had thrust past the others and now gripped the rail. Someone slender, and my suspicion was confirmed the moment the woman leaned out and addressed us. Her accent less pronounced than that of the man.

“How long ago did the monster attack?” Her voice was tense and commanding. “Is it near?”

“A day and a night past,” Dabir relayed. “We may have driven it off,” he added, for she was looking now to her ship’s stern, almost as though she expected the great beast to pop up from the waves and start gnawing. “We wounded it severely.”

Those words gained her full attention. Though I could not see her eyes, I felt the strength of her gaze fasten upon Dabir. “How did you do that?” she asked.

“If you wish to hear more,” my friend answered, “perhaps we could discuss matters aboard your ship.”

A bare pause was quickly followed with warmer tones. “But of course. We would have welcomed you in any case. Dewei, put the ladder overside so that our guests may join us. We will haul up your boat as well,” she added

She stepped from the rail, and the fellow she’d named as Dewei began barking orders to the rest of the crew in the language of his people.

“I’d have liked it better if she’d been swifter to offer help,” I said.

“I’m surprised she wasn’t more skeptical of my claim,” Dabir told me quietly. And at my questioning look he explained: “She knows of the monster.”

I wasn’t entirely sure how he knew that, but before I could ask, the lanky helmsman interrupted.

“For myself,” he quipped, “I’d have liked it better if her ship didn’t look like it’d been coughed up from hell and painted by Iblis, but I’ll take what I can get.”

Ghassan shushed him.

Dewei let down the rope ladder. I sent the cook up first, and Ghassan went close behind, to steady the fellow should he have trouble with his bad ankle. The helmsman went after, and then me.

My legs were stiff after sitting so long within that boat, and I stretched as well as I could whilst climbing the high side of that black ship. Now that I was beside the hull I heard not just one loud clanking, but others besides, as though mad musicians, bereft of drumskins, kept time by beating pipes together.

The weather deck resembled none I had ever seen. Long metal tubes projected out from various holds, and some of them moved up and down, letting off puffs of noxious steam that smelled of foul eggs. Also there were sharper chemical odors, and chains affixed to clanking winches. Lanterns hung upon masts and dangled from the nearest spar, and by their light I discovered that the majority of the crew were folk of Chin, although their numbers were sprinkled with a few Arabs and Indians. In amongst all the strangeness was the faint cluck of chickens, for the crews of ocean going ships cannot subsist solely on preserved foods.

Dewei proved a massive fellow who wore his hair tied back from his broad forehead. His narrow eyes fell immediately to my sword, and he demanded I relinquish it.

“Nay,” I told him. “I guard Dabir.”

“You will give up the sword,” Dewei instructed me imperiously, “or die.”

I smiled at him. “Then we will die together.”

At that moment Dabir reached the deck. I would have stepped to offer him a hand, but Dewei and I were gauging one another.

“If he is the captain’s bodyguard,” the woman’s voice said from somewhere in the gloom, “let him keep the sword a while longer.”

This sounded reasonable enough save for that final phrase. Dewei bowed his head to her and she drew closer.

The woman of Chin was petite and spare, wrapped in a scarlet robe, and lovely in a severe way. I would tell you of the beauty of her almond eyes, but their fine form was undercut by a calculating coldness. Do not think I demean the wit of women, for Dabir’s wife could talk rings around me, and my own Najya was shrewder than I in many affairs. What I mean is that she was one of those who gauged everything in sums and balance sheets, be it beast or man.

“I am the Lady Xin,” she told Dabir. “You will dine with me, Captain, and tell me how you wounded the monster. Your man can go with the others of lesser station. They will be cared for, I assure you.”

“Captain Asim’s station is as high as my own,” Dabir told her, and for a man with untamed hair and a bedraggled robe he managed a great deal of dignity.

“He is captain? Not you?” she asked.

“He was captain of the vizier’s guard,” Dabir continued, “and has often sat at the right hand of the caliph himself. I am the scholar Dabir ibn Khalil, and it has been my fortune to be likewise favored.”

Once more her eyes fell to me, and then back to Dabir. “So the ship’s captain…”

“Drowned or devoured, Lady Xin,” Dabir told her.

“It was Dabir’s plan that lured, then harmed the monster,” I told her. “The ship’s captain but followed his orders.”

“Very well,” she said. “Dewei, have the others tended below, then join us. And get under way as soon as their boat is pulled aboard.”

Dewei bowed formally to her, then moved off without so much as another glance at me or Dabir.

Ghassan and the others looked a little nervous, but Dabir advised them to stay together, and go with God.

“Yes, honored one,” Ghassan said. “Come on lads.” He made a brave show of following a beckoning sailor, and the helmsman lent a shoulder to the cook. I did not like this but had grown accustomed to the separation of folk by class and station when nobles were involved.

A wizened Chinese servant led us after the woman and up a long gangway. We passed a burly helmsman, and then Dabir and I were directed into a tiny cabin back of him. The ship rose higher yet, at least two decks, to that ridiculously high stern.

We found ourselves in a dainty water closet, complete with a cushioned toilet and a wash basin and two large pitches of water. The servant mimed for us to wash hands and faces and gestured likewise to some scented soaps lying upon a shelf before he left us.

Dabir and I cleaned up as best we could. We might have accomplished more had we not simply drunk two thirds of the water before we even set to our efforts. He and I were both men of discipline, but we had a great thirst, even if that water tasted of long storage in wooden barrels.

When we finally decided we had done our best, the servant outside led us through a door beside the water closet. We found ourselves in a paneled cabin hung with beautiful silk paintings of strange pointed buildings and misty mountains. Two quiet guardsman, all in black, girded with swords, waited against the wall, swaying alike with the three paper lanterns hung above the table. A pair of wizened Chinese servants placed covered dishes in the table’s midst. Some other must recently have set the stunning white and blue plates.

Lady Xin already sat at the table’s head, and she gestured to empty places two chairs down from her. “The cooks were preparing the evening meal just as your little boat was sighted,” she told us.

Wine was brought, but I demurred, and Dabir explained to Lady Xin that such was forbidden. I had seen Dabir imbibe wine many a time, but I think this night he wished to keep things simple, and perhaps keep his mind clear. Thus were we served more of the stale water.

Strange delicacies were laid before us, and it was to my sorrow that most were fish of different sorts. I do not care for fish, be it fried or broiled or steamed or sliced into tiny pieces and smothered in sauce. Truly, I had a great hunger, but there was nothing for me but rice, fresh fowl, and a platter heavy with dried peaches and apricots.

The woman sipped at her wine, nibbled on the fish, and watched us closely.

I had lived long in Baghdad and ventured far, so I had seen folk of Chin before, but never a woman such as this. I had judged her a noblewoman, and wondered whether many noblewomen of Chin commanded ships. I did not think so. Under her loose silk robe she wore a stiff collared black blouse parted just at that lovely feminine juncture between her collar bones, where she displayed a petal cinnabar necklace. Her fingernails were scarlet, long almost as the talons of a beast, though her manner was extremely refined. Indeed, she held herself with the stiff dignity of the caliph’s chief wife.

“You say that you harmed the serpent,” she said at last. “How was it done?”

“I did not say it was a serpent,” Dabir answered.

The two stared at each other. She tapped the rim of her goblet. “Very well, scholar. I know of the beast you described, and I would very much like it dead. Do you believe you killed it?”

“It is possible,” Dabir told her. “But unlikely. What do you know about it?”

She answered his question with one of her own. “Why are you after it?”

I could not guess what Dabir was thinking, for his expression was unreadable. Likely he debated how much to reveal. In the end, he apparently decided upon frank disclosure.

“The monster’s been harassing merchants of the caliphate for the last two months, all along the main sea route between Basra and India. It followed two or three of them for long hours, and a half dozen others have disappeared entirely.”

“And so your caliph sent you to hunt it?”

“Yes,” Dabir agreed. We had actually left under orders of the vizier, who dispatched us whenever some strange issue vexed the caliphate. He did this in part to please the caliph and, for reasons too complex to relate here, in partial hope that we would fail to return.

She lifted her fine goblet to ruby lips and took a dainty sip before returning it to the table. “So how did you attack it?”

Dabir then related how we had gone out in one of the fastest of the caliph’s ships, with a trained regiment of spearmen, and told her how the barbed spears were tied to weighted drogues, which he hoped would drag against the beast’s weight and tire it.

“Alas, the monster proved even larger than I had been told.” Dabir smiled wryly. “And I’d hoped there had been some exaggeration. We pierced it with at least a dozen spears before it destroyed our ship. It was so enraged that it set upon the men amongst the wreckage. It was swimming after our boat until Captain Asim plunged a spear through its right eye.”

He omitted the following moment where I tumbled backwards and struck my head against an oarlock.

She considered me without any great interest as Dabir spoke on.

“The creature thrashed about in the water before diving deep. We thought it would rise up and chew our boat to splinters, but never returned.”

The woman tapped the side of her goblet. “I had hoped you had something more clever.”

“I do,” Dabir said.

Her eyes snapped up to him once more, but neither spoke. There was nothing to be heard by the creak of the ship upon the waves and the ever present metal clanging.

“What is your plan, scholar?”

“First I wish you to tell me why the serpent hunts you.”

She stopped in the very midst of taking a breath. Her delicate nostrils flared. “How did you deduce that?”

“The only common feature of the ships the serpent harassed,” Dabir said, “were high stern decks. Like your own. Then was the evident concern when we told you we’d encountered it. You know and fear it.”

At that moment Dewei announced himself with a knock and was granted permission to enter. He came to stand behind Lady Xin, reporting quietly in Chin to her ear.

“How are our men?” Dabir asked. “Do you have a doctor aboard to look at our cook?”

“We have bandaged him,” Dewei said, looking self-satisfied.

Lady Xin shot him a disapproving look. “They have, of course, been well tended. Scholar, you are astute. The monster does hunt me. I have been cursed by a sorceress who desires my secrets. If she cannot have them, she would sink my ship. Thus must I remain upon the move.”

“Why haven’t you simply left the ocean?” Dabir asked.

She spread her hands. “The Black Lotus is my life’s work!” Her voice rose indignantly. “Now tell me. What is your plan? Is there some way to defeat the serpent?”

“Its efficacy depends in part upon your stores. Lovely as your skin is,” he said, “there is no missing the stains upon your fingertips. You speak of your life’s work, I assume there is alchemy involved?”

“You are entirely too clever,” she told him coolly. There was admiration in her voice, yes, but there was no missing the threat there besides.

“I’ve spent much time around alchemists,” Dabir said easily, then offered a slight smile. It might have disarmed some other woman.

“As to your plan,” she pressed.

“As to our fate,” Dabir countered. “If I share this plan with you, I want food and water set within our boat, and to be set free upon it with my comrades.”

“Done,” she said easily. “You do not want transport to Basra itself?”

Dabir shook his head, and I knew not why, lest he wanted away from the ship as soon as possible. He looked over to me, but I could offer no reassurance. I did not trust her, yet perhaps she was eager enough for the information that she would honor her word. What other hope did we have?

He must have decided the same. “The matter is simple. The monster eats.” Dabir’s voice grew grim, for he had seen it chase down sailors from our crew. “We entice it to eat something that will kill it.”

The woman leaned forward intently. “You mean to poison it.”

“Aye. I do not know your stores, but I see you have apricots and peaches. Their pits, if ground, will produce a fine poison. So too is cinnabar poison, and likely you have arsenic and other potent powders known only to Chinese alchemists.”

She touched her necklace with one long nail. “I would be loath to part with my cinnabar. I have a priceless collection.”

“How much do you value your life?” Dabir asked her.

The Lady ignored this question. “How do you judge how much of any of these substances to give the creature? We had many pits, I’m certain, when first we took on stores–“ here her eyes flickered to the dried fruit “—but the cooks may have been pitching them overboard since.”

“Hazard all your poisons at once,” Dabir advised. “I am certain I smelled sulfur mixed in with the steam when we boarded. Such would not kill the creature, but it certainly wouldn’t aid its health. “

Dewei broke in, scoffing, “How do you propose to entice the serpent to consume foul smelling substances? Ask it to hold still while we pour them down its throat?”

Dabir answered him as though his question had been phrased politely. “Fill a watertight barrel with all the most potent poisons in the ship. Smear it with the flesh and blood of some of your fowl.”

“And suppose something else eats the lure?” Dewei demanded. “There are sharks in these waters.”

“That’s the most dangerous part,” Dabir agreed. “Are you willing to risk much for your freedom?” He looked down the table at Lady Xin. “If the monster tracks you, all you need do is slow, and wait for its arrival.”

Dewei made a rude noise.

“Silence,” the woman told him, then studied Dabir. “Your plan has greater merit than any I’ve yet heard. It will be expensive… but having the thing dead will be worth any price. Very well. Dewei,” She spoke to him in Chinese and he listened, nodding. He considered us with a frown, then a smile, then his expression cleared.

“I am giving you and your man access to my chemical stores, scholar,” Lady Xin told us. “Dewei will accompany you. A barrel will be provided. It should not take long to prepare this little trap,” she went on, “so I will order the ship to slow now. Dewei?”

Her man opened the door and gestured for us to precede him.

The woman did not rise to bid us farewell, nor offer any word of parting.

The sky was shot with stars, obscured by strands of cloud hung upon the sky like tattered banners. Truly, only in the deep desert and upon the sea can one gaze upon the heavens in their greatest majesty. Staring into that immensity I held the brief fancy that I was in danger of falling up into the darkness.

Dewei guided us through a forest of those strange sliding pipes and then we descended after him into a long cramped narrow underdeck, small enough that I was forced to duck my head. The clanking was most loud, though I could likewise imagine I heard the pounding of my own heart. No matter the woman’s assurances, I did not trust her.

Finally Dewei opened a door to starboard and, still smirking, gestured within.

I stepped through into a chamber of horrors.

The scent of blood permeated the place. Dozens of men lay on pallets thrown over low tables, still as death, dim light shining down on glazed eyes in slackened faces. A sickly green object was fastened about the chest of each man, and attached to each was a snaking, jerking tendril that led off towards a clanking metal contraption alive with spinning wheels.

Those upon the pallets came from many lands: Chin, India, Arabia, Ethiopia, and others I could not name. Most were dressed as sailors. All but the nearest, our comrades, were emaciated, and even Ghassan, the cook, and the helmsman were paling. Three burly crewman were advancing around the tables toward me, bludgeons in hand.

“You shared your plan,” Dewei crowed. “Now all the captain needs is your blood!”

He stood still in the hallway, with Dabir, at whom he had pointed a sword.

You may wonder how it was I survived such a moment, but it was simpler than you think. If Dewei wished to assault us and win he should not have stopped to gloat.

I’d grown used to carrying a curved sword in part because it was one of the few things left to me from my father, may peace be his. But I prized them also because a skilled wielder may draw and strike at once.

The men with bludgeons were close, and my sword was but half drawn when the first rushed me. He took an elbow to the mouth as my sword came clear. He staggered into a table and both he and the insensate man upon it tumbled to the deck.

My next assailant, a man of Indian extraction instinctively warded my strike by throwing up his hands and discovered too late how finely I hone my sword, for I sheared both limbs off below the wrists. He sank screaming to his knees as blood fountained from the stumps.

Behind, Dewei cursed and shouted to his followers, who seemed reluctant to close upon me. Thus he ignored Dabir and ducked through the doorway, stabbing at my flank.

I sidestepped, slipping a little on the bloody deck, so that my return strike crossed not through his chest but his lantern, which splintered, spraying hot oil across his shirt, which flared up an instant later.

Dewei dropped the flaming remnant of his lantern to the floor, along with his sword, to beat at his shirt. Dewei did not end his life on fire, for Dabir’s push set the man into my sword edge.

This was enough for the third sailor, for he ran toward the darkness forward, screaming alarm. Tongues of flame, meanwhile, licked eagerly across the deck.

I called out to Ghassan, our first mate, and his eyes flickered feebly.

“What is this?” I asked Dabir.

He answered in disgust. “Sorcery.”

“Why does it always have to be sorcery?” I asked as I stepped to Ghassan. “Isn’t a giant sea serpent enough of a problem?” I cut the line that led to Ghassan’s chest. Blood flowed briefly from the connection and then the line fell away, like a withered vine.

I helped Ghassan to stand.

Dabir, meanwhile, roused the helmsman, though he was even more groggy than the first mate. The cook couldn’t be wakened at all, which meant I had to carry the fat man over one shoulder.

Fast as we moved, the fire moved faster, and that space quickly filled with smoke and crackling red flames. We heard the patter of feet on the decks overhead, and some out in the corridor beyond, and we knew we had no more time, even had it seemed possible to save the wretched souls stretched on tables all around us.

Dabir had stolen glances toward that clanking bronze machine. “Dabir!” I cried. “We’ve got to get to the deck, and our boat!”

“We’ll need water,” he said distractedly, but led us toward a door in the stern.

It was wedged tight until I kicked it thrice. When it yielded before me we saw that we’d arrived at another cabin with yet another clanking machine, fed by a larger glowing sorcerous line, likely funneled from the one attached to the bleeding men. Further, this machine stretched from deck to rafter.

Had we been upon an exploratory outing I’m sure this cabin would have been of great interest, but we were desperate for an exit. Apart from the door I’d just kicked open there was but one egress, a gangway leading up.

I left Ghassan holding the dead weight of the cook, snatched a lantern from Dabir, and ran up the passageway to the hatch.

Praise Allah, the portal was unlocked. I threw it open and found myself in an immense stern cabin. Great windows looked out upon the ocean behind us, where the moonlight cast a wavering silver pillar.

In most ships the stern galley is given over to the captain’s quarters, and here was no exception, for I’d emerged within a nest of feminine luxury, replete with cushions and shelves filled with carven statues and scrolls. Also there were more of those painted silk images hung against the bulkheads.

But none of this held my attention for any time, for my eyes fell full upon the large glass pyramid anchored to the deck in the cabin’s center. Its frame was fashioned with delicately intertwining creatures of the sea, masterwork that would have astonished me had I not been revolted by the contents of the pyramid itself.

It held strange green fluid that only partially managed to obscure an immense pulsating, bulbous, black organ of some kind.

I stared a moment longer than I should have, until I heard footfalls without the cabin. I shouted for Dabir and the others to hurry, then raced to the cabin door and barred it with a wooden crossbeam. Just in time, too, for someone was soon hammering upon the thing with a fist and shouting in Chinese.

Ghassan staggered up from the hatch on his own. Dabir had to push the helmsman, then called up that he could not move the cook even as there were shouts directly behind him.

I still regret that we’d made no better accommodation for that poor fellow. As it was, so swift was the pursuit after Dabir that I had to grab his wrists and pull him to safety as an enraged sailor cut at his leg. I shoved my friend roughly away then flung a handy blue pot upon the snarling face below.

There came a satisfying crash and thump and shouts, but I did not see the extent of the damage for Ghassan wisely slammed down the hatch, securing it with his own weight.

I found Dabir examining the pyramid, his face alight with both interest and horror. The helmsman bent his ear near the cabin door, where Lady Xin was addressing us.

“Harm my work,” she cried, “and I shall flay you all alive! “

“Release us,” Dabir called, “or we will destroy this heart.”

Some determined fellow was banging upon the hatch. An ax blade driven part of the way through the wood a handspan off Ghasson’s foot made him doubt the wisdom of his plan to prevent entry there. He looked to me for guidance.

“Call off your men!” I shouted to the captain. “Or I will break the glass and the heart in a single stroke!”

She called then in Chinese, and the activity below ceased, although I heard them shuffling around down there and wondered if she’d ordered some other mischief.

“The fire will be out shortly,” Laid Xin told us confidently. “We have pumps, and hoses, and while you have caused some damage, you have been merely… inconvenient. I am willing to forgive, so long as you depart my ship immediately.”

“Do you believe her?” Ghassan asked quietly.

Dabir answered him only with a shake of his head. “You underestimated us,” Dabir called to her. “A true sage would act with greater care.”

I shot him a look. Why was he baiting her?

He made a slow winding motion with his right hand, by which I inferred he hoped to stall her.

Her conversational tone sounded forced. “I rarely meet any intellect that approaches my own. Now what is it that you want? I shall give it to you. If you want gold and jewels, these, too, I can set aboard your boat.”

“That sounds most fine,” said Dabir. “How much gold will you give us?”

As I have elsewhere said, Dabir had no head for money, and we were well supported from the caliph’s coffers in any case. Likely he neither knew nor cared about her riches.

“I can fill buckets with jade and rubies,” she said, beginning to sound desperate.

“Do you have any emeralds?” Dabir briefly considered the small emerald ring upon his left hand, a gift from his great love, Sabirah. “I am especially fond of emeralds.”

“I will give you as many emeralds as I possess!”

“Also,” Dabir said slowly, “you must pledge that you shall leave our waters forever.”

“Done!”

“She agrees,” the helmsman said tiredly, “too fast.”

“What is this all for?” I asked Dabir.

“The monster sank no ships but ours,” he spoke out, loud enough for her to hear, “because we attacked it. Lady Xin has been the one sinking the ships, to find blood to keep this… travesty beating. Those poor men below were captured in her raids.”

“It is no travesty,” the sorceress shot back. “It is a work of genius! Can you even fathom the cocktail of chemicals I must use to make the heart beat? The sorcerous secrets I have unlocked?”

“At what price?” Dabir asked her.

She laughed at him. “What matter the price? The serpent’s heart powers the ship, and me, and all who drink of its essence! That is no ordinary heart, but an engine of immortality!” More quietly, almost conspirationally, she said, “If you wish, “I will permit you and your man a single sip of the elixir I brew from the heart’s fluids.”

“What will that do?” Dabir asked. He thumbed me over towards the galley window. I wasn’t sure what he meant me to observe, but I stepped over.

The ship had slowed, recall. The waters were too deep for an anchor to reach the sea bed, but the sails had been taken up, and the ship but drifted. And now, in the moonlight, I saw a disturbance in the waves closing upon the vessel. I knew then why Dabir had lingered, but it was truly a dangerous game he played.

“It shall lengthen your lifespan twofold!” she cried. “Do you not see?”

“The serpent wasn’t sent after you by another sorceress at all, was it,” Dabir said. “It hunts you because you slew its mate… nay, its child.”

It was my turn to be struck still in surprise.

“It is just a beast!” the woman snarled. “It should never—”

Finally someone on the decks above spotted the serpent nearing, or so I inferred from the panicked Chinese shouting.

“I hope you’ve readied your poison barrel,” Dabir said drolly. “There’s no way you’ll outrun it now.”

And only a few dozen spear lengths out a great serpentine neck soared suddenly from the sea. It was wide around as a pair of teamed horses, and bore a head the size of a whole elephant. I heard the twang of bowstrings. The beast’s roar of defiance rattled our cabin windows.

“Oh, Allah,” the helmsman breathed.

Outside the cabin door was a chaos of voices, and Lady Xin shouting orders. Below the hatch I heard sailors fleeing.

“Should I skewer the heart?” I asked Dabir.

“It comes for the heart,” he said, savagely. “So long as it beats, it will attack.”

“But where are we to go?” Ghassan asked.

Dabir pointed at the sealed cabin door. “Take up any weapon you can find. We’ve little choice but to flee.” He himself carried Dewei’s sword. Both Ghassan and the helmsman lifted elaborate jade dragons that might be used as clubs.

I looked at the three of them, gauging their readiness. Our chances were slim, aye, but it was far better to go down fighting.

I threw open the crossbar and flung wide the door. “God is great!” I shouted, and charged forth.

Lady Xin was no longer directly before the cabin, and the fellow who was saw my onrush and parried. Mine was a strike to numb an arm. I did not break his guard, but I forced him back as the others hurried on across the weather deck for a ship’s boat that Dabir pointed out, stowed along the rail.

Something heavy struck the ship behind us and set everyone sliding. The monster’s roar was so loud I felt it through the deck and suppressed the urge to cover my ears.

The captain screamed commands amid the chaos and was frantically waving two men carrying a barrel after her. They raced up behind her towards the high stern galley.

Other sailors were pulling desperately at ropes to raise the ship’s sails, and the clanking had increased in frequency, almost as though the ship itself were panicked.

I locked swords at the hilt with my opponent, then gut punched him and slammed him in the temple as he sagged. Dabir called for me, for they had reached the boat and were throwing off its tarp.

“Cast it free!” I shouted and dashed up the stairs after Lady Xin.

By Allah, but the beast was angry. Its huge armored head was more lizard than serpent-like, and the spear I’d cast still stood out from beneath one of the heavy ridged eye sockets. Its scales were silvered in the moonlight as it brought its huge skull down upon the rear rail and tore most of it away with a terrific crunch.

The ship rocked, but the two men with the barrel righted themselves very near the top of the flight. Lady Xin, meanwhile, pointed them at the monster. She was fearless, that one.

I remember still how the beast threw back its head and cast away the rail and deck. I wondered if it could see through the gap in the decks to the weirdly beating heart of its dead child.

I thought of my own daughter then, and the anger that had kindled within me raged to a great flame.

I am loath to strike an unarmed man, so I kicked the leg out from under the rear barrel carrier, and he collapsed upon the stairs. I trod over him even as Lady Xin screeched at me, her eyes aglow with hate.

“Madman!” She cried. “What are you doing?!”

I have said before my sword was keen, and if I possessed it still I would beg you to study its length, for it was made of metals men never mastered. The sailor who yet gripped the barrel’s other end gaped as I swung my blade. The wood parted like paper, and the foul smelling powders sprayed forth, along with a flutter of loose feathers from the parts of dead chickens tacked to its surface.

“Asim!” Dabir called to me.

The serpent’s great head loomed even higher and it let out a mournful, angry cry before it swung down, clipping three sailors in half.

I threw myself down the shuddering gangway.

Dabir and Ghassan had pushed the helmsman into the boat and were now using a complicated rig of winches and pulleys to swing it over side. As I ran up, a trio of sailors charged them with swords. That might have been Dabir’s end had not the beast struck the port side with its tail. Two of their attackers tumbled right past them and into the water and the third smashed his head on the side of the boat and fell, stunned. Ghassan was somersaulted onto the boat’s rowing benches, and Dabir somehow held to the boat’s side, though with it slung out from the ship this left him nearly horizontal.

Screams filled the air, though all sounds, even the measured clanks, were drowned by the roar of the angry serpent. I steadied Dabir as the small boat rocked back to port. He moved to fiddle with one of the winches, but we had no time. “Strike the line on three,” I shouted, and on that count he used his sword against the aft rope, and I used mine on the fore.

Ghassan and the helmsman fell within the boat and cursed as it struck the waves far below. Dabir leapt after them to the sea. I sheathed my sword, then vaulted over as well.

In a brief moment I saw I’d jumped too far. There was the boat below, and a spluttering Dabir pulling himself aboard as Ghassan leaned for him. I bethought I would surely crack my bones upon the prow.

Yet the beast lashed the water, and through some erratic motion the boat slid away so that when I struck the water I missed the prow by the length of my nose. In a moment more I was blinking salt water from my eyes. Dabir yelled at Ghassan to row even as he thrust a dripping sleeve into my face and helped drag me aboard.

The sounds of screaming, and the rending of the ship, and the roar of the great beast echoed after us. I wasted no time finding my own way to oars, then set lustily to work.

Lady Xin’s sailors dropped into the water after us, but it is a strange truth that many sailors cannot swim. They made no good speed after us, no matter our waning strength, and we soon out distanced them.

A quarter league out we ceased rowing and watched as the black vessel listed to starboard, then dropped deeper into the waves, prow pointed toward the moon. The clanking continued unabated even as it took on water. Here and there sailors clung to flotsam, but the great serpent snapped all of them up as it circled.

“It will come for us,” the helmsman said.

“It might,” I said. “And with just reason. The wound I gave it may yet slay the beast, and that shames me.”

“Is that why you risked your life to spoil the poison barrel?” Dabir asked.

“Aye.”

He clapped my shoulder. “Allah is merciful,” he reminded me. After a moment he pointed further out to sea, in the direction of the moon. Beyond the sinking prow we perceived a second boat, and a bevy of sailors frantically rowing it. Silhouetted upon its stern was a proud, scarlet figure.

The monster spotted the boat at the same moment, and its sinuous course toward Lady Xin’s vessel set little whitecaps rolling towards us.

I had not yet seen so much of the thing upon the surface of the water, and I swear to you that it must have stretched on for the length of five of the caliph’s finest warships. In only a dozen heartbeats it had reached the Lady’s boat.

I shall say one thing for Lady Xin. She did not lack courage. When the serpent reached them and rose with gaping mouth, the men cried out in fear. Yet I heard no woman’s scream.

The monster circled the wreck for perhaps a half hour more, but never did it seek us out, and eventually it submerged. I never looked upon it again, nor heard of its presence south of Basra.

As for us, we four drifted until a few hours after dawn, when we were discovered by a spice merchant bound for the caliphate. He paid both Ghassan and the helmsman a tidy sum for their jade dragons, and plied us with fine foods and luxuries, so much did he love our tale.

He did not believe a word of it, naturally, and I do not blame him.

Monstruo

Mike MacLean

I’m in a Mexican-Irish pub, about to chase my second Tecate with a Jameson shot, when Jorge rushes into the bar. He looks like the devil just gave him an enema.

“Que tal, amigo?” I ask.

No answer from Jorge. Instead, he grabs my whiskey, knocks it back, and slams down the empty shot glass. “Vámonos,” he says. He’s rain-soaked and shivering. “We need to get out of here.”

Diego the bartender and Mickey Lopez glance up from an old soccer match on TV. During Puerto Vallarta’s tourist season, gringos pack the pub to capacity – mostly Americans sick of Mariachis and tacos de pescados. But now, in the rainy season, it’s just the three of us, two locals and me, an American expat.

Jorge is drama prone, so I ignore him and order a fresh Jameson’s. He spits some Spanish too quick for me to follow. Then he swings behind the bar for the remote and changes the TV to Azteca 7’s nightly news.

The anchor is freaking out. Beautiful señorita talking rapid-fire to the camera, trying to hold it together but failing. I catch at least one word. Monstruo.

Shit bricks. Not again.

A distant rumble shakes the whole building. Jorge has the little-kid eyes going—all big and scared. “Es aquí.”

We follow him out the door, even Mickey Lopez, sober now despite half a dozen Sauza shooters. Nobody says a word. Together, we wander out into the cobblestone street and squint against the rain. A few cars stop, their drivers stepping out, searching for the noise like us. Our eyes trace down the coastline, towards Playa de los Muertos—Beach of the Dead.

“Dios mio.” Diego crosses himself.

The monster emerges from the ocean and stomps to shore, moonlight gleaming off its scales. It’s a big one… Real fucking big. Bigger than the resort hotel it collides with, knocking a six-story tower to pieces like it was a Lego toy. Its footfalls are distant rumbles, drowning out the broken screams of concrete and steel.

We all do the frozen in shock thing until the creature throw its head back and shrieks. Even miles away, it’s like a thousand fingernails on a thousand chalkboards. I cringe and cover my ears.

The shriek dies and my ears start their blood-pulsing thump… thump… thump. So loud I barely hear my cell phone ring.

~

Two days ago…

Carlito Diaz waited for the rain to stop, and then snuck into the playground nestled next to the Samba Vallarta hotel. Mama said he was too old for the swings and merry-go-rounds, him turning nine last month, but Carlito didn’t care. He still loved playgrounds.

He ditched his school bag and started with the slide—whooshing down a few times, the rain puddles soaking his uniform shorts. It was against the rules, him being here. The playground was for hotel guests not for a chambermaid’s kid, but there weren’t any tourists out, so Carlito felt safe. If one of the groundskeepers yelled at him, he’d just run off like he always did. Carlito was good at running.

He quit the slide because of the bruise on his butt – a gift from Ernesto Santos from school. Ernesto was twelve, and short for his age but still bigger than Carlito. A bull dog kid, with fat stubby arms and wide shoulders. Every day, Ernesto cornered him at school and kicked him in the ass, laughing at the little yelps Carlito made. Carlito ran away when he could, but that only made it worse later on when Ernesto caught up to him.

Carlito tried the monkey bars next, but they were too slick, so he gave up and wandered to the beach. He still had an hour before his mother got off work, so he found a stick and scratched pictures into the wet sand. Mostly sharks chomping down on Ernesto and his pendejo buddies.

He spotted the loco egg-thing buried under a pile of seaweed. It was all veiny, like a bug’s wings, but with shiny metal pieces clinging to it. And…was it glowing? Carlito’s heart revved its engines. He knew he shouldn’t touch it, but he couldn’t help himself. It was like the egg-thing was calling to him, faint whispers creeping in from the back of his brain.

It felt sickly warm. Carlito drew his hand back, and the egg-thing cracked open – making machine click and clack noises. Something scuttled out.

Carlito’s brain said, “Just a crab. Just a crab. Just a crab,” like it was trying to convince him, but Carlito knew it wasn’t. Crabs didn’t have black snake skin or weird metal chunks stuck to their slimy bodies.

Carlito stumbled backwards, sitting down hard in the wet sand. Quick – the thing that was not a crab scampered up his body and crawled onto his face. A wet needle sprung out of its belly, switchblade-fast, stinging Carlito’s eyeball.

He screamed and sprung to his feet. Clicking and whirring, the crab thing detached itself from Carlito’s face and plopped to the ground. Carlito was so busy running away he didn’t notice the thing dissolve like a salted snail.

Hot tears rained down his cheeks. He shut his eyes tight, trying to will away the acid pain. That’s why he ran right into Ernesto Santos.

“Carlito.” The older boy stood up near the playground, blocking Carlito’s path. “What’d you crying about now, maricon?”

“Please, Ernesto. I need to get to the hotel. A spider… it bit my eye.”

“A spider? No crap. Let’s see it, eh?”

Carlito covered his eye. “Let me go.”

“Show me, you little shit. Show me and maybe I won’t beat your ass.”

Ernesto wrenched Carlito’s hand away. The bully’s face went pale and his mouth hung open. “Puta madre,” he whispered.

The skin around Carlito’s eye stretched and swelled, creating a pulsing bubble of quickly rotting flesh.

“Leave me alone!” Carlito shoved Ernesto, both hands ramming into the 12 year-old’s chest. Ernesto went airborne. His body cleared ten feet before slamming hard into the jungle gym. Bones cracked. Ernesto slumped to the ground. His head bent at a crazy angle, his spine snapped in two.

With his one good eye, a horrified Carlito stared at the bully’s broken body. Then he ran.

~

“Got two words for you,” I say into my cell. “Fuck and No.”

I shut the phone off and walk back into Murphy’s pub. Bending over the bar, I pluck up a bottle of Jameson’s, pouring myself a healthy slug. Diego the bartender doesn’t say shit in protest. Too busy emptying the register and grabbing bottles of top shelf Patron. Then he and the boys are out the door, running for their lives without so much as a “vaya con dios.” I can’t blame ‘em.

Azteca 7 News has videos going now. Shaky glimpses, taken by amateur photographers with camera phones. It’s all frantic blurs of slick gray reptile flesh and horrible jagged teeth.

I’ve seen three others just like this one, close up. One off the coast of the Philippines six years ago. Another stomping its way towards Saint Petersburg, in ‘09. And a third last year in Indonesia—the “Jakarta Mauler,” killer of more than 50,000 men, women, and children.

By morning, the global media and Twitterverse will give this new monster a slew of nick names (Sombrero Stomper comes to mind). But to guys like me—Task Force M operatives—the beasts will always be known collectively as Megas. As in MEGA-fucking-big aliens sent to destroy mankind.

I’m throwing back my lonely Jameson’s when static blurs out the nightly news. A crew-cut dude replaces the cute señorita, the dude sitting in a windowless, black-walled room. I know the guy – Ronald Briggs, USMC, retired as far as the world is concerned. But he’s still got that Marine Colonel swagger, even if his civvies say otherwise.

“Lieutenant Grimes. I don’t like being hung up on.”

I stare at the TV, doing a mental recount of my drink tally. “How you doing that, Briggs?”

“Got a kid here who can hack any smart TV in the world in five minutes or less. Gotta love the geeks, huh?”

“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying.”

“Sorry, Lieutenant. You’re the only one around. Shit luck, I know, but we need you again. The thing dropped orbit before we even knew it was coming.”

The aliens use organic landing craft—“landing” being a misnomer. “Crashing” is more accurate. They break atmosphere disguised as meteors, splashing down in deep ocean waters. Then the craft splits open and out swims the monster, ready to wreak havoc.

More rumbles from outside, the Mega doing his own version of shock and awe. “I’m on shore leave,” I say. “For the rest of my life.”

Briggs leans forward, giving the camera a big dose of fifty-yard stare. “Twenty million. That’s how many people live in the Greater Mexico City area. You want all that blood on your hands?”

I don’t say a word. Feel my jaw go tight. Shake my head.

“Didn’t think so,” says Briggs. “Besides, we already got an ID on the host. He’s right there in Puerto Vallarta.”

“How’d you find him so fast?”

“Hackers got a data-mine hit. Some nurse took a snapshot of the poor bastard with her phone. Posted it on friggin’ Instagram. Some humanitarian, huh?”

I consider pouring myself another shot, but decide against it. “And you say he’s in Vallarta?”

“Practically in your backyard. But I got to warn you, you’re not going to like it.” Briggs gestures to someone off camera. Two seconds later, a photo fills the screen.

Briggs is right. I don’t like it. Not one fucking bit.

It’s a kid. A cute, scrawny local boy, maybe eight or nine years old. And I was just ordered to kill him.

~

Yesterday…

Carlito sat up in his hospital bed, fighting sleep. He was afraid to even close his good eye—the one not bandaged up like a mummy pillow. Every time he did, a thousand voices flooded his brain, all whispering to him at once. They spoke in wet, growly gurgles. Carlito imagined that’s how alligators sounded when they talked to each other underwater.

And there was something even worse than the whispers. Sometimes Carlito saw Ernesto, slumped against the jungle gym, his neck twisted, his eyes like dirty window glass. Carlito wondered if he’d go to Hell for killing the bully. It was an accident, wasn’t it? Sure, he pushed Ernesto, but how did Carlito get so strong all of the sudden? Even now, as the fever made him sweat and shake, Carlito felt bigger somehow. Like there was this little churning engine inside of him, feeding his muscles with electricity.

San Javier Hospital smelled of bleach, like momma’s hands after scrubbing hotel toilets. All around him, machines beeped and hissed. Carlito had a whole room to himself, and doctors checked in on him every hour. They talked outside his door, trying to whisper so Carlito couldn’t hear them. The doctors didn’t know what was wrong with him. Even a little kid knew that was bad.

“Why don’t you take a nap, mijo.” His mother returned, a child-sized woman with streaks of gray woven through her black hair. She had gotten real scared when she first saw Carlito’s bad eye. Started screaming and crying. Carlito could tell she was still scared, even though she tried hiding it. “Some sleep might make you feel better.”

“Okay, momma.” Carlito rolled over and pretended to sleep. He was really tired, and the medicine stuff the nurses gave him made his head all woozy. Maybe he could close his eyes for a second…

Darkness engulfed him. There were no whispers this time, only the surge and swell of deep ocean waves. Moonlight filled his vision, so bright it made him cringe. He could see the distant lights of a city on the shore. Somehow he knew it was his city—Puerto Vallarta. He was viewing the place through someone else’s eyes. No, that was wrong. Not someone… Something.

The thing swam towards shore. Coming for him. But that wasn’t the scariest part. Something else frightened Carlito even more, a sinking feeling he tried pushing down but couldn’t.

He wanted the monster to come.

~

The Host. No one really understands the science behind it, although a few Task Force eggheads pretend to. Most believe that a Mega is nothing but a brute slave to some extraterrestrial intelligence. To control the beasts, the aliens create a psychic link with a human, which they infect via a parasitic scout (we call them Chigs). Once infected, the host becomes the aliens’ telepathic mega-phones, transmitting instructions to their super-sized shock troops. Search and destroy Earth’s population centers.

But there’s an upside. Cut the psychic link between monster and host, and the brain strain gives the Mega an uber-seizure. Put simply, kill the host and you kill the beast. Easy right?

Just one problem. I don’t dig the idea of putting an eight-year-old in the grave. I’m funny that way. So I decide to stop the Mega instead. It’s a three step plan…

Step 1: Borrow a vehicle.

Step 2: Make my way to the monster’s location.

Step 3: … I have no fucking clue.

Unfortunately, the only available vehicle is an abandoned scooter sitting outside the nail salon next to Murphy’s. Quite a sight I make—two hundred twenty pounds of U.S. Marine, buzzing up Vallarta’s rain-soaked hills on a friggin’ pink Honda Metropolitan. But I still gain mucho macho points in the eyes of my adopted Latino brothers. While they race away from the carnage, I charge towards it. Families gawk at me as they flee the scene in pickups and VW busses. I can read their minds. Gringo loco.

Explosions rock the street. Smoke swamps the air, filling my lungs with hot ash. To my right, flames hiss under the dribbling rain as they consume buildings and cars. To my left, a downed power line slithers on the cobblestones like a snake in its death throes—the electricity in its veins doing the snap, crackle, pop. I hear the Mega shriek again. Goddamn that hurts. It takes every ounce of my training not to turn tail and run.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Thunderous footfalls drown out my scooter’s engine. I still don’t have a visual, but I can smell the monster from here. Fill a plastic bag with fish, leave in the sun for a week, then pour the slop on a rotting corpse. That’ll give you an idea of the stench. No doubt about it, I’m closing in.

A Mexican Army Humvee rumbles by, splashing me. It’s the open-air version, a couple of scared soldiers up front, carrying G-3 battle rifles. A third guy in the back mans a .50 caliber Browning machinegun. I know from experience, a few hundred rounds from the Browning might agitate the Mega—like poking a bear with a thumb tack. The rifles won’t even tickle. I need a little more bang-o for my buck.

The scooter slip-n-slides as I bank down a wet side street, then steer back onto the main drag. I get twenty yards when eight tons of vehicular manslaughter fills my vision. Holy shit doesn’t cover it.

It’s an armored personnel carrier, flung through the air like a GI Joe toy. I lean into a controlled skid, laying the scooter on its side, trying hard to avoid decapitation. The APC sails over me and crashes into a storefront. Once upon a time the building was a bank. Now it’s a pile of rubble.

I get up, feeling hot road rash burning down my leg. The broken remnants of Humvees and helicopters litter the cracked street. They’re joined by a horde of bloody bodies, some torn to shreds, others crushed. And looming above it all is the Mega—200 feet of nightmare come to life. Gray snake scales cover a hide stretched over sharp bones. Jagged spines trail down a massive tail, pulsing with serpentine veins. Its skull head rolls unnaturally on giant shoulders. Its eyes burn white in deep-set sockets.

The thing lets out a bowel-shaking growl and shows its rotten fangs. Then it stomps towards a squad of Mexican soldiers and SWAT guys hunkered down at the end of the street. The Mega’s ridged tail whips back and forth, smashing taquerias and souvenir shops in its wake. Muzzle flashes light up the night and bullets ping off the beast’s armored hide like Tic Tacs.

The monster stops its march long enough to deal with a sniper nest. It shovels a pair of screaming soldiers into its mouth and chomps down. Bloody chunks of human meat rain on the street below.

I’ve seen stabbings and gunshot wounds and limbs blown off by IEDs. All of it pales in comparison to the horror of a Mega rampage. In a few short bounds, the creature reaches the barricades and squishes soldiers under its gargantuan feet, mushing them into a gory pudding of blood, bone, and organs. The rest of the soldiers scurry away. The Mega cranes down and chomps on a fleeing SWAT sergeant. Poor bastard doesn’t even have time to scream. Razor teeth sheer his torso off, leaving only his legs. Momentum carry them a few jerky steps before they wind down and crumple to the ground.

I chase the Mega up the street, side-stepping what’s left of its victims. A few cling to life, but they’re far beyond my help. One soldier crushed by a block wall holds a rocket launcher in his death grip, an old 100mm Blindicide. Aka the “Tank Killer.” Other than African warlords, I had no idea anyone still used these things. It’s basically a Cold War bazooka. No way will it stop the Mega, but if I get a lucky shot—maybe nail it in the eye—I might slow the monster down long enough for backup to arrive. A shit plan, but it’s the best I have.

I sling the launcher and grab the dead man’s pack, loaded with an extra HEAT round. Even half-drunk I can outrun most men. But the Tank Killer slows me down and the Mega’s stride is longer than Usain Bolt could handle.

The Mega cuts left towards Playa de Oro and Vallarta’s marina. Across the waterway, a line of major resorts faces the ocean. These are the city’s biggest buildings, and even during the offseason hundreds of tourists flock to them. Not to mention a platoon of hotel workers. The guests will be huddled in their rooms about now or in exquisite hotel lobbies, eyes glued to TV news. Waiting to be corpses in multi-million dollar tombs.

My lungs heave and my heart does an impression of a thrash metal drummer. I reach the shore and spot the Mega wading across the harbor, swamping nearby yachts. The water barely slows its march. Catching my breath, I shoulder the Tank Killer and take aim. Why did I even bother? The monster carries most of its armor in its back. At this range, my 100 mm bottle rocket would barely break its skin.

Then I see it—a small tanker moored to the docks, no doubt used to refuel cruise ships. I shift my aim. Slow my breath. Not yet. Wait for it. Wait.

The Mega sloshes right next to the tanker, starting its climb up the shore. I fire.

The HEAT round punches into the tanker’s hull, and the ship goes up in a sun-hot flash. I reel back, shading my eyes against the explosion. The Mega thrashes and screeches. Flames engulf the giant, hopefully boiling its alien blood.

I reload my last rocket and hit the monster again. The boom is a firecracker compared to the tanker’s blazing eruption, but the Mega flinches and lets out a death howl. It’s an alien cry, but I can hear the desperation in it. Still burning, the monster hunches over and sinks out of my sight, flames dancing above it on the water’s surface.

I give the Tank Killer a thank you kiss and let it thud on the ground. Somewhere in a hospital, a little boy is waking from his nightmare. He’ll live to see another day, never knowing how close he was to getting his throat slit. Would’ve been for the greater good, and all that shit. Small fucking comfort.

A muffled shriek kills my good mood. The Mega explodes from the watery depths, steam rising off its burnt scales. For one heart-stopping moment, it turns my way and glares at me with those unholy, white eyes. Then it lumbers to shore, the marina crumbling under its mass. The monster is only three hundred yards from the biggest resort in Puerto Vallarta, and there isn’t a damn thing I can do to stop it.

I turn my back on the destruction and limp off to find my fallen scooter. San Javier Hospital is a fifteen minute ride away.

~

San Javier is a scene out of a Romero flick. Walking wounded stream through the lobby, dazed, bloody, and moaning. Doctors rush from patient to patient, shouting orders to stressed-out nurses and EMTs. Orderlies and security guards sprint to-and-fro, fetching bandages and medicine. So much chaos, no one notices a guy with a road-rash leg slip into the hospital’s Farmacia.

It takes thirty seconds to find what I’m looking for, another five minutes to locate the kid’s room on the third floor. I wonder how many lives the Mega has cut down in that time.

A local woman sleeps curled up in a big chair. Little señora with one of those faces that looks permanently tired. The kid’s mom, I’m guessing. But where’s the kid? His IV tube hangs dripping and forgotten.

I sit on his bed, the syringes feeling heavy in my pocket. The plan was to get in, do the deed, and slip away. I didn’t want to hang out with his sleeping mother, looking at the kid’s get well cards. I didn’t want time to think about what had to be done.

Mom stirs. I slow my breathing and go to the window. That’s when I see it, a rinky-dink playground built in the hospital courtyard. A little boy in a hospital gown on the swing set.

I leave mom to her dreams and head for the elevators.

~

The kid on the swing is Carlito Diaz. I know from the Colonel’s file. Scrawnier in person than in the photo. Gauze and medical tape obscures half his face, making me think of a pint-sized Invisible Man. Under the bandage, a bubble of flesh covers the infection site, hot with fever and pulsing with alien veins. I know, because I’ve seen it before on the other hosts.

I keep my head down, avoiding eye contact, but the kid calls out to me anyway.

“Hey, señor, your leg is bleeding.”

Jesus, I didn’t want to face him. “I know,” I say. “But all the doctors inside are too busy for me.”

“Si, because of el monstruo.”

The kid’s a slow moving pendulum, his swing gliding back and forth. His heart really isn’t in it. A riot of sound echoes in the distance—explosions and gunfire, and horrible alien roars of victory. The noises drift further and further as the creature stomps its way inland.

The swing post creeks as I sit next to him. I should grab him, jab his neck with the needle, and be done with it. “What happened to your eye?”

His hospital slippers scrape the mud. He tells me his story, speaking Spanish, but with a dash of English creeping in. I catch most of it—the crab thing stinging him, his mom scared shitless, the clueless doctors. He even tells me about his nightmares, like he was seeing the world through the monster’s eyes. As he’s talking, I reach into my pocket, touch one of the syringes.

“Tengo miedo,” he says. A rain-cool breeze drifts in from the sea, but fever sweat still streams down his brow. “Now, I got these sounds in my head, like a million dogs all growling in my ear.”

“What if there was a way to make them quiet?” I pull out one of the syringes and show it to him. The blood quickens in my veins. “Just a little pain, then the voices will go away Carlito.”

Fear creeps into him. He slips off his swing and backs away from me. Moving slow, but I can tell he’s ready to bolt. My brain screams. Now! Do it now!

The kid takes another step back. “But you are not a doctor. How you know my name, señor?”

“Lo siento,” I tell him. Grabbing a fistful of his gown, I pull him close. He thrashes in my grasp, trying to wiggle free. I have to shove him against the swing post to keep him from escaping. “I’m sorry.”

My heart pounds. I press the syringe against the flesh of his neck. All I have to do is press the plunger down and he’ll stop squirming.

But I hesitate.

Looking at the cold, hard numbers, it makes no sense. If I let the kid live, tens of thousands of innocent people will die horrible deaths. Yet, I still can’t bring myself to do it. If he had been a grown man or even a teenager, that would be different, but I’ve seen too many dead children—in Iraq, in Afghanistan, then later in Jakarta. I don’t want to add to that pile of discarded innocents.

Maybe the parasite has taken control of him. Or maybe Carlito is just scared and desperate. Whatever the case, he takes advantage of my hesitation and grabs my wrist. His fingers are like steel, impossibly strong for a stick-thin nine-year-old. He shoves me away, so hard I stumble backwards and crash into the mud. A sharp pain flares. The needle sticks out of the flesh of my forearm.

Carlito races to a gate leading out of the hospital’s courtyard. I rip the syringe from my arm and shout to him. He vanishes into a back alley. I scramble to my feet, ignoring my bloody leg, and dash after him. Pumping hard, I begin to close in.

Mexico City, I tell myself. Twenty million. How many are children?

As strong as he is, his little legs simply can’t match my stride. I reach into my pocket, finding the other needle. Maybe one will be enough. Maybe…

The syringe must have hit a vein in my arm because the world does a hazy tilt and my feet turn to lead. I tumble to the rough blacktop, my whole body going numb. Damn stuff works fast.

“Carlito, wait.” The words come out a slur, but Carlito doesn’t listen. Instead, the boy hangs a hard right turn and disappears into the night.

~

For hours, Carlito sat in the little tool shed, listening to the helicopters overhead, their blades going thump… thump… thump. Once in a while, their searchlights would sweep over his hideout and harsh white light would pour in through the windows and door cracks. They were hunting for him, just like that big man with the needle had been. Carlito wished they would go away. He was tired and hungry and he wanted to see his madre more than anything. But something in his brain willed him to keep hidden.

So Carlito stayed put and drifted in and out of sleep. Each time, the nightmares came. He heard the growls and the weird, gurgled whispers. Then he was seeing through the monster’s eyes again. Visions of fire and destruction, of crumpled towers and dead bodies. He watched army helicopters swarm the creature like flies. But their guns and missiles barely slowed it down. And when the monster shrieked, some of the helicopters dropped from the sky like broken toys.

Carlito fought off sleep for another hour. Then, as the sunrise burned away the night sky, his eyelids grew too heavy to resist.

This time the monster stood high on a mountain, and Carlito could see the sprawl of Mexico City below—High-rises and schools, churches and homes, stretching on forever. Carlito was wondering how many playgrounds the city had when the monster shrieked and began to descend.

The Behemoth

Jonathan Wood

Now:

Ankle deep in water, my Mech stumbles. I try to correct, overcook it. Massive, clumsy, the machine goes down on one knee. Around me, flat-bottomed fishing boats are swamped, sink with viscous gurgles. Gulls shriek angrily, billow around the Mech's knees.

I try to stand. Try to get my Mech to stand. In the cockpit it’s hard to discern where my body ends and the Mech's begins. Overwhelming reams of data push into my consciousnesses, try to push me out.

Around me, water stretches off in every direction. The Shallow Sea. I search for reference points, for reasons to be here.

Get up. Get moving. You can do this.

Do what again?

~

Before: A memory, already fading:

The day Lila won the lottery, I vomited for almost half an hour.

I was in our bathroom, hunkered over white porcelain. She stood outside the door, tried to talk me down. That she was comforting me just made everything worse.

The lottery has been a fact of life since before I was born. It's just the way things are. The lottery is needed to select the Proxies. The Proxies are needed to keep pilots safe from their Mech's operating systems. And the Mechs are needed by everyone. They keep us all safe. The loss of every memory in the Proxy's head is just the price we pay. That's the undeniable truth. That got me through rehab: I am a pilot; I am needed; I save people.

My stomach was empty. I stared at its contents swirling in the bowl before me. Like my whole life floating, excised and ugly. Where there had been food, now there was just rage. I stormed out of the bathroom, snatched the lottery ticket from Lila's hand.

“It'll be OK.” She looked small and delicate. After all the strength she'd shown, that little piece of paper had stolen it from her.

I screwed the ticket up, flung it away. She put her hand on my arm. “Don't, Tyler. Just… Maybe one won't come this year.”

The Leviathans. The goddamn Leviathans.

I could still taste the bile and acid on my tongue. My teeth felt loose in my gums.

“It's bullshit.” I couldn't acquiesce. Couldn't just give up. Because screw undeniable facts. Screw everything else. It was her who had got me through, who had stood by me.

“I'm a goddamn pilot,” I said. “This doesn't happen to us. I will stop this.”

“Tyler…”

I shook my head. “I'm a pilot,” I told her. “If I go into a fight, I win.”

~

Back further—a memory almost lost:

I remember the first time I saw a Leviathan. I was standing on Chicago's seawall. They built it back in 2050 once they realized Lake Michigan wasn't going to go back to its old shoreline. That was just before all the great lakes, joined up, became the Shallow Sea, swallowed everything north of the Carolinas. It had been standing thirty years or so by the time I stood upon it. I was eight. I remember that clearly enough.

The Leviathans had been coming from the north for about ten years at that point, but this was the furthest south anyone had ever reported one.

When the poles melted the Leviathans had been… What? Waiting? Sleeping? I dream about that sometimes. Vast and subterranean, waiting for their cages of ice to melt away, for us to screw up enough so that they could come forth once more.

They'd ripped the shit out of Canada. A flotilla of refugee boats was tied beneath where I stood. Families hunkered on decks, watching, working out if they should run.

The Mechs we had back then were for shit. The Leviathan coming south had already ripped through three of them, jaws slicing armor, body crushing engines. I doubt it even noticed the pilots it consumed.

Chicago had its own Mech. The Behemoth. Its pilot, Sally Janin, had been doing the talk show rounds. She'd been going on about how she was going to be the one to stop it. No one believed her. The camera had done a close up of Janin s eyes. She didn't believe it either.

That was why I was there. I wasn't meant to be. My parents had strictly forbidden it. They were busy prepping an emergency shelter for when the Leviathan ripped through Chicago and killed everyone dumb enough to stand on the wall, but I had to see. I had to see Janin fight. So did half of Chicago. We all went to the seawall to see if she would save us or let us die.

Standing there, I was amazed at how small six hundred feet of steel built around a nuclear core could look.

It was the crowd's murmur that revealed the Leviathan to me. The fins of the beast slicing towards the Mech. Janin took a step. The spray was a white corona around the Behemoth's foot.

Then it began. If I had held my hand out in front of my face it would have seemed they were dancing in my palm. I remember it now as if I was standing on the Mech's shoulder.

The Leviathan reared up, eel-slick body whipping around and around its mechanical foe. A casual flexing of muscle that cracked foot-thick steel sheets and sent weapons spilling in explosive rain. Its massive head looked too big for its body. A heavy, under-slung jaw, a bony crest behind the eyes. Small, half-formed legs scrabbled at the Mech, claws carving through hydraulics.

The Behemoth's arms were pinned at its side. Missiles detonated at point blank range, did more damage to machine than monster.

But then, and the how of it is lost to me now, Janin got an arm free. She swung it like a piledriver into Leviathan's right eye. The force of the creature's scream almost knocked me off the wall.

Janin swung again. The Leviathan's jaw hung loose, and for a moment, we actually had hope.

Then the Leviathan's tail whipped out of the water, a hideous tumor of spikes and claws. It smashed into the Mech's arm, tore it free of its mooring. The Mech tottered, maimed, lopsided. The whole weight of the Leviathan was on it now.

It staggered, fell. The Leviathan wrapped sinuous coils around the Behemoth’s chest. Metal folded like paper.

And then the explosion. A spot of bleach dropped onto the horizon, spreading, obliterating. The force of it driving the water in a wall towards us, exposing the seabed in the moment before the shockwave hit and bowled me over.

I lay on my back as a mushroom cloud rose into the sky.

~

Later:

They figured out what had happened by the time they held the state funeral. Janin had sabotaged the failsafe mechanisms on her Mech's nuclear core. Transformed the machine into a walking tactical nuke. Then the fight started, and the core had no cooling, no gyrostabilization. It was only a matter of time before it went critical. When it had blown, fifty percent of the Leviathan's midriff had turned to meat paste.

Janin had even survived the initial blast. The Mech's auto-eject system. Radiation sickness did it for her two days later, though.

Even though she was a corpse, even though they had to close the coffin because the sight of her was so awful, from that moment on I knew I was going to walk right in the footsteps of Sally Janin.

~

More recently, but mistier, barely grasped:

I pushed through a shouting crowd around the city council halls. They weren't calling Lila's name so I didn't care. I crashed through doors, stormed down corridors, the crumpled lottery ticket in my balled fist. A skinny secretary with a skinnier mustache was the only one who had the nerve to tell me, “It's a closed-door meeting.” He flinched out the way before I could shoulder check him.

Marburg, the spineless shit of a mayor I voted for, stood at the middle of a long conference table. He looked up at me. His cheeks went white.

“The hell is this?” My flung lottery ticket bounced off his starched shirt.

He licked his lips, flicked his eyes around the crowd. He knew exactly what it was. Still, he took the time to unfold it.

“I…” he started, pretending to read. “I am so sorry, Tyler.” Another eye flick. Scared, I'd have bought, but he'd have to have to try a hell of a lot harder to sell sorry.

“Look,” said a large, puffy man, “this is a closed-door-”

I am not a big man. You do not need to be a big man when you fight in a two hundred ton suit of armor fueled by a nuclear reactor. You also do not need to be a big man to know the part of the neck to strike so that the ligaments in the first vertebrae snap, the hindbrain is crushed, and a man dies before he hits the floor. My gaze fell on the councilman and reminded him of this. His voice dried up.

“You,” I pointed at Marburg. “Your piece of shit nephew.” No one knows this story is true for sure. Except everyone knows. “You got him out of the lottery.”

I scanned the room, spotted familiar faces. My finger picked them out.

“Your son-in-law's cousin.”

“Your grandkid's best friend.”

“The daughter of that janitor you were screwing.”

I went round the room. I indicted them for their sins because everyone knows the lottery is a fact of life except these people. And I thought I was one of these people. The fights I'd won for them. I was their goddamn champion.

“It's Lila,” I implored them. “It's my wife.”

Adam Grant stood up. The one man in the room I respected. My old commanding officer. One of Janin 's compatriots. A man I wanted to emulate. Right up until that moment.

“Tyler,” he said. He pulled the ticket from the mayor's sweaty hand. “This…” He examined the paper, looked back at me. “…is unfortunate.”

His voice galvanized the room. Postures shifted. And that was it. That was my reply. I could beat them all to a pulp but there was no bend in Grant's voice. Behind the fear there was steel. I've see fights like that. The ones where the clear favorite lies beaten and bloody because the little guy refused to just lie down and take his beating. Behind the bluster and the fear, that was this room. My fists would mean nothing, in the end. I needed words and connections. And I'd cast those aside years ago.

~

A memory within a memory. Some distant nested thing:

My fist smashed into the Leviathan's mouth. It mewled, twisted away but my other fist grabbed it by the scruff of the neck. Snug in the Mech's cockpit the proxies filtered the raw data from the pressure sensors, translated it into something thick and satisfying in my fingertips.

Skin gave way. Blood gushed. The Leviathan tried to wrap its tail around my Mech's leg. I sent a knee into its midriff, brought it to the floor. Monstrous ribs cracked. The Leviathan smashed its tail uselessly in the water. My fist broke its teeth.

“You come to my town? My city? You think you can devour my friends?” I worked the Mech's fingers into the flesh beneath the base of the Leviathan's cracked skull. I thought of Sally Janin. Of the adoration of the people.

The Leviathan's head ripped free. I stood, waved my trophy and hollered.

The shout echoed emptily around the cockpit. The proxies, my only companions—their consciousnesses as battered by the Mech's sensory inputs as the Leviathan was by my fists—didn't say a word.

~

A short while later, one memory running into another:

The technicians unstrapped me from the seat, unplugged the electrodes. The Mech left me sensation by sensation. My body became my own.

I couldn't stop shaking. My first Leviathan. I annihilated it. People were patting me on the back, telling me how goddamn good I was. But I already knew. I knew. It was how deities felt. I didn't need the Mech to have my head scrape the clouds.

I didn't pay attention to the proxies until I was in the elevator going down. Adam Grant was there, unwrapping a cigar for me. I glanced back at the technicians manning the gurneys.

The proxies lay there, all sharing the same expression: bewilderment, mild horror, as if trying to remember what exactly they'd given up.

They wouldn't remember. Everything from before their unplugging was gone. The human mind can't take the raw input of the Mech's sensors. It's too much to process. Once someone has been a proxy, who they were before is expunged. Their memories wiped. The propaganda fliers call it a rebirth.

A technician dabbed blood from a proxy's dripping nose.

Adam Grant saw my brow crease. “Don't worry about them,” he said. “They'll be taken care of.”

And proxies are necessary. If a pilot was exposed to the live feed from a Mech he would forget how to fight, why he was fighting. The Leviathans would tear him apart. And then they'd do the same to the city.

The proxies are necessary.

They're taken care of.

~

That night. I'm sure it was that night. The memories run into each other:

Lila stroked my arm. “I still can't believe it.” She was wide-eyed, city lights reflecting in her pupils. “You did it.”

I half-laughed. “You didn't think I could do it?”

She half-grimaces, half-smiles. “That's not what I meant. Of course I believed. But then… There's a difference between believing and actually seeing.”

“So it was a religious experience?” I was cocksure, still too full of myself.

She kissed me. Her lips warm against mine. Her arms slipping around me. When it was over she pulled away. “I've honestly never been more scared in my life.” In her eyes I saw her own brand of fearless honesty.

I pulled her to me. Kissed the top of her head. The scent of her filled my nostrils.

“Adam Grant wants me to go out and celebrate tonight,” I said.

“You deserve it.”

I shook my head, kissed her again. “I want to stay with you.”

She smiled. Big and broad, and it felt good to have put that smile on her face. Almost as good as tearing the Leviathan apart.

Almost.

We nestled into each other, talked. I wish I could remember the words, that the sweetness could linger.

But then… We were lying down, her head snug against me. She lifted it, a look of sudden sadness on her face.

“What about the proxies with you? They were okay, weren't they? I heard something on the news about some protest groups, and… God, it was awful some of the things they were saying.”

That was it, I think. Maybe. The first bit of grit.

“They take care of them.” I shrugged, wanting to move on.

“What did they do to them?”

Another shrug. “I don't know. They were on gurneys. They wheeled them away.”

“Gurneys?”

The moment was shattering around me. It made me unfairly angry. It was my moment. Not the proxies. I sat up. She half fell off my chest, sat up beside me. “I don't know. One had a nosebleed. I guess they were taking them to the hospital.”

“A nosebleed? What was wrong with him?”

“How the hell should I know? It was a nosebleed. Everyone has nosebleeds.”

“So why do you think they were going to the hospital?” She looked like she was on the verge of tears.

That angered me more. That she cared so much when I had cared so little.

“I don't know. I just said it. They're just proxies.”

She looked at me, blinked, as if trying to see clearly. “Just proxies?”

Dammit.

“That's not what I meant.”

We stood there looking at each other. Both angry now. Both wishing we weren't.

“It's been a difficult day,” she said. “Maybe we should… bed… rest.” She shrugged.

But I still remembered the thunder of adrenaline—of being a champion—in my blood. “Actually, I think I might take Adam up on his offer.”

I turned away from her.

~

The memory fades. Another comes up. Was it still that night? Or another? A memory so familiar it’s worn a groove in my mind. Something repeated over, over, over so all that's left is one homogenous whole:

You think, by now, we'd have invented something more glamorous.

In the nightclub bathroom, I bent over the white porcelain of the sink. I pinched off one nostril, inhaled the line of white powder.

~

And then… just once? Just many times? Was this even me?

“Jesus, look at the state of him.”

I don't remember who said it. It was hard to concentrate on things like that. My attention jumping from shining object to shining object. The straps on the pilot's seat. A pretty technician's face. The beeping of a cockpit dial. The desire to punch that man right in his eye.

“Screw you, you pen-pushing prick. I'll kick its ass.” No idea who I was yelling at.

“He'll be fine.” Was it Adam Grant who said that? Lila? Did I know who was there propping me up even back then?

“Jesus. Just strap him in.”

I don't even remember the proxies I had fighting those Leviathans. They were there to stop the Mech from pushing me out of my own skull, and I'd already done the job. Some chemical substitute of me that ripped and kicked and split skulls.

I remember reaching my fist down one Leviathan's throat, turning its head inside out. I remember stomping, stomping, stomping one into paste on the seabed. I remember them quoting how much damage the waves I made did to the seawall. I don't remember caring. The crowd still cheered. For every crash there was another high.

I loved fighting monsters while I was high. Truth be told, I miss it now, even after all the rehab and the therapy. I don't do it anymore. But I miss it.

~

More recently again. This is important. I want to get this right:

Adam Grant caught up with me in the council hall lobby.

“Jesus, Tyler.” He shook his head. “That was not the smart play. You have to understand the situation.”

I cocked my head. “Really?” I asked him. “What the hell do you think I don't understand about them scrubbing my wife's memory clean? About her not knowing who I am? What part am I missing, Adam?”

“Jesus.” He shook his head again. Looked out at the crowd surrounding the building. I thought I could see the word “Lottery” on a placard. “Not here,” Grant said. He dragged me to a bar.

“It's over.” He was intense over a tumbler of whiskey. “The party is done. No more free drinks. No more getting people out of the lottery.”

I felt the urge to punch him again. Add to his scars. “You're telling me that Marburg's daughter gets a ticket, he won't get her out of it?”

“I'm telling you that if he does there will be riots. There'll be a damn revolution. The lottery… the proxies…it's a damn mess. There's too many people who don't remember the world we're fighting for any more.” The creases in his brow deepened. He glanced at the back of the crowd, still visible through the glass in the bar's door. I looked too. They did not seem like happy people.

“The council has to appease the mob, Tyler. They've drunk too deep from the well, and now they need to make a sacrifice to fill it back up again.”

And then I saw. There in that shitty little bar. It wasn't random chance. That ticket had been signed and sealed and addressed to Lila. They'd decided to do this to me.

I realized then the fight I was in.

“You have to help me. You have to remind them of everything I've done for them.”

“Remind them?” Incredulity broke his stony façade. “Your show just now reminded them all of why they picked you. You've pissed off too many people. And you know as well as I do that you fight for shit now you're clean.”

A dirty truth. An ugly truth. But a truth. It left me with nothing else to say.

“Hey,” he offered the thinnest of smiles. “If you're lucky one won't come this year. She'll be clear of it.”

“They come every year.”

He nodded. “Go home, Tyler,” he said. “Enjoy the time you have left together.”

~

Drifting back in time again. To one memory that still shines bright:

I'm a teenager. Fourteen years old. Sitting in the bleachers while the football team runs its drills. Watching old Bruce Lee flats and trying to memorize the moves.

“Hey.”

She startled me. I almost dropped the screen. I spun around.

“Sorry,” she was half-laughing, half-nervous. Embarrassed maybe.

The new girl. Transferred in. I didn't know from where. Kind of pretty. Dark hair that she wore long, and a red shirt she wore loose.

“Studying?” she asked.

“Erm,” I wasn't sure why she was talking to me, not sure what angle to take, “kind of.”

She shrugged, sat down on the row of chairs behind me. “I feel so behind. You guys are all so far ahead of my old school. It's all so different here.”

She looked more frustrated than anything else. Her honesty disarmed me. I ventured some of my own.

“I wasn't studying, like, school stuff,” I say. I show her the screen.

“Who's that?”

“His name's Bruce Lee. He was, like, this actor back a hundred years ago or so. That's why it's a flat. But he was amazing. It's all wires and special effects now, but back then it was real. He did all this stuff.” I let the flat play for a minute. She watched without comment, without judgment.

“You like fighting?” she asked when I paused it.

“Erm…” I hesitated. This was where conversations usually went wrong. “Kind of,” I said.

She nodded. “My dad does thai-jitsu, or something.”

“Tae Kwon Do?”

She smiled. “Yeah, that's it.”

She was prettier when she smiled. “I do that, too,” I said. “That and a bunch of others.”

“What others?”

I listed them. After the third, she counted off on her fingers. “So,” she said from behind eight raised digits. “Kind of?”

I was sheepish, felt some explanation was required. “I want…” I almost balked, it was like saying I want to be a movie star, but her eyes didn't let me go. “I want to be a pilot. Of, you know, a Mech and stuff. I want to fight the Leviathans.”

I regretted it as soon as I said it. I tried to read the emotions on her face, to work out if she'd laugh at me or walk away.

I didn't expect what she actually did. She asked, “What about the proxies?”

“What about them?” I was off guard, still not seeing the angle.

“It seems sad.” She kicked at a pebble perched on the metal seats. “What happens to them? They don't even know what they did to make themselves forget.”

That seemed like an irrelevant fact. “We have to fight the Leviathans,” I said, “or they'll kill us. We have to have the proxies. It's four memories for everyone's lives.” I shrug. It was the simplest of math.

She shrugged. “I guess. It just seems sad.”

I didn't know what to say to that. She just sat there next to me. And it was nice actually.

“Hey,” I said after a while. “I'm Tyler.”

She smiled that pretty smile of hers. “I'm Lila.”

Closer. Approaching the now. Trying to hold the pieces together:

Lila was watching TV when I got home from the bar and my talk with Adam Grant, holding her knees to her chest.

“I was worried you weren't coming home.”

The drugs. It seemed almost laughable that she was worried about that.

“I'm clean.” I sat beside her, leaned in. “You know that.”

“This is a lot of stress.”

“I'm clean,” I promised.

She put a hand on my cheek. “I need you to survive this fight, Tyler. I need you to be there to talk me back to myself.”

I ran a hand over her cheek, through her hair, round to rest on the back of her neck. I pressed my forehead to hers. “Don't think like that,” I told her. “One might not even come this year.”

She let out the smallest, saddest laugh in the world as she pulled away. She pointed to the TV. “One already is.”

~

And after that:

I slipped out of bed when Lila's breathing grew deep and regular. There was one other solution perhaps. Adam's talk about riots and revolution had made me think. I've seen the downtown slums on the news. I've seen the refugees.

I took the car north, close to the seawall. A foot of water swilled around my tires. Everything smelled rotten or worse. Fractured light from neon signs painted the water-logged streets—logos become abstract and obscure. Street vendors marched around in thigh-high waders. Ragged men stood on floating platforms screaming about the lottery, about the man keeping them all down. Small crowds cheered them on. Deeper in, I watched a man reel out of a bar, drunk, fall into the swill. He emerged with an enormous leech clinging to his cheek. He ripped it away in spray of blood, staggered off.

I couldn't understand how people could live like that. Then I remembered they didn't really have a choice.

~

I try to keep the thread, keep ahold of my reasons, my history, but it's gone again, and I'm falling back into older times:

“Tyler?” It was some talk show host whose name I couldn't remember. “Are you okay?” she asked. She's didn't look concerned.

An audience stared at me. Grinning idiots. Screw them. My high was burning out. I felt like shit.

“I'm fine.” Even I could hear that I was slurring. “Can you repeat the question?”

There was a time when I loved this, the attention, the presenter's bated breath. I would talk and talk, and they would love it. Stories of violence. Stories of me saving them all.

This time I just wanted painkillers and a warm bed.

“I was asking about the proxies in your Mech,” the presenter asked. “Do you ever talk to them? Or their families?”

There was something in the way she asked it. Accusatory.

“Look,” I said. “I didn't come up with the system. I just fight. If you want to have some Leviathan come take a shit on this city, just so everyone can remember it clearly, then that's your priority.”

A mass inhalation of breath. The presenter's elegantly plucked eyebrow rose.

“Not a popular opinion,” she ventured.

“Oh screw you,” I spat. “We all know how this works. We messed up the earth, now we pay the toll. Four memories at a time. You don't want to be a proxy, get on the council and dodge the lottery. You want to be able to sleep at night, too, become a pilot. It's worked out for me just fine.”

Not an inhalation this time. A hesitation.

There was a time when I loved these things. When audiences cheered me. It was as big a high as the drugs.

Even the drugs didn't do much for me by then.

~

Then darkness descending, a gaping hole of memory. And then, on the far side:

Lila woke me. I didn't recognize her at first. Later, when I saw myself in a mirror, I was surprised she recognized me.

“Three days this time,” she told me once I'd washed the vomit, and blood, and shit off myself. She didn't cry. She never cried. Just that same frustrated look she'd given me in the bleachers all those years ago.

“It was those assholes on that TV show,” I said. I was full of excuses back then.

“You missed a fight, Tyler.”

I was at the closet door, hand on a shirt. Something I could wear to my dealers. And that stopped me. The whole system shut down around those words. I tried to form a response. A question. A denial. An excuse.

I had nothing.

“They sent Lowry,” she said. I pictured him. Young kid. Scrappy. He was good. He would have fought and won. The city wasn't in ruins. Of course he'd won.

But no thanks to me.

I still wanted to be a pilot. Beneath everything, beneath even the want for the drugs, there has always been that. Ever since I saw Janin 's Mech go critical and wipe out the horizon that has been the underlying, undeniable truth of my existence.

“It's time to get clean, Tyler,” Lila said. “No more bullshit. No more excuses or you'll never pilot again. You get that right?”

I did. I got clean.

~

Swimming back to the present. Back to the slums, car parked, water swirling, a lottery ticket in my hand:

I picked a bar at random. The place was crowded, the music loud. People partied with a sense of desperation. Drinking until they could forget that tomorrow was coming—implacable as any sea monster.

I stood in the center of the room. It took a minute before someone recognized me. He stared, pointed. The woman he was with turned and looked. Soon they were all looking.

Apparently I wasn't popular at that bar. Not in many bars, I suspected. I couldn't even blame them.

But I didn't need to be popular. I just needed to be rich.

I held up the ticket.

“How much?” I asked, clear and loud, finally putting all the media training crap they'd sat me through to some use. “How much do I have to pay one of you to take my wife's place on the lottery?”

From the look I got, my popularity wasn't going up.

“Five million,” I said. “I'm good for it. Five million and get you and your family out of this life.” I nodded at the water currently ruining my socks and shoes.

The room was very quiet. The music had died. Grim faces all around me. Folded arms. The smell of the wooden bar slowly rotting away.

One man, shorter than me, wider though, tattoos up his arms and neck, maybe in his fifties—he walked towards me. A few rumbling paces. “I think you want to get out of here.”

“Ten million.” Just one greedy soul. Just one. That's all I needed.

“You ain't listening.”

“Twenty million.” It would leave me with a pittance, I would have to move, but it'd be worth it. “You won't care what you forget with twenty million.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Adam Grant had been right. The lottery was a tipping point.

I didn't recognize the signal, but suddenly eight of them rushed me. More than one held a beer bottle in his hand.

I remembered Adam saying I don't fight as well now I'm sober. He was right. Still, I can hold my own.

I ducked the first blow, jabbed a fist up under the guy's jaw, into the soft part of the palette. I spun as I did it, slammed my foot into another man's groin, sent him crashing to the floor. I came out of the spin, put my fist into another man's nose, dodged a bottle, clotheslined his friend, then slammed my elbow back into the neck of the idiot trying to sneak up behind me.

Three left. One got in a good blow to my kidney, sent me to my knees, spitting a curse. Another lined up a blow to my jaw. I snatched his arm, slammed a palm into his elbow and watched the joint snap.

The kidney puncher, grabbed me behind the arms. I swung my head back, shattered his nose. Then I crushed his kneecap for good measure.

One left.

But the crowd was not cowed. I was breathing hard, and my hands hurt. The pain in my kidney was like a lance of fire. And then they went from one to forty-one.

I got lost in the violence. I took men down with short efficient blows, but for every six or seven I landed, they landed one of their own. A bottle shattered over my skull, blood ran into my eyes. An elbow crashed into my ribs.

I needed to get out. I recognized my actions as a mistake too late. I stopped fighting to win. Started fighting to escape.

It cost me. Two ribs. And I couldn't lift my left arm above my shoulder any more. But I made it out. It took me two blocks before I realized no one was chasing me.

I remember that fight. For a moment the pain in my side makes sense. And then it drifts away again. Just is. Then something else swims up.

~

After the fight:

Lila fetched a fresh ice pack for my ribs.

“You're an idiot.” The way she said it made it sound like a compliment.

“I have to fight,” I told her. “It's who I am.”

She smiled. “There's no winning this, Tyler. It is what it is. You fight that Leviathan. You bring me home. And I get to meet you again. Fall in love with you again.”

I swallowed. “What if you don't?”

She shook her head. “All the shit you've done, I've stuck with you. You really doubt me now?”

She almost managed to make me laugh. The moment passed. “Maybe afterward you'll be smarter,” I said.

She kissed me on the forehead. Snuggled in beside me.

They showed the Leviathan on the news that night. It had destroyed three townsteads on its way south. Casualties in the thousands. They said it would be visible from the seawall in two days. They said it might be the biggest in a decade.

They questioned whether I could stop it. For the first time in a long time, I did too.

~

Almost here. Almost at this moment:

In a vast hangar near the seawall, I stood before my Mech. The Behemoth II—named after Janin 's machine. But I had always been safe in the knowledge it outranked its predecessor in every regard. It could tear a Leviathan apart. The original could only explode.

It still demanded the proxies to operate, though. Janin, who thought up a way to win an unfair fight, couldn't think her way out of that. Her proxies all died when her Mech blew.

If I went out there without proxies the sensory overload would wipe out my memory. I would forget to fight. The Leviathan would tear me apart first, then the city.

Then, staring up, up, up at the distant cockpit, almost hidden beyond the curve of the reactor in the machine's chest…the faintest stirrings of an idea.

The Behemoth II. The clue was in the name.

All Janin could do was explode.

The Leviathans always initiate the fights. A walking bomb doesn't need to know how to fight. It just needs to go off.

But would I remember what I was doing for long enough to get clear of the city?

Maybe…

I would die. There was that.

But the auto-eject… No, Janin died.

Hadn't they improved the radiation seals? Some distant memory of joking with Adam Grant after some tech demo where they talked about it. Not really believing it because when would that ever be an issue?

When would any other pilot be that desperate again?

When…

Now. Now is exactly when a pilot would be that desperate.

~

An elevator ride up to a door in the Mech's midriff marked with a radiation warning. I remember that sign clearly:

The failsafe mechanisms are well designed. There are backup systems of backup systems. All are carefully programmed.

They are beyond my understanding. I was not a careful student at school. I was never a jock, never quite a geek, but that awkward middle position of being nobody in particular.

But then Lila.

It wasn't a revolution. There was no astonishing makeover. It was simply that being nobody to everybody else didn't matter if I was somebody to her.

Love is a slow creature. It isn't like a Leviathan. There is no sudden violence. Rather it wraps its tendrils around you slowly. By the time you are aware of it, it has already won.

Or maybe I was as slow at grasping the concept of love as I was at understanding the complexities of a programming language.

In the end, I reprogrammed the machine with a ballpoint hammer. That seemed to suffice.

~

The cockpit. Closer to the now:

Mech's aren't meant to work without proxies. Some inputs require needles pressing deep into muscle. They sample DNA. They demand diversity.

But I remember once: a proxy, an older woman, she had a heart attack on the elevator ride up to cockpit. The Leviathan was already visible. There was no time to call in a backup.

Adam Grant showed me the trick.

“Give me that damn thing.” He'd grabbed the needle from a panicked technician. “DNA is everywhere.” He wiped the needle along the crevices of the seat. Dirt, lint, and hair clinging to it. They never really cleaned the cockpits.

Grant rammed the filthy needle into the arm of a proxy already getting input from other sensors. The technician looked appalled

Grant shrugged. “He's a proxy. He won't remember.”

It worked. That proxy took input from two sensors. I don't know what happened to him. Maybe nothing. Maybe he was fine. Maybe the poor bastard died of septic shock.

It was harder jamming the dirty needles into my own flesh. But, I reasoned, it wasn't like I'd remember.

~

Closer:

They tried to stop me leaving. They sealed the city gates against me. I could hear someone raging through my headset but her voice was overwhelmed by the data pouring into me. Heat readings, pressure sensors, gyrostabilizations, revolutions per minute.

I fired missiles. I felt them leaving my body. I felt the heat of their burning fuel burn inside of me. And worse. I could feel pieces of me leaking out with each projectile. The taste of strawberries carried away in a burst of flame. My father's name. What I'd eaten last night. All the inconsequential minutia that we're made of.

But I had sabotaged a nuclear reactor. I had re-engineered hardwired failsafes. Mere doors and words couldn't stop me. I blew my way out of the city. I marched on, marched out. I went to face my Leviathan.

~

One final memory:

“What do you think?”

Lila on the doorstep of our apartment. She had redecorated. Repainted. New furniture. New art on the walls.

They'd not allowed her to go to the rehab facility to pick me up. A driver had dropped me off at the curb. She'd been waiting when the penthouse elevator doors opened. She looked perfect and anxious in equal measures.

I hesitated, trying to work why she was worried. I was the one who should be worried.

But she misread my hesitation, thought I didn't like her work. And I could see how much she had wanted me to like it. But she just nodded and bore it. She didn't bend, didn't break.

All I had done to her. And she thought I was doing it again, but she remained undefeated. All the monsters I had beaten, but she was the one thing I could never conquer. I loved her for that. So deep and so strong.

“You made it beautiful,” I said.

She smiled. The sun banishing clouds. “Good.”

~

Now:

Ankle deep in water, my Mech stumbles. I try to correct, overcook it. Massive, clumsy, the machine goes down on one knee. Around me, flat-bottomed fishing boats are swamped, sink with viscous gurgles. Gulls shriek angrily, billow around the Mech's knees.

Get up. Get moving. You can do this.

Do what again?

I make it to my feet. And for a moment memory bubbles up, surrounds me. For a moment I remember everything. Lila. Grant. The people down in the slums of Chicago. The broken ribs. The sabotaged core at my Mech's heart. I know exactly who I am and exactly why I am here.

Then it's all gone.

~

Later?

I stand. I wait. I marvel at the world. The water is so beautiful. I wonder how it got there.

Movement on the horizon catches my eye. Something cutting through the water. I stare at it. Red signs flash in the corner of my vision but they are just one more confusing detail in the mass of data piling into my head. I want to ignore them. There is peace in that line of water as it races towards me.

I watch it. The efficient beauty of it. It distracts me from the wrongness in my limbs. From the foreignness of my body.

It is almost on me. I want to see what it is. I am curious.

And then—rearing out of the water—a vast unspooling nightmare of flesh. And God. Oh God.

Peace is gone. I scream, flail. And the wrongness of my limbs can't be ignored now.

Why am I made of metal? Why are my thoughts numbers?

The monstrosity's jaws smash into me, tear pieces from me. I can feel teeth in skin that is not my skin. Coils ensnaring me. Sensors scream in my head. A strangely remote disemboweling of my electronic innards. Reams of my coolant system spilling out onto the ground.

Why am I made of wires and metal? Why am I dying?

Warning sirens split my skull. And heat. A jagged spike of heat in my chest. Building unbearably.

What is wrong with me? Why am I wrong?

Jaws, and claws, and teeth, and scales, and death and crushing and heat and everything caving in caving in and heat ohgodtheheat

Iamgoingto-

And then the heat in my chest crescendos, swells, consumes. Everything is eclipsed. Pain, and heat, and light, and the world, and memory. All reduced to single point and blown away.

~

Afterward:

A voice. A voice brings me out of the darkness. It repeats the same word over and over. There is something familiar about the word. I grasp at it for a moment, but cannot place it.

Where am I?

Somewhere dark. I am strapped in. Wires cover my body. I work one hand free, pull at them. They come away with small wet sucking noises.

The voice is getting nearer.

How did I get here?

Light bursts into the room. I blink, try to shield my eyes with my free hand.

When I can see again, an open door floods the room with light. It is small, full of smashed screens, cracked dials, and trailing wires. I am strapped into a chair in the middle of it all.

A woman stands in the doorway. Tall. Dark hair worn long. A muddy red shirt worn loose. She stares at me.

“Hello,” I say when the silence becomes as strange as everything else about this situation. “Could you please help me?”

The woman starts as if breathed to life that very moment. She crosses the small room, pulls at the straps holding me in place. Halfway through she stops. I look at her face, and I almost believe she is going to cry.

“Are you alright?” I ask.

She closes her eyes. When she opens them they are clear. She nods, resumes her work. While she frees my legs I massage life into my arms.

“I'm sorry,” I tell her, “but I think I took a bump on the head. I really don't remember where I am.”

She nods, frees my legs. She lets me lean on her shoulders as we cross the room's sloping floor.

Then, as we reach the doorway, I stop, stare, gasp. In the distance there is the wreckage of a massive robot lying half drowned in a shallow sea.

The woman grabs my head, pulls it around, studies me carefully.

“Are you alright?” They are the first words she's spoken to me. They are full of concern.

I turn to stare again at the fallen machine. I point. “What is that?”

Her eyes cloud again. She hesitates before she answers. “It was called the Behemoth,” she says.

The name rings some deep drowned bell. I try to put a finger on the swirl of emotions. Something is wrong with my memory. Is that what's upsetting me?

The Behemoth. I shudder. “That sounds like the name of a monster.”

She nods. “It could be.” Then, after a hesitation. “But it was a savior, too.” She smiles suddenly, and it strikes me that it is a very pretty smile. “It could do terrible things, but it was beautiful when it did them.” A second smile. “When it fought, it always reminded me of Bruce Lee.”

I don't recognize the name. “Who's that?”

Another smile. Like the sun through clouds, I think. She lets go of my head, takes my hand instead. “Why don't you come with me,” she says, “and let me show you?”

The Greatest Hunger

Jaym Gates

Derecho backs into her corner and huffs, watching her opponent. I can feel her assessing its weaknesses, the deep gashes on its pale, dripping belly, the broken antler. Its other antler is still proud, and streaked with Derecho's red blood, but its intestines must be barely held in. A little green blood trickles down a tusk, into her mouth, and her deep-set eyes gleam ruby under the bright lights, vivid against her black hide.

I set my jaw against a rash move—Derecho is too expensive to risk in a kamikaze, blood and glory run—and gather her focus. Time to kill.

~

I still remember the night this mess started. Las Vegas. New Year's Eve. 1946. The night was desert-cold, a thin dusting of snow on the ground. The city was on watch, waiting to see if the monster that had wrecked Reno was on its way north. I was huddled in a doorway in a bad section of town, trying to keep warm and out of sight.

It was a strange new world we entered when the war finally ended.

Hiroshima and Nagasaki had been the first salvos, a few months before, the beginning of the end. For a while, everyone thought it was over. But that was just the beginning. Project Manhattan had been compromised so quietly that no one even knew it...until London, Washington D.C, Berlin, and Rome exploded in great gouts of cancerous fire.

We never figured out who was behind it, but it put an end to the aggression. Stunned, horrified, desperate, we turned our eyes inward to repair our ruined world. We found a fragile peace, dependent on depleted resources as much as brotherly love. We were still living under the terror of nuclear fallout, waiting for winds to shift or another mysterious strike. An air of hysterical hedonism clung to everyone, from New York to Tokyo to Johannesburg. The Roaring 20s looked like a pale omen of the Raging 50s, silky and gilded compared to the macabre glory of now.

And then, in a final, crushing twist of fate, the monsters came. Drawn by the blood and death and war, birthed by unholy science, they fell from the skies and rose from the seas, unearthed themselves from ancient caverns and crept out of dark forests. We lost almost as many souls to them as to the war, and we quickly learned the fear and respect our ancestors accorded the unknown.

The first ones were small and warped, more a danger to individuals than cities. These, we could blame on the bombs. But they got bigger, and science was suddenly at a loss. We knew we had a problem when something huge and tentacled rose from the sea and stormed through Boston. (Maybe Lovecraft was prophetic, if a little geographically-challenged.)

Our communications were rebuilding slowly, so it took us a little while to find out we weren't the only ones. A monstrous reptile had rampaged through Tokyo. A hundred-foot anaconda was killed in Rio. A six-legged water buffalo...thing...was being butchered for its meat after taking out nearly half of Johannesburg's business district. Japan called them Kaiju. We called them monsters.

Being American, we also called them profit. Even nuclear winter couldn't take that away from us. The warlords, coal kings, industrial princes, and oil barons had more money than they could burn. They paid big game hunters to lead expeditions to bag the biggest trophies in the world, but a house could only hold so many of those.

John Goodnight, heir to a vast silver fortune, financed the first Blood Pits. Four millionaires paid hunters to live-capture the biggest Kaiju they could get their hands on, and pitted the four against each other. The event raised millions of dollars, and Goodnight more than recovered his investment. The next year, Japan had its own Kaiju Wars, supposedly also financed by Goodnight, who had bought heavily into the decimated nation.

That night in Las Vegas, I proved that some of us had been ruptured in ways you couldn't see.

A horn wailed from the police department. It used to be there to warn us about incoming bombers—not that any ever came near Vegas, but you couldn't be careful enough. This time, it was warning of a bigger threat. Take cover. Bombs don't hunt. Bombers screamed overhead, the regional guard heading to intercept the beast.

When the dying Hellcat clawed its way into Las Vegas, her body riddled with bullets and missiles, I didn't have anywhere, or any will, to run. Her yellow eyes, mad with pain and fury, glared down at me, ready to inflict some of her suffering on the creatures who had caused it. I thought she was the most beautiful creature I'd ever seen, and I cried for her pain.

I don't know how, but I talked to her, and she understood. Laid down right beside me, her dying breaths blowing my dirty hair aside, and passed away next to me. They found me with my face buried in her blood-matted fur, sobbing.

The hospital patched me up, but within twenty-four hours, I was back on the street, hiding from the newfound celebrity. The bounty hunters found me less than a week later, and only chance threw me into gentler arms, saved me from government interest. Nikolai Kuznetsov paid over two hundred thousand dollars for me, and put me in the arena with his beast, the Drakon, and won the Blood Pits. Charles Goodnight's agent, Mason Kincaid, bought me for two million, two years ago, to handle Derecho. We're undefeated.

The Blue Hurricane was the first celebrity Kaiju. Derecho, eight Blood Pits removed from her predecessor, is the latest.

Derecho's hooves shred the hard-packed earth as she charges her victim. The crowd is deathly silent as the slime-thing spits poisonous goo, but it doesn't slow Derecho a bit, and her gleaming tusks bite deep into the thing's belly, ripping it open. Steaming green guts gush to the arena floor, and Derecho roars her victory.

~

Back in the catacombs—the Goodnight Arena's monster-holding area—Derecho slumps to the straw with a weary sigh. Whatever her opponent spat was caustic, and she has burns all over her back and haunches. I can feel her pain like a vague burning at the back of my mind, and it annoys me. The monsters are dangerous, but there is no need to make them suffer for our enjoyment.

I have two boys helping me, scarred young street rats who will risk their lives for a warm meal and a roof over their heads. They already have the tub of ointment waiting, painter's poles for the hard-to-reach areas, and softer brushes to clean the wounds. I put my hand on Derecho's snout and lull her into complacence while the boys start cleaning and mending.

I am exhausted when I leave her, wracked with pain and the ashy collapse of adrenaline. I don't know how many more of these fights I have in me. She may be a beast, slow and dull, clouded with the fumes of rage, but how much of that is her captivity, her fear? And, too, there is the darker bitterness against those who sit in their boxes and feed on the misery below, the slow wearing of their bloodthirsty glee.

I am not so far removed from the creatures I shepherd. I didn't come from wealth, didn't learn fine manners. I taught myself to read, to write. I have no grace, no charm, no beauty worth a man's money. No gifts to buy myself out of their pits. Would they revel in my pain, too, if my mutations were visible? Treat me like the gladiators of Rome, goading me with cattle prods and whips, feeding me the barely-dead meat of my horrible cousins?

Why do I ask myself these questions? I am certainly too tired.

“What do monsters fear?” my captor asked me, the night before he sold me to Kusnetsov. We were sitting in a seedy motel room, eating cheap take-out food with lukewarm beer. He had been one of Hellcat's hunters, the first to see me, and he'd saved me from the bounty hunters. My gifts didn't work on him, and I was tired of running. It was a relief to be sitting there, eating my first real meal since the hospital. “How do you make them obey you?”

I didn't know. I still don't, but maybe I am starting to understand.

The door to my hotel room is locked, but I can smell him, waiting. A monster waits for me, a monster I have called, wished for, lusted after, invited through my door. He knows what I am, and does not fear me. There is comfort in that.

I am still locking the door behind me when his breath touches my neck.

~

The next day, her burns freshly crusted with scabs and healing skin, Derecho paces restlessly in her huge pen. She stops, occasionally, to root through the dirt with her tusks, some dim, racial memory maybe of when her kind ate roots and leaves. Dust clings to the drying blood along her mouth. I hope they did not feed her yesterday's kill, it was poisoned beyond use, but they do not always have sense. If she falls ill, I will flay their minds myself. Derecho has become precious to me.

I let myself into her cage, and she comes to me, snuffling concern. The top of my head comes barely to her knee, yet she comes to me and lowers her giant's head to look me in the eye. I hope no one is watching, it should not be known that the animals love, not fear, me.

She thinks she is protecting me, a mother sow defending her child.

A few minutes to calm her, then it is time to gild myself in my garish costume—the purple and gold of Goodnight Industrial, low-cut and tasteless—to take my place beside the other Shepherd. I don't even know who we're fighting. I had more important things to think about last night.

My assistant kneels in front of me to begin buttoning my dress and, for a moment, I am overcome with a memory of the night before. The bruises on my neck ache, although they don't show, and my back aches with the weight of the monster I called.

He is like me, invisible in his mutations. If the people around us knew, would they pick up torches and pitchforks?

I was the first of many, but we are sheep in wolves' clothing, as unlike the others as they are unlike the Silent. (We call them that, because they have no voice except the crude one in their throats, ungainly and unlovely, unlike the smooth-flowing stream of our own communication.)

The assistant finishes the last button and crisply adjusts the gold lace over my breasts, lays the heavy gold-and-amethyst chain of Bond around my neck. It is a circus, and I am the invisible ringmaster, dressed the part of the clown.

The contempt in the girl's eyes is palpable, and I nearly reach into her to squeeze that smug superiority out of her, but the crowd roars, and I can feel Derecho's fear seeping into me.

Of course they would pick up pitchforks and torches if they knew about me. After all, they burned my kind in the Middle Ages, didn't they?

And those unfortunates couldn't do half of what I can barely refrain from doing with every breath.

~

Another battle, nearly over.

This Shepherd was too weak to repel me, and as Derecho savaged the hurtful thing, I toyed with him. He is a Balm, meant to keep his charge passive. He doesn't understand the sharp, bitter joy of killing, but he watched his beast's desperate battle with a half-smile, enjoying the pain it suffered, and so I took his limp little mind in hand and chained him to his beast while Derecho broke its legs, bringing it to the ground.

His scream should not have pleased me so much. I was not wounded enough last night, not brought to heel. I hope it is that, rather than my greater fear that my bloodlust is growing, that I will lose myself in the need for death. There is too much to do still, too many things to protect, too many delicate manipulations necessary.

And Shepherds die all the time. They are weak. The weak do not deserve to live.

Derecho crushes the other beast's chest, and the joy of the Shepherd's death tears through me like an orgasm.

~

Again, I have barely closed the door before rough hands have locked my wrists in front of me.

“You killed him.” His breath is hot and dry. He is not as huge as my young memories painted him, but his compact power easily dwarfs my wiry strength. Struggle is pointless. “You killed the Shepherd for pleasure. You are losing control.”

Reflexively, I poke at his mind, try to prod him into the actions I want, but I fail, as always. Somehow, I cannot get into his soul to twist and tear and destroy. I have never met another—man, beast, or monster—capable of withstanding me. He is my refuge, the one who knows what I am, who can stop me if I can't stop myself. He kept me safe from the bounty hunters that night in Vegas, delivered me safe to a place that would protect me for my monetary value, if nothing else, and I still sometimes indulge myself in his protection.

I cannot touch his mind, but he can pull my soul out and sate it with violence and the knife-edged pleasure of being helpless again, of not worrying over the powerless, deadly beasts who speak in my dreams every time I sleep.

~

It is the semi-finals. My costume is more transparent than before, the thin silks clinging to my legs, heavy with golden beads that provide more concealment than the cloth. I am maskless, a brag by the barons that they have the money to filter the air sufficiently, even with all these people. I loathe these costumes, flimsy and fragile, and expensive.

I am a free woman in name, but I would never have achieved that if I hadn't struck a deal with Goodnight Industrial: freedom in name, so long as I signed away my life in service to their sport. They couldn't breed or sell me, but neither could I leave, and I could never work for anyone else even if the Goodnights retired me.

It isn't much but it is better than many people have, these days, regardless of skin color or gender.

I should have specified the right to choose my own costumes.

Derecho is wearying. She will have a full day between this bout and the next—there is no question that we will win and move on to the finals, Goodnight Industrial doesn't keep me for nothing—but she must have some rest.

Derecho's tusks will be gilded on Saturday, for the finals, but today, they gleam a soft, waxen cream under the harsh lights. We groomed her well, and showed her affection, bolstered her flagging spirits. She does not understand, but she will fight.

Her opponent is alien, I'm sure of it. I haven't seen her, but in my head, she's sleek and sharp as a razorblade. Doesn't need a Shepherd, probably can't actually be held by one but restrains herself so she can torment him. Poor kid. He is real proud of himself, how easily he tamed her when she was found. Sociopathic fuck. Just waiting for him to get boring. The doctors probably can't explain what is eating his body and mind, turning him into a puppet. Not all monsters are worthy of my pity, but I do appreciate the irony. I will not abide competition though, and this one...

...this one's angular white head flies across the arena, torn whole from her neck. Derecho is wounded, badly, raining blood and panting in exhaustion, but I am glad of her victory. The alien beast is not something I want in my head anymore.

I finger the chain around my neck, disguising my disgust as nerves. Two more days. One more fight.

~

“You should be committed.”

My punished body is limp and quieted, but he has not, for some reason, left. We have played this deadly game for four years, since I was old enough to want a man in my bed, and he has always left as soon as possible.

“Whatever are you talking about, Hunter?” I stretch languidly, but he growls and grabs my jaw, dragging me up face him.

“I hate this world as much as you do, but you are mad to think you can change it.”

Ahh. That. The playfulness flees, bloodlust nibbling the corners of my mind again.

In the aftermath of the apocalypse, those few fortunates who maintained control of the most necessary resources—oil, steel, guns, copper, food—leveraged their power to turn themselves into fat parasites on the broken backs of humanity. I'd lost count of how many soldiers I saw wandering the streets those few times I was allowed out, missing arms, legs, souls. How many broken hovels housed how many families, how many slaves powered the dawning age.

“It is a madness worth indulging, if it changes.”

“You would alert them that our kind exists.”

“Maybe that's the plan. We've hidden behind our cousins long enough, made them suffer while we stayed safe. We're not much better than the barons.”

His powerful hand tightens even more. He is making speech difficult. “It wouldn't end for them, just because you put us in harm's way. You think you'd be a free woman if they knew? Think you'd have those beautiful gowns and the luxury of choosing your bedmate?”

I envy my bestial cousins. Some of them can spit fire, and I would dearly love to melt him right now. “Maybe they won't be around to threaten us.”

I beat my fist into the bed and sit up, heat burning in my eyes. “I hate this life, hate making the beasts kill and die for someone's momentary pleasure.”

He holds me for a minute longer, before pulling me into his lap and kissing me deeply. “What can I do?”

~

My gown today is cloth-of-gold in an outlandish style, the sheer bodice beaded with purple and pearl, my hair caught in a net of gold wire, a filigree of gold covering my face. The weather reports are good, the wind blowing any contamination away from us. Today only, the roof will be drawn back, the public will be welcomed into the cheap seats, and I will shine in the hot sun like the vengeful goddess I am. My hunter stands in the shadows, protecting me in case I miss a few dangers, ready to bolster me if I encounter unexpected resistance. He is no longer my escape, but my consort and right hand. He fears that I am not prepared for what I will unleash, but he will stand with me.

Derecho senses my turmoil. Her tusks gleam as brightly as my dress, her little eyes squinting, dazzled by the sun she hasn't seen since her capture. Perhaps she knows that she will not be the one on display today.

The band is lively, the crowds eager to see the monsters. Charlie Goodnight takes my hand and leads me onto the platform, facing the crowd, and introduces me. His smart cream suit and burgundy ascot do nothing for his doughy face, and I can only imagine how awful our costumes must look next to my fellow Shepherd, who wears the yellow and green of Hercules Oil.

I am briefly annoyed, as Melusine, the HO monster, is a beautiful, draconian beast, but devilishly hard to manage, as I recall. I would have preferred Emma Innismoth's privately-owned beast, a tentacled, horrific monstrosity who struck fear into human and monster alike, but was relatively stupid and tractable. Ah, well. Melusine's beauty next to Derecho's terrible, raw strength would play well on the news, when my plan was finished, and I had handled worse.

The brass band strikes up, the introductions must be done. I am already deep in the other Shepherd's head, although she doesn't seem to know it yet. I am similarly curled beneath the waking minds of every luminary in the crowd. The commoners may or may not survive, I really don't care. It is the bright and beautiful I will collect today. Peasants die all the time. I should know, I was one. I would be sorry for them, but they had chosen to be here, to revel in the sickness.

“What do monsters fear?” my hunter asked me that day, sitting next to me in Nikolai's office. My lip had been split a few days, and was oozing again, and he'd wiped it away, gently, and given me water. I realize now that he wasn't much older than I was, making a living, hiding as best he could in plain sight, the hunted masquerading as the Hunter, comforting the monstrous queen in the garb of the slave. Looking back, I can appreciate what brought us together.

“Monsters fear nothing,” I'd said, but now I knew better.

The stage is set. I step away from Charlie, a strange, thrilling certainty stringing through me.

They fear the greater evil, and today, that evil is not tentacled horror from the depths, or blood-stained hell-pig, or beautiful, mythological monster.

In each mind, I stretch. This is the first time I have unfurled my full power. Even I do not know what I am capable of, or what other monsters are hiding in plain sight. I relish the possibilities.

Monsters fear waking to something worse leaning over their beds, reaching from between the stairs to grasp their ankles, pulling that one critical tile from their empire.

They struggle, no more to my power than wiggling worms on a hook. One by one, they rise from their seats. Melusine's handler opens the cage door, as does Derecho's. Melusine will not hold for long, she is slippery and fractious. Derecho is curious, the fog of battle cleared from her mind. This is what I was made for.

Perhaps it is the most fearful who scrabble the most power to themselves, creating shells and buttressed walls of influence and wealth. Perhaps they forget that this armor is a thing outside themselves, but they never forget that empty space just a breath below their feet.

I puppet-march the kings and queens of the world to the killing floor for my kindred to feed on, and in their blood is painted retribution, and revolution.

Monsters fear what we all fear: that someday, they will find they are not the sharpest teeth, the greatest hunger, or the most dreadful nightmare.

Heartland

Shane Berryhill

“Carol, let’s talk about this, honey.”

Carol Blevins stood in her kitchen doorway, keeping her distance as she aimed her husband’s Glock at his chest. The gun felt light in her hands and smelled of fresh oil. Joe had always been meticulous in the upkeep of his police-issue sidearm.

“There’s nothing more to say, Joe. Now, pick those up off the counter, and cuff yourself to the hinge of the refrigerator door.”

“Carol.”

“Now.”

“Carol…!”

The Glock barked, and a spot of tile next to Joe’s feet vanished as the bite of gunsmoke filled the air, overpowering mingling scents of cleaner and disinfectant.

Joe hurled curses at his wife, but Carol didn’t care. He was moving now, doing what she wanted. What she needed.

“Good and snug,” she said.

“What is it you think you’re going to do?” Joe snapped a cuff around his left wrist. “Take the kids and run? Where are you going to run to? There’s no way you’ll escape us. None.”

Carol knew who her husband meant by us—Joe’s fellow policemen, the sheriff and his other deputies. But her problems were even bigger. The entire town of Heartland itself was her enemy, now.

“Lock the other cuff on that top hinge.”

“Carol—”

“Do it!”

Joe obeyed, and then Carol was down the hall and into their bedroom. The Glock went into the back of her jeans, and her husband’s duffle bag came out onto the bed. Entire drawers of clothing quickly followed. As Carol packed, she attempted to block out the sound of Joe’s grunts and swears as he repeatedly tried and failed to pull the refrigerator from its resting place between kitchen counter and wall.

She moved into Janie’s bedroom, and her husband’s voice came thundering down the hall.

“What the hell is the matter with you? What you’re doing is wrong, Carol. I mean, think it through, babe. You’ve got nowhere to go. You’ll be a fugitive. No one will take you in. No one will hide you. There’s not a single place in Heartland you can go where you’ll be safe.”

Carol stuffed a final pair of blue jeans into the duffle bag and moved into her son’s room.

“Carol, baby, please.” The edge was gone from Joe’s voice. “You know what will happen if you go through with this. You know what will happen to—”

“You and Heartland can go to hell!” Carol bit her lip. She’d allowed Joe to draw her in. She couldn’t afford to let her emotions get the better of her. Not right now.

With the pills, she’d kept things under control when her mother had died of cancer. When she’d found out about Joe’s affairs. And if she could keep her cool then, she sure as hell could do it now.

She had to. Pills or no pills.

Carol slung the duffle bag over her shoulder and returned to her bedroom to grab a final item—her husband’s duty belt. If nothing else, the radio on it might help her stay a step ahead once the Heartland police came for her. And the police would indeed come for her and her children. Them and more.

Much more.

Carol fast-walked down the hall. She dreaded having to pass Joe on her way to the garage, but short of hauling the duffle bag through the front door and coming back around, there was nothing for it.

She entered the kitchen and kept walking, her eyes fixed on the door opposite that led into the garage, her back already beginning to ache from the load she bore.

“Carol, Please. We can work this out, babe.”

Carol reached the door and opened it. The scent of the police cruiser’s settling engine wafted up to her on dry, dusty air.

“Carol, baby. Please. I love you, K-bear.”

Carol halted. Unable to help herself, she turned and peered at her husband. He stood, his left arm dangling from the fridge, gazing at her with pleading blue eyes. The brown curls that had draped over those frost-chipped eyes in high school were no longer present, but her husband was still as handsome as ever.

“I love you, too, Joe.”

She felt tears wanting to fall at the truth of her words, but caught them before they could. She turned and pulled the door shut behind her, muffling Joe’s renewed pleas.

The black duffle bag and duty belt went into the rear of the olive green Jeep Cherokee parked next to the cruiser. Next came the tent and sleeping bags bought for a camping trip they’d planned but never taken thanks to life always getting in the way.

Bags loaded, Carol slammed the Jeep’s rear door and made her way to the vehicle’s left side. Joe’s muffled shouts continued to bleed from the kitchen.

Carol slid into the Jeep’s driver seat and shut the door behind her, eclipsing her husband’s cries. Her purse sat just where she’d left it—between the captain’s chairs. She fished out her car keys. Dropped them. Picked them up. Dropped them again. Picked them up again and tried and failed to stick them into the Jeep’s ignition.

She sighed, her body deflating as she sank into her chair. She laid the keys on the passenger seat and brought up her right hand so she could gaze at her outstretched fingers.

They trembled.

Carol looked at her purse, wanting the Zoloft she had tucked away inside. Wanted it like an itch wants a scratch. Like the desert wants water.

No. If I have any chance at this, I’ve got to keep a clear head.

She balled her hand into a tight fist. Held it that way. Opened it again.

A little more steady, this time. Not much, but a little.

That a girl. You can do this. For Janie, you can do this.

Carol exhaled the breath she only partially realized she’d been holding and scooped the keys off the seat. This time, when she went for the ignition, the key struck home, and the Jeep rumbled to life. She punched the remote hanging from the passenger-side visor, and bright sunlight spilled into the garage.

Carol placed the Jeep in reverse and backed outside, dead leaves powdering beneath her tires. Once out on the street, she shifted into drive and pressed down on the accelerator. Dead lawns and prefab brick homes decorated with pumpkins and hay bales moved past her on either side, the Appalachian Mountains keeping pace behind them. Heartland was just like thousands of other small towns across America. If Carol hadn’t known what went on in the town—hadn’t been a part of it—she never would’ve suspected the evil that dwelled just beneath its surface.

A shadow fell across the Jeep, and Carol’s heart froze in her chest. She looked up and sighed with relief to see only a cloud drifting across the sun’s face. The tears she’d been holding back finally began to fall.

~

“I need you to stay in the car while I get your sister, Luke.”

Carol Blevins stared at her thirteen-year-old son in the Jeep’s rearview mirror. Luke sat in the backseat, immersed in his handheld video game console. He was built like Joe—long and lean—but fate had robbed him of his father’s blue eyes. All things considered, Carol thought it was just as well.

Janie was another matter. She was her father’s daughter, through and through.

“Luke, I’m talking to you.”

Luke nodded, but his eyes remained glued on the game. “Sure, Mom. Right here.”

Carol sighed. “I love you, pumpkin. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yeah, Mom. Love you, too.”

Carol opened the door and got out of the car. She paused for a moment, turning her head in either direction to gaze up and down the street. She expected to hear the wail of sirens just before police cruisers like the one she hoped was still parked in their garage came barreling around either corner bookending the high school.

But no sirens sounded, and no police cars came.

Still, she knew she was running out of time. Carol imagined the cops showing up and taking Luke and quickly shoved the image from her mind.

She had to get moving.

Carol entered the high school through its glass-paned doors and marched straight into the principal’s office. It was across the hall from the school cafeteria, and the smell of cooked meat hung heavy in the air.

Debbie Hester, the school’s lead admin, sat in the office’s foyer behind an ancient metal desk. Sequins blanketed the obese woman’s layers of sweaters, and she reeked of off-brand perfume.

Their eyes met, and Debbie’s fleshy cheeks rose to reveal a well-practiced smile.

“Hey, Carol. Missed you at church, last Sunday.”

Carol shrugged. “I wasn’t feeling well, Debbie. A virus, I think. I’m all but over it. I’m just glad I didn’t pass it on to Joe and the kids. Speaking of, would you mind paging Janie for me? I need to sign her out for the day. The rest of the week, in fact.”

Debbie’s smile dissolved into an equally practiced expression of concern. “Nothing’s wrong, I hope?”

“No, not at all. Joe and I are just taking Janie and Luke up to Fall Creek Falls for a long overdue family camping trip.”

“Oh, I see.

“Are you sure that’s wise? Like you said, you’re just getting over—“

“Debbie, please. We’re kind of in a hurry, if you don’t mind…”

A long pause. The faux smile returned to Debbie’s face. “Of course.”

Debbie picked up her phone and spoke a salutation into the receiver, Janie’s name on its tail.

Carol glanced back over her shoulder. Through the office windows, she saw Danny Hillyard, the school resource officer. He stood across the hall in the cafeteria, talking on his handheld radio.

Carol’s heart pistoned inside her chest.

“Here she is.”

Carol turned to see Janie entering the office. Janie had Carol’s pale skin and freckles, but it was Joe’s baby blues that peered out at the world from beneath the girl’s luxuriant crop of auburn hair.

At fourteen, Janie was already a lovely girl—one well on her way to becoming a beautiful young woman.

Carol was determined to see it happen.

“Mom?

“What are you doing here?”

Carol moved to Janie, took her arm, whispered in her ear. “I need to talk to you. Outside. In private.”

“Uh, oh. Okay.”

Carol ushered Janie into the hall. Debbie’s voice trailed after them.

“You guys have a good trip.”

“Trip? What trip? What’s she talking about, Mom? What’s this all about?”

Carol continued pulling Janie along, but she didn’t bother making eye contact with her daughter. Carol’s eyes were locked on Hillyard, watching for the slightest tell—the slightest change in his body language—anything that might indicate what he was saying into his radio was more than idle chatter.

Hillyard looked up. Their eyes met. Carol grinned, waved, and quickened her stride.

Almost to the door. Almost free. Just get to it and then get the hell out of here.

“Outside, dear,” Carol said. “I’ll explain everything once we’re—”

“Mrs. Blevins?”

Carol didn’t turn her head to see who was addressing her. She didn’t have to.

Un-fucking-believable.

Carol’s brisk pace became a speed-walk. She burst through the school’s exit doors, and the scent of impending rain filled her nostrils. Dark thunderheads had filled the sky, turning it gray.

She had to get her children out of Heartland.

Fast.

“Mom, slow down.”

“Mrs. Blevins? Carol?”

Carol kept walking. “Sorry, Sam. I’m in a bit of a hurry and can’t talk right now.”

“I tried calling you. A lot. It will only take a second, Carol, please.”

Carol and Janie reached the Jeep. Carol gave a mental shout of victory to see Luke still sitting inside, alone, no cops in his vicinity.

“Get in the car, Janie.”

“Mom, why won’t you speak to Ms. Davis?” What’s going—”

Carol locked eyes with her daughter. “Now.”

Janie rolled her eyes, huffed, and got into the car.

Carol whirled to see Samantha Davis standing before her. The high school teacher was dressed in jeans, high leather boots, and a curve-hugging sweater that Carol had no doubt was driving the boys crazy.

It certainly bewitched Joe the first time they’d seen Sam wearing it at El Meson. She’d dismissed her husband’s ogling at the time. Sam had just returned home from grad school, unquestionably grown up. The men were going to look.

But now Carol thought, deep down, a piece of her had known what the future held even then.

Carol opened the Jeep’s driver-side door. “Now’s not a good time, Sam.”

“Look, I know you’re probably furious with me. You have every right to be, and I don’t blame you for not wanting to ever talk to me, again. But I just wanted to say that I finally understand. When I found out Joe had taken up with Betty, I thought I would absolutely—”

“Look here, you little bitch.” Carol’s voice was a whisper spoken through a toothy smile. “If you think that just because my husband has now screwed around on you, too, that you and I are part of some fucked-up sisterhood, you’ve got another thing—”

Carol’s words caught in her throat as she saw Officer Hillyard stride out of the high school. He pressed his radio into his face like he was trying to eat it.

Carol turned without another word and dropped into the Jeep’s driver seat. She started the vehicle, put it in drive, and stomped the accelerator. The rumble of thunder eclipsed both the engine’s roar and the surprised cries of her children.

At least, Carol hoped it was thunder she heard.

~

Carol Blevins ignored countless red lights and blaring horns as she sped through downtown Heartland. Local shops and businesses bled into one another on the other side of her windshield. The mountains beyond the town became a single, undulating black snake.

Carol’s son and daughter sat behind her, buckled into the backseat of the Jeep. Luke had lost all interest in his video game. “What are you doing, Mom?”

“What the hell is the matter with you?” Her daughter Janie’s voice. Her husband’s words.

The sound of distant sirens filled the car. Carol realized she’d forgotten to turn on the police radio strapped to the duty belt lying in the back of the Jeep. There hadn’t been time.

“Is this another one of your breakdowns?”

Carol glanced in the rearview mirror to see Janie scowling, her arms folded across her chest.

“I swear to God, Dad should’ve left you the first time you went into the hospital.”

Blue lights joined Janie in the rearview mirror.

“They drew your name, Janie.”

Janie’s scowl fell away. Her blue eyes became twin robin’s eggs in their sockets. “What?”

The din of police sirens gained volume inside the Jeep. There was just one cruiser giving chase, but it would soon be joined by others.

Thunder rumbled.

God, I want that Zoloft in my purse. Carol sucked in a large breath of air. “The church elders. They drew your name. I’m sorry, honey.”

They reached the edge of Heartland and continued on. The town fell away as Main Street became Route 72. Carol intended to take the James Clayton Bridge and cross over the Tennessee River, escaping into the neighboring community of New Hope. There were miles upon miles of back country roads there. Hundreds of places where she might lose the cops. But when the Jeep crested the hill leading out of town, the bridge wasn’t there.

All that remained in its place were a few severed steel supports jutting from concrete on either side of the river. In between lay open air.

“Old Flathead,” Luke whispered. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!”

“Everything’s going to be okay, Luke.” Lies. Carol knew she had to do a better job of selling them. “You two hear me? Everything’s going to be okay. I’m your mother, and I’m going to get you out of this. No one messes with my family. No one and no thing!”

Carol yanked the steering wheel to the left and the wheels on the Jeep’s right side went airborne for a moment as she veered into the neighborhood of government subsidized homes nestled at the foot of Colburn Town Mountain. The lone police cruiser on their tail followed. Carol had no idea where the rest of Heartland’s police force was, but she was grateful for their absence.

Her gratitude was a general thing, an emotion experienced out of habit, and not directed at any spiritual deity or supernatural force. Her days of giving thanks and offering prayers in Heartland were over.

Carol left the neighborhood to zigzag up the mountainside, the police cruiser on her bumper. The road narrowed, the wall of foliage and rock on the Jeep’s left pressing the vehicle ever closer to the drop-off on its right.

Thunder clapped and their heads snapped forward as the police cruiser rammed the back of the Jeep.

“No,” Carol mumbled. “He shouldn’t be doing that.” The hysteria Carol heard in her voice terrified her as much as anything. If she’d dared let go of the wheel, she would’ve downed the entire bottle of pills in her purse.

More thunder. Another strike from the cruiser.

“Janie’s in the car. Doesn’t he know that if he wrecks us, he might—”

More thunder.

Only this time, it wasn’t.

Carol’s already fast-beating heart became a jackhammer inside her chest.

“No,” Luke said. “No. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.”

The police cruiser struck again, and Carol lost control of the Jeep. The guardrail rushed up at them, and then the world fell away. There was the sound of rending metal. Then a feeling of weightlessness accompanied by the sound of the engine revving. The unimpeded spin of tires.

Then blackness.

When Carol awoke, the smell of wood smoke was strong in her nostrils, and the pops and cracks of a fire were in her ears, cymbal crashes to the sound of drumming rain.

I must still be asleep.

She’d been dreaming of a parallel universe—one where she, Joe, and the kids had actually gone on that camping trip to Fall Creek Falls. They’d been roasting marshmallows like one big, happy family. Better still, in her dream, Joe had never been unfaithful, she’d never set foot inside a mental institution, and their lives in Heartland were normal. They’d existed in a world like that of their great grandparents—a world where evil had yet to come lumbering out of the ocean or burrowing up through the ground—a world as the Earth was before the Japanese remembered the old ways and showed humanity what had to be done in order to appease such evil.

“Mom?”

Carol winced at the sound of Luke’s voice. She knew she was going to have to open her eyes and let the dream—Janie!

Carol’s eyes popped open. She jerked upright and the world spun around her. She pressed her palm to her forehead, trying to gain her bearings.

She needed her pills.

“Easy, Carol.” A man’s voice. One full of age and kindness. Rough hands gripped her shoulders, steadying her. “Janie’s fine. So is Luke.

“You, on the other hand, have seen better days.”

Carol lowered her hand from her head and blinked, her surroundings coming into focus.

Fred Connor sat beside her on the edge of a couch almost as old as he was. His face was full of wrinkles and concern. The sleeves of his flannel shirt were rolled up to his elbows, revealing arms covered in gray hair and wiry muscle.

Luke and Janie stood behind him, peering down at her over his shoulders. They had several nasty scratches and bruises, but were otherwise okay.

Fred’s wife, Vera Connor, was on the room’s other side, giving them her jacketed back as she tended the fire behind Carol’s dream facsimile. It burned inside the black iron cook stove supplying heat to the one-room cabin housing them. The stove was an antique even among the cuckoo clocks, hunting rifles, and out-of-date calendars adorning the cabin’s wood-paneled walls.

Rain sluiced down the cabin’s two windows. Carol saw that a storm blew in the night beyond.

“The policeman?” Carol asked.

Fred nodded. “Followed you over the edge.

“Didn’t fair half as well.

“I found you—or rather, Luke found me, and helped me bring you and Janie back here, to the cabin Vera and I use during deer season.

“Janie regained consciousness shortly before you did, thank goodness.”

“Uh, thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Connor.” Carol swung her feet over the edge of the couch, letting them touch floor. “But we better be getting on our—” Carol stood, and the room reverted to its liquid state.

Fred caught her before she could fall and lowered her onto the couch.

“It’s all right, Carol. Luke told me everything. No one knows you’re here.”

Carol stared up at Fred. She knew the Connors, of course—waved to them if they passed in the Piggly Wiggly or bumped into each other at a ballgame. This was Heartland, after all. Everyone knew everyone else. But her relationship with the Connors had never been anything beyond the typical small town niceties.

“Why are you helping us?”

Fred cleared his throat. Carol watched his Adam’s Apple bob beneath the thin, leathery skin of his neck.

“They drew my Rose’s name back in ’92, and I let them take her. I stood by and watched without lifting a Goddamn finger as those assholes took my baby. That’s what we were supposed to do, after all. As God-fearing members of the church.”

A single tear swelled in Fred’s eye and rolled down his cheek.

“I’ve seen them take countless girls since, but still it’s my Rose’s face I see, each and every time.”

Fred stood and turned to look at Janie. “They ain’t taking you, Janie. Not if I have any say in it.”

A block of wood thudded into the stove, startling Carol and her children.

Vera Connor turned to face them. Her colorless hair was pulled back into a single braid that ran the length of her back. Liver spots were visible at her temples, and dark bags of skin hung beneath her dull green eyes.

She clapped her hands together, dusting them off. “Fire needs more wood.” Wind and rain blew inside as she vanished through the cabin’s sole door.

Janie moved to her mother’s side and flung herself into Carol’s arms. It was something Janie hadn’t done in years. Since she was a little girl. Carol squeezed her daughter to her, reveling in their embrace. In the moment.

Thunder boomed outside, and the moment ended.

Janie pulled away from her mother. Wiped her eyes. “Mom, I know you and Mr. Connor are trying to help me, but this is wrong.”

“Janie, honey—”

“It’s an honor to be chosen.”

Carol shook her head. Tears began to leak from her eyes. “Baby, no. You don’t under—”

A megaphone-amplified voice ripped through the night and its storm.

“This is the Heartland Police. We have you surrounded.”

Light flooded the rain-spattered windows.

“Vera.” Fred shook his head. “Must have called earlier from her mobile. Goddamn that woman.”

~

“Carol, honey.” It was Joe on the megaphone, now. “Just send Janie out to us, and we’ll leave. No one has to get hurt.”

Carol Blevins felt her cheeks go hot with anger. No one but Janie, that is.

Carol sat against the wall beneath one of the cabin’s two windows, an arm draped across her daughter’s shoulders.

Joe’s amplified voice cut through wind, rain, and night to fill the room. “We’ll leave and do what we’ve got to do, tonight. There’s still time. The sheriff’s promised to request leniency for you and Mr. Connor. It shouldn’t be a problem considering his age and your...past.

“And of course, Luke’s just a minor. The church elders won’t blame him.”

Joe stopped talking. Thunder, wind, and rain filled the silence. Then the shriek of megaphone feedback echoed through the night once again.

“Carol, honey, if there was any other way, you know I’d be the first to take it. But this is how it is—how we hold the end times at bay. Try to see this clearly. It’s Janie’s destiny. Just think of all the lives she’ll be saving.”

Lightning flashed, illuminating the night outside, allowing Carol to see the Heartland Police and the shotguns they held.

“It’s time to decide if you’re one of the faithful, K-bear. We’ll give you five minutes, then we’re coming in.”

Fred Connor cursed. “To hell with this.” He duck-walked to a small wooden chest resting in the one-room cabin’s corner. Opened it. Took out a snub-nosed .38. Began loading rounds into the cylinder.

“What are you doing?” Luke asked. The boy hid behind the black iron stove. He shivered in spite of the heat radiating from it.

The .38 loaded, Fred reached up and snatched a .30-06 Springfield rifle from the wall. “Our one advantage is we have who they want—Janie.” Fred stuffed the pistol into the back of his pants. He moved over to Carol and her daughter. “They can threaten all they want, but so long as we hold on to her, they can’t risk storming the place and her getting hurt.”

Janie shook her head. “Uh-uh. This is wrong. I’m not—”

“Quiet, Janie!” Carol hugged her daughter closer, then looked to Fred. “We can’t stay here forever.”

Fred tipped his chin at the cuckoo clocks hanging on the cabin walls. Eleven o’clock was only minutes away. “We can’t stay here at all. Midnight’s coming fast. If Janie’s still here, then, cops or no cops, Old Flathead will find us.”

The wind howled. Thunder boomed.

Carol swallowed hard. “So where does that leave us?”

“You’re not going to like it, Carol, but it’s what has to be done.”

Yet another man telling me what has to be done where my daughter is concerned.

“Three minutes, Carol.” The sheriff was back on the horn, now. “Save everyone the trouble, and send Janie on out.”

A thin stream of air pressed its way through Carol’s lips. “What’s your plan, Fred?”

“Like I said, it’s Janie they want. They can’t risk her safety, but we can’t keep her here, either. So we’ve got to get her out of Heartland. Someone has to take Janie to my truck—at gunpoint.”

“Are you freaking crazy?” Thunder punctuated Janie’s words.

“If she tries to bolt,” Fred said, “the person doing it has to have the strength to hold on to her. So I reckon it needs to be me.”

“I’ll come with you,” Carol said. “They won’t hurt Luke. Like Joe said, he’s just a minor.”

Fred shook his head. “If one of them happens to get a hold of you, then we’re in a hostage-for-hostage stand-off.”

“Then they can have me.”

Fred sighed. “Carol, I know from your father you can shoot. The best thing you can do for Janie and me is cover us from a window.” He held the .30-06 out to Carol. “It’s already loaded, a round chambered. All you have to do is release the safety and pull the trigger.”

She sighed in resignation and took the rifle. “You should head north. Old Flathead might be reluctant to enter another beast’s territory.

“My thoughts, exactly,” Fred said. “We can meet up some place we both know that’s not too conspicuous.

“You know the old hospital in Red Bank? Off the Morrison Springs exit?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll head for it. Meet you in the—”

Janie lunged forward, shoving Fred where he crouched and bowling him over.

“Janie, no!” Carol leaped at Janie and caught her ankle. Janie stumbled but kept her feet. She kicked away her mother’s hand. The follow-through of her heel connected, and Carol went down. Then Janie was through the door. Wind slammed it flush against the cabin wall, clearing a path for the storm to blow inside.

Carol could only watch, helpless, as Joe enveloped their daughter in his arms and ushered her into the back of a police car.

Fred’s back appeared in Carol’s field of vision. The old man sprinted out the cabin door, the .38 held before him. The boom of shotgun blasts joined that of the thunder, and he went down.

The cuckoo clocks went off, and Carol screamed.

The din of noise was eclipsed by a sound like the eruption of Hell itself.

Carol rolled just in time to see the cabin collapse on top of her.

~

Carol Blevins stood, every muscle in her body aching as ceiling tiles and pieces of broken lumber rolled off of her to join the wreckage littering the ground.

Shove the pain down. Just like the depression. Shove it down.

The storm at large was over. The rain now fell as a drizzle. The smell of wet forest hung in the air. And something else.

Something that stank of sewage and river bottom. The stench of Old Flathead’s passing—his musk.

Carol’s eyes adjusted to the night, and she caught sight of Fred Connor’s Springfield among the debris. She snatched up the rifle and hung it over her shoulder by its strap.

Only then did she see her son, Luke. He knelt beside Fred Connor’s Ford pickup, cradling its owner in his arms. The old man was still alive, though Carol failed to see how. Blood poured from multiple shotgun wounds lining his torso as he hyperventilated, trying to fill lungs no longer capable of holding air.

“He’s not going to make it, is he, Mom?” Luke asked.

A moment pregnant with silence passed. Carol knelt and slipped a hand inside the old man’s jeans pocket. When she withdrew, she clutched a set of keys.

“Stay with him, Luke. Give him what comfort you can. I’ve got to get Janie. I’ll be back when I have her.”

Carol opened the truck’s driver-side door. Got inside. Slipped off the Springfield. Propped it against the passenger seat.

“I love you, son.”

Luke didn’t answer.

Carol closed the door, found the truck key, and turned the engine over. Moments later, she was speeding down the side of Colburn Town Mountain, heading for the rock quarry where Old Flathead had first appeared. It was where the ceremony would be held—where it was always held.

She reached the foot of the mountain and hydroplaned out onto Route 72. Ten minutes later, she was passing under the interstate. Five minutes after that, she was fishtailing off Battle Creek Lane onto the gravel road that led up to the quarry.

Half way up the hillside, she cut the truck’s lights and engine, not wanting to alert those who would be gathered in the quarry to her presence.

She grabbed the rifle and hopped out of the truck, taking off for the hilltop in a dead run. When she got there, she threw herself down among a copse of pines and caught a few gulps of air, the sound of her heartbeats thudding in her ears.

Below her lay the quarry. The entire population of Heartland lined its ever descending tiers of earth. The crowd stood in silence, watching and waiting as the chants of the church elders reverberated from one face of cleaved rock to another.

Carol sighted the rifle. Through the scope, she found the ring of Heartland police standing guard around the elders. Joe was among them. Samantha Davis stood behind him and to his left, Betty Womack to his right.

Carol tracked the rifle and the black-encased circle of reality before her moved to reveal the elders themselves. The hoods of their ornate robes concealed their faces, but Carol knew well enough who they were: Pastor Roberts. Judge Powers. Coach Green. And Doctor Adcock.

Janie stood between them and the lake filling the quarry bottom. Her scratches had been bandaged, and a wreath of flowers rode in her hair. She wore a simple white dress that the rain had adhered to her young woman’s body.

“Oh, baby.”

Carol watched Janie fall to the ground as something emerged from the quarry lake. A stench like a beached whale weeks in the sun hit Carol in the face, and she jerked her head up from the rifle to see Old Flathead rising out of the water, one story at a time.

His sloping head was a giant, grotesque version of that of a catfish. Teeth like spears lined his cavernous mouth, and spiked barbels jutted in every direction from his nostrils and chin. Spines the size of light poles protruded from a dorsal fin that began at his head and continued down his humped back. His body—the length of it Carol could see cresting above the water—was covered in bony plates the color of ash. Carol saw enormous pink gill filaments peeking out from behind the spiked plates on either side of the beast’s neck.

Worst of all were his eyes. His left rolled continuously in its socket, searching, full of malevolent intelligence and all too human. His right was dead. A set of claw marks the size of field furrows interrupted the plates surrounding it on either side, a battle scar from some long ago fight with another beast of the apocalypse.

Old Flathead rolled a shoulder, and a gargantuan, webbed claw came to rest next to Janie on the lakeshore.

Janie began to scream.

Carol’s life with her daughter flashed before her mind’s eye in reverse, beginning with the tragic events of the night and ending with the first time she’d held her daughter in the hospital. What a beautiful baby Janie had been. So tiny. So innocent. So vulnerable. Completely at the mercy of the ways of the world.

This horrible world.

“Let it end.”

For Janie’s sake. For that of all the girls who came before her and all those who would follow.

Carol sighted her rifle. “Forgive me, Janie. Your mommy loves you.”

Carol squeezed the rifle’s trigger, and a shot rang out in the night, eclipsing Janie’s cries.

Carol watched through the scope as her daughter collapsed, the life gone out of her.

Old Flathead roared, the bony plates at his neck expanding like sails to reveal his gills in full. His bellow shook the earth and transformed the people of Heartland into a frightened, screaming mob. They tried to run, but the quarry held them trapped.

Devil’s Cap Brawl

Edward M. Erdelac

Joe Blas was so called because his papist upbringing in Drom, County Tipperary, had given him a knack for devising the most ingenious blasphemies anyone on either side of the Sierras had ever heard.

He blew hot air into the cold red palms of his hands and turned that coarse and inventive tongue against Chow Lan, the agent for the forty coolies under his charge.

“Jesus Christ’s holey hands an’ feet! What d’you mean they’re scared to blast? We’ve blown though every goddamned cliff and mountain since Dutch Flat with no issue. What’s different about this one?”

Chow Lan’s job was to act as liaison between the red-in-the-face Irish riding boss and his aforementioned forty countrymen, who made up the spearhead of the work gang Charles Crocker had hired on to get the Central Pacific Railroad into Utah by 1867. He divvied up their paychecks, keeping a customary cut of it for himself, placed orders with the gwailo agent for suitable foodstuffs for their cook, and voiced employee concerns when the situation arose.

“Hesutu say mountain home to devil. He say brasting powder free devil. Coolies scared. Say no brast.”

Joe slapped his hat down on his knee.

“That goddamned Indian.”

Hesutu was a halfbreed Shoshone and Miwok who had signed on with them six weeks ago along with a gaggle of Paiutes, specially hired to drive a ten-yoke team of oxen up to the camp. To avoid the troubles their Union Pacific cousins had been having with the Sioux and the Cheyenne, Strobridge, the superintendent of the CP, had signed treaties with the local Sierra tribes and offered them all jobs. Males and females had answered the call.

Though the Celestials were diligent, they were superstitious beasties, even requiring their own joss house in camp with a heathen priest on duty. Joe had found the Indians liked to sport with them from time to time. One joker of a Paiute had convinced the Celestials that a dragon lived in the high country, and they had lost a day convincing them there wasn’t any such thing. Hesutu was a name that had come up again and again in the past few days.

“Look,” said Joe, rubbing his patchy jaw in exasperation. “You tell them Hesutu talks with a forked tongue, that red serpent. Tell them they better get to work or I’ll send the whole lot of ‘em hoofin’ like sorefooted Israelites back to Sacramento through the snow.”

“I tell, but they no listen,” Chow Lan said.

Joe sighed. He snatched his brass speaking trumpet off the table and slapped his hat back on his head. He shoved Chow Lan aside and went out into the cold air.

They were fifteen miles west of Cisco, high up in the Sierras. Last year they’d been delayed in blasting by an early snow. Word had come down to his lowly ear from Charles Crocker himself; no such setbacks this time around. The line was to be open from Sacramento to Cisco by December and to the far end of Devil’s Cap summit by the same time next year. They had three and a half months to get there, and neither mountain nor the buckskin hoodoo tales of any damned Indian was to retard their progress.

Joe saw the young Chinee priest, barefoot in the snow, doing the same weird, slow dance he did every morning outside the crude joss house. He looked like an only child play fighting, but underwater, turning and bending, throwing an occasional sluggish punch or a ridiculously high kick. Only his queue-less, shaven head distinguished him as a priest; he wore the same patchy blue loose clothes all the coolies wore. There was an air of ease and self-assurance about him that annoyed Joe, but he wasn’t some fat, soft handed parson.

He did his fair share of work. He brewed tea for the workers all day, kept the big forty gallon barrel the men drank from brimming, and was even known to fill in for a man struck sick on the gangs now and again, so he wouldn’t lose his place. The heathens respected him, bowing to him when they saw him pass, and at night he directed their prayers up to Buddha or wherever with his droning chants. Mainly, he stayed quiet and out of the way, which Joe liked. He’d been at Wilson’s Ranch when they’d arrived at the beginning of the year and had volunteered with them, solely to see to their spiritual wellbeing. He figured the priest had some angle on the side, fleecing the coolies out of their fantan money, or dealing opium, though he had never seen him pass the collection plate.

It was a two hundred foot walk through a tunnel of snow from the camp to the work gang. Walking that tunnel made Joe nervous. Due to the blasting, snowslides were not infrequent, and had carried off whole gangs of men. In most cases their bodies hadn’t been found. The avalanche that claimed them also made their only graves.

The railway tunnel through the bare granite peak called Devil’s Cap was being assaulted from four points. Two teams of thirty men each worked simultaneously from the east and west, and another pair from the center of the mountain itself. They’d sunk a shaft midway through and lowered the Celestials in, but the hand derrick used to hoist the rubble out had finally failed and they’d had to halt the center work for about five weeks while a twelve ton steam engine, the Old Judah, and its tender, were stripped of their wheels and hauled up the mountainside from the railhead at Gold Run by the Indians and oxen. They’d finally settled the engine down over the shaft last week, and built a sturdy wooden enclosure over it to hold back the snow.

Yet the 440 engine was not chugging along. There was no ringing of chisels and hammers, no intermittent, muffled explosions, no nothing.

Tom Tolliver and a couple of the Paiutes who ran the engine were standing expectantly outside the enclosure, smoking. All the west end tunnel coolies were milling around chattering like it was tea time.

“What’n the name of the Blessed Virgin’s holy hymen are you yellow niggers doin’ standin’ around?” Joe roared through the speaking trumpet when he got in their midst, Chow Lan running alongside him. “Get to work!”

There was a lot of muttering and head shaking, a lot of heads turning towards where some of the Indians, too, were standing around.

“Where’n the hell’s Hesutu?” Joe Blas demanded.

He came forward at the mention of his name, a lanky, long haired redskin with a wispy mustache, hide boots and a knife through his belt, a big black hat pulled low over his eyes.

“Here, boss.”

“Alright now, boyo,” Joe Blas said lowly. “’You the one been fillin’ these heathens’ ears with a lot of guff about the Devil bein’ in the center of that grand high rock?”

“I didn’t say no such thing, boss,” said Hesutu, smiling with his dark eyes.

Joe looked back at Chow Lan, who shrugged and adjusted his spectacles.

“That what they tell me!” Chow Lan protested, encompassing the crowd of Chinamen with a sweep of his arm.

“I didn’t say it was the devil,” amended Hesutu. “What I said was, Dzoavits is in there.”

“What?”

“Dzoavits,” Hesutu said again. “It’s like a giant. Eats babies. But don’t make no mistake, you all keep breakin’ up Dzoavits’ mountain, he’ll come out and eat you too. He ain’t particular, what I hear.”

“What are you on about?” Joe demanded.

“Some say it was always there,” said Hesutu. “Some say it fell from the sky. It’s big enough to blot out the sun. It went after Dove and her children in the old times, but Badger dug a hole, and tricked Dzoavits into it. Then Dove threw hot rocks down over the hole and trapped him inside. It was up there,” he said, pointing to the rise on which sat the snow covered building housing Old Judah. That’s why they call this place Devil’s Cap. He’s been in there since.”

Joe Blas bunched and unbunched his fists at his sides. It was all he could do not to grab up this crazy Indian and drown him like a kitten in the Celestials’ tea barrel.

“Boyo,” he said through his teeth, “you’re gonna stop talkin’ this bollocks in front of my coolies, or so help me I’m going to boot your red arse into the happy huntin’ ground.”

“Can’t you feel it, white man?” Hesutu asked, staring at the summit. “At night, when you’re sleepin’ in the shadow of that rock? Can’t you feel it watchin’ you?”

Joe Blas tucked himself in with a bottle of tarantula juice every night. His own mother’s shade could stand waling at the foot of his bed until the break of dawn and he’d snore through it. But he was no believer in bugaboos. He had turned his back on all such nonsense when the English had taken his father’s farm and the old man had died on a boat bound for New York City. There was no God but what the priests made up to fill their coffers.

“Skipper Noah’s whiskey dick, man! The only eyes I feel at night are those of Boss Crocker in Sacramento, waitin’ for us to bust through the other side of that damned rock. Now, will you tell these gullible sonsabitches the truth, or is it a walk over the rocks to Coburn Station you’ll be wantin?”

Hesutu chewed his lips a minute before answering.

“If you aim to continue along your course, then I b’lieve I’ll take my leave. Won’t no place be far enough away from here once you let that thing loose. You take my advice, dig over t’the north instead, through Donner’s summit.”

“Oh so it’s a surveyor you are now, eh?” He blew up at last, hollering through the megaphone in the Indian’s face. “You get the fuck down off my mountain, chief, or I’ll club you like Sebastian!”

Hesutu held up his hands and walked away, shaking his head.

“Alright, boss. But you stay here, you’re gonna get swallered up like Jonah.”

Joe turned to the gathered Chinese, all of them huddled together and whispering.

“Shut your gobs, you noodle suckin’ yellow pagans!” he hollered through his speaking trumpet, stomping through their midst and clambering up on a boulder to shout down at them good and proper. “Chow Lan tells me you won’t work because you’re afraid. Don’t fear any devil in that mountain, fear me. You want to bring your yellow wives and your little slant-eyed nippers over here from the old country? Well, you know that takes money. Each of you has a contract with the Central Pacific Railroad at twenty eight dollars a month. Twenty eight dollars! Can you make that washing dishes back in San Francisco, or sweeping up the Five Star Saloon down in Dutch Flat? How old will your children be by the time you save enough money shoveling shite? Will they remember your ugly faces? Will your wives? How long before they let some other opium smoker in to buck their sideways cocktroughs? You want to see your kith and kin, see the other side of that rock. If not, pack up your stinkin’ cuttlefish and your bamboo shoots and your goddamned piss warm tea and point your squinty faces west, because that’s all you’ll be taking with you. I don’t pay any man till the job’s done.”

One man, Lo Shu, stepped up, scowling.

“We work long time a’ready! We earn—”

“You’ve earned nothing, you little squint! Get back in line or I’ll fetch your skull so grand a clout you’ll forget your father’s name, if you ever knew it to begin with. I’ll say it again, and slowly so’s it’ll penetrate your muley heads. No work-ee no money. Savvy that?”

This set up a frenzy of protests from the men, but again Joe shouted them down.

“Read your contracts, you goddamned ignoramuses. Or get Chow Lan to read ‘em if you can’t or don’t believe me.”

Some grabbed Chow Lan by the shirt front and shouted questions at him, and after a bit he explained to them that yes, the gwailo was correct. They were contracted for the end of the job. The only way to leave early with a paycheck was to lose a limb.

“Now you know where you stand?” Joe yelled, when Chow Lan had finished his spiel. “Reform your gangs and get to work, and no more of this heathen tripe about monsters and devils.”

The Chinamen grumbled and scowled, but after lingering, they grudgingly went off to their respective jobs.

Joe Blas stood on the rock with his hands on his belt until the last of them had climbed up to the summit and Tolliver signaled to him and went inside the engine house. A minute later Old Judah wheezed to life. The sharp whistle signaled the delayed start of the work day.

The sun peaked behind Devil’s Cap and shone like a halo, causing Joe to look away, eyes watering. He reached into his coat pocket and took a pull of firewater, shivered and spat.

~

In an hour the gangs were in full swing, hammering at the rock, filling it with powder, and blowing holes as if Hesutu’s talk had been a bad dream. Joe wasn’t surprised. He knew money dispelled more demons than holy water and crucifixes.

The work was slow and tedious. They could expect to get about seven inches a day all in all if they kept it safe, eight if Joe booted their arses a bit. But the latter usually led to blown off fingers and worse. The Indians and the whites wouldn’t dangle in a basket over a cliff face with a barrel of blasting powder, and he didn’t like to waste Chinamen. If they fell behind, of course, they were a commodity to be spent. Blasting could be a dicey business, but he had never lost a white man yet, although admittedly the company didn’t count how many Honest Johns had gone to China feet first.

There was a subterranean explosion, the summit gang blasting in the center shaft. The priest came out of the snow tunnel, a bamboo pole over one of his sturdy shoulders, a powder keg filled with fresh tea bouncing on either end.

Joe watched the priest set down his burden, lift the lid off the big communal tea barrel, and pour the steaming new stuff in.

“Hey, Priest!” Joe called, since he had never learned the man’s name.

The priest replaced the lid of the barrel, picked up his pole and the empty kegs, and came over.

“You speak-ee English, yeah?”

The priest nodded.

Joe pursed his lips. He knew that one.

“That ain’t no answer. Yes or no?”

“I speak English,” the priest said, with only a faint accent.

Joe raised his eyebrows.

“I’ve known priests. Lots in my day. But you ain’t like them. You don’t ask for nothin.’ You don’t tithe, you do a fair bit of work around here, free of charge. So what the hell kinda man are you?”

The priest shrugged. “Just a man, like you.”

Joe rankled. “Like me? Mary Magdalene’s festerin’ cunt, you are. What’s your angle, Priest? I can’t figure it.”

“Angle?”

“What’re you doin’ here?”

The priest looked puzzled. “I am working. Serving, when I can.”

“Servin’ who?”

“Them,” he said, glancing at the coolies lining up for fresh tea. He turned back to Joe. “You.”

Joe snorted. “What the hell could you do for me? And why?”

“If we do not take care of each other, who will?”

“Who said that? Buddha?”

The priest nodded.

Joe spat in the snow. “And that’s the shite you tell these coolies to keep ‘em in line?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Religion. It ain’t nothin’ but a means of controllin’ the poor and ignorant. And who’s poorer or more ignorant than them pigtails, bustin’ their scrawny arses for twenty eight dollars a month.”

“How much do you bust your arse for a month, Boss Joe?” the priest asked.

Joe bristled. “That ain’t none of your affair, boyo. I’m a free man with no ties. I can leave anytime I want to. I’m beholden to neither man nor God, no, nor Buddha neither. I walk me own road.”

“One path is better than no path, but the right path is best of all,” said the priest.

“And you figure what you preach is the right path. Aha! Now you’re talkin’ like a priest.”

The priest smiled thinly and bowed. “Please excuse me. I have work to do,” he said.

Joe grinned. “Sure, go ahead. I respect a man who knows when he’s beat.”

“To win a thousand battles is good, but to win one battle over ourselves is great,” said the priest, bowing again before turning to go.

Joe frowned. What the hell did that mean? He didn’t know just why had taken a sudden interest in the priest. Boredom maybe. All his minor curiosity fled his mind when the door to the engine house atop the summit flung open and Tolliver stumbled out, drenched in blood and black with powder, a plume of smoke billowing out behind him.

He nearly fell down the mountain, but one of the Paiutes rushed out and caught him.

“Hey boss!” the Indian yelled.

Joe cussed and trudged up the incline. He heard a crash behind him and all of a sudden the Chinese priest was climbing alongside him. Halfway up the top, the ground shook hard and rumbled. A pile of loose rocks tumbled free and one struck Joe bloody in the head. The priest grabbed his shirt and kept him from falling. For nearly a full minute they hugged the rock, watching the trees sway and shed snow down on them. It was like gripping a bull trying to shake them loose.

“Earthquake!” he managed to yell.

Below, the coolies working the west tunnel ran into the open shouting, dirt and rubble sliding from their shoulders.

Bushy bearded Jesus, he had never felt one this bad. It seemed like it would never end. He glanced up and saw the wood enclosure trembling atop the summit. His heart sank when he heard a crack and saw part of the roof shift. The Paiutes spilled out and fell to their bellies just as the roof collapsed inward, the whole structure crashing flat over the engine and the tender. Debris slid down the embankment, carrying a couple screaming Paiutes with it.

Joe put his head down and quietly willed the engine not to fall from the mountain. Christ’s bloody breechclout, they would be here another year if they lost it. What would he tell Crocker? He had talked big to the priest about being footloose and fancy free. Damn if it didn’t look like he really would be. Sure, he’d get the blame, even for an earthquake. And Crocker would put some other mick in his place. It’d be back to Fisherman’s Wharf for him, bareknuckle fighting, spittin’ teeth, and pissin’ blood and whiskey till a good job came his way again, if it ever did.

He looked over at the priest, but he was gone. Fallen or carried off by a boulder or bit of rubble, no doubt. But no, Joe saw him above then, springing nimble as a goat from rock to rock, even in the midst of the shaking, making his way up to the summit.

Joe held on for dear life, and watched as the priest reached Tolliver where the Paiute had laid him when the shaking had started. He lifted the bloody man up in his arms and hurled himself over the edge like a madman. But instead of tumbling to his death, he skipped lightly till he reached the bottom of the hill, and then knelt there over Tolliver, shielding him from falling rocks with his own body.

No priest Joe had ever seen was like that.

The shaking stopped, and he looked up at the pile of wood and snow that once covered the engine, and saw Old Judah’s smokestack poking through.

“Well thank Missus Lot’s salt tits for that!” he exclaimed.

Just then something burst from the side of the rock to his immediate left. It looked like a huge, mossy mass of tendril roots.

Joe was so surprised he relaxed his grip on the stone and fell backwards.

Well, that’s the end of me, he thought, as he plummeted into the open air. He supposed he would land on that rock he had been standing on before, and be broken in two. If he was lucky, he might squash a Chinaman and be saved.

But neither happened.

Instead, he felt a dull impact on his upper back and behind his knees, and found himself sagging in the surprisingly hard, strong arms of the priest like a suckling baby.

He looked at the priest in surprise, and noticed the inside of his forearms were tattooed…no, not tattooed. There were designs branded on his skin, puffy scars in the shape of a fanciful Oriental dragon on his right arm, and a tiger on his left.

He put down his feet.

“Ta, boyo,” Joe muttered.

But the priest wasn’t looking at him. No one was. The coolies and the Indians were uniformly staring wide eyed up at the top of Devil’s Cap.

The mass of tangled roots that had surprised Joe were moving, waggling like great knotty, long nailed fingers.

Because that’s what they were.

He didn’t want to believe it, but when the splayed things shot further out causing the rock to crack and crumble, they were on the end of an immensely long, muscular arm, shaggy with stringy gray hair stained brown by the dirt.

The top of Devil’s Cap moved. It rose and fell once, like something beneath were testing the weight, then it swelled again, enough to tip Old Judah and its tender off the slope at last. The noise of all that iron and steel rolling down was a terrible cacophony, and a few men were caught up in it and smashed flat.

Something burst through the snowy cap…no, not something. What had Hesutu called it?

Dzoavits.

It erupted from the stone, doing to Devil’s Cap in seven seconds what it would have taken another eleven months for them to do with hand drills and blasting powder.

It was immense. At least a hundred and fifty feet tall. Another arm punched through the side of the rock and it extricated itself from the encasing rock like a fat man wriggling out of a barrel. It was moundish, with a huge hairy hump between its muscled shoulders, covered with spiky, quartz-like protuberances of a muddy hue. In the center of its chest was a hint of a head, framed by long, scraggly gray-black hair. There was an overlarge disapproving mouth that stretched almost from shoulder to shoulder, and was hung with fleshy lips and shot through with a row of yellow, serrated shark teeth. Above that maw, two bulging red eyes glowed. The thing opened its mouth, took its first cold breath of fresh air in God only knew how long, and let out a terrifying, protracted howl, which washed over them in a wave that drove them all physically back in horror.

Rocks cascading off its body, it pulled itself free of its prison, revealing a pair of strange, spindly, kangaroo-like legs that ended in long grasping black talons. It seemed to rest on its massive arms, and use them for locomotion, like a great gorilla, or a man with withered legs.

The horrible thing perched atop the ruins of Devil’s Cap and surveyed the countryside, a newly emerged monarch. It sucked the air with its ponderous lungs and regarded the milling men below.

Joe tried to run, and tripped over Chow Lan, who had fallen sprawling in the snow and was groping for his spectacles. The Chinese and Indians were in full route, except for the priest, who knelt beside Tolliver, yelling in Chinese at the men who passed, apparently urging them to take him with them.

Joe heard gunshots, and looked over. Several of the Indians and white men in the camp had seen the thing and had emerged from the snow tunnel. They were firing at it with shotguns and muskets. Joe almost laughed as he scrabbled to his feet.

But before he could run, the priest grabbed a hold of his sleeve.

“You must take Boss Tom with you,” said the priest.

“Let go of me, you bloody monkey!” Joe shrieked and swung at him.

It was an old prizefighter’s instinctual blow, the kind that would have knocked an untrained man unconscious had it landed. But the priest did something peculiar with his free hand, and Joe’s punch seemed to slide uselessly down his branded arm. Then the smaller man’s two fingers pinched Joe’s wrist and twisted. The pain was so intense Joe gasped and fell to his knees, all thought of struggle gone.

He found himself face to face with Tolliver, laying nearby. The man was a black and bloody mess. He must have been caught in the explosion Joe had heard earlier, the one that had awakened this thing. He had known Tolliver back when Irish muscle had done the backbreaking work, not Chinese. They had come up together. He felt ashamed at having tried to abandon him.

But they were all dead men anyhow, in the face of this thing from the pit of Hell.

“Chow Lan!” the priest yelled. “Help him!”

“Where can we go?” Chow Lan yelled, having fitted his glasses back on his nose. One lens looked like a spiderweb.

The priest looked about for a moment, then pointed to the shallow western tunnel in the base of Devil’s Cap which the terrified coolies had abandoned.

He pointed.

Joe looked up as a massive shadow fell across the entire area. The air grew chill. The sky was dark.

Then were was a tremendous impact that knocked Chow Lan to the ground and sent the snow and the loose stones hovering for a surreal moment before everything crashed back down.

The thing had leapt from the summit and landed behind them.

Joe watched as it scooped up a fistful of the fleeing workmen. He saw dozens of men flailing between its huge ruddy fingers and heard their screams as it stuffed them hungrily into its mouth.

“Let me go!” Joe yelled.

“You will help Boss Tom?”

Joe nodded, exhaling as the pressure on his wrist disappeared.

“Go then,” the priest ordered, and to Joe’s surprise, he began to strip away his shirt.

“Come on, Chow Lan,” Joe urged, taking Tolliver under the armpits.

“Where he go?” Chow Lan wondered, taking Tolliver’s feet and watching mystified as the priest discarded his pants.

“Never mind him! He’s barmy. Let’s go.”

They bore Tolliver back to the shallow depression and huddled among the rubble and abandoned equipment.

The priest was bare-ass naked. He sat down on the spot and closed his eyes. He was muttering something, and his fingers were interlacing in weird passes.

Tolliver groaned.

Joe reached into his coat and pulled out his bottle.

“Here, Tom, here now,” he said, pulling out the cork and tipping it to Tolliver’s bruised lips. “Mother Mary’s milk, it is. You drink. I’m sorry, Tom.”

Beside him, Chow Lan gave a cry of surprise and fell to his knees, throwing his forehead to the ground.

Joe looked over and nearly dumped the rest of the firewater up Tolliver’s right nostril.

The priest was getting to his feet.

But he had changed.

Somehow, in the few instants it had taken Joe to speak to Tolliver, the man had grown abnormally large. Taller than the tallest man Joe had ever seen in a freak show.

The priest took a step toward the thing massacring the fleeing workmen, and he shot up another ten feet, his legs and arms swelling and growing proportionately. In another step, he was thirty feet high. A third, he was forty.

“Saint Stephen dodgin’ fuckin’ rocks,” Joe stammered, and fell back against the wall of the tunnel trembling.

By the time the priest was upon Dzoavits, they were the same size. A hundred and fifty foot tall Chinaman, naked as a jaybird, muscled and smooth as a yellow colossus dominating some pagan temple. His eyes shined with a strange sunlight golden light.

As Dzoavits raked one of its huge hands through the crowd of screaming Chinamen, the priest reached out and took hold of its wrist, spinning the creature around to face him.

It howled in rage as he gave its clawed hand a twist, and a dozen men fell shrieking from its grip. They stumbled away, gaping at the two giants in horror.

The ogre wasn’t brought down so easily as Joe had been, though. It kicked out with both its marsupial feet and sent the giant priest flying backwards.

But for all his newfound immensity, he had lost none of the agility Joe had seen him display in the rescue of Tolliver. He arched his back and flipped entirely backwards, landing on his feet and putting up his fists, feet set apart in a weird fighting stance.

Joe regained some of his reason and jerked Chow Lan to his feet by his queue.

“Chow Lan, boyo, tell me you see what I’m seein,’” he pleaded.

“I see! I see!”

“What is he? How?”

“He Shaolin, Boss,” Chow Lan mumbled with a hint of reverence amid his own fear.

“What the bloody hell is show-linn?”

“Fighting monks, Boss. Strong. They know things. Secrets. Maybe magic. Make them strong, fast, fight like demons. I read about such stuff, but never think I see.”

“But how? How?” Joe repeated.

There was no answer from Chow Lan.

Dzoavits let out an angry howl and came charging like a bull gorilla at the priest, knocking aside trees and crushing the tea barrel to splinters.

The priest intercepted its charge with his foot, lashing out and kicking it between the eyes.

The creature fell flat on its back with a staggering crash that shook the earth.

It somersaulted weirdly to its hands though, and began to sweep at the priest with its massive arms.

The priest leapt above these savage lunges, but the monster’s wicked, clawed feet lashed out in deceptively short, one-two combinations. Though the priest dodged and slapped aside the slashing appendages with his forearms, it managed to rip a shallow furrow in his left side, and Joe gaped as a gout of blood splashed the rocks at the entrance to the tunnel in a red shower.

The priest countered, the monster slashed and snapped, each of them fighting alternately with their hands and feet. Every checked blow resounded in the mountains like a burst of artillery. They were sometimes so rapid and close together it gave Joe the impression of a thunderous fusillade. The creature’s awful howling and roaring intermixed with the occasional martial shout or grunt of the priest.

One titanic combatant would go smashing to the ground only to leap or roll aright again and rejoin the fray. Great ropes of fur and tides of blood covered the snow.

Then the priest jabbed a knife hand into Dzoavit’s left eye, putting out the red bulging orb and causing a steady stream of black blood to gush down its horrible face.

The monster howled and leapt back.

The priest, gasping, his olive skin now leaking bubbling creeks of blood from a half a dozen places, jumped back, too, and flicked the dark slime from his fist, splashing a stand of trees in the stuff.

The monster seemed to double over in agony, and shook its body. The dark, crystalline spines protruding from its back shined blue, each glowing with its own light.

The priest gripped the base of a tall, full grown fir tree, and striking it with the edge of his foot, uprooted it and whirled it one hand. He turned to face the creature, poised with the huge timber set in front of him like a partisan.

Dzoavits straightened and opened its wide, bloody maw. Like a toad, its black tongue sprang from its mouth, shooting across the distance. The priest was slow to block the thing, and it lashed around his corded neck like a bullwhip.

The blue phosphorescence, which had glowed on its back, traveled like St. Elmo’s fire down the length of its tongue. When that visible, unknowable energy reached the monk’s neck, he cried out and fell to his knees, dropped his makeshift weapon, and wrestled with the source of his pain constricting his neck like a ravenous anaconda.

Joe blanched, watching as the flesh around the giant monk’s neck began to sizzle and smoke and he clenched his eyes and teeth in pain. His hands, trying to grip the tongue, recoiled again and again in pain.

“Cuckold Joseph!” he exclaimed. “It’s murderin’ him, sure!”

“What can we do?” Chow Lan pleaded.

Joe looked around the tunnel and felt a wavering in his knees when he realized they’d been taking cover among unused crates of blasting powder. Water walking Jesus, any stray bullet or flame could’ve blown them all to Moses.

Dzoavits was retracting its glowing tongue now, and the priest was dragged towards its toothy maw, knees plowing great trails in the earth as he gamely resisted.

“We must help him,” Chow Lan cried.

“Help him? What can we do?” Joe mumbled, but even as he dropped the question mark his eyes lit on Old Judah, lying on its side between the two tugging giants, spewing water in little arcs like a garden fountain.

Then he looked at a crate of blasting powder barrels and the coil of fuse lying next to it. It had to weigh three hundred pounds. He considered Chow Lan’s skinny arms dubiously.

“Awright, boyo. You think you can help me carry that box?”

“What we do with that?” Chow Lan asked, though he went to the other side of the box and tested the weight.

Joe looped the fuse coil over his arm and gripped the hemp handle of the crate. “Just you follow my lead.”

Chow Lan’s end of the crate sagged sharply, but the little man was stronger than he looked, and made no complaint as they stiff-walked the heavy burden out of the tunnel and beneath the giant Chinaman’s spread legs.

“Christ’s Granny Anne, what a view,” he muttered, trying not to look up as he guided Chow Lan toward Old Judah, slipping through the snow and splashing through ponds of blood.

At the midway point, the creature’s glowing tongue over their heads, Chow Lan gasped and dropped his end with a jarring thud.

“Don’t break the thing, you bloody leper, or we’re lost.”

Chow Lan nodded and gave it a second go.

It took some doing, but they finally reached the battered engine, which was piddling water from a dozen cracks in the tubes and billowing steam. They lifted the crate into the engineer’s cab with a roaring effort.

Joe considered the state of the leaky old engine with dread, and checked the boiler level. Hell, they hardly needed to have brought the blasting powder. The engine would explode in a matter of minutes.

“Start fixin’ this crate to blow, Chow Lan,” Joe yelled, as he leapt out of the cab. He tossed the coil of fuse to the Chinaman.

As Chow Lan went into the cab, he looked up at the huge priest and the slavering monster. They were just massive, unreal, silhouettes against the bright sky from this angle, but the glow of the tongue between them lit the grimacing face of the golden-eyed priest. Joe noticed that of the spines on the back of Dzoavits, only a few were shining now, and one flickered and went out as he looked.

But the priest was losing his ground. In a few minutes, he would be dragged past the engine.

“Okey dokey, Boss,” Chow Lan yelled, jumping down.

“Get to cover, Chow,” Joe said, taking out his matches.

“Boss,” Chow Lan said, wide-eyed. “What you do now?”

“I said get to cover, you damn fool!”

Chow Lan loped off for the trees, and Joe climbed into the hot, shuddering engine cab. Chow Lan had cracked open the crate and slipped the fuse inside one of the barrels.

The boiler gauge was quivering in the danger zone.

The giant Chinaman’s great foot dug in a few dozen feet away.

How to get his attention?

But of course.

Joe reached up and blew the engine whistle, a shrill scream that pierced the air, audible even above the contention of the giants.

He jumped down and touched the match to the fuse.

He looked up.

The Chinaman’s enormous glowing eyes focused on him.

Joe waved his hands, mimicked an explosion, and ran after Chow Lan, hoping the giant would get his meaning.

He did.

Joe looked back as he ran for the trees.

The priest seemed to relax, and let the glowing tongue pull him forward. As he was drawn towards Dzoavits, he reached down and scooped up Old Judah in his hand with a groan of metal and a great hissing. Surely he was scalded, but if the brands on his arms meant anything, he could take it.

Dzoavits’ tongue ceased glowing as the priest came toe to toe with it, and it grabbed at him with its forelegs.

The priest brought up Old Judah and drove it into the thing’s wide open mouth, cracking off a couple of its wicked teeth in the process. At precisely that moment, either the boiler or the blasting powder exploded. Joe didn’t know which, but one definitely helped the other along.

The fiery explosion blew the priest back, severed Dzoavits’ tongue, and left a gaping, drippy hole where its face had been. Shards of superheated iron and steel riddled its body. A few teeth hung like bits of broken glass in a window frame, twisted on strings of gummy tissue, before falling to the earth.

Then the enormous beast teetered and fell face forward with an enormous crash.

When Joe and Chow Lan dared to pick their way from the trees, the priest was nowhere to be seen. There was just an impression where he had fallen, and a great ragged, smoking coil of Dzoavit’s severed tongue.

Without a word, Joe and Chow Lan went to this, and found the priest, normal sized again, lying half beneath the rubbery debris, naked and bloodied.

As Chow Lan laid a tentative hand on him, he opened his eyes. They weren’t glowing anymore.

“Great God in Heaven,” Joe said, unironically, taking his hat from his head as Chow Lan fell to his knees and bowed his head. “Boyo, can all you show-linn do that? Grow like that?”

“Not without sacrificing eight years of life,” the priest muttered, closing his eyes again.

~

By the time Chow Lan found the priest’s clothes and Joe had salved his cuts with medicinal from the camp stores, the survivors were crowding the man in silent awe. The coolies uniformly prostrated themselves, yammering their thanks in their native tongue. He only answered them with a thin smile and a simple salute, fist in hand, and when he had dressed, he retired to his joss house.

When he emerged, he was dressed for travel, with a bindle and a saucer hat.

Joe had stood outside the whole time, waiting. What was that Shakespeare line, about more things in Heaven and earth? Well call him Horatio.

“What are you, mister?” he asked.

“I am like you. Like them,” he added, nodding to the coolies. “He who pulls the rickshaw is as much a man as those who ride.”

Joe grinned and shook his head.

“Still preachin.’”

“Burn the carcass,” the priest said to the gathered workers in a loud voice. “And seal the hole,” he told Joe.

They all nodded as if he stood on a cloud.

“We will remember you with honor. All of us,” said Chow Lan.

“Where you headed?” Joe asked.

“Over the mountains,” the priest said, looking east.

Joe held out his hand.

“You’re a hell of a man, for a heathen priest.”

The priest smiled thinly and shook. “It is not the creed that makes the man. It is the man who justifies the creed.”

“Boy, you’re full of ‘em. Well here’s one you taught me. Don’t judge a horse by the saddle he wears.”

The priest bowed his chin and walked off.

They all watched him, holding their breath as he disappeared into the snow tunnel.

Joe sighed and took out his dented speaking tube, turning on the men.

“Well alright boyos, you heard the man. Let’s burn that great monstrosity, blast the hole shut, and get on with our work. We’ll be shiftin’ course for Donner summit, so pack it up.”

“Like Hesutu said?” Chow Lan ventured.

Joe only rumbled, keeping his tongue in check. He felt disinclined to cuss these heathens just now.

“What will Mr. Crocker say?”

“That’s a good question,” Joe sighed. “But there aint’ no helpin’ it.”

He went off to his shanty as the men dispersed, looking forward to a pull of who-hit-john to put all these wonders into perspective.

“Boss Joe,” Chow Lan said, rushing to keep up with him.

“What is it?”

“You asked the priest what he was. We have a name for it. Yīngxióng.”

“Ying-she-yong?” Joe repeated.

Chow Lan seemed to be swelling, smiling.

“It means hero.”

Joe nodded.

“Sure, boyo. I guess that’s a good fit.”

Shaktarra

Sean Sherman - Kaiju Rising Backer

Craig Davis awoke to a pounding at the front door. He looked over at his alarm clock but it was dead. As the pounding continued, Craig withdrew his revolver from the nightstand and crept to the door in complete darkness. The sliver of light that normally glared into his bedroom from that annoying streetlight outside was gone. That and the rampant pounding were the first signs something was wrong.

“Who's there?” he called.

“It's Leslie, you dope. Open up.”

Craig opened the door and Leslie slipped in as soon as there was room, squeezing under his arm. She glanced at him, and he only then realized what he must look like, just in his boxers and holding a .44. She shook her head, biting back a smile, but she didn’t look much better. A short woman with wild, sandy blond hair, blue jeans, t-shirt, Leslie wore an olive green jacket that looked like an army surplus reject. A remnant of the Korean War perhaps?

“So, what's the story? What the hell is going on out there?”

“I don’t know for sure. Maybe some kind of EMP blast that’s knocked out all the electricity. You know, like in one of those sci-fi movies. All I know is that the whole city’s blacked out. No communications to anywhere outside. Maybe this is the big one.”

“Glad to see you're so happy for World War Three,” Craig complained as he stumbled off to find the rest of his clothes.

“War? Oh, I don't think that’s what’s caused it. I mean, it'll be the big story. Biggest one yet.”

“Then what's going on, a solar flare?”

“At one in the morning? Don't be stupid.”

“Well you don't know either. Science certainly isn't one of your strong suits. Maybe the radiation, or whatever it is, bounced around the atmosphere until it hit us, or something like that,” Craig replied.

“No, this is something new. Some people I talked said they saw a green glow to the north when it happened. I gotta find out what it was. Maybe it was some sort of secret experiment over at Area 51?” Leslie speculated as Craig finished dressing.

“A witness at one o’ clock on the Strip? I'm quite certain there’s no way he could have been drunk.” Craig laughed.

“Shut up. I got three separate reports on the green glow, and there was a powerful gust of wind twenty minutes ago that smelled almost as bad as your fridge. Signs knocked over, windows broken, almost as if a hurricane had hit. There is something really—”

Craig cut her off. “That’s all great, but why are you here?”

“Well, I...uh...I need to borrow your car.”

“No. Not a chance in hell. That’s a '66 Mustang. My dad gave me that car and there is no way you're taking it on some wide goose chase in the desert. Why don’t you take yours?”

“I can't. It won't work. I need an old car that would have survived the EMP. Nothing with any kind of computer chip works anymore. That means your car’s the only one likely to still be running. Besides, if you keep it here it will be destroyed by riots within twenty-four hours.”

“Riots?”

“Think of it. You have over a million people here, maybe two, I don’t know, and that’s not including lord knows how many tourists. With a complete power outage, and with limited water, people are going to panic eventually. It’s already started on the strip. Think of it, just you against a horde of crazed tourists? Wonder how long you’ll last.”

Craig sighed. She hadn’t painted a pretty picture. “Okay, I'll go with you, but I'm the only one that drives my car, you got that? Besides, this may be the one time in your life when you're right.” Craig grumbled while opening his gun safe. He pulled out his shotgun and a couple of rifles along with a satchel containing a first aid kit and extra ammo. Always a good thing to be prepared.

“Alright, let's roll.”

~

After leaving Vegas, they sped north but after only a few minutes they ran into a sandstorm. High winds pelted them as Craig stopped along the side of the road, swearing. It was over quickly, but all Craig could think about was the scuffed paint. Further down the highway they found some disabled cars that must have gone dead during the strange pulse, their passengers disoriented and recovering from the sandstorm.

“Is everyone alright?” Craig shouted at the four people near a pair of cars.

“What's going on? Can you give us a lift back to town?” said a woman.

“Sorry, no room. We'll let someone know you're out here, though.” With that, Craig continued on his way. Of course there was no way he could get help for these people, but he couldn't give everyone he met a ride either.

“I hope those folks find help before the sun comes up,” Craig said while staring at their fading images in the rearview mirror.

“It’s not going to be easy for anyone,” said Leslie. “All those people in Vegas are going to be without air conditioning or functional vehicles. By the way, have your noticed that strange smell ever since that sandstorm hit us? It’s the same one I noticed earlier.”

“No, but my nose has been plugged up for the last week. Feels almost like allergies, but I haven't had it this bad since moving to Nevada.”

After another hour of travel they came across a bizarre glow coming from the west.

“What’s that,” asked Craig as they continued driving.

“Turn on one of these side roads, and let’s see if we can get closer to it.”

“Closer?” Craig looked over at Leslie in wonder. “Whatever that thing is it’s big and it’s glowing. Not a good idea.”

“It looks like some sort of forest…but not made out of any trees.” Leslie pushed on Craig’s shoulder. “There’s something alive there. Pull over.”

“Damn it! You’re going to pay if anything happens to my ride,” Craig muttered as he slowed and carefully pulled onto a dirt side road.

Ahead of them was an astonishing sight. It was an alien looking landscape many miles across that had a dim, iridescent glow. The ‘trees’ looked more like stalks of celery, nearly four hundred feet tall, their “bark” colored in a variety of greens with numerous purple veins. The veins were one of the sources of the glow.

In the wide gaps between the alien trees were large flowers ranging in height from two feet upwards of ten feet. The scintillating petals of these flowers also contributed to the glow, and they covered nearly every color in the rainbow.

After moments of staring at the amazing scene before them, the strange animals Leslie had seen come back into view. Large creatures, nearly fifty feet long, wandered out of the alien forest and strolled across the Nevada desert. Their hides had elaborate, multi-colored patterns that could help them hide in the foliage, and kind of reminded Craig of a tie-dye T-shirt.

“They’re beautiful,” Leslie said while watching the small herd of about eight of the creatures that roamed the area, examining the new world they found themselves in.

“Yep, and big. Looks like a huge Brontosauruses. I always liked those.” Craig stopped the car and got out. He pulled a pair of rifles out of the back seat and handed one to Leslie.

“What’s that for? Are you planning on killing those magnificent creatures?” She sneered at Craig.

“Nope, but we don’t know what else is in there. We have to be able to defend ourselves.” Leslie reluctantly took a rifle.

“You ever shoot a gun before?”

“It’s been a long time.” Leslie examined the weapon. Craig gave her a quick tutorial.

“Let’s get a closer look,” he said as he pulled a satchel out of the back seat.

They had walked only a dozen paces before a number of the creatures lifted their heads and became very still. A trembling in the ground grew until it felt like an earthquake. The herd panicked and started to run.

They didn’t get far when a huge form rocketed out of the alien jungle. It dwarfed the herd, seizing one of the animals in its mouth and lifted the thing as if it weighed nothing. Bones crunched as it violently shook its victim. The others ran in an arc, returning to the cover of the forest, quickly disappearing into the undergrowth.

Having dropped her gun, Leslie was busy taking photos of the monstrous beast before them. It was over 150 feet long, had six legs, the two front ones ending in rudimentary hands instead of feet. The thing had patches of crystals growing out of its body. The crystals had a dim bluish glow. Despite the extra legs the body reminded Leslie of a tiger. The skin didn’t have the tie-dye pattern of the herd animals but was an almost uniform dark-blue. Its wide mouth was filled with multiple rows of sharp teeth, and four blue eyes glowed at the same shade as the crystals on its body.

“Are you crazy? Pick your gun back up!” Craig glared at her.

“Bullets won’t hurt something that big, just piss it off. These images will be worth millions.”

“Now that you have your photos let’s get out while we still can.” Craig tugged on Leslie’s arm. At this point the monster had finished its meal. It noticed the glare of the Mustang’s headlights and began to move towards them.

“Son of a…run!” Craig shouted as he noticed the beast charging in their direction. “Away from the car, Leslie. Away from the car!”

The thing was fast. The two humans barely escaped as it attacked the vehicle. The shaking of the ground threw them both off their feet but, luckily, well out of the path its huge feet. The Mustang, however, was bite-sized for the behemoth. As it bit down, obliterating the car, it then shook its head and tossed the remains far off to the side. Craig moaned to himself about his ride.

The creature sniffed with great huffs, its eyes scanning the surrounding area. Craig and Leslie huddled together, sure they would be next, but it turned to the south and let out a deafening roar. The force knocked them back as the monster sprinted off.

~

The air burned its nostrils. Poison was in the air. Its hunger grew. A distant sense of voices loomed ahead. The strange sounds reached its ears, growing louder. A bright light shined down. Muscles tensed as the head turned to face the incoming threat.

~

Craig and Leslie made their way to the undergrowth of flowers in the alien jungle. The low glow from the trees helped them in the dark. The sweet smells of the flowers were strong and the air tasted strange. A number of bizarre, ten-legged insects crawled across the dark soil. Some of the bugs were nearly a foot long.

As they made their way slowly through the environment, taking in the strangeness that surrounded them, Leslie jerked her hand away as a large roach-like bug scurried over her hand.

“Ahh! I hate bugs,” she screamed.

“Well, at least there are no scorpions,” Craig said. “Can't remember how many times I shook them out of my boots in Iraq.”

They continued on for another half an hour, following the path created by the titanic beast, staying a bit off to the side in the six-foot high flowers for cover. Leslie continued taking photos along the way.

“Hold on. I need to change the film for my camera,” she said.

“Sure.” Craig stared at the dark heights above them.

A nearby rustling startled them, making Leslie fumble with the roll of film and drop it on the ground. Sounds to their sides made him realize something was surrounding them.

“Heads up.” Craig readied his gun. He looked over at Leslie to see she was more concerned with recovering the roll of film than the approaching danger. “Forget the damn camera, we have bigger issues!”

The stems of the flowers ahead of them parted and a thin, tall creature emerged looking like a cross between a lizard and a human. It carried a spear tipped with some sort of dark gem-like stone arrowhead. It held it at the ready but not in a threatening manner. It seemed unconcerned with the gun Craig was aiming at it.

“Ni'tikka nokk tar noomie,” said the creature.

“Hello,” said Craig. “We come in peace.” The alien tilted its head while Craig spoke.

Leslie was now on her feet. She attempted to take a photograph of the creature. Nothing happened. “Damn it, it’s jammed,” Leslie cursed as she spied the dirt that was still on the film roll.

“Takka'tor no nari,” the creature cried out behind, then three more of them emerged from the surrounding flowers. They also carried spears. They wore little clothing, mostly straps or harnesses to carry their gear. Sacks of water, cutting tools, flint stones, and other primitive devices stood out among other strange gear.

The original lizard man motioned with its spear towards the side of the large path. “Tako. Tak,” it said.

“What do we do now?” said Leslie.

“Follow them?” said Craig.

~

After the EMP blast hit Nevada, covering an area covering tens of thousands of square miles, rescue operations began quickly, numerous airliners having crashed into the Nevada desert. Additionally, countless people were stranded along the desert highways in desperate need of water and medical care, and the situation in the population centers and hospitals needed to be assessed as well. Since all communication centers in Nevada were knocked out, that job was in the hands of the California National Guard.

One of the swarm of helicopters sent into Nevada noticed something unusual, a large shape moving in the darkness, and moved to investigate. When their searchlights illuminated the beast, the crew was shocked at what they saw. As the pilot pulled away, desperately radioing HQ, the creature struck. It covered the few hundred yards separating them in a blink of an eye and ended its sprint with a leap. The helicopter was yanked out of the sky by the beast's powerful jaws, then dropped burning into the desert sands. The monster unleashed a howl of pain and fury into the night and continued south. Its speed increased with every step as it made its way toward the city and the source of the voices it felt in its head.

~

Craig and Leslie were escorted by the four lizard men to a camp, a number of hide -covered huts surrounding a central fire. Numerous stone totem poles surrounded the camp with a large stone statue, which stood about fifteen feet in height, were set near the fire. The statue appeared to be of a creature similar to the colossal monster they had seen burst form the jungle. It was made of stone, but it had a number of blue crystals in the exact same places the creature had them. These crystals glowed.

Seeing the humans staring at the statue, the guide pointed at it and said, “Shaktarra,” and then crossed his arms and bowed his head in reverence. There was no mistaking what these creatures thought of the larger one.

Craig and Leslie where then brought to the largest hut, one which had a pair of skulls on poles flanking its entrance. The lizard men clearly did not realize the significance of Craig's gun, for which he was grateful. They’d be in for a rude surprise should he need to use it.

“Nik'cha toonark ta,” said the guide into the opening.

“Cho-na,” came a reply from within, then the guide parted the flap and motioned for Craig and Leslie to enter.

~

The neighborhood barbeque was swinging into high gear. Dawn was approaching but grills were set up to cook all of the meat the neighborhood had. When it became apparent that the city would be out of power and low on supplies for a long time, it was decided to cook and salt as much of the food as possible before it went bad.

There were many discussions about what could have caused this inconvenience to the regular flow of daily life, but with the lack of mushroom clouds to verify the end of the world, not as many people fell into a panic as would have been expected. The recent appearance of helicopters in the area helped to settle their nerves as well. Despite the disruption, and the initial terror, the inhabitants were making the best of things and creating an almost festive environment in the early dawn hours.

Just as the first rays of sunshine crossed the horizon a steady stream of shakes knocked things over and began to increase in intensity. Then chaos was unleashed.

A massive creature leaped into the cul-de-sac and crushed houses while people screamed and scattered in every direction. Many were pulverized under the feet of the colossal beast as it lumbered its way over to the large grills and knocked them over, sniffing at the cooking meat. Not finding anything substantial to ingest, the monster let out a deafening roar. Windows shattered over a mile away. The fleeing survivors were deafened and fell to the ground clutching their ears in pain. The creature turned to the large buildings beyond the suburb that were now illuminated by the dawn light. It ambled its way through town, destroying houses and crushing innocent bystanders as it went until it reached the west side of the Strip, crushing a large portion of the city’s center along the way.

~

Inside the hut was a hunched, albino lizard man. It wore various items that appeared to be shamanistic talismans. It put down a long necked pipe it had been smoking and looked at the pair of humans who entered its domain.

“Nokara zog?” it said to the guide.

“Shut nat,” the guide replied.

Craig’s thoughts whirled with his confusion. He readied his rifle. The albino looked at them again and closed its eyes. After some brief chanting, a blue crystal pendant around its neck began to glow.

“Who are you?” a voice sounded in Craig’s head. “What has happened to bring us to this strange place?”

“We don't know how you were brought here,” Leslie answered, clearly able to hear the creature just as Craig could. “But we call our world Earth.”

“Our god is angry. We have been stolen.”

“We had nothing to do with that.”

“If you do not know what happened, how can you be sure you are not responsible?”

“Because we don't have the power to move space and time or whatever,” said Craig. “You're the one with the magic glowing rock.”

“Silly creature. There is no such thing as magic,” tthe albino thought to them. “The crystals enhance our natural psychic abilities. They allow us to feed and draw on the power of our god.”

“What do you know of a giant predator? It was covered by numerous crystals like the ones you use,” asked Leslie.

“That is Shaktarra. He is our god. He has grown angry and has fled this place. I do not know if he plans to punish your people or if he has abandoned us.” The albino threw some herbs onto his small fire and breathed in the smoke. “The increased glow of the crystals shows that he is in combat.”

~

The morning sun shone down on the Vegas Statue of Liberty monument as hundreds of people poured out of the New York, flooding the street. Warnings from the police screamed of the impending danger. A shadow flowed over the crowd as a massive form leapt through the, air ramming into Lady Liberty, its maw tearing into the statue's throat as two of its claws tore into the superstructure of its victim. The base of the statue snapped and came crashing down into the water surrounding it. The monster fell further out in front of the main lobby of the hotel crushing hundreds of tourists who had not signed on to this experience when they booked their vacation. If they had, it would have been with a hotel called Tokyo.

As Shaktarra got back onto its feet, it obliterated the side of the hotel with a slash of its tail. In the distance, a pair of F-22 fighters closed in on Las Vegas from the west while a squad of soldiers, which had been inserted by helicopter just moments before, had taken up position near the monster. They painted the creature with a laser while the fighters were given the order to attack. Four missiles were launched from over a mile away and sped to their target.

Three found their mark. The high-explosive ordinance should have shredded any organic creature hit, no matter the size, but they appeared to do no damage. The blue crystals on the creature’s back glowed brighter at the impact. The fourth missile struck the side of the partially evacuated hotel and New York was now in flames.

Shaktarra turned his head to determine the source of the attack, but had no sense of the distant airborne objects. It unleashed a bolt of energy from its back, converting energy from the attack it just suffered, and the MGM Grand was demolished by the blast, leaving nothing but plaster and dust. The targeting soldiers went up with it.

~

The shaman led Leslie and Craig to the central fire and threw handfuls of glittering dust into it while holding a glowing crystal to his head. An image appeared in the flames showing what Shaktarra was seeing. Leslie and Craig saw the creature toppling the Lady Liberty and, moments later, unleashing its attack on the MGM.

“Shaktarra punishes your foolish people. Only thing that can save you is undoing what you have done. Return us!”

“How many times do we have to tell you we don't know what is going on? If you have any control over that monster, you better call if off right now,” Craig told the lizard man.

Leslie put her hand on Craig's shoulder and spoke to the shaman, “You don't realize our people’s capabilities. When they realize what is happening they will use weapons that can easily destroy your god. I'm not threatening you, I'm warning you.”

“Your weapons have no effect on Shaktarra while he is powered by the will of his children. He can absorb your attacks and turn them back on you.”

“Those blue crystals focus that psychic energy don't they?” Craig asked. “What about the ones on the statue?”

The shaman took a step away from the humans, its double-jointed legs giving it a strange gait.

“Your thoughts betray your treacherous hearts. Guards, restrain him. He will be a sacrifice to Shaktarra.”

~

The Arc de Triomphe was Shaktarra’s next target on the Strip, crushed beneath his bulk while he ignored the bullets from surrounding police. It tore into buildings, sensing a large number of minds somewhere inside. The people fled while a cloud of dust filled the air and the area around the main entrance collapsed. The dust aggravated the beast, and it unleashed a small stream of energy as it sneezed. The monument was set ablaze by the blast while Shaktarra continued tearing its way through the burning structure.

The fleeing horde of humanity was directed down East Flamingo Road, towards the University of Nevada. A pair of helicopters flew down the western end of the road, using bright spotlights in an attempt to draw the creature’s attention away from further buildings. In frustration, Shaktarra attacked the Flamingo for several minutes, and then slowly made its way after the exodus of tourists.

Every jet the military could muster converged on Las Vegas, patrolling the skies but not wanting to unleash their arsenals until as many civilians evacuated as possible. Additional ground troops were deployed for future targeting of the monster and reservists were positioned for crowd control and to aid in the evacuation.

A pair of F-22s, whose pilots volunteered to attempt to draw the beast away, flew in close and relatively slowly to draw its attention. They hoped a strafing run would motivate it to give chase. The first craft flew in with guns blazing, but the shots did no apparent damage, though it did get the creature's attention. As the other one flew in on his own attack run, Shaktarra unleashed another energy blast. Though less powerful that the earlier one, it was enough to cause the jet to fly out of control. It crashed into the Luxor’s pyramid, bursting into a ball of flame.

~

The lizard folk seized Craig, who readied his rifle.

“Craig, no!” Leslie shouted but was too late. The lizard's head exploded in a spray of blood, brains, and skull fragments. The other guard fumbled with his spear while the shaman cried out, though Craig didn’t know whether it was in fear or rage. The tribe's warriors went for their weapons. A second shot killed the other lizard guard, and Craig pointed the weapon at the shaman.

“Call the others off or you're dead.” Craig snarled.

“Your attack is futile. Your soul will feed Shaktarra and your world will burn!”

A number of warriors crept forward. Craig looked at Leslie who had finally dropped her camera for the gun he had given her earlier.

~

Shaktarra rampaged toward the evacuation staging area as panic swept the crowds. The soldiers knew their weapons were worthless against the monster so they focused on controlling the crowd. With the imminent threat of another devastating attack from the monster, orders were given to attempt yet another missile attack. Eight missiles steamed in, only half of them finding their mark as buildings exploded in their wake. The other half had their energy absorbed by the monster, rendering the attacks useless. In response, Shaktarra unleashed a wide cone of energy at the distant jets. One was obliterated immediately while a second was crippled, the crew ejecting before it spiraled into the desert.

The attack bought the civilians a few extra moments to escape, but the military knew it needed a new weapon to use against this monstrous calamity loose on the Strip.

~

“Last chance to call off your goons,” Craig told the shaman.

“Your threats are meaningless. Shaktarra's power will protect me, and you will die.”

“Fine, have it your way.” Craig pulled the trigger with casual ease.

Crimson blood gushed from a large hole in the shaman's chest, his shattered ribs poking out. The crystal pendant about his neck stopped glowing as the lizard man collapsed.

Letting out a battle cry, the other warriors attacked. Craig and Leslie repelled their advance with a hail of gunfire. Much too soon, Craig was forced to drop his empty rifle and pull out his trusty handgun to continue the fight.

“We have to get to the stone and break the crystals,” he shouted while trying to reload.

“Why? What do you think that'll do?”

“Don’t know, but it can’t hurt. Besides, we’ve got to do something.”

After the pair fought their way to the statue, Craig shifted his grasp on his empty pistol to the hot barrel, covering his hand with his shirt to keep from scorching himself. Armed with a makeshift club, he moved in to smash the crystals.

“Cover me.”

“Got it,” Leslie told him, the report of her rifle deafening.

Craig went to work, shattering the crystals on the statue of Shaktarra. Each exploded in a tiny burst of energy. Before he had finished, Leslie had run dry of ammo and had been reduced to fending off the warriors with a spear from one of the fallen. Their advantage was gone.

Craig went after the last crystal and heard Leslie cry out. He spun about to see her impaled with a spear that had been thrown by one of the warriors. He swore and pointed his empty gun at the remaining lizard folk. With their shaman dead and the statue to their god destroyed, the fight had gone out of their eyes. They turned and fled into the jungle, leaving Craig with the wounded woman. He knelt beside and set his hand against her throat. Leslie’s eyes stared vacantly. She was already dead. No final words, no last gasping breath. She was just dead.

Craig sank beside her, his gaze drifting up to the statue. There was no flash of light or any indication that destroying the crystal had any affect at all. As far as he could tell, their sacrifice had been in vain.

~

Shaktarra continued his rampage, leaving a wake of buildings toppled and burned. People fled in a panic while the military tried their best to defeat the beast while coordinating the evacuation. With no working trucks, buses, or any other forms of transportation nearby, many just fled into the desert with no supplies.

Just as the military prepared to concede defeat, an F-22 pilot circling above the beast noted that the blue crystals covering the creature’s back had stopped glowing. His commanders were desperate for anything and relayed permission to attack.

The pilot wasted no time complying. His missile sped at supersonic speed and impacted the creature with a massive explosion, which tore large pieces of flesh and muscle from the creature while severing one of its forelimbs. The explosion left the torso a mangled mess of blood and gore. Shaktarra let out a cry of pain as it collapsed onto the Strip, its limbs twitching.

The Air force seized upon the successful attack. A barrage of missiles followed the first, each slamming into the creature and devastating what was left. Shaktarra screeched its rage as warheads detonated against its ruined flank. It clawed at the asphalt and collapsed. With a final beat from its enormous heart, Shaktarra died.

~

Craig stood over Leslie's corpse, sickened by her passing. She’d wanted this more than he could understand, but her death was the last thing either expected. He sighed, grateful none of the lizard people had returned, but he knew they might any moment. Craig reached down and picked up Leslie’s bag containing the film that needed to be developed. Though there was nothing he could do for her, he could make sure she hadn’t died in vain.

“Don't worry, I'll make sure the world sees these first images of a new world,” he told before making his way out of the alien jungle.

Of the Earth, of the Sky, of the Sea

Patrick M. Tracy and Paul Genesse

251st Year of the Tokugawa Shogunate (1853 A.D.)

Akaishi Mountains, Yamanashi Prefecture, Japan

From the Journal of Revered Grandmother Shinobu no Nōtori

The future comes with cruel and bloody hands. To make its way, it seeks to destroy the present and erase the past. The young are there, confronting the terror of the unknown, fighting it with the tools they have always relied upon. They are doomed to forget the ancient knowledge their own ascendance has pushed aside. It is only when the brutal way of the future puts a blade to their necks that they search for the wisdom of history.

It was thus when the foreigners, the gaijin, came with their metal ships, to force trade and dictate terms, to change our lives in Nippon forever. The young generals and ambassadors sneered. These were barbarians, after all. Upstarts without culture. The common joke, even up in the mountain villages, was that only the gaijin would make a ship of iron to sail the sea. Only the round eye savages would design a ship that groaned and belched fire, clawing at the water like a dying swimmer to move forward. They were madmen, these greedy tradesmen from places called England and the Netherlands, to come so far and be forced to leave empty handed.

“They will not return, if they know what is good for them,” proclaimed the foot soldiers as they sat for tea in the House of Pale Jade at the base of the mountain. “Our war galleys would sweep them from the sea in an afternoon. What could they invent that would be worthy of trading? It is said that none of them are more than a few generations from living in mud huts and holes in the ground. They are not even fit for slaughtering animals or carrying the dead. They are dogs who have learned to walk upon their hind legs. No more.”

These words filled me with sadness. I said nothing. None wished to hear from me, an old woman, a mystic who spoke to the spirits. The things I studied, the voices who spoke to me out of the silence of the Nōtori mountain temple, these ancient ways, made no sense to them. Our time had long since passed. Nothing I said would have changed their minds. It would be up to the gaijin to do this. Just as stubborn draft animals, their attention could be captured only after a painful jolt.

When the fleet of dirigibles appeared, mighty ships suspended in the air by some outlandish science, the young learned. As fire-bombs rained down from the sky and burned whole cities flat in a matter of days, they learned. As volley after volley of arrows clanked off the bellies of the titanic airships and men clad in jointed metal floated to earth in winged gliders, the young were taught a lesson about pride. Perhaps the gaijin had no culture, but their capacity for carnage, their imagination for war machines—these qualities could not be questioned. Our great Empire of the Sun had been too long without a worthy adversary, too long idle in our self-imposed seclusion from the rest of the world. We had become fat and complacent, and the gaijin were quickly conquering us.

Only then did they come to me.

Many soldiers swept into the shrine, their footfalls the loudest sound that had echoed in the plain-walled entryway in years. Hands on sword hilts, they invaded every corner of my home, my place of worship and solitude. Behind them came their leader, jaw set tight, every inch of his ceremonial kimono perfect. Not a speck of dust lingered on the man. No hair was out of place upon his head. His eyes were intense, taking in the room in a single sweep and falling upon me where I knelt, paying homage to the earth spirits. I grasped for my plain walking stick, but it was just out of reach. A soldier gave it to me, then stepped away. It took two tries to lever myself up, but I gave the appropriate, low bow once I had done so. It was returned with a nod.

“Revered Grandmother Shinobu, I would have words.”

“Of course, Ichiro-sama. Nōtori welcomes you. All that we have is yours. I am at your disposal.”

The general made a quick gesture and his men departed, leaving us alone.

“You may guess the business I came here to discuss.”

I bowed again and feigned ignorance. “I would not presume to know your mind.”

He straightened his overtunic and cleared his throat. “Shinobu-san, please. You are learned and wise. Is there not some way we can throw these barbarians from our shores? Tell me, is there some mystery that can aid us and keep the Empire safe?” General Tokugawa Ichiro had come to me himself, asking these questions. I knew immediately what game he played. His clan had supported my shrine, and those of my sisters for centuries, but had our secrets been passed down among his family? Did he know the truth?

With all of my willpower, I kept my face serene as a pool of water, despite the fear making my heart hammer in my chest. The solution he wanted from me would be borne from desperation, and there would be terrible consequences. What he would ask me to do had not been done for centuries. Not since Kublai Khan and his Mongols tried to invade our islands. To even consider it was tantamount to madness. Consider it I had, staring into the depths of the spirit world and praying for guidance. The whispers of the elemental spirits are far from clear, no more definite than the shapes of cormorants flying low over a mist-shrouded lake. No solution came to me. Madness reigned.

“Will you share tea, General Ichiro-sama?” The austerity of the mountain shrine I had lived in for so many years had never been so clear, so well-drawn as now, with the General’s ostentatious uniform put beside the worn bamboo-slat floor and bare walls.

His brow furrowed. I knew he felt there was no time for the niceties, no time for old traditions. He remained silent for a moment, then nodded. He knew, at least, the respect for an elder that had begun to slip away in the young generation. He recognized he was here to ask me to save him from his enemies. I would never have mentioned it, not in a single breath. One did not treat the cherished honor of a samurai thus. Not even when he had been a fool and brought his Empire to the raw edge of ruin.

The steam arose from the teacups, of which there remained only two without chips or the obvious telltale cracks of age. The general sipped and kept his face neutral as we knelt across from each other at the low table. The sun was setting upon the mountain. I remembered a younger version of myself, when I tried to capture the magic hour of golden light as the chalice of the sun slid into shadow at the lip of the world. I remembered the hubris of imagining that one could hold onto such things. The things we cherish become indistinct, fading with the days and years. We ourselves are transitory beings, impermanent and ever whittled at our edges.

“The gaijin will destroy us if things keep on as they are,” I said out of the cocoon of quiet. I could as well have shattered the teacup’s porcelain against the floor.

The General gathered himself. “If we cannot find a stratagem to turn them aside, their airships will continue unchecked. Yes.”

“With all of the destruction visited upon our land, Ichiro-sama, you have chosen to visit my humble shrine.”

“This is the third shrine I have visited, Revered Grandmother,” Ichiro said.

“So many?”

“I have already spoken with the Revered Mothers Sora and Mizuumi.”

“They sent you to me?” I asked, though I knew they had. I was the eldest and the decision was mine alone.

“They refused to help,” Ichiro said, “They said I should not have believed the legends. They said you were the wisest woman in our land and would dissuade me from my path.”

“What path do you follow?” I asked.

He smiled at me, and I found the strands of gray outnumbered the black hairs on his head. “When I was a small boy, my father gave me a set of woodblocks with paintings of the great dragons on them. I believed they were real, but there are few today who believe in the ancient legends or that magic still exists in our world.”

I let out a breath. “There is magic, Ichiro-sama. Only the rare eye can see it, the rare voice who can call upon it, but the magic is here.” I put my palm flat against the floor, feeling the earth beneath, the soil and the stone, the gemstone and the ore, all the way to the deep heart of everything.

His squinted at me. “Will you show it to me? Will you help our people?”

I sipped my tea and gathered my thoughts. “The legends say the ancient Kaiju are power incarnate. The might of the tide is theirs. The power of the winter wind. The unyielding strength of the mountain, but the great dragons are not ours to command. Awakening them would invite disaster. They could well do more harm than any invading army.”

The general sat rigidly and straightened his jacket. “The Emperor and the Shogun have instructed me to save Nippon. On my honor I have vowed to stop our enemies. If I fail in this …” His eyes drifted to the floor, and I knew he would do what his code demanded. The Tokugawa were traditionalists in many regards.

“Our army is strong, General. You will be victorious.”

Ichiro shook his head and met my eyes again. “There is no way to defeat them…with the army we have.”

“Ichiro-sama, please, you do not understand the danger.”

“Revered Mother, show me, and I will. Please, honor me as your order has honored and blessed my family for generations.”

“I cannot. Apologies, but you ask too much. The line of Emperors decreed it was forbidden.”

“If you withdraw your blessings,” he said, “the Tokugawa Shogunate will fall. The old ways will die. Shrines like this will be forgotten. The future has come, and the Emperor has ordered the decree you mentioned stricken from the law scrolls.”

I pondered his words. Would the world be better served if there was no magic, if the ancient legends were forgotten?

“If we walk all night,” I said, “even one as slow afoot as I could make it to the deepest mountain shrine. I will show you what no living man has seen, and you will understand that another way must be found.” I hoped to convince him the folly of his plan, but to assure the secrets of my order would survive in the mind of Ichiro and his descendants. I should have sent him away as Sora and Mizuumi had.

That is how it began. At that time, we were not aware of how deep our sorrow could become.

~

The early sunlight spilled into the most remote mountain valley of the Akaishi Mountains. I had not been up this way in nearly four years. In that time, the depth of my age had made the journey almost impossible. The hip I had injured in a fall burned like a livid coal within my flesh. My breathing was ragged, my hands numb and with only the barest measure of strength to cling to my walking stick as I struggled up the final switchback.

General Ichiro, for all his upright bearing, had sweat rings beneath his arms, and gritted his teeth against blistered feet. We stood at the end of the path, where there existed no way forward, no method for getting into the vale beyond. No human had ever set foot there. None will, unless there comes a day when my people learn the way of flying, as the gaijin have. Should we master the skies, I hope wisdom enough remains with us to leave some lonely places to themselves, to leave parts of the world untouched by our dirty fingers.

“So, Shinobu-san. I have come all this way. What have you to show me?” He appeared like a man who would very much like to sit down and put his feet into a cool stream.

“Be patient,” I said to him. “You have come far, but grant me a bit more time.”

At the edge, inches from the sheer cliff that terminated the vale on our end, there were two stones, flecked with shimmers of metal and gemstone. I leaned upon them and went to my knees. It took some time to separate myself from the discomfort of my old joints and muscles, to quiet myself enough to enter a state of harmony with the land. When I did, I placed my palms against each ore-stone, closing my eyes and reaching out into the colored vapor of the spirit world.

With eyes shut, I could yet see and sense the potency of the valley, flaring with the impossible rainbow hues tangible eyes cannot sense and our minds have few words to describe. The great dragon was there, the beast that came from the dawning of the world, before the sun had ever risen upon the first man or his works. Touching him could bring my ruin, but my course was set.

“Awaken, Great One,” I spoke into the ways of the spirit. “Arise, Father of the Mountain. Show us what we have forgotten in this, the dawning of a dark day.”

I pleaded, my words shivering down the astral wind until the earth sprits’ whispers were as the sound of a fast-moving stream around me. I was only vaguely aware of my physical body. I had never gone so deep into the other world, never tried so hard to influence it for my own needs. The danger was close and certain. A single hair’s breadth too far, and I would forever be pulled into the spirit world, my physical body falling inert and lifeless. For an old woman with pain in her bones and fear in her heart, it was a tantalizing thought. I resisted the urge to let myself be taken. I had to show Ichiro the danger of trying to bend the Kaiju to our will.

The Earth Dragon stirred, shrugging in his slumber. I pushed harder, beyond the point of fear, further even than I trusted myself to go. Everything in my spirit felt as if it were fog being plucked away by an insistent breeze. I began to lose myself, my rationale for being there. I only remembered that I wanted to see the great Kaiju, wanted to be with it in this place. Within the depths of my heart, it was something I’d always yearned for.

The ground shook. I became aware of my body, an anchor point far back on the mountaintop, miles away. Shale fell away from the sheer surfaces and tumbled downward. Frightened sparrows arose and scattered. A pair of foxes leapt from the bushes and sought sanctuary in their burrow.

Dust burst into the sky. Trees, rocks, and acres of grass sod were displaced, the valley floor peeling back as the body of Ryuujin Sekai arose, the height of a hundred horses, thicker around than the greatest pagoda. His serpentine body had no forelimbs or claws as the artists often drew. His diamond-shaped head was regal and his eyes were immense jade chips, glimmering with intelligence and danger. His maw opened, revealing basalt fangs longer than a man’s height. He arched his neck skyward and released a mighty roar, echoing through the valley. It was as if stones the size of villages were being crushed and ground beneath the weight of a mountain. Even at great distance, it hurt my ears and left me temporarily deafened.

Ryuujin Sekai emerged fully from the dark soil, shaking off dirt and coiling his form beneath him. Every scale upon his sides gleamed like polished granite under the morning light. He was awake and eager to see the world again. I had really done it. Ancestors forgive me, I had awakened a Kaiju.

I saw with two sets of eyes then, for I was inside the Earth Dragon. I watched General Ichiro drop to his knees in awe, his hand covering his mouth, tears touching his cheeks unbidden. The beautiful valley was wrecked in only a moment. I pulled most of my consciousness back into my body and I shouted at Ichiro, “We are not the masters of the Kaiju! Now do you understand the terrible wounds the great dragons will leave upon the land? We cannot control them!” A fraction of the power of Ryuujin Sekai infused my words and the general cowered and turned pale.

I left the puny man and rejoined the Earth Dragon, reveling in the glorious feeling of joining with him fully. Within Ryuujin Sekai, I saw how frail, how insignificant man is, compared to the mighty power of nature. The world is not ours, though we harbor that illusion. We simply visit for a time. The world has always belonged to them.

~

The gaijin airships crowded the skies, their waterborne counterparts belching smoke and steam far below. Kagoshima Bay was filled with the debris of our war galleys and the floating dead. The battle, at least from a military standpoint, was already a disastrous loss. The gaijin allies were merely coordinating their ground assault, isolating the best landing spots, trying to minimize casualties as they took the city and put it to the torch.

General Ichiro’s face was bloodless and haggard, his eyes haunted by the thousands that had been torn apart. As skilled and disciplined as our warriors were, as fine as their steel was honed, it was almost impossible to close with the gaijin. They fought to their strengths, using their fire-bombs, canons, and their rapid-fire guns, which spewed hundreds of lead bullets and cut down our warriors from a distance. Even our superior archers could not match them. When our samurai managed to draw near, the gaijin would retreat, dropping their hulking iron-skinned warriors shaped like giant men from the airships to squash the attack. As tall as a house, the juggernauts annihilated our troops, burning them with jets of flame spewing from their arms. When our soldiers ran away, the juggernauts shot them in their backs. We failed to defeat even one of the metal behemoths.

In a fine house on a hill overlooking the city I waited with Sora and Mizuumi. Their anger at me for showing Ichiro the Earth Dragon had abated somewhat when they saw the gaijin attacking our homeland.

“They drive their machines with demon spirits, and care nothing for honor,” Mizuumi whispered while we waited.

General Ichiro Tokugawa entered the room and approached us. He sank to his knees and bowed until his forehead touched the floor. He looked up, and I could see the shame in his eyes. “Please, Revered Grandmothers, in the name of the Empire, I beg for your help.”

Sora and Mizuumi and I had argued about what to do for many days. Mizuumi was the youngest of us—though long past middle-age—but she lived on the coast and was closest to the common people. She often blessed fishermen and many came to her for guidance. Mizuumi favored helping our people, while Sora still pleaded with me to flee and hide in the mountains with her. We would take apprentices and our successors would preserve the ancient secrets.

Mizuumi would not act without my approval and Nippon would survive without our interference. I agreed with Sora until Mizuumi convinced us to look into the spirit world. We found distant shores and saw what had been done by the gaijin to the native people of India, Africa, parts of China, and many other places. Wherever they went, they robbed the land and enslaved the people. I could only look in the past, as the future was closed to me, but I was not certain Nippon would easily endure being conquered by the gaijin.

“Tell the soldiers and all the people of the city to withdraw,” I told General Ichiro, “as much as they are able.”

Ichiro nodded. His assistant disappeared with the urgent message.

Mizuumi looked relieved, while anger flashed across Sora’s wrinkled face. Their help would be essential, as I could not do this alone.

The sound of rapid movement, of people being made to evacuate the streets soon rose up to the terrace we stood upon. We had a commanding view of the sprawling city, the enclosed bay with Mount Ontake beyond guarding the channel. Ichiro-sama handed me the spyglass. I put it to my eye and my heart ached as I saw the devastation more clearly. I passed it to Mizuumi. She shook her head, handing it to Sora, whose hands shook too much for her to hold steady on anything for long.

“Most of this shall be on the sea and in the air. I cannot tell you that there will be much battle upon the land. You can’t know what the gaijin will do, though. Are you ready?” Ichiro looked between us, three women old enough to be his mother, wizened and infirmed. “If we can be saved, only you can do this.”

We bowed, moving to the three prayer mats that had been placed at the edges of the terrace. Sora’s was open to the sky and sun. She stood, looking back at me with pleading eyes. With a word, I could have stopped her, stopped both of them, but I couldn’t. Seeing the might of the foreign navy so close, imagining my people falling prey to them as so many other countries had, I knew that we had to try, regardless of the risk. I nodded at my sister and tried to put on a brave face. Sora knelt, turning her face upward, her crooked, spotted hands at last growing still as she touched the spirit world.

Mizuumi touched the water that was contained in two brass bowls by her side. A sudden, tall wave burst upon the distant beach, the armada of metal ships tossed back and forth as if by a violent storm.

I could look to their preparations no longer. I took my place in the middle prayer mat, the ore-stones beneath my hands, the spirit world’s swirling colors and indistinct boundaries allowing me to feel the deep roots of the earth, the surging of the liquid stone in the depths, the slow grinding movement of mountain ranges being thrust skyward.

And he was there, the Earth Dragon.

I drew closer, and I was swept inexorably into him, until the difference between his mighty form and my own frail one was impossible to find. I was in him, a part of him, and when I opened my eyes, I could see what he saw, feel at least a tiny fraction of what he felt as he lingered in the womb of the earth. Time is as nothing to the mighty Kaiju, and I was lost within him. Lost, until he heard his sister’s scream, the sound of the Air Dragon, Ryuujin Tengoku with her wings ablaze.

~

The Earth Dragon burst upward in the middle of the city, his emergence laying waste to Kagoshima Castle and the surrounding gardens. Above the ground, his serpentine body knifed forward like a cobra, head held upright, neck arched. Every structure in his way shattered as if it were made of coalesced dust, houses exploding into sticks, streets riven, pagodas toppled. The few people who had been unable to evacuate were mostly killed, though some would linger in the rubble until succumbing or being rescued days later. The path of destruction was profound. It was as I feared. Perhaps worse.

Sora had summoned Ryuujin Tengoku, the Air Dragon. She flew over the city and attacked the fleet of airships dropping fire-bombs. She was lithe and pale, a two-headed serpent with a dozen sets of legs along her underside and the wings of a giant falcon. Her clawed feet tore great rips in the bulbous sacks as she strafed them from above. The airships shot at her with canons and repeating guns, but she flew fast and maneuvered away. Ryuujin Tengoku hid in the clouds before diving again. She surprised a slow-moving craft, latched onto it and crashed it into another, causing a massive explosion as the bomb-filled compartments on the underside clanked together. Fiery wrecks soon dotted the coast and sullied the waters of the bay.

Below, the Water Dragon, Ryuujin Toyotama-hime, a leviathan of the deep ocean, leaped upward and landed upon one if their iron ships, breaking it in two. The ship’s innards exploded into a red fireball. Gaijin soldiers, their clothing and hair aflame, tried to swim in the turbulent water. It was no good, each one snuffed out like a candle in a monsoon. The Water Dragon pursued all the fleeing metal ships, tipping them over, tearing out huge holes in their hulls, or pulling the smaller vessels underwater.

Above, the last two remaining airships tangled together, the Air Dragon’s wings caught in their rigging. Ryuujin Tengoku screamed out, a soul-wrenching sound, which had drawn my attention and brought the Earth Dragon from his slumber. The two airships had crashed into her on the orders of their cruel leader who had never tasted defeat, the infamous Admiral Cameron of the Britons. All his dirigibles would be destroyed, but Cameron was determined to make us pay. He found a way to train all the doomed airships’ guns on her, and they opened fire. Blood burst from her, painting both ships red. Alive and in agony, the Air Dragon continued to thrash.

All her legs, all the mighty twisting of her body could not free her. It proved too much for the airships, however. The tangle went spiraling down, trailing blood and fire. A half-dozen of the iron-skinned warriors managed to jump from the burning dirigibles, escaping with their kite-like gliders. Only one headed out over the bay, toward the deck of a distant fleeing ship. The wind did not favor the iron warrior and it splashed into the water, disappearing in an instant.

The other metal-skinned giants spiraled like leaves on the wind over Ryuujin Tongoku and the intertwined airships. The dirigibles and the mortally wounded Air Dragon hit the beach with crushing force. At the crash site, I saw the flash a few seconds before I heard the titanic explosion. A drumbeat later, I could feel the wash of heat from the blast even through the rocky hide of the Kaiju, whose perception I shared.

The Earth Dragon surged forward, hitting the burning wreckage like a hundred elephants, pushing it into the waves to douse the flames. He tore at the dirigibles, biting through timber and iron as if it were tender flesh. He somehow extricated his sister’s form, blackened and unmoving, pulling her onto the beach.

She was gone. Such profound sadness, such unspeakable wrath filled the Kaiju that it was all I could do to hang on, to survive without losing my sanity. The Earth Dragon tried to move outward into the water, but he could not. His strength ended at the tide-line, but there was no controlling him. He turned upon what was left of Kagoshima to vent his fury. At the same moment, the few surviving iron-skinned warriors landed on the beach. They detached their gliders and, with the lumbering speed of a sumo wrestler, tried to flee from the raging Earth Dragon.

Ryuujin Sekai sped toward them, bellowing his fury. The juggernauts managed only a few strides before the slowest was bitten in half. A bleeding human torso fell out of the metal shell, proving men drove the machines and not demons. I learned later that Admiral Cameron himself was among them, piloting the iron warrior painted with red and white crosses in the style of the hated British flag. Determined to fight, Cameron rallied the half-dozen surviving juggernauts and faced the Earth Dragon. The man-shaped machines fired hundreds of explosive bullets from their arm cannons at his eyes. Ryuujin Sekai recoiled from the furious attack, injured and bleeding, but the foreigners’ ammunition soon ran out.

The Earth Dragon struck with the force of an avalanche, his massive body dwarfing the enemies arrayed before him as he threatened to plow them into the beach sand. Plumes of flame erupted from the juggernauts’ arms in a final effort, but Ryuujin Sekai’s skin was impervious to fire. He crushed half of them into the ground, burying them alive. He flung one into the bay with a flick of his tail. Only Admiral Cameron was left alive. The British warrior stood resolute in his garishly painted metal machine.

The Earth Dragon struck at him. The foreigner stabbed Ryuujin Sekai in the mouth, but Admiral Cameron and his machine were crushed by the massive jaws and swallowed.

The Earth Dragon unleashed his boundless rage on the city then, for his desire for vengeance was unquenched.

What few glimpses I caught of the battle upon the sea were the same. The Water Dragon had gone berserk. A few of the attacking ships managed to slip away, but most of them were reduced to splinters and oil spots on the frothing sea.

The sky darkened. Wind whipped across the battlefield. Black rain fell. It seemed as if the world was unraveling, the sensible nature of the elements unhinged, distorted. I was merely an observer, a tick burrowed into the hide of a mighty animal gone insane. I saw him raze Kagoshima to its foundations, leaving nothing untouched.

After hours of the worst struggle of my life, I was finally able to calm the Earth Dragon enough to send him to rest in the womb of earth. Late in the afternoon I came fully back to myself on the terrace at the house overlooking the smoking remains of Kagoshima. General Ichiro stood nearby. His uniform was bloodstained and covered with ash. He heard me stirring and turned. His eyes were pained and hollow. Sora’s and Mizuumi’s prayer mats were empty. Droplets of blood still lingered where Sora had knelt when she perished along with the Air Dragon. I knew she had died hours ago, and her body had already been removed. Sora had wanted no part of this and now she was dead. My guilt strangled me slowly as Ichiro helped me stand. Where was Mizuumi? Was she too distraught to have remained or had she accompanied Sora’s body?

I looked out over the city. It was a ruin, the bruised sky above us like nothing I had ever seen. This had all been a terrible mistake. Better to have been conquered than to bring destruction of this kind upon my own folk, to see the death of something eternal. I could not then fathom what the death of a Kaiju might mean. That secret was beyond the experience of my order.

“Where is Mizuumi?” I asked.

“I am sorry, Shinobu-san. Both of your sisters perished in the battle.”

“Both?” My knees buckled and Ichiro lowered me to the floor as gently as he could.

I hid my face behind my hands. I was too exhausted to cry. Perhaps the hurt was too profound. Ichiro and his assistant hoisted me up and brought me inside, placing me on a pillowed mat. Blankets were draped over me. Regret washed across me like waves on an angry sea. I understood I was responsible for the deaths of my two oldest friends, and countless more innocent lives, which I would find out about soon enough. I let the tears come and they did not stop until the middle of the night.

~

What the rampage of the Earth Dragon had left intact, the wild winds and the surging ocean destroyed. Sora had died with the Air Dragon. Though the Water Dragon yet lived, Ryuujin Toyotama-hime had become inconsolable, slipping beyond all control. Mizuumi’s spirit had been lost, pulled from her body as the Kaiju fled into the depths to mourn.

It was just me now, and I doubted I would have the heart to ever summon a Kaiju again.

It had been a foolish plan, an exercise in madness. Devastation the likes of which we were just beginning to understand was the result.

Several days later, General Ichiro returned to the lavish house where he had sent me north of Kagoshima. I struggled to rouse myself enough to make the formal gestures one must. He sat across from me, his eyes inscrutable.

“The Battle of Kagoshima was deemed a strong success,” he said.

I gaped at him, unable to breathe for a moment. “The price was too high.”

He bowed his head slightly. “In military terms, it was a crushing blow against the gaijin. They have but a few airships left, and these have been sent back to their homeland or to one of their ports in Sumatra or Malacca. Half of their fleet of naval ships has been destroyed.”

“The Air Dragon is dead. My friends are dead. The Water Dragon is lost forever. It could get worse. The land might fall ill with the loss of its guardian spirit.”

“I know, Shinobu-san. The acceptance of these costs is something we are taught as soldiers. Even I am at a loss for words when I consider them.” He bit his lip.

“What of Ishikawa Prefecture, where Sora came from? Have you received word?”

“It has been hit hardest,” he said. “It seems you were right. The Kaiju you summoned was tied to all living things there. People have fallen sick and died. Crops fail. Trees are blighted. Many will perish, and many more will be refugees.”

I sighed and refused to let tears fall from my eyes. If I had been a samurai, it would have fallen to me to plunge a knife into my stomach to erase the guilt of what I’d put into motion. I was but an old woman, so there was no remedy to my plight.

“And the sea?”

“It boils and surges on the full length of the eastern coast,” Ichiro answered. “No boat may safely sail. There have been many tsunami waves. Docksides and coastal villages have been destroyed. Tens of thousands are dead and most of the fishing fleet is wrecked.”

I shook my head, filled with shame. “What have I done?”

“It was not you alone, Revered Grandmother. I urged you to do this. I am not convinced it was the wrong decision. It is better to fight with all the weapons at your disposal than to accept dishonor and kowtow before gaijin. Wars are not won without suffering, without terrible sacrifice.”

“If both sides are annihilated, what can possibly be gained? No one benefits from such wholesale slaughter. Not the gaijin, not our own people.”

Ichiro-sama looked at me for a long time without speaking. “For the moment, the gajin cannot bring their ships to bear. If they decide to circumnavigate the islands and attack from the west, we yet have strong fleets there. Without their airships, they will not find it so easy to best us. I will not ask you to summon the Kaiju again unless absolutely necessary. If our enemy takes the land and fights like men, my samurai are yet mighty. Let us hope that, for you, the war is over. If it is not, stay here, and I will send for you.”

With that, he stood and stepped to the door. He was a general, after all. He would ask of me what he needed. I had little say in the matter.

I finished my tea. Kneeling at the small shrine they’d provided for me, I attempted to pray.

~

It took me three full weeks before I could enter the spirit world again. On the day of the full moon, just as fall was creeping over the land and nights were growing cold, the seas quieted at last. The shrine where I knelt faded from my spirit’s eyes, and I was once again able to travel the secret roads I was trained to find. I went first to Sora’s homeland, reaching out to Ishikawa Prefecture. I had to know what damage had been done there. My heart ached when I touched the burnt and ruined places, the damage that had come from within the spirit world and manifested itself in the material one. Nothing would live there. Anything passing across that part of the world would sicken and die. The death of the Air Dragon had killed the land itself. It would be a great long time, many lifetimes of men, before the wound would begin to heal. I prayed we would be wiser by the time that came to pass.

I could cry no more. I couldn’t stand to look at the wound in the world that I had caused. I turned aside and went to the sea, trying to feel for the Water Dragon. She yet lived, but she was far away, hidden so deep in the dark canyons of the ocean that she was only a glimmering, a feeling that would require faith to believe in. The heart of the ocean had turned away from us forever.

The Earth Dragon was still there, still close. He was not behaving as his grieving sister. He did not retreat. I could feel him urging me to call him forth, wishing for the chance to bring about havoc and gain vengeance. I could not give him what he wanted. I didn’t dare. Looking down onto Kagoshima every day made that clear. The world of men was too fragile for a Kaiju, too ephemeral. It had been folly to awaken him from his infinite slumber.

I studied him, examining his gigantic coils. There was something leading away from his tail, a slim crack in the structure of the earth. I followed it backward. The crack became a fissure of vast size, a weak point in the shell of the world. I knew that if the Earth Dragon perished, the world would shake, and mountains would crumble, and Nippon would be wholly doomed. We, island dwellers, lived upon the spine of the dragon. Should he fall, we would fall with him.

The spirit world was a silent place by then. Sora and Mizuumi were gone. Old Kenshiro, who had once been able to summon the Fire Lord, had been a grandfather when we were only children, and had elected to allow the knowledge to die with him. Only I remained of the old tradition of mystics.

Or so I thought.

That night, as the moon stood high and bright, sending blue light down upon the calm waters, I could feel another. I drew closer. She was on the sea, aboard a gaijin ship. The woman was old and stooped, with white hair blowing around her face and the crooked hands of a crone. Her eyes glowed in her wrinkled brow like fiery sparks, and she thrust her hands into the air, calling out in a harsh language. Emerging from the low part of her sunken abdomen, there was a rope of burning energy that reached to the far depths, to the distant coastline where she came from. It was a low, swampy land by the sea.

Inside the spirit world, I could see the wide expanse of the past. There was no now, no then. The echoes of old deeds unfolded and if I followed them to their source I could see the history of a place. I beheld a country where the sea and shore were always merged, where tall, pale men had always made boats and sailed the sea. From the tapestry of that low coast, a monster arose, something eternal. The old witch had awakened it from its cave at the sea’s margin.

Along the rope, the murky beast pulled itself, hand over hand. It was massive, with gray-green skin. A rough man shape, it was twisted and deformed, hideously ugly. It reminded me of the old tales of the Oni, but was as tall as the Earth Dragon coiled up to his full height. Ropes of seaweed clung to its sides. Its knuckles were like boulders of slick and mossy stone. Each dull black claw was larger than a plow blade that an ox would pull.

One word kept coming up in the old woman’s chant. Troll. That must be the creature’s name.

Troll. Just as ugly and guttural as the creature’s voice must be.

I went to it, trying to understand its nature. It sensed me, its black eyes burning when it searched the spirit world for me, its brown, jagged teeth bared. It had been used for war in the past and yearned for the taste of blood. Its very form had been twisted by the bloody deeds it had done across the ages. It was a hound that had been mistreated until it turned mean. I tried to intercede, to break the link between the troll and the crone, but it was no good. It wanted to come, wanted to fight, because that was all it knew. It kept pulling itself along the rope of energy from the witch. It was close. It would be here in a few more days.

I would have to tell General Ichiro. Perhaps his soldiers could defeat this monstrosity. We could not risk losing the Earth Dragon. The land and tens of thousands would die if he fell in battle. I debated with myself all night and when the first hint of the sunrise glowed on the horizon, I faced the truth.

I would have to summon the Earth Dragon again. He would have to save us. If he did not, there would be nothing left to conquer, nothing to defend.

~

The troll lumbered out of the sea just south of Edo, in Yokohama village, two full days before we managed to get there. Thousands were sent against it. No weapon of man could harm its rubbery hide. It recoiled from fire, and the army there set it aflame, driving it into the sea dozens of times, but whatever scars the flames put upon it would seal over the course of hours in the brine. In the meantime, the remainder of the ironclad armada pounded the coast with their cannons and landed just enough men to continually dissipate the strength of the land-bound army. Any attempt to launch war galleys against them found the troll returning, capsizing even the largest vessel and eating men whole.

The monster’s appetite seemed to know no end. It could eat soldiers by the dozens, all the while hungering and slavering for more. Ashore, it was a terror. It could grasp a tall tree and wrench it from the ground, using it to sweep across whole ranks of samurai as they advanced.

By the time we arrived the gaijin army had entered Edo and half of the city had been used as a fire barrier to the giant creature, this Kaiju from distant lands. I was carried from the wagon as we reached the outskirts of the city. The air was thick with smoke and the ground was strewn with injured soldiers, many of whom would not live to see another day.

“Let us get you to a shrine, Revered Grandmother,” Ichiro’s assistant said.

“There is no time. This will have to do.” I ordered the men to put me down and went roughly to my knees, accepting the pain as penance for my many sins.

There were no roadway stones here. Thrusting my hands into the muddy ground, I closed my eyes and searched for a doorway to the spirit world.

There, on the other side, the old gaijin witch was close. I confronted her using the power of my name, “I am Shinobu of the Nōtori Mountain Shrine. Leave now and I shall forgive this transgression.”

She folded her spindly arms across her chest. “You should not make threats or face me here. I am no old woman like you, at the end of my life.” Her spirit body changed and she became a pale-skinned foreign woman with a curvaceous body at the peak of her beauty. Her hazel eyes terrified me as her gaze penetrated my soul. Appearing as a crone was merely a trick to fool the lusty sailors who carried her over the sea. Now she showed me her true self. “I am a witch of clan Meadors. I have ruled the isles of the Britons and the lands of the Dutch for centuries. I was once like you, a mortal woman, called Melanie at birth, but now I am a queen of the great beasts. I have taken their power and they serve me. I will never die and my troll will be the end of your wyrm. We once had dragons in the north, but Arveldegond has killed them all.”

“You are far from home,” I said. “What you take to be true will be proved a lie soon enough.” I spoke confidently, but I retreated from her presence. It unnerved me that she could speak our language, though this was the least of her tricks.

“Meet me under the light of the waning moon,” the witch of the Meadors clan challenged, “and we shall see.” In a moment, she was gone.

~

The night was clear and still, the sea calm. The enemy had pulled back beyond visibility. Likewise, our tattered army sat about their fires. Refugee camps swelled to bursting on the outskirts of Edo to the north.

Below the burned husk of the western part of the city, The Earth Dragon waited, silent in the depths of the earth. I waited within him. His rage burned like molten iron. It took all my energy to hold him back, to keep him from bursting through and running amok.

The three-quarter moon colored everything in shades of blue and silver. The sea beyond the wreckage of the docks appeared to be an endless chest of glimmering coins. All the breath of the world was held in fear and anticipation.

Out of the argent sea, the twisted form of the giant troll arose, as tall as the Earth Dragon, filled with such malevolent hunger for destruction that it shook the spirit world. This ancient creature walked within the darkness of its own long shadow.

“Remember where your strength is,” I whispered, letting the Kaiju free. He burst from the ground, shooting toward the troll before he had come a hundred human paces up from the beach. The troll bellowed a challenge and pulled a massive anchor attached to a chain from one of the battleships. He swung it above his head like a grapnel, releasing it expertly so that it smashed against the Earth Dragon’s head, knocking it aside.

Pain flared, physical hurt. It almost overcame me, this feeling the Kaiju had not felt in eons. He shook his head to clear it, but the troll had already taken the initiative and climbed behind him, drawing the chain taut across his neck.

Earth spirit or no, the Kaiju still needed to breathe, and the anchor chain shut his airway. In my true body, I felt myself clawing at my own neck, trying to breathe for him. I couldn’t. The vision through the Earth Dragon’s eyes went white, then snowy gray. He was dying, and any struggle on his part only made the chain bite deeper.

He would die unless I acted. I prayed to the spirits inside the metal chain links. Though it had been mined, smelted and forged in distant lands by our enemies, I spoke the language of the earth spirits and they heard my plea. There was something, some faint sound of tortured metal, then the chain burst at its weakest link, setting the Earth Dragon free. He gasped in a great breath and spun around. His head lanced forward and grasped the troll, biting down with all the power of his crushing jaws. I tasted the troll’s vile blood as it touched the Kaiju’s tongue.

Lifting the troll took the full measure of the Earth Dragon’s strength, but Ryuujin Sekai did so, shaking the monster until it went limp, then spitting it at the edge of the surf.

Pierced by a hundred teeth of the sharpest stone, the troll lay there, unmoving. Blood as brown and thick as river mud flowed from the wounds, staining the beach.

Closer, closer the Earth Dragon slithered, breath still coming like wind through a cave. The troll seemed dead.

With the Earth Dragon’s chin poised to deliver a fatal bite, the troll burst upward, laying hold of the bottom of its neck. The troll’s sinewy arms held Ryuujin Sekai behind the skull with his shoulder below the jaws.

And he began pulling the Earth Dragon into the sea. Waves washed over the troll’s waist and he was renewed, his grip tightening. His dark blood glimmered upon the moonlit surf. The troll howled, claiming his victory.

Fear burst in Ryuujin Sekai’s heart, a foreign emotion. The strength of the troll seemed to grow, the gaping wounds sealing. At the same time, the Earth Dragon’s power ebbed as he was dragged into the water and lost contact with the land.

“Break its hold!” I screamed in his mind. “It cannot go where you rule. Take it there, and you will win.”

Ryuujin Sekai writhed and thrashed, loosening the troll’s grip. The Earth Dragon could not free his head, but he coiled his body around the troll and squeezed, using all his weight to slow the march into the sea. Bones crunched and the troll was pulled off its feet. Rolling and pulling, Ryuujin Sekai brought the gaijin monster back onto the beach. The bite wounds reopened, the troll’s body buckled.

Finally free, the Earth dragon lifted his head and brought his chin against the troll’s shoulder like a man hammering a peg into the ground. Again and again he struck until the troll went to its knees, and finally the sound of its shoulder bones snapping filled the air.

The Earth Dragon bit down on the crumpled form of the troll, dragging it back to the fissure where it had emerged. Suddenly aware of what was happening, a mournful scream arose from the foreign beast. The troll’s one good arm beat uselessly against the Earth Dragon’s neck, but it was too late. Into the ground Ryuujin Sekai went, burrowing down and down, the stone crushing and biting at the troll in a way that even the Kaiju’s teeth did not, tearing its hide apart. Still it wouldn’t die. Only when the Earth Dragon tunneled into the hot veins of the world was the troll finally overcome, screaming as molten rock flowed over it like a tide.

The death rattle of the troll was echoed by his summoner. The witch of clan Meadors, once known as Melanie, fell in on herself. She screamed as the immortality stolen from her Kaiju turned to smoke and poured from her mouth. Her insides burned and soon she was nothing more than a pile of ash aboard her iron ship.

A tremor shook the ground, threatening something greater. Ryuujin Sekai’s anger was still hotter than any forge, his heart awakened to the violent emotions of war. Humans had caused this, and we had not paid dearly enough. The land shivered beneath us again. I clenched my teeth and focused the last of my energy, wondering if it would be enough to forestall the quake that was coming.

“It is over, Mountain Father. You have your vengeance and the Empire of the Sun is safe. Sleep now.” I whispered. “Continuing the suffering will not bring her back, but the world may bear you another sister, if you are patient. Sleep, and try to forgive us for what we have done.”

He could not hear my words. The rage knew no end. The Earth Dragon fought me until it seemed the moorings of my sanity would collapse, that I would be lost within the depths of the spirit world as Mizumi had. I didn’t dare let go, no matter the danger. Words were lost. They were weak creations of our young race. I had to show him something he understood.

My mind was shaken, spiraling out of control, but I fought for one last moment of focus. I envisioned all the thousand sunsets I tried to paint at the mountain shrine. I brought the image of cold mornings in the depths of winter, when every exhalation is a cloud of steam, the trees barren of their leaves. I let the Earth Dragon see the beauty of the world, the fragile balance that he had the power to topple. This, at last, began to calm him.

I let him loose. I had never been so far from my body, so deep within the unknown byways of the spirit world. I had never been so exhausted and drained. When I returned to myself, I couldn’t rise. I did not need to. General Ichiro carried me in his arms, carried me before the men whose lives he said I saved.

In sight of the burned-up districts of Edo all the way to Yokohama Bay, he called for a cheer for an old woman named Shinobu.

~

The general had taken to visiting me frequently. Each time, his dress had been less formal, his behavior more familiar. He looked at me differently, a warmth in his eyes that had not been there before. I found myself different, changed after having communed with the Kaiju. I could kneel and pray for hours and my hip did not ache. When I touched my cheek, the deep wrinkles had filled in. The age spots no longer dotted my hands, and I no longer felt or appeared as a grandmother would.

Then again, the change in him may have had but little to do with my rejuvenation. It may be that the great honors bestowed upon his shoulders, the titles and the position of the highest rank allowed him to do as he wished. Strange that he would have desired the company of a mystic who lived in a rustic old temple.

Ichiro-sama sat, drinking from his customary teacup, now the last unchipped one in the mountain shrine, watching me with a mysterious expression. He had been here for some time, silent.

“It is said that the home of the Dutch, the place where the foreign witch hailed from, fell beneath the sea when the troll was slain.”

The spirit world was always close now, a door that had been forever propped open. In my mind, I first saw an image of the low, green land, protected by levies and dikes that held off the sea. I saw it drown as the barriers lost their strength and the water overtook the shores, the fish rushing in to explore the riches of its vegetation and the fields of brightly colored flowers which would never grow again. I sighed. I had imagined it would be so. The laws of the world do not stop at the edge of the Empire. The troll’s death had ripped away at the fabric of that country. Cruel as he had been, they had needed him.

Ichiro hesitated, his lips moved and then pressed tightly together.

I had allowed him to see my great sadness. Though part of me did not want to know more, I asked, “What else has been said about our enemies?”

“The capital of the English has been flooded by a massive surge from the sea. Their mighty river overflowed its banks. Thousands upon thousands are dead.”

I closed my eyes and saw the angry Water Dragon, Ryuujin Toyotama-hime, swimming up a river in a cold and foggy land with strange gray buildings and stained bridges. She called to the waves and they rushed to her, flooding an old and dirty city filled with smokestacks and ash. I could see a bridge with towers at its middle being smashed by a tsunami wave, its brick and mortar brought down.

Many died in their foundries and factories, but for the first time in centuries, the land was washed clean of the garbage and sewage, the bodies and filth carried out to sea. I could feel the sickness of wrath abate, the Princess of the Waves growing weary and filled with the knowledge that her violence solved nothing. She withdrew, the bitter taste of coal dust and waste upon the waters. Within her, there was a familiar flicker, some remainder of Mizuumi still lingering there. I do not know how long I was lost in my thoughts, but when I opened my eyes, Ichiro knelt across from me, his eyes full of worry.

“Should I have not told you, Shinobu-san?” he asked.

“I am saddened, but I suspected this. Let us hope all the different peoples of the world do not forget the lessons we learned in this dark year.”

He put his cup down. “You count too much on the wisdom of nations, Shinobu-san. We will make these mistakes again. It is likely that our weapons will be different, but the flaw in the gem of men’s souls remains. I wish it were not so.”

“Who speaks as a philosopher now?”

Ichiro-sama smiled, meeting my eye. “I once came here seeking an answer. I have found many. For that, I thank you.”

He reached out, an uncertain expression on his face, and touched my hand. I allowed our fingers to twine together. My teacup rolled across the floor, spilling dregs upon the old bamboo slats.

The Flight of the Red Monsters

Bonnie Jo Stufflebeam

It is a pleasure to crush. Under the slap weight of our tails, human vehicles crunch like breaking seashells. When walking, I try to avoid the ones that move, but like the microscopic snails that litter the pools at low tide, they are too difficult to avoid altogether. It is not pleasant to suck their slick guts from the points of our crusher walkers. They leave behind a red goo that reeks like the earth outside the sea. If it were up to us, they would not be here. It would be easier if they were not here.

Because of them we have been forced to make our way from the world below the sea, that place that we called home for longer than humans existed. It took a while for their stain to reach where we dwell, but we knew whose doing it was when we saw the ink so much like the squid but thicker, darker, invasive, coating the scales of our food fish, our food weeds, until they were inedible. Would they have us starve? We had heard from ones who have seen them in their habitat that they are a compassionate species, for their part, and so we hoped they would not have us starve but would allow us to cross their dirt to get at the other side, where maybe their oceans were not as saturated and where maybe we could find another world beneath the waves.

We did not know they would kill as many of us as they could. We did not know they would be able to kill any of us, the ones of hard shells, at all. We cannot let such a crime go unpunished. We will ruin the human cities as they ruined ours. I will ruin their home as they ruined mine.

It is a pleasure.

~

The red monsters took everything. First they took my car, a brand new Honda Hybrid Civic, still in payments. Second they crushed my parents’ condo in Marina del Rey, forcing Mom and Dad to pack up what was left of their belongings and move in with Simon and me in Venice, leaving behind a pile of rubble, that nostalgic salt water home smell wiped out forever. Then, the red monsters took Simon.

We were out with some friends when it happened, having a drink at a local bar in a desperate attempt to get away from my folks for a second. They’d been pestering us about when we were going to get married, been trying to convince us that one of us should sleep on the couch while they were there. They weren’t normally so crazy; it was the red monsters. The red monsters made people freak the fuck out. Simon was handling it remarkably well, but I was starting to wonder, too, when we might get married, if we might get married, the thought leaving me with equal parts fear, revulsion, and a warm glee. Marriage was a weird, outdated thing, wasn’t it?

I didn’t have to figure it out. Because on the way back to our apartment that night, the ground shook like an earthquake. We were used to it. We knew the protocol. We ran away from their noise, which was like a broken pipe hissing water. As if they had water in their shells which squeezed itself out as they walked. Was this how they survived on land, then, this water storage? Not even the experts knew.

Two of them came at us, from both sides of Rose Avenue, piercing car after car with those eight sharp feet, crushing shit with those snapping claws. Who the fuck thought they’d see lobsters with huge, buggy eyes searching out the metal glint of cars? Who the fuck thought they’d see giant fucking lobsters at all? Not me. Not Simon, who froze when he realized how blocked in we were, the two monsters walking toward each other as though they meant to greet an old friend, their antennae roaming the street like two oversized pieces of spaghetti. As if they didn’t even notice us down there. The red monsters never noticed us, any of us.

“We have to spread out,” Simon yelled. The red monsters’ tails were wide as the street. They were both about ten human feet away from us. With every stride they left eight holes in the cracked concrete. Buildings trembled in their wake. Luckily, none of them fell. It was my only luck.

“What are you talking about?” I yelled. “Stay with me!”

But Simon was already running. “It’s better,” he said. “Better this way.”

The red foot barely missed him. I’d seen those things pierce a body right through the stomach. I breathed, my hand at my throat, and chased after him. He looked back at me and smiled. I’ll marry you, Mr. Simon Monk, I thought. Well, maybe I will. And then the red tail came down on him. He didn’t have time to scream. I stood there gaping, stupid. I had been missed.

I ran home to find no home there. It was still standing, sure, but it felt like a place I had imagined. My parents tried to pry what happened from my choked words. They sat next to me on the couch and wrapped me in a blanket Simon bought me for Valentine’s Day two years ago. It had stupid red hearts on it. It was all red, and I stared at the color for hours and wanted to kill. I wanted to see one of those monsters split open and seared over a giant fire. I wanted to pick him apart with a fork and dip his guts in butter.

My parents tell me it wouldn’t help, to go out and get myself in trouble. My mom reads the news every day and tells me the good stories: two more of them dead. The authorities are having some success with flame throwers. They left Venice for a while. When she goes to sleep, I pore over the bad stories: more dead. More damaged. More buildings fallen and crushed. Then, yes, what I’ve been looking for: they’re spotted again near L.A.

It’s been three weeks. My home is not my home anymore. I have no home, not anywhere in the world.

Yes, I think as I read it over and over. The red monsters are here again.

~

I come from a blue metropolis of beautiful giants. We are the biggest ones, but there are others like us: snake ones and sleek black ones with green lights that dangle in front of their mouths. There are white ones with many ropey tentacles and suckers which will never let you go if you let them touch you. There, too, were red ones similar to us but smaller and therefore ours to snap with our grabbers and suck the meat.

On land there is little food for us. This worries me. I know my kind. I know our ways when we are hungry. I will try to be civil, but there is no guarantee. All we can do to stave off the savage is to remind each other of our old world, of the world which we will make anew.

There was so much darkness in our world. There were beautiful clouds of food fish. Beautiful clouds of waving worm plants to look at when we were restless of wading through the cloud mud ocean bottom. There were hills and places to hide when we were too tired for our eyes to be open anymore. There was none of this choking air. There was none of this choking black smoke which billows like walked-across sand but looks and smells of death.

Our world now is rotting carcasses. The sea flowers do not live anymore. The worms wilt and die into the dirt. We die from eating our own food fish. When we molt, our inner skins soak too much poison into them, and we do not recover. It is good that we left, but there is this: that we won’t ever be able to go back. Whose fault is this but the human ones? And we breathe the air of their world, somehow, and it is like a gift we never asked for. We want them to take it back. We will take our world again. We would not have traded it for this bad gift. The trade is unequal. We are not sure how or why we breathe, but we believe it is out of a great necessity. We will do whatever it takes to survive. This is both our greatest strength and our worst fault.

~

Daylight is easy. They don’t come out in daylight. In daylight I walk the beach and the streets and the canals and wish around every corner that I might hear Simon’s stupid drunk laugh. He’ll tell me he just got too fucked up and forgot who he was for a while. I’ll hug him and remember who I am.

This won’t happen. It’s not really why I search. I search so that I might find proof of the monster killers, the vigilantes who I have seen in black Kevlar gliding through the streets in videos snapped by nosy Internet people. They are like shadows. I want to be one too.

“You already are a shadow,” my father said when I first told him this. “You barely speak, barely eat.”

My father is right. I have made a decision. I will speak only when it matters to the killing of the red monsters. I will consume only fish you eat with your hands.

I was beginning to believe that the monster killers were nothing more than some fuckers' video editing pranks when I found the first evidence of them, a snag of black fabric on a shard of broken glass ripe for the cutting of night runners. The fabric was silky smooth and smelled like dust and revenge.

I sleep with it under my nose, choking on the smell. I dream of dancing on shadows, gulping jar after jar full of shadows, fucking Simon on a bed of shadows. They curl up around us and hold us together, and I cannot breathe for how tight they wrap us.

My father shakes me awake. “You were gasping,” he says. “I worried you were having a seizure or something.”

I shake my head. “No,” I say. He holds the piece of fabric in his hand. I snatch it back. “That’s mine.”

He frowns. Purses his lips. Nods, then leaves.

I wish he could stay, read me a bedtime story, like he used to. Make me feel safe again. But shadows have no time for fairy tales.

~

The first we hear of these night ones is the crack of their bombs hitting concrete. The second we hear of them is the boom that tears our shell from skin. The third is the slip of knife in our vulnerable shellless bellies. I have seen nothing solid of them yet, only rumor. I have seen only the shadows their violence leaves behind, buildings burning from the aftermath. They are more our enemy than the metal bird devices above, which drop their own bombs. Those bombs we can run from. They come with the sound of flapping wings. The night ones’ do not come with sound. It is more and more dangerous here by the terrible bright of day.

I see the way my old friends watch me. They are hungry. We are all too hungry to go on crushing. It was a pleasure to crush, but it is pleasure no more. We keep on because it has become that which we know, like our home was.

When we doubled back, we were lured by the smell of unruined food fish. Now we follow the smell to a tank packed with more food fish than any five of us could eat, and there are three of us here, in this travel pack. I would not have risked the doubling back if it were not for the sweet smell of a full stomach, the sweet smell of keeping our savage away for a few days more, at least. It is a trap, this we are sure of, but I am not frightened. The bird devices warn us when they are circling overhead.

I did not expect the night ones to be here. I have never seen human ones so black. The regular ones vary in shades, but none of them are so much like shadows as these are. The shadow one weaves between my feet, darting from darkness to darkness but is not as quick as the others. She stands before me, and I look down at her. I see her. In her hands she holds one of their bombs, black as she is and round as a sea globe. What did I expect? The food fish reeked of traps. I thought I was better than they thought me. I thought I was being fished by those who do not know the fishing. I did not realize we would be fished by one who knew the streets as we used to know the dark crevices of our world.

I look down at her. She trembles like one losing its skin. She holds the bomb above her head as though it is a sun to light her way from the dark.

~

I found the monster killers, huddled like homeless down near the busted canals. I was drawn to them like a pheromone, like the way Simon’s smell used to follow me through our home, even when he was away at work. I stood before them, huddled, their faces too dirty for me to make out in the darkness. I held out their slice of fabric.

“I want to be one of you,” I said. “I’m ready to be shadow, too.”

They said nothing. I understood this. Instead they stared at me until they heard the crunch of breaking concrete in the distance. They rose from the ground and readied themselves for war. They did not slip masks and suits over their bodies, as I thought they would, but instead rubbed the ash of our breaking city over their skin. Watching them made goosebumps rise along my arms. I tried to follow them, but the shortest and smallest of them pressed her hand against my chest and shook her head. I didn't try again.

As I walked home, I wondered if they might watch me, test me. That was how it was in the stories; you had to pass a test before you joined the club.

The next day five of them were at my door. My parents came and got me.

“Is everything okay, Maria?” my mom asked, eyes wide.

I kissed her on the forehead. I went with them. I took nothing with me.

We walked a reverent silence among streets I had known so well in that other life but which looked new to me now, as though they were a new home. I stopped to smear pieces of Venice across my face. The chalky powder itched on my skin. Some of the monster killers clutched skateboards to their chests. When we were a mile or more away from my old apartment, we stopped. It was then that they talked. The shortest and smallest one talked first. She sounded like a teenager. “We have a plan, right. We put together a tank of fish, right, to, like, lure the red monsters here. Once they’re here, you’ll, you know, use this, right?” She handed me a handmade bomb wrapped in black tape. It was a misshapen sphere. I thought it would be smooth and slick, like in the cartoons. They told me I would light it when it was close enough to matter. “Then, run, right?” the shortest and smallest one said.

“I will,” I said. But I could tell more from what she didn’t say; that there may not be time for running, that I would do the thing they could not bring themselves to do. “I’ll blow those red fuckers to pieces.”

“Cool,” she said.

But now, as I stand in front of the red monster, there’s this empty feeling in my stomach, like I haven’t eaten for months, and I don’t think it’s anything that death, anyone’s death, will cure. I look up at the red monster, at its belly, and it reminds me, with its buggy eyes, of the geckos that used to crawl across my window screen in the summer. We used to have a cat, Simon and I, before the cat snuck out one day and never returned. The cat, I remember, a random-ass memory for this moment, used to stand on the other side of the closed glass window and bat at the gecko’s belly. The cat's name was Hero, and she would make this noise like she was crying. I always thought it was because of the gecko, because she couldn’t stand not getting what she wanted, the spoiled brat.

But I know now, looking at the red monster, that not being able to catch that gecko was a sick reminder of her lost home. Not that I took her from the outside world where her mom had birthed her, not only that I forced her to stay inside, but also that she had lost the whole way of who she was. Domestication. She’d lost the wild world. She was part of our world now, and her place there was so pointless, that all she had to spend her days with was trying to catch a gecko through the glass.

We don’t even register, not usually, to these monsters. What kind of place must the world they came from be? I can’t imagine. I don’t want to imagine. I just wish, for this moment, that they could have it back.

I hold the bomb in my hand. What happens now? Maybe it explodes, even though I no longer believe that it's worth it, even though I see now that the world has gone to shit and it is everyone's fault and no one's. Maybe this bomb is bunk anyhow, and what really matters is that here two creatures see each other, and I mean really see each other, for the first time. And yeah, there's no way we can understand each other—we can only pretend we know what makes the other watch so forlorn out the window—and it's not like we're going to shake hands or whatever they call those claws of theirs in their giant lobster brains. But does it matter? There is no ending that will bring Simon back.

There is no ending that will save me and the monster both.

Operation Starfish

Peter Rawlik

Raina,

If you are reading this, then I am either dead or my condition has deteriorated such that I might as well be.  As it is, I write this when I can, during the early morning hours when my mind is still my own, before the day and the medication take it all away.  The doctors will tell you that I am unstable, delusional, that I make things up.  Nothing could be further from the truth.   Yes, I snapped that day, over what appeared to be a very minor incident.  The children had been playing with an anthill, throwing stones and splashing it with water.  The ants were enraged, and when one child stood too still, too close, he was swarmed.  Your reaction to rescue the children and then later douse the colony with ice water was entirely understandable, predictable even.  It must have been odd to have seen an old man like me, come after you, screaming “Leave them alone!”  Chanting it like some mad mantra.

I was still repeating it hours later after John drove me back to the home.  “Leave them alone.” I whimpered “Leave them alone.”  I had no right to scream at you that day, no right at all.  You had done nothing wrong, nothing, and yet your actions -  they sparked a memory, a terrible memory one that I had hoped to forget.  But that day came roaring back out of the past and filled me with such uncontrollable emotion.  I was not angry with you Raina, though it may have seemed it, I was afraid.  What you were doing, the memories, the combination filled me with such terror I could do nothing but lash out.  Even now, all these weeks later I am still afraid.  I have told no one this, and I think perhaps this has been a mistake.  Perhaps if I write it down, perhaps then I shall find some kind of relief.

You may recall that I have told you I once served on the USS Miskatonic, but what I have not said was in what capacity.  I was a Marine, but attached to an organization called JACK, which ostensibly, stood for Joint Advisory Commission Korea, but in reality had little to do with that subject.  What the acronym really stood for, I do not know, we were intelligence agents, but not just any agents. We investigated the weird, the strange, the unexpected, our motto was “Be Nimble, Be Quick, Be Saucy” meaning that we were flexible, fast, and willing to do whatever it took to get the job done, and not get caught.  I had become something of an expert in ballistics and missiles, a field not normally associated with traditional intelligence but JACK was anything but traditional, and I had served with statisticians, engineers, and physicists.  My expertise may have been in engineering, but I had long since surpassed my training, and I knew more about biology, chemistry, acoustics and psychology then I would have ever learned at any university. In the late fifties these skills had earned me an assignment in London, but in 1960 there had been a restructuring, and I suddenly found myself as assistant to the Colonel Doctor Wingate Peaslee, the Terrible Old Man, as he was called, JACK’s number two man.  Peaslee was known for his ruthlessness, and there were rumors that he had been particularly harsh when dealing with the North Koreans.  I of course had no way to validate any of this.  The staff called him the TOM, something I wouldn’t dare to think let alone say back then.  I knew that he was a man unlike others, one that it better to accommodate than to cross.

It was the TOM that brought me to the Miskatonic in July of 1962.  It was a ship like any other, full of hard working men who took both their jobs and their entertainment seriously.  They worked hard and they played hard, and while we sailed from Japan to the mid-Pacific I spent several nights drinking the rot-gut that these men called whisky, and watching them slide under the table, while I sat quietly finishing shot after shot.  Not that such behavior was without risk, and there was an incident with a midshipman who decided to sample a bottle from my case of Remmers Imperial Stout.  One incident, unreported, was all it took to make it clear I wasn’t the standard jarhead.  After that I had their respect.

Respect was not something that I had earned from Peaslee.  He rarely spoke to me and when he did it was either to bark orders or evaluate my work, usually with a single word “Satisfactory.”   Fortunately, I did not look to Peaslee for affirmation.  I had been warned away from that by my friends in London.  Steed and Drake suggested that I develop a hobby, which I did.  I became an amateur chef, though there was actually little opportunity to practice my skills.  I had developed a penchant for the culinary arts and was fond of haunting markets, remote farms and even the occasional jungle in search of the thousands of varieties of seeds, powders, salts and dried fruits that were used to augment the gastronomical experience.  After I was done I would often mail the remaining portions of my find off to friends, mostly Brenner the Swiss chef I had briefly studied under in New York.  I have tasted his food, and am thrilled to know that on some occasions I might be contributing to his creations.

Unlike myself, Peaslee had no hobby, no past time, no way to relax.  His obsession was his job, and nothing else mattered.

Yet in the middle of the Pacific, not far from islands that I would have thought bore a multitude of exotic spices, I could not relax.  Peaslee confined himself to the ship, and seemed extremely nervous.  Not that he didn’t have cause. The Miskatonic was part of a fleet of ships spread across the Pacific in support of Operation Starfish.  There had been a series of nuclear tests throughout the year, why exactly was unclear to me, but they seemed related to the Soviet nuclear detonation in the Novaya Zemlya archipelago, the so called Tsar Bomba.  Khruschev had sworn to show the United States the “Kuz’kina Mat” or Kuzka’s Mother, and it had been assumed that the Tsar Bomba was just that.  Yet Peaslee seemed to know something I and the others did not, and I would occasionally see him clutching a report on the Soviet detonation, a report he wouldn’t let me see, a report in Russian.

What I could see, what Peaslee couldn’t hide from me, were the Soviet warships that had taken up positions not far from our own location, which was just south of Johnston Island.  One always thinks of a South Pacific island as something exotic and lush, Johnston may have been that way once, but all that was there in 1962 was sand, concrete, and batteries of rocket launchers.  It was a military base unlike any I had ever seen before, desolate, tiny, and bristling with armaments waiting to be used.  Why the Soviets had been allowed to approach this close was a mystery.  As with the reports, Peaslee would say nothing, and it was his silence that made me even more nervous.

It was in the early morning of July 9th that I was roused and ordered to the Command Deck.  I left my quarters at a dash grabbed coffee and something that pretended to be food and made my way topside.  The crew of the Miskatonic was frenetic, readying weapons, securing loads and testing equipment.  They were like a swarm of insects carrying out myriad tasks that looked like chaos but was really a well-orchestrated machine with hundreds of parts that all knew what had to be done.  I weaved my way through this madness, dodging runners and moving loads like the expert that I was, only to find myself in awe of my employer who had somehow found the exact spot in which he could stand and not be in the way.  He was like a pillar of stone, unyielding, unmoving, and inscrutable.  His pale blue suit danced in the wind trying in vain to tear itself away from his thin but stoic frame.  Only his college tie, which flew like a flag in the stiff Pacific breeze seemed to have any chance of escaping, but as the TOM turned to greet me the piece of rebellious fabric fell back to his chest and with a casual movement the Windsor knot was quickly tightened, negating any chance of freedom.

Peaslee barely acknowledged me as we boarded the waiting helicopter and left the Miskatonic.  We banked over the island and in the thin morning light I could see that the frenetic motion wasn’t confined to the ship.  The island too was ripe with activity, and I could see ammunition being stockpiled next to antiaircraft guns.  There was also the innocuous tower that stood surrounded by a lattice of steel supports and supply tubes.  It was sixty-five feet tall and eight feet in diameter at the base but tapered to six feet at the top, painted industrial white which made it seem less threatening than it was.  It smoked, steam or something like it leaked from ports on the sides, which would have led some to believe that it was nothing more than a smokestack, an exhaust for some great machine or factory, but I knew better.  I was staring at a PGM-17 Thor, a ballistic missile armed with a nuclear warhead.  The venting gasses suggested that it was being prepared for launch.  I remember slumping back in my chair, wondering what I had gotten myself involved in, and remembering a line of Norse poetry “Against the serpent rises Odin’s son.”

That feeling of dread only grew as the helicopter completed its pass over the island and then almost immediately began to jockey for a landing.  I sat up and realized we hadn’t gone far, I could still see the Miskatonic, and discovered we had done little more than jump from one warship to another, but our destination might as well have been a thousand miles away, for it was a place that given the era was considered the most foreign and dangerous place an American Intelligence officer could be.  We had landed on a Soviet warship, and it took a supreme effort for me to not panic as the door slid open and we were escorted out across the deck and into the command deck.  Not with guns pointed at us, but rather with handshakes and pats on the back, not as mortal enemies on opposite sides of a political ideology, but rather as if we were allies in some great venture and on the verge of a discovery both fantastic and terrible.  I think this now, and can sense the irony, for it was true, it was all true.  I just didn’t know it.

The bridge of the soviet battleship wasn’t much different from those I had seen on American ships, well excepting the module which had replaced the radar station.  It was a bulky thing, and I could tell that it hadn’t originally been designed to fit into the slot it had been shoved into; whoever had rebuilt it had never served on a ship before.  There were sharp angles, knobs and switches jutted out from the side where legs could easily trip them.  None of these controls were sealed against weather, which meant that this installation wasn’t meant to be long-term.  That a pair of thick cables ran from the module and across the floor, one was obviously a power supply, the other ran through a port and to a cluster of transmitters and receivers mounted on the deck.

Apparently my examination of the module had not gone unnoticed, but I hadn’t expected to be chastised by a voice with a British accent.  “I’ll admit that the lure isn’t pretty but she works.  The Russians did most of the engineering; I just tweaked a few things here and there.”  My surprise must have shown for the rugged Brit quickly apologized and introduced himself.   “Adam Royston, British Experimental Research Group, Unit 3.  You’re James Bellmore, Peaslee’s assistant.  We’ve heard about you.  The Colonel speaks highly of your work.”

I raised an eyebrow.  “I’ve never heard of you, or the lure.  To be honest I’m not sure why we are here.”

Royston cast a glance at Peaslee who reluctantly nodded.  The British scientist reached into a file and pulled out a photograph.  “We are here because of that,” he announced as he handed it to me.

The image was in black and white, grainy, slightly out of focus.  At first I thought I was seeing an image I had reviewed long before, the one that had become so associated with what had happened on February 24, 1942 in the skies over Los Angeles, but I soon noticed differences, there usually isn’t snow in LA, and while California may have been the land of commie sympathizers (at least according to McCarthy, God rest his soul) I was quite certain that military trucks bearing the Hammer and Sickle were still uncommon there.  These details made it clear that this wasn’t from the so-called Battle of Los Angeles, but the dominant image of both photographs were so remarkably similar that the casual observer would have been hard pressed to tell the difference.  There was in the center a globular mass, not unlike a fat disk or squashed ball.  From this radiated five luminous appendages, that tapered to points where they intersected the ground.  In shape they might be mistaken for the arms of a starfish, but they lacked any trace of mottling or texture.  Indeed they were so far from what one would normally think of organic that I was tempted to call them struts, but even struts have depth and detail, these were so flat that they could be easily be mistaken for the beams from spotlights.  In retrospect, the thing it most resembled was a sea urchin, though one with only five luminescent spines on which it seemed to stand.

Royston interrupted my study of the image.  “The Russians call it Kuz’kina Mat.  It destroyed an entire military base in the Novaya Zemlya before they hit it with a nuke.  Since then we’ve documented three more of the things.  We’re also reviewing historical records, looking for events that might be related.”

“I can think of at least one.”  I murmured.  Suddenly something clicked in my head.  “The lure, you want to attract these things?  Why?”

“So we can kill them Captain Bellmore,” said Colonel Doctor Wingate Peaslee.  “What ever they are, they are dangerous, they’ve intruded where they aren’t welcome, and they’ve hurt people.  The Russians and the British have agreed to help us hunt them down.  They seem to be attracted by a signal that progresses through a specific pattern and set of frequencies.  Royston’s machine duplicates that signal, draws them in and puts them right where we want them.”

I opened my mouth to say something and then decided against it.  Peaslee however seemed intent on continuing to speak.  “Earth is in danger Captain Bellmore, and we represent the best hope for ridding her of the parasites and predators that plague her and all of humanity.”

I was suddenly feeling sick and I burst from the bridge onto the deck outside.  All around me Russian sailors were doing exactly what their American counterparts had been over on the Miskatonic.  That idea comforted me.  That these men, were the same as those that I had laughed, and fought and gotten drunk with gave me a sense of normalcy that I latched on to.  I found a rhythm to their movements, the pulse of the ship which centered me and brought me a sense of reality.  I caught my breath and steeled myself to go back and try to understand what Peaslee and his allies were planning on doing, but I was too late.

Standing there, feeling the pulse of the ship I felt it change.  Royston’s lure had been turned on and I could feel the signal as it pulsed through the ship itself.  I had thought that the bank of transmitters would have been the focus, but I was wrong.  Royston was using the ship itself as one massive antenna, broadcasting his signal at an immense strength.  I could feel it in my bones and joints, and the filling I had in the back of my mouth began to ache.  Many of the men began to don protective head gear to cover their ears, but I saw no point in this, the signal wasn’t a sound, it was a vibration that seeped up out of the deck of the ship and even the air itself.  I longed to abandon the ship, to somehow leave and return to the Miskatonic, but our helicopter was gone.  I looked longingly at the aircraft carrier and measured the distance between us.  The waters had been calm, but now seemed to have been roused into madness by Royston’s machine.  Any thought of swimming back quickly left my mind.  That is not to say that others weren’t driven to the same thought and were able to resist it.  I heard several men leap from the deck and scream as they fell to the sea.  How they fared in those violent and hungry waters I cannot say, but I saw none of them surface and swim away.

The ship and its condition and that of the crew were reminding me of something else, of documents of events that I had reviewed and filed away in my mind, but now given an impetus several uncorrelated contents were coming together and the implications were terrifying.  I ran back to the bridge and confronted Peaslee screaming to be heard, “This is a Tillinghast Resonator isn’t it?”

He looked at me with those cold eyes and said nothing so I called out to Royston.  “This is the same technology that was employed on the USS Eldridge back in 1943 isn’t it?  The Resonator built back in the 1920s by Crawford Tillinghast.”

Royston nodded.  “I’ve made some improvements, and so have the Russians, but the principles are the same, yes.”

I turned back toward Peaslee and pleaded, “Why would you do this?  You are going to get us all killed.”

Peaslee started to say something but then as the first visitors became apparent he stopped.  They were small at first, and like the image Royston had shown me they were a merger of familiar invertebrate forms and the wholly unreal.  Things that were like squid and fish swam through the bridge with bands of pure light knitting their segments together.  Crabs with six legs and one claw crawled across the ceiling, their legs jointed in a green illumination.  Flatworms that consisted of nothing more than a ring of tissue encapsulating a miasma of shadowed phosphorescence inched across the deck.  There were dozens of these things, swimming through the air in schools and herds and pods.  They covered the ship and moved amongst the crew without fear.  With each passing second their numbers seemed to grow until the I could not see the crew through their amassed forms.  The ship had become a kind of extra-dimensional coral reef, a host to thousands, if not millions of lifeforms, and as I watched the effect spread away from the ship and into the surrounding ocean itself.

I watched with a desperate sense of dread, my eyes darting to and fro through the nightmare creatures.  I was looking for something, they had to be there, you couldn’t accumulate these kinds of numbers and not expect them to show up, and then, they were, sharks cutting through the alien life like knives through butter.  They weren’t sharks of course, but in their actions and appearance the similarity was striking.  They were sleek, muscular things built for speed and destruction.  They flashed through the lesser things and left a trail of gore and fluid behind.  Whatever these creatures used for blood it wasn’t red, but a frightful black that congealed almost instantly and floated in the ether like a cloud of dust.  Peaslee saw them and muttered “The Hounds of Tindalos, lean and athirst.”

With all the prey, with all the predators about it was inevitable that a mistake be made:   A man screamed as a shark passed through him and tore his arm clean off.  A gunner saw this and reacted accordingly.  In moments the ship had erupted in gunfire with weapons pointed not at an enemy in the distance, but rather at the ones that had engulfed the ship itself.  Men died, but whether they did so because of the monsters or because of panicked fire it was impossible to say.

Outraged I screamed at Royston to turn the thing off, and he seemed inclined to do so, but as he moved toward the control panels I heard a familiar sound and turned to find Peaslee pointing his gun at the engineer.  “Do not touch anything Royston.  Everything is going according to plan.”

And it seems Peaslee was right, for then, as if by clockwork the thing appeared.  It stalked out of the sky, using those weird unearthly, inorganic, immaterial legs to climb down out of the unknown and find a purchase in our world.  It was a massive, monstrous thing, cyclopean in its construction, and promethean in its design.  The center, the globular cluster of extra-dimensional flesh seemed to be ringed with five eyes around a central mouth all of which faced downwards.  Short fleshy appendages jutted out from between the eyes ending in emitter like organs from which the wholly unnatural spine like legs emerged.  They were great conical spindles of dusky energy that seemed to have no definition, no mass, and no substance, and yet somehow they held the central mass aloft.  As it walked it raised one these spindles and the fleshy emitters rotated forward adjusting the length of the weird spike until it found its place.  It then shifted its weight, rotating forward and repeating the process.  Some legs seemed to be hundreds of feet long, while others merely a dozen.  Then as it moved those proportions would shift and the thing would come closer, slowly, but surely closer.

Somewhere a Russian voice cried out “Kuz’kina Mat!” and the entire crew looked up at the thing as its mouth opened wide and an array of tentacles fell out and began snaking their way toward our location.

I turned to Peaslee and told him he was an idiot.  “These things aren’t monsters, they’re animals.  They’re not attracted to the resonator; they feed off the things attracted to the resonator.  It’s not an attack, it’s ecology.  The only time they pose a threat to us is if we get in their way.  All we have to do is not use the resonator, which seems easy enough.”

Peaslee shook his head.  “This is our world; there is no place in it for monsters or aliens.  I’ve spent my life fighting things like this.  The Kuz’kina Mat will fall before us, just as the others did.”  He turned to the captain, “Tell the fleet to open fire.”  The captain grabbed the radio and cleared the channel, but before he could say anything something struck the ship and set all of us flying.  As I fell I saw the second thing as it crawled down out of the ether and settled onto the ship itself.  The captain cursed as he slipped, as did Royston.  Peaslee caught the edge of the captain’s chair and swung himself around grabbing the mike and bringing it up to his mouth.  “Strike fleet,” he called out, “this is Peaslee, the order is given.  You may fire at will!”

I didn’t know what Peaslee was thinking.  Had he gone mad?  We were right beneath the target; we were going to be collateral damage, something which he apparently didn’t care about.  I grabbed a helmet that somebody no longer needed, strapped it to my head and once more tried to make my way off the bridge.  It wasn’t as easy as it had been the first time, and going out onto the deck had been a mistake.  The air was full of bullets and the metallic stench of explosives. There was a rhythmic thumping noise which I realized was an antiaircraft gun, and the chatter of smaller arms as they tried to mow through the swarm of things that had enveloped the ship.  A quick glance at the sky showed me traces of fire headed toward both creatures.  Tentacles like thick gray cables had been spooled out of their mouths and were snatching what they could from the mass of prey.  They seemed oblivious to our attacks.

A sudden boom came, and then another, somewhere someone had upped the ante and brought the heavy cannons into play.  I watched a pair of shells arc through the sky and hit one of the creatures in the central hub.  It let out a roar, and one of its legs seemed to flicker.  It rocked toward the missing limb before rebalancing itself as the spindle of light reestablished.  The beast was still roaring as two more thumps reached my ears and it took two more shells to the body.  More legs flickered and it fell.  It fell from the sky and landed in the ocean just yards from the ship.  The impact sucked the ship forward, and then the wave formed and flipped the ship’s bow up.  I slid back into the bridge and as I fell I caught Peaslee and Royston.  We held on to each other as the sea vanished and the sky was all that I could see.  My ears and senses betrayed me as I was suddenly upside down and the world went black.  The last thing I remembered was the cold and the smell of sea water flooding my nose.

I woke back on the Miskatonic, with no clue how I had gotten there, or who had rescued me.  Colonel Peaslee was staggering across the deck, he was soaked and blood stained the right sleeve of his shirt.  His jacket and tie were missing.  I looked at my watch and learned that it was almost 11:00.  I had been out for hours.  I turned to look at the sea.  The Soviet ship was capsized, but the sea around her was still strange, and still infested with thousands of unearthly lifeforms.  In the sky, three of the pentagonal monsters were desperately trying to reach the mass of their prey while avoiding the shells of the attacking ships.  Of the creature that had fallen   there was no trace.  I found out later that it had retreated, that it had climbed into the sky and vanished, like a bird amongst the clouds, except the sky was clear.  It had climbed up into the sky at an unknowable angle, one man was not meant to know.

Peaslee rose and began to stumble past me.  As he walked by he was muttering something unintelligible and once I realized he was heading for the Command Deck I knew I had to follow him.  There was something cold and distant in his eyes, a mania of sorts.  He wasn’t himself; it was possible that he was in shock.  As I stood to fall in behind him something in my left ankle gave out.  It felt like a spring or pull cord had snapped and was curling up inside my leg.  I screamed as the pain and failure in my ankle forced me to crumple back to the deck.

I crawled after him in desperation.  He wasn’t much faster, but he gained distance and entered Command well before I did.  I cannot say what I would have done if I had reached him in time, if I had been there when the order was given.  But my leg had betrayed me and I only entered the Command Deck as the confirmation of his order came back over the radio.  I turned and watched as a plume of smoke rose up from Johnston Island.  It was both beautiful, like a god riding a pillar of flame into the sky, and terrifying, for I knew the power of the Gods themselves dwelt within that white metal casing.  It was like watching Thor’s hammer being thrown against the giants.  I smiled for an instant, for I thought that at least the mission would be accomplished.  My life was likely over, but the mission would be accomplished.  Then I remembered that the mission had been designed by a man who I suspect had gone a bit mad.

I tried to watch the Thor missile as it screamed across the sky, but as I did there was suddenly a horrendous noise and something large and dark passed in front of the sun.  I don’t remember what it was.  When I try, the number five seems to dominate my thoughts, and there is a desire to link the shape to those things that we had futilely battled, but I cannot be certain that is true.  There is a shadow, a thing that at times seems to be part starfish and part squid, but on an unimaginable scale.  Behind me Peaslee screamed two words in Russian, and mercifully I lapsed back into unconsciousness.

As part of the official inquiry I was allowed to review the telemetry data from the Thor missile.  The warhead detonated at an altitude of 250 miles with a yield of 1.42 megatons and was seen as far away as Honolulu.  The electromagnetic pulse was significantly larger than expected, shutting down street lights and tripping burglar alarms throughout the Hawaiian Islands.  The microwave telephone link between islands was damaged.  Immediately following the explosion, three low earth orbit satellites were disabled.  Colonel Doctor Peaslee was not present during the inquiry, and I never saw him again.  My separation from JACK was handled swiftly, and I was retired with a minimum of fuss.  That the use of Royston’s lure and the attacks continued seemed obvious.  Newspaper reports, particularly from Hawaii documented the “testing” of nuclear weapons in the South Pacific through the beginning of November.

All of this was a long time ago, and seems irrelevant to the issue at hand but I assure you it is not.  Nor are they the ravings of a madman.  Please do not think that.  I have kept these things secret, forgotten them, and chosen not to think of them for decades.  But that day, that day when you set out to destroy the anthill, all of this came rushing back.  I remember it now because what you did seemed reminiscent of what I had seen before.  Your children were playing, tormenting the ants and when they were hurt you came, your voice booming and you rescued them.  That seemed innocent enough.  Later when you came with the ice water and tried to drown the nest, that terrified me.  Nearly the same thing had happened in the Pacific all those years ago. Only I and the fleet were the ants and we were being played with, and when we hurt one, we learned . . . we learned but we didn’t understand.

We had thought we were fighting what the Soviets called “Kuz’kina Mat” but we were wrong.  I think Peaslee figured it out, but I never saw him again to ask, but when he screamed out, I think he knew.  Those things had not been Kuz’kina Mat, we should have called them Kuz’kina.  That thing that roared and gathered up the others before leaving, the thing that had blotted out the sun, which I have blotted from my memory, the thing that was what Peaslee had seen too, and why he had screamed, that was Mat, a parent that had come to the rescue of her children!

I live in fear of the day of return, when she comes to deal with a pest that has hurt one of the children, just as you did.  My only hope is that she is less vindictive, more understanding than you were.  I hope she can dismiss our actions as simply instinctual and inconsequential, and beneath any need to respond to.  I hope she sees us as tolerable pests.

But I doubt it.  God help us, I doubt it.

With Bright Shining Faces

J.C. Koch

“You can’t draw monsters!”

Mrs. George looked up from her lesson plan. It was Quiet Time and her first graders were normally quite good with coloring quietly for a few minutes, especially because Story Time came right after.

Cody, the boy who’d just broken the main Quiet Time rule, glared at Sukie, who sat next to him.

Sukie was busy drawing. She didn’t look up, just shrugged. “Can too,” she said mildly.

“Can not,” Cody insisted. “Especially not like those.” He punched his finger onto Sukie’s drawing. Sukie shrugged again and moved her paper further to the left, away from Cody.

Sukie was a small, quiet girl with straight honey-brown hair, big, bright blue eyes, and a serious demeanor. She normally kept to herself, and this should have made her the class outcast. But it was quite the reverse. As opposed to being shunned by the other children she was always invited to play with them, and most of the class wanted to partner with her whenever a buddy was required.

Whether it was because she didn’t like any of her classmates more than the others, or because she knew she was popular without seeming to try or care, Sukie never chose the same partner twice in a row.

Other than when she was required to be a part of a couple or a group, Sukie kept to herself. The other children were respectful of her apparent wish to be solitary, and none of them ever mocked her.

Cody wasn’t normally a belligerent little boy, and the other children were rarely this confrontational with Sukie. Mrs. George could reprimand him, and her first instinct was to do so, lest whatever hold Sukie had over the other children be broken and she be turned into the class victim and, by extension, Cody into the class bully.

However, there was something in the way he was upset—there was fear in the little boy’s tone, easily as much as anger.

Mrs. George got up and went to see just what Sukie was drawing and to provide the calming influence the teacher standing next to a student normally enforced.

Cody looked up at her, eyes wide. “Make her stop it, Missus Gee. She’s drawing bad things.” Yes, he was frightened.

“May I see, Sukie?” Mrs. George asked gently.

“Sure.” Sukie moved her drawing back to the center of her desk.

Mrs. George was prepared for something horrible—many times students drew things they experienced at home, terrible things, and part of her job was to determine if the drawing was real and, therefore, if the child needed to see the school psychologist, nurse, or on-campus police officer.

Sukie’s father was an oil rigger and her mother worked as a cocktail waitress in one of the more popular casinos in Gulfport. Those professions didn’t necessarily provide a stable home life, though most of the children in her school had parents working on the rigs and/or in the casinos.

Sukie’s grandmother took care of her and her older brother, Spradlin, and Mrs. George had met her when she’d had Spradlin in her class. Mrs. Selwyn appeared normal, but she’d always made Mrs. George nervous, even though the older woman really just liked to talk about how Spradlin was named for his mother’s family and how the oil rigs were destroying the ecological balance of the world, her son working on one or no.

However, Mrs. George had a hard time determining what about this picture was upsetting Cody so much. It was a rather crude drawing of what looked like a fatter version of a Tyrannosaurus Rex. It was a little early for it, but because of a traveling exhibit, they’d done a whole week on dinosaurs last month, culminating in a school field trip to the University of Southern Alabama Archeology Museum when the dinosaur exhibit was there. All the school had been involved, so Sukie still being interested in the ancient creatures didn’t seem out of the ordinary.

However, Mrs. George had been teaching for many years now, and Cody’s reaction felt quite real, not made up to get Sukie in trouble or draw attention to himself.

“Sukie’s just drawn T-Rex,” she said reassuringly, as she patted Cody’s shoulder. “And very well, too,” she said to Sukie. This wasn’t a lie—most first graders weren’t going to take the art world by storm, after all—and this was a serviceable rendition of a giant lizard. “And she’s allowed to draw whatever she wants, just as you are.”

“But look at it,” Cody said. “Look.”

She did. It remained a fat, crude rendition of a T-Rex. “Cody, you know monsters aren’t real, don’t you? Besides, Sukie’s drawing a dinosaur.”

“No,” he insisted. “She’s drawing monsters.” His voice dropped. “Real monsters. And monsters aren’t supposed to be real. My mom said.”

“My grandma said monsters are real,” Sukie replied calmly. “And she’s right. You’re just afraid.”

“My mom said that we should be afraid,” Cody muttered. “She said no one should ask them to visit.”

“It’s okay. They’re my friends.” Sukie reached out and patted Cody’s hand. “But don’t worry, I won’t let them hurt you.”

Mrs. George expected Cody to pull his hand away. Girls still had cooties at this age, and the boy was so upset with Sukie that she didn’t expect him to be pleasant.

But instead of belligerence, Cody relaxed. “You promise?”

Sukie nodded. “I promise.” She looked up at Mrs. George. “I won’t let them hurt you, either, Missus Gee.”

“Well, thank you, dear. That’s very brave and kind of you. Now, Cody, are we all alright here?”

He nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry, Missus Gee.”

She squeezed his shoulder. “It’s okay. We all get scared sometimes.”

She headed back towards her desk, but as she did, something moved in her peripheral vision. It was Sukie’s picture—it still looked like an over-fat T-Rex, but it no longer looked crudely drawn. Now it looked filled in and real. And she could have sworn she’d seen it move.

But when she looked at the drawing directly, all that was there were the green and brown crayon scribbles Sukie had done.

Mrs. George shrugged and went back to the front of the room. “Class, are we ready for Story Time? Today we’ll read Clifford, The Big Red Dog.”

The children all cheered, Cody included, and Mrs. George went happily back to the normal routine of her day.

~

The normal routine lasted until recess. Sukie wasn’t playing with the other children. She was off in a corner, under a tree, crayons and paper with her, busily drawing. Her face was wrinkled in concentration and her crayons moved swiftly over the paper.

Mrs. George wondered if she should reprimand Sukie for bringing the art supplies outside. The children weren’t supposed to do this. However, the girl wasn’t bothering anyone, and she was taking good care with both crayons and paper.

Mrs. George looked around. There was a belligerence in the air that wasn’t normal. As she watched, several small scuffles broke out, between children who normally didn’t fight with anyone, let alone each other.

She and the other teachers and aides broke these little fights up. All participants seemed on edge, which was to be expected, but none seemed angry, which wasn’t. Students from her class and Mr. Crandall’s upper grade glass were the most involved, percentage-wise. Spradlin was in Mr. Crandall’s class.

At least one child per fight had a picture of some kind of “monster” on their person or identified as theirs. Only those from her class and Mr. Crandall’s. Mrs. George looked at each drawing. Some were lizard-based, some aquatic, and a few looked like giant trees, but all had a great many fangs and claws and such. She was certain they were all Sukie’s work.

Each child who had a drawing was hysterical to get their picture back, either from the teachers or, in a few cases, from the children they’d been fighting. She and the other teachers discussed punishments. No one was truly hurt, and all the children were so riled up, discretion seemed the better course. A few minutes of Quiet Time to think over bad behavior was determined to be the appropriate course of action. In order to ensure all the children would be able to calm down, they decided full confiscation wasn’t the right answer either.

So each child got their drawing back. Every one of them seemed more relieved than normal for something like this. The children who didn’t have drawings seemed envious. Mrs. George wondered if the fights had started because children without drawings had tried to take them away from children who had them. Then she dismissed this idea as silly.

This excitement filled the majority of recess time, and most of the school had come to gather around while the fights were subdued. However, a fast headcount showed there were some missing, from her class and Mr. Crandall’s.

Mrs. George looked back to Sukie. Who had all the missing children near her, either waiting in a well-ordered line or standing off to the side, pieces of paper held in their hands.

Sukie finished a drawing and handed it to the next child in line, who happened to be Cody. He trotted off to the other group, looking quite happy.

As the first bell rang and the children all trooped back inside, Mrs. George called him over. “What do you have there?”

The boy held the paper up for her to see, but didn’t hand it to her. “My own monster!”

This drawing was no better or worse than the others Sukie had created. It was crude, and from her lizard-like group, only this one was reddish, with wings, a long, sharp beak, and six claws on each foot, of which it also had six. In keeping with what appeared to be Sukie’s theme, there were extra claws on the wings, as well.

“I thought you didn’t like monsters.” This one resembled a bigger version of a pterodactyl, with more legs, feet, and claws than a real one. “This looks a little…scary.”

“This one’s mine, so it won’t hurt me,” Cody said, all happy confidence. “Or you, Missus Gee,” he added loyally. He trotted off, carrying his drawing carefully.

Mrs. George took a good look at the children in line. All were in her class. The ones in the other group were all in Mr. Crandall’s class. She wasn’t sure if this was good or bad but, as Sukie handed another drawing to Lori, who took it and skipped off, the second bell rang.

Sukie said something and the other children headed for the classroom. Some looked disappointed, others crestfallen, some worried. Only Cody and Lori and the others who had drawings already seemed happy and contented.

Sukie was last in and, as she took her seat, Mrs. George wondered if she should just allow Sukie to keep on drawing or not.

“We’re going to have Quiet Time because there were a lot of children behaving badly.”

The children who had drawings, whether they’d been in fights or not, hunched protectively over their pictures.

“I’m sorry, Missus Gee,” Sukie said. “I’m doing my best. I had to take care of Spradlin’s class first because they’re old and bigger.”

How to reply to this? Clearly Sukie felt the fights were over her drawings. The rest of the class’ expressions showed they agreed.

“Well, Sukie, you weren’t involved in the fighting.” At least, not intentionally. “Why don’t all of you who weren’t a part of it color? Those who were, you just sit quietly and consider why fighting isn’t a good thing.”

“Sometimes it’s good, Missus Gee,” Lori said. “Sometimes you have to fight. Like in the Civil War and stuff.” The other children nodded, but Sukie’s attention returned to her drawing.

“Well, yes,” Mrs. George acknowledged. “But not over petty things, children.”

Cody opened his mouth, but before he could speak Sukie reached over and touched his arm. The boy shut his mouth immediately.

Mrs. George decided to let this play out.

~

“And then, the children just acted as if everything was normal,” she told her husband over dinner. “But it wasn’t normal. We had Quiet Time for the rest of the day and not one of them complained or acted restless.”

“Did every child get a drawing?” he asked as he cut into his steak. He sounded about as interested in her work as he normally did, which was barely. Her work was never as interesting as his.

“Yes. It just seemed…easier to let Sukie draw pictures for the other children.”

“Then you handled it right.”

“I suppose. But, how was your day?” Mr. George was a police officer, and normally he was the one with the unusual stories, not her. She didn’t allow herself to feel disappointed that he wasn’t that interested in the oddities of her day. She’d gotten used to it years ago.

“Something like yours. More petty crimes, increase in domestic calls, lots of fighting. Some issues on one of the oil rigs.”

“On the rigs? What happened?”

“Fighting mostly. A couple of the riggers went over into the ocean. Not our problem. That’s what the Coast Guard’s for. We were informed because we had to notify next of kin.” He gave her a comforting smile. “None of the parents at James Conason Elementary, don’t worry. I always check.”

“Hard not to worry what with all this…fighting.”

He shrugged. “Full moon’s coming. You know it makes the crazies crazier.”

“The children didn’t seem crazy. They seemed…scared.”

He finished his meal quickly, shoved his plate back, and patted her hand. “I’m sure it’s just a little fancy that will pass. Some popular TV show or something.”

“Something…I suppose.”

“Double shift time. Don’t wait up.” He got up as quickly as he’d eaten, eager to get back to work.

In the early days of their marriage, Mr. George had worked double shifts so he could move up and they could have a better life more quickly. Once he’d reached a better pay grade he’d stopped, so they could spend more time together, especially since they’d never had children and only had each other.

But for the past couple of years he’d started taking more and more double shifts. Mrs. George had given up asking why. She had her suspicions, and they didn’t center around Mr. George trying to make a better life for the two of them. They centered around the fact that Mr. George had a beat that covered most of the strip clubs near the seedier casinos.

Mr. George gave her a quick kiss and headed out the door. Saving her from dwelling on what had happened to their relationship or having to ask herself why she hadn’t mentioned the drawing Sukie had given her, at the end of the day, just before the final bell rang. She hadn’t wanted to mention it, in part because she couldn’t explain to her husband why she had it in her pocket, and why she didn’t want to let it out of her reach.

Her drawing was of a dragon, meaning Sukie was branching out into mythology. Crude, like all the others and, as with the other drawings, not quite like a dragon should be. Six legs, three sets of wings, with the middle set being the largest and, as also with Sukie’s other drawings, lots and lots of claws and teeth.

Mrs. George also didn’t mention that if she looked at this drawing just right, out of the corner of her eye, it looked much more real. And very much alive.

~

The next day Mrs. George noticed a change in the class. Whereas the day before they had seemed nervous, frightened, and belligerent, today they seemed expectant.

The moment everyone was seated and the tardy bell had rung, Sukie raised her hand. “Missus Gee, may we sing a song, please?”

This was an odd request, but there was nothing wrong with a little singing. “Certainly. What song?”

Sukie cleared her throat and began to sing. “Good morning to you, good morning to you…”

The other children joined in. “We’re all in our places, with bright shining faces, good morning to you.”

“Well, isn’t that nice? Did you know that schoolchildren used to sing that song for their teachers about a hundred years ago? Where did you learn it, a television show?” If this was now a song from a new, popular show, then perhaps all the rest would be, as Mr. George said, easily explained.

“No,” Sukie said. “Missus Gee, you need to sing, too.”

“I do?”

“Yes,” the little girl said emphatically, “you do. Do you still have what I gave you?”

Mrs. George looked at the class. They all looked expectant and, she realized, they all had their drawings on their desks. “Yes, I do, Sukie. I see we all do.” She pulled the drawing from her purse and put it onto her desk.

“Put your hands on your picture,” Sukie said. “And then we all sing.”

Mrs. George had learned how to prevent a first grader from taking over her class in her first year of teaching. However, there was something in Sukie’s tone and expression that made Mrs. George do as requested.

“Now do we sing?” Cody asked Sukie.

The girl cocked her head, as if listening to something. Then she nodded. “Now.”

They sang. The song ended and Mrs. George waited. Nothing. She cleared her throat. Time to take back control of the class and put them onto their regular schedule. “Well, that was a nice way to begin the day. Let’s all pull out our math books and—”

Lightning flashed and, moments later, thunder rolled. The ground rumbled and shook and the windows rattled. She’d heard the sound and felt the movement before, many times. A sudden storm had arisen. Perhaps the children had picked up that it was coming, just as animals were supposed to be able to do. Perhaps that was why they’d been so strange.

Mrs. George stood up. “Class, orderly lines, please, like we’ve practiced.” In case of hurricane, all the children were to go to the auditorium, which had the least windows and where the school could ensure everyone was accounted for.

The children all looked at Sukie. Who nodded. They got up and headed for the door. As she counted heads and ensured everyone was out of the classroom, Mrs. George happened to look down at Cody’s desk. While the paper Sukie had given him the day before was there, there was no drawing on it.

It was foolish and foolhardy, but she looked at the other desks. All the children had left their papers, but all the pages were blank. She hurried back to her desk, telling herself it was to grab her purse. But as she did so, she verified that the page Sukie had given her was now blank as well.

Lightning and thunder hit again, this time with almost no break in between. The sound was louder than before and the ground shook again. Mrs. George trotted outside. There would be time to figure out what was going on later, once the hurricane was over.

But, as things turned out, what was causing the ground to shake wasn’t thunder, lightning, or a hurricane. It was Mr. Crandall.

~

Well, it might be Mr. Crandall. Or, rather, it might possibly be Mr. Crandall, on a very strange and frightening day.

There was a creature—a giant creature—standing in the middle of the playground. It resembled a giant lizard, but more sinuous, and it had flippers. She realized it was much more like a pliosaur, only with many teeth and claws on the flippers which the original pliosaurs hadn’t had.

It also had Mr. Crandall’s face, or what was left of his face. As she watched, his face melted into the giant monster, forming a shining face shape around his eyes. The only thing that seemed to remain of Mr. Crandall were his eyes—she was very sure they were Mr. Crandall’s eyes still.

There was bedlam, of course. Only not from everyone. The children in Mr. Crandall’s class and hers weren’t running, screaming, or crying. They were all looking at Mr. Crandall, but without fear. Just as she was.

Cody took her hand. “Ready, Missus Gee?”

“Ready for what, Cody?”

“To make things right,” Sukie said, as she took Mrs. George’s other hand. “We’ve been chosen.”

A woman stepped out and stood in front of whatever Mr. Crandall had become. It was Mrs. Selwyn. She smiled, a very feral smile, and Mrs. George felt afraid for the first time.

Mrs. Selwyn raised her arms and all of a sudden, she grew. And then she changed. First there was a giant woman and then, as lightning struck and thunder rolled, there was a giant tree, with arms and legs, covered in bark that looked like sharp scales, vicious branches replacing limbs and digits, and there, in the center, Mrs. Selwyn’s face.

Her face melted into the tree leaving, as with Mr. Crandall, only a shining shape of her former face around the eyes. The eyes looked human, only old; ancient really. And they looked around with clear malevolence.

The Selwyn-Tree roared something to the Pliosaur-Crandall, which in turn roared at the children who were in Mr. Crandall’s class. Starting with Spradlin, the children all changed. They were lizard-like, or dinosaur-like, some aquatic, even a few tree and plant-like creatures. None were as big as either the Selwyn-Tree or the Pliosaur-Crandall, though they were still quite huge. But all ended up with bright, flat, shining faces around human eyes—human eyes that flashed with hatred when they actually looked at humans.

The tree looked straight at Mrs. George now, and her mouth went dry. The hatred from the Selwyn-Tree was intense, almost physical it was so strong.

Sukie squeezed her hand. “It’s okay, Missus Gee. Grandma doesn’t hate you at all. Changing doesn’t hurt. And you’ll be happy once it’s through.”

“Can I go next?” Cody asked. He sounded breathlessly excited.

The tree looked at him and nodded. “All of you…now.” It was a horrible voice, loud, screeching, jarring, and definitely malevolent. “Sukie, lead the way.”

One by one her class turned into giant monsters, just a little smaller than the monsters who’d been Mr. Crandall’s class only minutes ago. Each one was a replica of what Sukie had drawn. Each one kept the shining, flat outline of their original faces along with their own eyes, but Mrs. George was sure they weren’t interpreting what they saw with their childish, human minds. Whatever their minds had become, human wasn’t it.

Sukie was a giant T-Rex, only more so. Cody was now a nightmare version of a pterodactyl, Lori some kind of giant squid, and the other children were the same, or worse, depending on where you stood on the tentacles versus limbs debate.

The Selwyn-Tree came to her, its leg-like roots tearing up the ground as it moved. “You fear. You think you should stay. Let me show you what you want to save.” A tree limb swung towards her and Mrs. George flinched, but it landed gently on her head.

She saw an image of Mr. George at work the night before, but he wasn’t alone. He also wasn’t fully dressed. He was making love to one of the female officers she’d met once or twice, making love in a very animalistic way he hadn’t done with Mrs. George for years.

“You’re making that up.” But she knew it was true, had known it was true for those same years.

“You know I’m not. He has betrayed you as they all have betrayed us.”

“But the others…” Mrs. George found herself using the favored line of reasoning she’d heard from her students for years. “It’s not fair.”

“No. It’s not fair. Join us or die. That’s not fair, either,” the Selwyn Tree said. “Those are your only choices.”

Sukie-Rex and Pterodactyl-Cody both turned to her.

“Come with us,” Pterodactyl-Cody said, voice a terrifying shriek. “We’ll miss you if you don’t.”

“You know stuff even Grandma doesn’t,” Sukie-Rex somehow roared intelligibly. The Selwyn-Tree nodded.

Mrs. George considered her options as her class looked at her with their bright shining faces.

~

“You were right,” she said to the Selwyn-Tree, as she flapped her wings and landed on the auditorium roof, crushing it and everyone stupid enough to still be inside. “The change didn’t hurt at all.”

She was a dragon now. Well, not really. She was a combination of all she’d been and all her ancestors had been, as well as all her avatar had been in the ancient times, before the cosmos had sent a meteor into their world and left only their consciousnesses to wait millennia for the right channel to open up.

Sukie’s family had been that channel. Sukie herself would, one day, lead them all to claim not only this world, but the others out there they’d seen while waiting to come back to full life. Until then, Sukie-Rex needed a teacher, and Selywn-Tree, the one who gave All Life, needed a general she could rely on.

“Do they need us in the water?” Selwyn-Tree asked, her voice strong, bold, and beautiful.

“No. I flew over and flamed the rigs, our relations in the water will do the rest.” George-Dragon laughed and enjoyed the way it sounded now—not friendly, but loud and dangerous and powerful. She enjoyed the memory of oil rigs being pulled up and dropped onto parts of the coastline, as much as the memory of those rigs pulled under the ocean. She knew Selwyn-Tree could see these images within her own mind as well. It was part of her power as the All Life. She could see all their thoughts if they wanted her to. And George-Dragon wanted her to.

“You enjoyed. That is good. But the pleasure is not yours alone.”

“Oh, I know. I put some of the little ones on the islands. They’re having fun with those trying to escape the mainland.”

Selwyn-Tree looked quite pleased with her initiative. “Good. They should learn to enjoy this. We will be doing it for some time.”

Pliosaur-Crandall joined them. “I can keep my group on the coast and in the water. I know you’re moving on. Where shall we meet you when we’re done?”

“We will go inland,” the Selwyn-Tree said. “I expect we will leave a clear trail, though it may be quite…wide.”

Pliosaur-Crandall honked a laugh. “We’ll find you. Have fun.” He turned back and flopped onto what was left of James Conason Elementary, heading back to the water, as his students trampled what was left of Gulfport and, as George-Dragon looked a little farther and from side to side, Mobile and New Orleans and everything in between.

The Gulf of Mexico was on fire from the thousands of oil rigs now blown up and burning. The oil rigs that had stolen their life’s blood for the weak, pathetic, and horrible humans. Seeing the thousands of those on fire or blowing up was especially rewarding.

“Lead us on the best path to destroy these humans who took our world and ruined it,” Selwyn-Tree said to her.

George-Dragon nodded her head, enjoying how she could see for miles, watching her children stomping on casinos and tossing police cars like they were Hot Wheels toys. Sukie-Rex threw a squad car towards her and George-Dragon batted it with her tail. Mr. George and his lover went flying right to Pterodactyl-Cody, screaming in terror, though the sound was, like them, pathetic and weak. Cody caught their car in his mouth and chomped right through it. The human screams stopped. She really did have the best students.

She did have one worry. “Can nuclear bombs hurt us?”

Selwyn-Tree laughed. “Nothing here can hurt us anymore. We need neither food, nor water, nor sleep. We have taken all the poisons, all the chemicals, all the pollution, and made it a part of us.”

“Good,” George-Dragon said, as part of her class met the incoming National Guard troops. They jumped up and down on the tanks, squashing them flat. She loved seeing them enjoy themselves so. “Then I think we head right to Kansas and Nebraska and play with some things buried there in the ground.”

“A fine plan,” Selwyn-Tree said. “Lead on.”

George-Dragon looked around. “Class, play time is over,” she called, her cry echoing through the air. “It’s time to learn how to blow up nuclear bombs for maximum damage.”

She flew slowly northward as her cheering students followed her, stomping on anything and everything they came across, singing all the while. “We’re all in our places, with bright shining faces, good-bye to you.”

The Banner of the Bent Cross

Peter Clines

“Right this way, sir,” said the ensign. “The commander’s had a slight delay, but if you can just wait with the other gentlemen, he’ll be with you shortly.”

Doctor Ken Kraft had taught in Washington D.C. since 1937 and never set foot in a government building. A wartime invitation from the Department of the Navy had never even crossed his mind. The ensign pushed open the door and waved Kraft inside.

It was a small conference room, and Kraft recognized the two other men waiting. Tucker looked as happy and well-fed as always. Gaunt, bald, and pale, Scarman looked more like a corpse than a tenured professor. He glared at Kraft through Coke-bottle glasses. “Well,” he said, “I guess this isn’t a serious meeting after all.”

“Ken,” said Tucker, waddling over. “Good to see you, son.”

“And you, professor.”

Tucker waved the title away. “You’ve earned the right to be on a first name basis.”

“No he hasn’t,” said Scarman, studying a smear on the window.

Kraft ignored him. “Any idea what this is about?”

Tucker shook his head. “Not a clue, I’m afraid. Not sure why the Navy would need historians.”

The door opened again. The man in the tan uniform was young, broad-shouldered, and looked like he’d stepped right off a recruiting poster. He nodded to each of them. “Professor Scarman, Professor Tucker, Doctor Kraft,” he said. “I’m Commander Finch. Thanks for meeting with me.”

They exchanged handshakes and Finch waved them to seats. “Now, what you’re about to see and hear is top secret and highly classified,” he explained. “This is a matter of the utmost importance to the U.S. Navy and the war effort as a whole. We’ve asked you here because we think you may be able to help us identify a ship.”

“Us?” said Tucker. “How can we help?”

Finch held up a hand for silence. “Five months ago we got our first reports of a new German design. It’s bad business. We’ve given it the designation Raider Zero, and it’s taken us months to learn anything concrete about it. As of today, it’s destroyed every allied ship that’s crossed paths with it. The HMS Keelman was first, back in May, followed two days later by the Ruth Rose. The next one we’re sure of was the HMS Worthing Yates, a destroyer, almost two weeks later. Over the next month and a half it sunk six more ships, five of them ours.”

“Good Lord,” muttered Scarman.

“On Saturday it attacked the USS Williams, off the coast of Tripoli. The ship managed to escape, but the crew had to scuttle her. Most of our information came from the forty-seven men who survived.”

“My God,” muttered Kraft.

“It’s barely a hundred feet from bow to stern. Very maneuverable, almost impossible to hit. One of the officers of the Williams clocked it at over thirty knots.”

“That’s...that’s very fast, isn’t it?” said Tucker.

“Damned fast,” said Finch. “It looks to have been refitted from an earlier design and carries a single heavy cannon. No report of torpedoes. Then there are the parts that are most disturbing... the reason you’re here”

Finch took a file folder from his attaché case and set three pictures down on the table. The historians leaned forward. It took a few moments for the charcoal shapes to resolve into blurred images.

“By all appearances, gentlemen, Raider Zero is wind-powered. It has a single sail. And if you look here—” He ran his finger along the grainy image of the hull.

Scarman peered over his glasses. “Are those oars?”

“They are. We count twenty-five per side, assuming it’s symmetric.”

Tucker coughed. “It’s a galley?”

“Can’t be,” said Scarman, shaking his head.

“Too short for a penteconter,” mused Kraft, bending over the photos.

“Look how tall the prow is,” said Tucker. “It has to be.”

“Gentleman,” said Finch, “what can you tell me?”

The three scholars glanced at each other. “It’s a Greek galley,” said Tucker. “From the size, the arrangement of oars, I’d have to say it’s from the seventh or eighth century BC.”

“Probably earlier,” said Kraft. “There’s a deck but no ram. You’re sure these are genuine, Commander?”

Finch nodded. “The photographer is one of the survivors from the Williams. He’s sworn by them.”

Tucker shook his head. “Why would a galley be destroying warships?”

“Forget why,” said Scarman. “How?”

“The Naval historians have been at it all weekend,” said Finch. “Your names came up a few times. We’re hoping you might have some ideas why the Krauts would’ve recreated this design of ship, maybe even how it’s doing all this.”

“Some kind of propaganda?” mused Scarman. He pointed at the blurry swastika flying above the sail.

Tucker scoffed. “Why would the Nazis make a Greek ship for propaganda purposes?”

“Are we sure they built it?” asked Kraft.

Finch raised his chin to look at the young scholar. “Why do you ask?”

Kraft tapped the picture. “If this is a reconstruction, it’s a complete one. The sails, the rigging, the shape of the oars, everything we can see. Even elements that have been drastically improved on over the past two thousand years are still authentic.”

Scarman shook his head. “So you’re saying the Nazis have put an antique to work.”

“More than an antique,” said Tucker. “An actual Greek galley would be an artifact. A relic.”

“And pardon my French, gentleman,” Finch said, “but I don’t think an antique would be kicking the ass of every ship in the Mediterranean.”

“Depends on the antique,” said Kraft.

The weight of their stares didn’t faze him. “I beg your pardon,” said Finch.

Kraft looked at him. “Where was the ship first seen, Commander?”

“Assuming our reports are correct, a few miles off the coast of Greece, in the Eastern Mediterranean.”

Kraft nodded. “Not too far from Corinth, then.”

“Do you know something, Dr. Kraft?”

He stared at the photo. “I think I know what it might be.”

Tucker and Scarman glanced at each other. Scarman rolled his eyes. “You can’t be serious.”

“The lad’s right,” said Tucker. “It fits. It’s impossible, but it fits.”

“It’s nonsense,” said Scarman.

“Professors, please,” said Finch. “Any information you have could be of vital importance.”

Tucker straightened up, grasped his lapels, and took a deep breath. “In Greek mythology, Jason was a prince of Iolcus, in Thessaly. His half-uncle, Pelias, gave him the near-impossible task of retrieving the Golden Fleece.”

“Nonsense,” repeated Scarman.

Finch blinked. “Wait a minute,” he said, “what are you talking about?”

“Please listen, Commander,” said Kraft. “You wanted our opinions.”

Tucker nodded. “Jason required the most powerful ship ever built at the time. It was designed for him by the goddess Athena, and built by the master shipwright Argus. They named it the Argo, and Jason’s crew came to be called the Argonauts.”

Finch drummed his fingers on the table, then began to collect his photos. “I had been led to believe, gentlemen, that you would take this matter seriously. Thank you for your—”

“When Jason and the witch Medea were exiled after returning home with the Fleece,” said Kraft, “the Argo was dry-docked, offered up to the sea god Poseidon and stored somewhere near the isthmus of Corinth.”

“Men are dying out there at sea and you’re offering fairy tales?!”

“Commander, please, believe me,” said Kraft. “I think we’re as amazed by this as you, a mythological ship appearing in the modern world. But there have been rumors in some of our circles for years now,” said Kraft, “about the Ahnenerbe and the Thule Society in Germany.”

Finch frowned. “It’s not a good thing for a civilian to know those names.”

“They’re not exactly secret, commander,” said Tucker.

“Both groups mostly spout nonsense,” said the young scholar.

“That sounds familiar,” muttered Scarman.

“—but they did sponsor numerous expeditions and it’s not impossible they found the Argo.”

Finch looked at the grainy photograph in his hand. “If this was true,” he said, “if you weren’t talking nonsense... what would it mean?”

“If that is the Argo,” said Tucker, “nothing in your arsenal can beat it. You’d have better luck trying to sink Africa.”

“It has to have some weakness. Silver bullets or something.”

Kraft shook his head. “The stories tell us the Argo sailed under the protection of the gods. It ignored entire navies, hurricanes—”

“Amateur,” snorted Scarman. “If you knew your classics, you’d know there’s one time that Jason steered the ship away from a threat—when Thetis helped him to avoid the Sisters.”

“Who were they?” asked Finch.

“Not who,” said Kraft. “What. Two giant monsters. Scylla and Charybdis. Cursed sea-nymphs. They were immortals, so the gods’ protection didn’t help against them.”

“And most rational scholars,” said Scarman, “agree they were exaggerated stories of a cliff and a small whirlpool near the Strait of Messina.”

“Because they couldn’t believe anything else,” said Kraft. “But if the Argo is real, maybe they are too.”

The gaunt professor glared at him. “Can you keep quiet before you drag this meeting further into the funny papers?”

Finch set the photo down and stared at it for a few more moments. “If,” he said, “I believed you... what would you recommend? I’m not saying I do, but I’m short on options.”

Scarman rolled his eyes. Kraft and Tucker exchanged a glance.

“Well,” said Kraft, “If they were real I’d recommend finding them and setting them loose on the ship like... guard dogs or something.”

“And if the U.S. Navy wanted to find a pair of sea monsters to use as guard dogs,” asked Finch “how would one go about doing that?”

Tucker cleared his throat. “There are a few men on the fringes of our field of study,” he said. “Much more active historians, so to speak. Forrestal would be perfect for this.”

“He’s dead,” said Scarman. “Three years ago in South America. Didn’t you hear?”

“What about the Roman?” asked Kraft.

They passed around an unsure glance.

“Who’s the Roman?” Finch asked. “An Italian?”

“It’s just a nickname he got somehow,” said Tucker. “He’s not so much a historian as—”

“He’s a mercenary,” said Scarman.“His only loyalty is to his wallet.”

Kraft chuckled. “He’s not even loyal to that. The man just does what he wants, when he wants. But he knows southern Europe better than I know my own office.”

Tucker nodded. “Every site, every dig, even ones that aren’t on record yet. If it’s from the ancient world, he knows where it is. If anyone can put us on the right path, it’s him.”

Commander Finch nodded. “Very well, then. How do we contact him?”

~

Dar Carter, the Roman, slumped back in his chair. On his feet he would’ve been as tall as Commander Finch, but broader in the shoulders and older. He had a week’s worth of whiskers and his ragged hair covered his ears. He wore an undershirt, bracers, and a pair of rumpled wool slacks. As they talked, he took another hit off his scotch and wiped his mouth on his bare arm. “So the Argo’s real, eh?”

“It looks like it,” said Kraft. He and Finch stood before the chair, presenting their offer. His eyes kept drifting to a case on the wall displaying a fine collection of ancient helmets. The Roman’s huge Boston apartment overlooked the Commons and was filled with artifacts that most museums would’ve paid well to have in their collections.

Carter took another drink. “And you want to wake up the Sisters to deal with it for you.”

Finch nodded. “Yes.”

“And then?”

“Then?”

“You wake up the giant monsters, set them loose, and they crush the Argo for you. Crush it and eat everyone on board alive, if the legends are true. And then what? You ask them nicely to go back to their lair?”

“First things first,” said Finch. “Do you think you could find them?”

The Roman stared long and hard at the commander and nodded. “I can find them,” he said. “If they’re real. Striking a deal with them is up to you.”

The officer bit back his frustration. “And how would we do that?”

Carter looked past him to Kraft. “You know the stories, doctor,” he said. “You should have an idea what you can offer them.”

Kraft looked away from the helmets. “You already know,” he said, “don’t you? They’re real and you already know where they are.”

Finch furrowed his brow. “What makes you say that?”

Kraft studied the mercenary’s face. “He said we’d have to wake them up. Twice. Not find them.”

Carter grinned and swallowed another inch of scotch.

“You’ve known these things were real?” asked the officer. “For how long?”

The Roman stared at the hat under Finch’s arm. “Many years ago,” he said, “I found a map. It led me to a cave that went miles down into the Earth. Fool that I am, I wanted to see what was at the bottom.” His eyes flicked back to the officer’s. “The devil you know versus the demons you don’t, commander. You sure you want to do this?”

Finch straightened up. “Mr. Carter, I don’t know the devil or the demons. I’m just doing what I need to do to save American lives.” He held out his hand. “Do we have a deal?”

“You have a deal with me,” said Carter, “but I’m not the one you need to worry about.” He finished off the scotch and hurled the glass into the fireplace.

~

Three days later Kraft found himself on sabbatical from the university and employed by the OSS. He and Carter flew from New York to London. From London they crossed the Channel into France on an old freighter called the Charlotte Knight.

Their chaperones were ten Marines, all of them squeezed into modest civilian clothes and led by a gruff sergeant named Thater. They carried folded German rifles hidden in carpet bags and knives stowed in boots. Thater took every chance to remind Carter and Kraft they were untrained civilians who read too many books. Carter usually laughed at him, and something about that laugh always shut the sergeant up for half an hour or so.

For three weeks they traveled by truck, train, and foot across Europe. First Italy, Yugoslavia, Albania, and then into Greece. Carter did most of the talking when it was needed. He had a solid grasp of every language they encountered. He taught them all phrases in specific dialects. Thater had a small bundle of forged paperwork that helped back up most of the claims, and the Roman always had a few francs, lira, or Deutschmarks handy to ease the flow of conversation.

In a coastal town named Parga they were joined by a woman Thater called Joy, a local contact. She wore trousers and a heavy fisherman’s sweater that hid her figure, but not the burn above her left eye. They spent the last of the Greek money on two old fishing boats and a half-dozen wooden barrels. The leathernecks wrapped their rifles and grenades in Mackintoshes and packed them away. Thater watched his men load the barrels onto the two boats. “We’re here,” he said, “and we’ve got the supplies. Now what?”

“A little group of islands called Paxos,” said Carter. He pointed out to sea. “About eleven miles out. There’s a good demand for olive oil on the black market these days, and the main island is mostly olive groves. Anyone finds us out on the water, we’re just a group of farmers and fisherman who couldn’t find enough buyers.”

Thater tapped the sidearm under his patched coat. “Should we be expecting anyone to find us?”

“There’s bound to be a boat or two on patrol,” said Carter with a shrug. “Word is there’s a platoon of Nazis stationed on the island, but they’re all in Gaios or Lakka, the two big towns. We shouldn’t even see them.”

The sergeant nodded. “The moon’ll be up at sundown. It should set around twenty-three hundred. That’s when we’ll head out.”

“Paxos,” repeated Kraft, staring out to sea. “Legends say it was formed when Poseidon struck Corfu with his trident, to create a place of peace and quiet. He left his wife there.”

The Roman smirked. “I guess that’s half-right, eh?”

~

The trip across the waves took just over two hours. The one ship they saw ignored them. Once the shadows of Paxos filled the horizon, they killed the sputtering engines and the Marines took to the oars. Carter guided them around to the far side of the island. In the starlight, the pale cliffs loomed over them. “I see a cave,” hissed Pearson, one of the Marines in the other boat.

“So do I,” said Joy.

Carter shook his head. “It’s too close. I think the one we want is a mile up the coast.”

“You think?” echoed Kraft.

“It’s been a few years. Don’t worry.”

They rowed along with the Roman crouched in the front of his boat. “There,” he said half an hour later and pointed at a spot of darkness against the white rocks.

Thater peered through binoculars. “You sure? Looks just like all the others.”

“Pretty sure.”

They moved in until the cliffs blocked out the stars. On each boat, the barrels were cracked open and olive-scented rifles were handed out. The darkness swallowed them, and the splash of oars echoed off the rocks. Flashlights clicked on and strands of illumination stretched into the cave.

“We should be able to row in for a hundred yards or so,” said Carter. “The boats’ll be hidden there.”

The circles of light skipped across the water and reflected onto the walls. “Back,” said Kraft. Four flashlights and six rifles swung. The boats rocked and came to a halt.

A column stood half buried in the rocky wall. It had been shaped and polished. The lights panned along as the rough surfaces gave way to finished stone.

Thater gave a signal and the rowers pulled again, pushing them deeper onward. The tunnel became more regular, a careful channel in the rock. They came to an end, a dock which led to a small landing and a massive arch.

Kraft shone a flashlight across the archway, revealing carved letters and figures. He shone the beam past the opening and it vanished off into darkness down an endless staircase. “This is more than just a cave.”

Thater looked at the staircase. “How far down we going?”

“Far enough.” The Roman paused. “Doctor, if I could have a word. You too, Sergeant.”

“Time’s wasting,” said Thater. “What is it?”

Carter stared at the arch. “I just need to ask. Are you sure about this?”

“We have our orders,” said Thater. “That’s all there is to it. We’re doing this with or without you and Doctor Kraft.”

~

They marched down the steps for almost four hours. Thater called a break, and his men ate while switching out the batteries in their flashlights. The walls were covered with elaborate carvings and glyphs, and Kraft had fallen behind three times when he stopped to make sketches or rubbings in his notebook. He came stumbling down the stairwell behind them. “This is amazing,” he said to Carter. “How’s it gone undiscovered for so long?”

“Who says it has?” Carter let his eyes roam around the tunnel. “I think people find this place all the time. And then they explore, see what’s at the bottom of these stairs, and spend the rest of their lives trying to forget.”

“You didn’t.”

The Roman smirked. “I’ve seen a lot of things people can’t believe. You get used to it.”

“Sun’s coming up soon,” said Thater. “How much further we got?”

It took them another three hours to reach the bottom of the stairs and the doors. Each was twice as tall as a man, bound in iron, and marked with a golden trident.A beam of white wood stretched across them, its ends braced in a set of thick brackets.

“Looks like writing over here, Sarge,” said a burly man named Weaver.

Kraft shuffled over. “It’s a warning,” he said. “It says to turn back and not disturb those who sleep within.”

“Works for me,” muttered Pearson.

Thater gestured a Marine to the other end and they lifted the beam free. Four men put their shoulders to the iron doors while the others covered them. There was a hiss of stale air and a smell of brine as the doors parted and swung open. The Marines moved through in pairs, fanning out to either side with their weapons ready.

The doors opened onto a ledge, a platform at the top of a grand staircase. Kraft saw similarities to the design of the Parthenon, and also some links to Knossos. And then he raised his head and looked out at the chamber.

The northern wall was yellowed marble, shot through with brown and purple threads. The southern wall, almost half a mile across from it, was stark white. The far end of the chamber vanished in the distance.

“It’s like the Grand Canyon with a roof,” muttered Thater.

He tripped on a loose stone but couldn’t take his eyes off the distant ceiling. Kraft tried to focus, tried to see details, but there was just too much. He could see the pillars, arches, and vaults, and on some level he knew this was no natural cave, but he couldn’t wrap his mind around it. His eye followed the endless expanse of wall around, like a sailor studying the horizon. Countless oil lamps flickered on endless reliefs. And then he saw her.

“Carter!” he hissed, and his finger stabbed at the air.

A fallen colossus rested almost a mile away, a chalky sculpture of a beautiful woman. It would’ve reached the roof had it been standing. The figure was almost buried in centuries of accumulated debris, creepers, and vines.

Then one of the long tendrils flexed and curled, a sleeper’s twitch. The Marines brought up their weapons.

“Easy,” said Kraft. “She’s asleep. She can’t wake up until we release her.”

“How do you know?” asked Thater.

Kraft glanced at him. “I read a book.”

Thater took in a breath to respond and the northern wall of the impossible cavern shifted. A dozen firearms swung away from Scylla to point at the other side of the chamber. It trembled, moved a few feet, and then settled.

The endless flesh of Charybdis was yellow and veined like an over-swollen leech. Her bloated body dwarfed whales and dinosaurs, even buildings. She had no features except her mouth, a gigantic maw over a hundred yards across with teeth like plane wings and a dozen tentacles the size of trees instead of lips.

“Sweet Jesus,” whispered Weaver.

Scylla was easier to look at. Kraft saw her face, almost peaceful, and was struck by the graceful lines of her cheek and jaw. But as the doctor followed the curve of her neck down to her bare shoulders, he saw the flesh darken. Her body split off into too many limbs, and each one vanished into the tangle around her. It made his eyes ache.

Carter marched down the stairs and off across the chamber. Kraft and Thater followed, most of the Marines behind them. Kraft glanced back and saw one or two seem to stumble under the weight of history they hadn’t been prepared for. The demolitions expert, Oetker, still stood on the platform. Joy went back for him and guided him after the others.

It took fifteen minutes to reach Scylla. She was a hill in the cavernous room. “Looks like a pile of giant octopuses,” said the sergeant, keeping his rifle trained on the closest tentacle.

“There should be restraints,” said Carter. “Shackles. Circle her.”

Kraft found the first set of chains by looking at the floor around the monster rather than gazing at her body. The huge links, like a ship’s anchor chain, wrapped up and over her twisted mass and stretched down to vanish into a hole next to a long slot. “It’s an early tumbler lock,” he said. “Probably predates most of the known Iraqi ones.”

“You men keep looking,” Carter told the Marines. “There should be more of these.”

The Marines found six locks around Scylla. Another four ran along the wall of flesh that was Charybdis, the chains reaching up so high they faded from sight. Kraft mapped them out in his sketchbook, then selected two near Scylla. After orders from Thater, and some prodding from Joy, Oetker began packing wads of plastic explosive and blasting caps into the locks. He looked glad to focus on something else.

It took two hours to pack a brick and a half of putty into each lock. Carter was worried it wouldn’t do the job, but Thater and Oetker both assured him it would be more than enough. Wires were run, ends stripped, and the Marines pulled back toward the staircase.

“We good to go?” barked Thater.

Kraft watched as Oetker twisted one of the wires around a contact. “Second to last, sarge,” said the Marine. “We can blow it in two minutes.”

“Good man.”

“Two locks on one detonator, all the others on the second?” asked Kraft.

Oetker pointed at another detonator. It looked like a large silver flask. “Just like you said, sir.”

Carter guided Kraft and Thater a few steps away. “Last chance to back out, gentleman,” he said.

Thater shook his head. “I told you, Mr. Carter, we have our orders.”

The Roman looked up at the monster. “Then let’s make a deal.”

The sergeant followed his gaze. “You think it’ll even listen to you?”

“She will listen,” said Kraft, “because we’re offering her two things she wants.”

“And what’s that?”

“Freedom,” said Carter, “and payback. The same goddess who blessed the Argo cursed Scylla and her sister.”

Thater glanced at the distant staircase. “And our exit?”

“Unlikely,” said Carter. “Just make sure your men know to move when I give the signal.”

“You can count on that.”

“Sarge,” said Pearson, jerking a thumb back at Oetker, “Tommy’s ready to go.”

They walked back and crouched with the Marines. Two of them made a wall in front of Joy. Oetker fitted the twist-handle into the detonator. Carter, Kraft, and Thater exchanged a last set of looks.

“Never wanted to get old, anyway,” muttered Thater. He slapped the demolitions expert twice on the shoulder. Oetker twisted the first plunger.

The explosion shook the chamber. Marines and civilians were knocked to the floor. Three links of the chain shattered and the lock turned to dust.

The enormous eyes snapped open.

Scylla reared up twenty, fifty, almost a hundred feet tall, standing on a forest of limbs. Tentacles lashed out from her shoulders, each one tipped with a nest of teeth and a darting tongue. Her roar echoed in the gigantic chamber. Kraft stumbled back to his feet and saw the flesh of her torso split to form another howling mouth lined with fangs. And then he saw another mouth. And another. And another. And...

“HUNGRY.”

“God in heaven,” said Joy. “It talks?”

The sting of urine reached Kraft’s nose. “It speaks English,” he said. “How?”

“She’s not speaking English,” said Carter. “Her words are pure fear. Everyone understands that.”

Scylla turned her gaze on them, her brilliant green pupils the size of truck tires. “SO VERY HUNGRY.”

A tree trunk of dark flesh raced down. The maw on the end spread wide and swallowed a Marine whole. They didn’t even have their weapons up before a second tendril lashed out to devour Oetker and his detonator in two snapping bites. A third thrust down toward Kraft and Thater tackled him out of the way.

A tentacle rushed across the ground towards Carter. He didn’t budge. “The Argo!”

The pillar of muscle paused less than a yard from him. The mouth on the end gnashed its teeth and grew still. “ARGO?”

“You know it,” he yelled, his voice small in the vast chamber. “It sails again, in the seas above us.”

Scylla was surrounding them, her tentacles creeping around, their mouths showing long fangs and tusks. “HERA’S GALLEY,” boomed the monster. Her voice raised clouds of dust.

Thater pulled Kraft back to his feet, and the professor stepped forward. “We offer a deal,” he shouted. His voice squeaked and he swallowed twice. “Let us live, and we will set you free to hunt the Argo and seek vengeance.”

The monster glared upward. “REVENGE,” bellowed Scylla. “REVENGE ON HERA!” The tendrils thrashed. Dozens of mouths snapped at the air. One lunged at Pearson. The man emptied half his magazine into it before vanishing down the long throat.

“Stop!” Kraft pointed at the broken chain. “Attack us again and we destroy the tunnel with the same fire that broke the lock. No one will ever find you. Ever.”

“SO HUNGRY.”

“Then take the crew of the Argo,” yelled Kraft, “and their allies.”

“D’you have it?” the Roman asked Thater.

The sergeant twisted his lips and nodded. He swung his satchel around, dug through some spare shirts and socks, and pulled out a red bundle. Carter helped him spread it open on the floor.

“This is the new banner of the Argo,” shouted Kraft, pointing at the Nazi flag. “The colors of their king. If we set you and your sister free, you can feed on anyone who sails under their flag.”

The huge eyes blinked at the swastika. “AND?”

“Destroy the Argo and the followers of the bent cross,” said Carter. “That is the price of your freedom.”

Scylla stared down at the Roman. Her gaze panned across the other men. Kraft’s heart fought to get out of his ribcage as she gazed at him.

Then her eyes swung to the endless bulk of her sister. Her tentacles floated and twisted like restless snakes. Her endless mouths stretched their jaws and gnashed their teeth.

“AGREED.”

Carter didn’t take his eyes off Scylla. He gestured at Thater and Kraft confirmed it with a nod. The sergeant looked over and saw Joy flanked by a trio of Marines. She’d scooped up the second detonator, its handle already in place. They exchanged a nod and she twisted the handle.

The chains around Scylla whipped free as the locks exploded. She roared in triumph. A heartbeat later a quartet of explosions went off along the wall that was Charybdis. An avalanche of links tumbled down along the monster’s side.

Charybdis awoke. The endless body stretched and rippled in a tidal wave of flesh. The monster let out a blast of sound that hit like artillery. It knocked the men to the floor and tore at their senses. Scylla responded. The sisters’ conversation battered at the mortals below. Kraft’s ears felt wet. He looked over and saw two Marines with blood flowing from their ears. One of them swayed on his knees.

Carter dragged the doctor to his feet. “Move,” he shouted. His voice had an echo to it, and Kraft wondered if the monster’s roar had wrecked his eardrums. “Move now!”

The Roman shoved him and Kraft stumbled into a run. Weaver was right behind him, with Joy and another Marine. He glanced back and saw Thater and Carter charging after them. Then he saw where they were running. His feet faltered.

“Don’t stop,” shouted Carter. He’d passed the Marines and grabbed Kraft before the doctor could come to a stop. “Come on!”

Scylla ignored their approach, staring at her sister. Charybdis rolled over and a thousand flagstones turned to powder. She reared up and her teeth struck the cavern’s ceiling.

A piece of stone the size of a Cadillac plunged to the floor, followed by dozens more. Dust filled the air. Charybdis struck again and a landside of rubble tumbled out of the ceiling. A Marine vanished beneath a slab that smashed into the floor.

Water poured into the cavern. Kraft couldn’t guess how much. Thousands of deafening gallons. Tens of thousands. It was Niagara Falls inside the Grand Canyon.

Carter leaped at one of Scylla’s tentacles, and sank his fingers into the pillar of dark flesh. Kraft wrapped his arms and legs around another one, squeezing it like a child holding their father’s leg. Weaver, Joy, Thater—each of them seized one of the thick tendrils.

The water was waist-high and rising. Charybdis raised her jaws again, pushing through the waterfall, and the rest of the ceiling opened up to the Mediterranean. The water roared and the air pressure savaged Kraft’s ears.

Then he was underwater.

Scylla’s tentacles thrashed at the sea, pushing her up and out. Kraft caught a glimpse of Joy and then another one of a Marine he couldn’t recognize in the whirling bubbles and currents. He looked down and saw a black abyss below them, a bottomless hole.

Then the edges of the hole shifted and the massive jaws came together. A shockwave rushed up at them. A Marine lost his grip and spun away into the dim sea.

Charybdis opened her mouth again and Kraft could feel the currents pulling at him. His finger slipped on the tentacle and he tried to hook his fingers into it the way Carter had. He fought with what little air was left in his lungs.

Joy rushed past him, dragged down by the currents. Her silver scream bubbled up and away from her mouth. A shaft of light revealed Thater reaching out, losing his grip, and tumbling after her. One of Scylla’s tentacles snapped at him and clouds filled the water. The top half of the sergeant sank down after Joy. Kraft saw her outlined against one of the giant teeth and then she was gone, plunging into the depths of Charybdis. Thater’s torso joined her a moment later.

Then a wave smashed into the side of Kraft’s head and sunlight flooded his eyes. He let go of the tentacle out of shock and Scylla flicked him away, out of spite or indifference. He skipped on the surface twice, like a stone on a pond, and crashed back into the water. The sea swallowed him up, but he clawed his way back up into the light, kicking his legs and telling himself it was just like the faculty pool.

Something grabbed his shoulder. He flailed at it and almost drowned himself before he recognized Carter. The Roman steadied them both in the water and pointed.

Scylla pushed through the waves. Only her shoulders broke the surface, but the sea bubbled with movement all around her. Off to her side—Kraft knew it had to be a half mile or so, but her sheer size played hell with his sense of perspective—something long and broad breached like a massive whale and then sank back beneath the surface.

The monsters headed away from land, deeper into the Mediterranean Sea. Kraft watched them go. Even close to a mile away he could sense their excitement. It hung in the air.

“Dear God,” said Kraft, spitting out a mouthful of saltwater, “what have we done?”

“Too late for regrets now,” said Carter. He looked around, spotted land, and took a few long strokes. “Let’s just hope we can make it to shore.”

“And then what?”

Carter turned and looked after the monsters. “And then we find out if they’ll keep their word.”

~

0430 07 23 43 BRIT NAV INT REPORTS SHIP DESIGNATE RAIDER X DESTROYED BY COLLISION W UNKN CREATURE(S) SSW OF MALTA. ALL HANDS LOST.

~

MORNING BRIEF for JULY 29th, 1943: German destroyer Erik Melichor has been lost after a freak whirlpool formed beneath it. No survivors reported at this time. Approximate coordinates as follows...

~

(Translated from German) – U-33 has gone missing, last known location, 08/08/43, off the coast of Algiers. Local fishermen report seeing an underwater explosion, but also report several giant squid in the area—not considered reliable accounts. Search will continue...

~

“...repeat, mayday, mayday, this is the U.S.S. Sherdeman, under attack by an unknown sea creature. The ship is taking on water. Our escort, the U.S.S. Hughes, has been destroyed. Any ship in the area please respond, we have men in the water. Repeat, mayday, this is the U.S.S. Sherdeman, we are under attack by an unknown sea creature...”

Fall of Babylon

James Maxey

And the woman was arrayed in purple and scarlet color, decked with gold and precious stones and pearls, having a golden cup in her hand full of abominations and filthiness of her fornication. Upon her forehead was a name written a mystery: Babylon the Great, the mother of harlots and abominations of the Earth.

Revelations 17:4-5

It’s raining blood.

I’m on my belly atop the Statue of Liberty, jammed against one of the wedges of brass that radiate from the crown, hoping the wind doesn’t to blow me from my perch before I take my shot.

The Lamb is marching straight toward me, balanced on the heaving Atlantic like its solid and calm. The Lamb would look at home in a medieval painting of Hell. He’s part-sheep, part-human, a cloven-hoofed devil covered in thick wool. Of course, if this were a devil, you’d expect him to be red, or maybe black, not pure white, glowing bright as dawn through the blood rain. Seven ram horns curl atop his head like a crown, with lightning crackling between the tips. The Lamb’s been gutted; I’m told he was sacrificed earlier in the day, but that doesn’t seem to have slowed him. His purple entrails snake from his chest cavity like tentacles in a hentai movie.

Did I mention he’s big? It’s hard to pin down his size while he’s out on the water, but I can already tell he’s a hell of a lot taller than Lady Liberty.

Despite the howl of the wind, I hear Baby and that crazy preacher going at each other in the room below. I think, between the two of us, she’s got the tougher job.

All I have to do is shoot a judgmental god in the face. My odds of hitting the Lamb right between eyes are improved by the fact the thing has seven of them. She definitely didn’t mention they’d be full of fire.

The thing’s almost in range. I wipe blood from my eyes, taking slow, steady breaths as I rest my finger on the trigger of the crossbow.

What a fucked up day.

The day started bad the second I crossed onto Long Island and got caught in snarled traffic. I made it to the rehab center three hours late, with the fuel gauge on my Olds Cutlass hovering on E.

People who know I’m related to Baby are surprised I drive such a wreck. My sister’s worth millions. It seems like a little of that money might have flowed my way. Alas, Baby and I aren’t close. It’s been three years since we last saw each other. She was supposed to come to Christmas at our stepmother’s place last year. She even texted me the day before confirming the plan but never showed up. It wasn’t until New Years that she texted again, saying she’d come down with the flu. I knew it wasn’t true. I follow her adventures in the tabloids like everyone else. Baby spent Christmas in custody for underage drinking and public nudity, her fifth arrest.

She wiggled out of jail by checking in to a rehab center in the Hamptons. I knew I’d found the right place from the crowd of paparazzi in front of the gates. They were snapping shots of a bearded man waving a placard. The front read, “For all the nations have drunk the maddening wine of her adulteries,” which struck me as curiously poetic. Then he turned, and the other side said, “GOD HATES WHORES!”

Poor Baby. I can’t imagine a nut like Jude Barnes stalking me 24/7.

The guard at the gate was skeptical of my identity at first, but I had the letter from Baby asking me to pick her up. Why she’d reached out to me was a mystery. Maybe rehab really had changed her.

The Coast Wellness Center looked more like a country club than a hospital. The valet looked mortified when I pulled up, but was saved from getting behind the wheel when Baby burst through the front door and bolted toward the station wagon.

She was dressed in jeans and a neon purple long-sleeved T-shirt, skin tight, but still conservative for her. Her hair was dark brown. I thought she’d let it go back to her natural color, but when she reached the car I realized it was a wig. Large sunglasses hid her eyes.

Her expression was unreadable as she leaned into my open window and said, “You’re late, bro.”

“Traffic was a bitch.”

“You brought the bag I shipped to you?”

“In the back seat,” I said, getting out of the car and spreading my arms. “How ‘bout a hug? It’s been a long time.”

She nudged against me, lightly touched my back with her palms, then stepped away before my arms closed around her. “Let’s go. I’ll scream if I’m here another minute.”

“It can’t be that bad. This place looks pretty swank.”

“It’s still a prison. You can’t even pee without people watching you.” She slid into back seat of the station wagon. “I can’t believe you’re still driving this heap.”

“I can’t afford a new car.”

“I could have helped out if you’d asked.”

I started to say that, if she’d bothered to keep in touch, she might have known I was still driving our grandfather’s old car. I held my tongue.

She zipped open her duffel bag. “At least there’s room to change in this boat.”

I got behind the wheel. “What’s wrong with what you have on?”

“Are you kidding?” she asked. “Now that I’m not kissing up to my jailers, I can stop dressing like a nun. I’ve a reputation to maintain.”

I couldn’t think of a delicate way to tell her that her reputation wasn’t exactly a positive one.

Perhaps to head off what I was about to say, she said, “Just drive.”

So I drove. Out of the gate, right into the paparazzi. I was half-blinded by the flashing cameras.

“Awesome,” she said. “I was worried the world had forgotten me.”

I glanced into the rear view mirror and practically choked. Baby was stripped down to her bra and panties, taking a swig from a huge bottle of Kahlua.

“Where the hell did you get that?”

“From the bag, duh.”

“You’ll get us both arrested!”

“Don’t get your panties in a wad. Nobody gives a—”

Before she could finish her sentence, the rear driver’s side window shattered. Baby shrieked as a brick landed in her lap. The Bible-thumper, Jude Barnes, thrust his head through the window and shouted, “Babylon! Mother of whores! Only the blood of the lamb can cleanse the filth of your fornication!”

He thrust a yellow Solo cup through the window. Baby’s torso was suddenly coated in foul-smelling, brown-red goop.

“Son of a bitch!” she shouted.

I leapt from the car, not bothering to put it in park, and grabbed the lunatic by the collar. He punched me in the chest. I drove my fist into his nose and felt something pop, then pushed him away. I spun around to find the photographers scrambling out of the way of the driverless car, still rolling. I jumped into the driver’s seat just as the rear passenger door opened and Baby jumped out, running down the sidewalk in nothing but her underwear, holding the Kahlua tucked against her like a football. The paparazzi gave chase. I blew the horn, threw the car into neutral, and stomped the accelerator. The growl of the engine caused the vultures to look back toward me. I threw the car into drive as they scattered.

As the car lurched forward, one of them jumped on the hood and pressed his business card up against the window.

“Andrew Carrick, Weekly World Magazine!” he shouted. “We’ll pay top dollar for info on Baby. Top dollar!”

“Get off my car!” I shouted, cutting the wheel hard to the right, lurching us up over the curb onto the sidewalk. The sudden jolt knocked him free and he slid from my hood and disappeared from view on the passenger side. There was a sickening jolt a second later. I felt suddenly sick, worried I’d run him over.

Then, I had to jerk the wheel the other direction and get back onto the road since I was now about to run my sister over.

“Get in!” I shouted, as I pulled up next to her.

She dove inside.

“Fucking maniac!” she screamed, grabbing the purple shirt she’d discarded and wiping the blood off her breasts. I fixed my eyes on the road as she tore off her bloody bra. “Drive! Drive! Drive!”

I gunned the engine, tires squealing as we went around the corner at breakneck speed. A motorcycle with two riders pulled up beside us. One guy was driving, while the other a camera in hand, snapping photos of my topless sister.

“Fuck this,” I growled, jerking the wheel to the left, cutting them off. The bike veered to avoid me and disappeared into a ditch on the other side of the road.

Baby threw her bloodied shirt out the window, then stretched out on the seat, face down, her body trembling. I thought she was crying, until I realized she was laughing.

“Why on earth is this funny?” I demanded, jerking the wheel to take another corner.

“Oh hell,” she gasped. “Why isn’t it?”

In the rearview, another motorcycle was now on our tail. I did a double take as I realized it was that Carrick dude, his face all bloodied. I was both relieve I hadn’t killed him, and slightly disappointed I hadn’t disabled him. I pushed the station wagon to its top speed, a bone-rattling sixty miles an hour. Carrick was able to easily pull alongside and shout, “Top dollar!”

Then, he suddenly slowed, skidding to a stop and craning his neck toward the sky.

I looked up. My jaw dropped. I pulled the car to the curb.

Baby stuck her head out the window and took a long swig from the bottle.

“Shit,” she said. “It’s the Apocalypse.”

I got out of the car. The whole sky was red and glistening, like someone had applied fresh red paint to a previously unseen ceiling above us.

“It’s Judgment Day!” came a shout from behind.

I turned and saw Jude, the preacher, running toward us.

The maniac made a bee-line for Baby, screaming, “With violence shall Babylon be thrown down!”

I leapt into his path, putting everything I had into a roundhouse punch. I knocked him flat, but cut my knuckles on his teeth.

Jude writhed on his back, but sounded ecstatic as he babbled, “Fallen, fallen, is Babylon the Great!”

I stared at the sky, listening to sirens from every direction. Were they coming for Baby, or was something bigger going on? Another terrorist attack? Nuclear war? What causes a sky to look like blood? I glanced back at that reporter and was relieve to see he thought the sky was more interesting than my sister, at least for the moment.

“You’re hurt,” Baby said, looking at my hand.

“Why the hell don’t you hire a bodyguard?”

“A bodyguard would have searched my bag before he brought it to me,” she said. “The agencies are legally liable if they sit back and watch me drink or shoplift or whatever.”

“What the hell happened to you?” I shook my head, no longer able to suppress my feelings. “I try not to believe half the stuff I read, but…”

“Are you ashamed of me? You used to be proud.”

Which is true. We had a rough childhood. Our mother was killed in a wreck when we were young. Dad remarried, but when he passed away, we bounced back and forth between our stepmother and our grandfather. Back then, I was the wild child with a chip on my shoulder, always in trouble. Baby was the good girl, the straight-A student and musical prodigy, a bookish nerd whose quiet accomplishments were overshadowed by my dumb antics.

When I was 18 I joined the navy, just as Baby got her first taste of fame. Only 14, she’d recorded a video of her singing “Like a Virgin,” doing her own choreography and editing six different music tracks on her PowerBook. The video got a couple of hits on YouTube, until Warner Brothers threatened to sue her for copyright infringement. The story of the giant corporation unleashing its lawyers on a teenage girl made the Drudge Report. Within a week, twenty million people had watched Baby’s performance.

Then Baby released her own song, “Not a Virgin Anymore.” The lyrics were full of double entendres about a young girl having her innocence stripped away. She’d performed the video with hands ripping off her clothes, leaving her naked by the end of the song, though with carefully placed shadows hiding enough of her to keep the clip from getting yanked from YouTube. A lot of pundits denounced the video, decrying the exploitation of a minor. Only, it was hard to say exactly who was exploiting her, since everything in the video was her creation.

While I was stocking vending machines aboard an aircraft carrier, she hired a lawyer and had herself emancipated, a legal adult at the age of 15. She had her own apartment in LA and a million-dollar record deal. Overnight, the quiet nerd became an out-of-control party girl. The more she misbehaved, the more songs she sold. I’d always hoped her wild girl persona was an act. I figured Baby was cashing in on her fifteen minutes of fame. But…what if it wasn’t an act?

“That’s a long pause,” she said. “Are you pissed at me?”

I crossed my arms. “It hurts that you only reached out because I’m more gullible than a professional bodyguard.”

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

“Is there another way?”

“Probably not,” she admitted. She got out of the car. She was now wearing a red halter-top and a short skirt she’d retrieved from her bag. Her wig was gone, revealing her blonde curls. “I’d say I was sorry, but you wouldn’t think I was sincere.”

“Would you be sincere?”

“Dan, there’s stuff you don’t know about me. Stuff you can’t know. There’s a reason I act like I do. A greater purpose. If I could explain, I would, but…” her voice trailed off. “Let me see your hand.”

I looked down at my bleeding knuckles. “Note to self: Don’t aim at teeth.”

“We should take care of that. Human mouths are rife with bacteria.”

I looked at the sky. “If there’s been another terrorist attack, the emergency rooms are going to be too busy to look at my hand.”

“I can disinfect it,” she said, placing her bag on the hood and fishing out a steel flask. “Vodka should do the trick.”

“You got a whole bar in there?”

“I wish,” she said, pulling out a couple of small rectangular strips. “A Bloody Mary would be exactly the right drink for the apocalypse, but didn’t pack any tomato juice. Fortunately, I do have a first aid kit.” She produced a roll of gauze. “I keep this stuff handy. I fall down a lot.”

I offered her my hand. She dabbed my wounds with gauze doused in vodka. It stung like hell.

As she bandaged me, Jude tried to stand, but fell onto his hands and knees, his legs still rubbery.

“Stay down,” I growled.

“It’s the whore who will fall!” Jude cried, lisping through loose teeth. “Repent! The hour of judgment is at hand!”

“If he were stalking me, I’d drink too,” I said.

“Don’t give him credit for my being a lush,” she said. “I started drinking before I even made that first video. I was just good at hiding it.”

“What’s his problem with you?”

She shook her head. “He blames me for his daughter’s death.”

“Murderer!” shouted Jude.

“Apparently, she got knocked up when she was thirteen, and there’s not a lot of places to get a legal abortion in Texas. She’d heard the old wives tale that, if you throw yourself down stairs, you lose the baby. She broke her neck.”

“Why’s that your fault?”

“Apparently, the girl was kind of a fan. When they found her body, Mystery was playing on her headphones.”

Mystery was Baby’s debut album.

As she finished my hand, she asked, “Want to know why I named the album Mystery?”

“Not that I don’t want to talk about anything you’d like, but right now our priority should be to find someplace safe.”

“Safe?” She shook her head. “It’s Judgment Day. There’s no safe.”

“It can’t be that bad,” I said. “There has to be some rational explanation.”

“Even for that?” She pointed over my shoulder.

I turned to find an army of knights on horseback galloping across the sky. Maybe horseback isn’t the right word, since the steeds had the heads of lions and tails like scorpions. They raced among the clouds in eerie silence, their flaming hooves finding purchase on thin air. Black armor encased the knights, who carried long lances that crackled with internal lightning.

“Take me!” Jude shouted, rising to his feet, lifting his arms. “Take me!”

One of the riders heard Jude and peeled away from his fellow riders. He landed with a thunderous boom at the far end of the street, throwing up a pillar of smoke as he gouged a crater in the asphalt. The shock wave knocked me from my feet. I tried to get up, but the ground kept shaking as the monstrous steed thundered toward the preacher.

From nowhere, the reporter, Carrick, leapt into the path of the monster, camera in hand, snapping shots like crazy. He looked prepared to jump aside at the last second but the beast was faster than it looked. I blinked, and suddenly Carrick was impaled on the knight’s lance. The lion beast paused for a second to shake the corpse free. The, the knight turned its gaze toward Jude.

The preacher’s shouts trailed off as the knight lowered his lance, aiming it straight toward Jude’s heart. His face went pale as the monster steed galloped forward once more. Jude might have been crazy, but even he could see the thing wasn’t coming to save him, but to kill him.

“Run, you moron!” Baby shouted.

That sounded like excellent advice, so I pulled myself back into the car. I turned around to make sure Baby was in the back seat. She wasn’t. She was running toward Jude.

“Snap out of it!” she screamed, grabbing the preacher by his arm. From where I sat, it looked like they’d both be trampled. The lion-thing was the size of a rhino.

Cursing my own stupidity, I threw the Cutlass into drive and stomped the accelerator, aiming for a collision course with the onrushing beast. Instead, the thing leapt onto the hood of my station wagon, killing my car. I slammed into the steering wheel.

The beast flew over the roof. Behind me, I heard Baby scream.

Then, I heard her cheer.

I twisted to see what was going on, wincing. The steering wheel hadn’t done my ribs any favors. The rhino-sized steed was on its side, its severed head a good ten feet distant from its body. The black rider, at least ten feet tall, had drawn a sword and was hacking at what could only be described as a demon with a pitchfork.

I pushed open the car door and managed to drag myself out. The demon looked female, with long black hair and porn-star breasts, though her feminine traits were matched by an equally impressive length of male genitalia. She was no taller than Baby, but leathery bat wings at least thirty feet long jutted from between her shoulder blades. A black, scaly tail, thick as an anaconda, snaked from her lower back. With a laugh, she used her tail to jerk the knight from his feet, then buried her pitchfork in his torso. The thing disintegrated into a swarm of black flies.

Baby ran up to the demon, lifting her hand to give a high-five. “Way to kick ass!”

“199,999,999 to go,” the demon said.

“Why?” Jude said with a sob, dropping to his knees. “Why wasn’t I taken?”

“Idiot,” the demon said. “You weren’t good enough.”

I limped forward, not fully convinced of my sanity. “What’s going on?”

“Really?” the demon asked. “You don’t know?”

“Vile succubus,” Jude said, tears streaming down his cheeks. “You’re a demon, come to drag our filthy souls to Hell.”

“Demon? I’m not one of those saps.”

“You’re not a demon?” I asked.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m an independent angel. My real name is seventeen syllables long and would rupture your eardrums, but my friends call me Halo. You must be Dan.”

I wasn’t sure what was more disturbing, that I was face to face with a supernatural being, or that she knew my name. I couldn’t do anything but stare at her.

“An angel?” asked Jude, who evidently had more of his wits at the moment than I did. “Then… I am going to heaven?”

“Yeah, no. I’m not that kind of angel.”

“You’re a fallen angel?” asked Jude.

“There was no falling involved. I walked out.”

“Don’t be so insulting, asshole,” Baby said to Jude. “She just saved your hide. That thing,” she pointed at the swarming flies, “was an angel. One of two-hundred million spreading across the globe, charged with killing a third of mankind.”

“What?” I asked.

“The seven seals have been broken,” said Halo. “The Lamb has returned to Judah and now walks across the ocean for his final battle with Babylon.”

“What?” I asked again.

Halo looked puzzled. “How can you not know what’s been going on? God’s like the Riddler. He spells out his crimes in advance. The world’s had 2000 years to get ready. What the hell do they teach in school these days?”

“They pollute innocent minds with lies of evolution!” said Jude, clenching his fists.

“That’s still at thing?” asked Halo.

I looked back at the bloody sky.

“So…that Bible stuff…it’s real? Shouldn’t we…I dunno, find someplace safe to—”

“The great day of his wrath is come; who shall be able to stand?” Jude said.

“What he said,” said Halo. “We need to get someplace a whole lot more dangerous if we want to have a chance. Let’s hope your sister’s ready.”

“I’m getting there,” said Baby, tilting back the vodka. She belched and wiped her lips. “Can we loot a liquor store or something?”

“Ready for what?” I asked. “Why are you being so cryptic?”

“Reality is cryptic,” said Halo.

“This isn’t the first time Halo and I have met,” said Baby. “She’s been giving me career advice for a while now.”

~

I’m no Bible scholar, and Halo and Baby took all of two minutes to explain the entire Book of Revelations to me, so if some of this gets muddled, I’m sorry. The takeaway is that Judgment Day begins when a lamb with seven horns and seven eyes is sacrificed and found worthy of judging the world. The sacrificed Lamb then opens a book that’s held shut by seven seals. With each seal that opens, he unleashes various horrors upon the earth. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse aren’t just something heavy metal bands put on album covers. Instead, they’re set loose to punish a wicked world, along with an army of two hundred million angels charged with killing a third of mankind.

“That’s what’s happening now,” said Baby.

“You’re telling me two billion people are being slaughtered while we’re standing here?” I asked, incredulous.

“That’s more or less accurate,” said Halo.

“Why is there wiggle room?”

“You noticed the sky’s changed to blood?”

“Kinda caught my attention, yeah.”

“We’re not in the material world any more. The Lamb has shifted the globe into the spiritual realm. Here, the physical laws are subservient to symbolism and faith. It’s a world of waking dreams. People believe they’re being killed, so they’re dead, at least until they wake.”

“This is just a dream?” I asked. “Then what’s the problem?”

“As long as we’re here, there’s no waking. The Lamb will keep us here for all eternity if we let him.”

“Let him? We have a say in the matter?”

“With this, yes,” said Halo, holding out a small wooden chest, just big enough to hold an egg. “Open it.”

I took the box. It wasn’t very heavy. The wood was fine grained, etched with stars and swirls, which were coated with dust. The clasp was simple, made of brass. I flipped it open and looked inside.

“A golf ball?” I asked, rolling the contents into my hand. It was a smooth white stone, maybe marble. It was warm to the touch. There was a single thin braid of black hair wound around it.

“That’s the stone that killed Goliath,” said Halo.

“Whoa,” said Baby, leaning in for a closer look. “You’ve got the best toys.”

“You know how the Old Testament God was a bully?” asked Halo. “A sadist who slaughtered the firstborn children of Egypt? Who blasted Sodom and Gomorrah to the gravel because he disapproved of how the residents used of their genitals? The maniac who drowned the whole fucking world in a fit of spite?”

“A God of righteous vengeance,” Jude murmured.

“Then, you notice that around the time David became king, God mellowed out? No more smite-fests?”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“The mellowing out wasn’t voluntary,” said Halo. “When David fought Goliath, God placed the spirit of his wrath into this tiny stone. The pebble punched a nice, clean hole through Goliath, but some buddies and I were waiting on the other side. We grabbed the stone before it hit the ground and encircled the rock with a braid woven from the hair of a fetus, trapping this aspect of God inside.”

“And that works why?”

“Because God can’t hurt you if you’re sinless, and original sin doesn’t pass into a person until they’re born. The hair holds him as securely as a chain. But, even if the wrath can’t escape, this is still one bad-ass pebble. It might be the only thing in the world that can kill the Lamb.”

“If God’s wrath is trapped inside, why is the Lamb dangerous?”

“The Lamb is the manifestation of God’s judgment, not his anger. It’s a fine distinction, but the end result is still destruction.”

“So…we’re going to put the stone into a slingshot and throw it at the Lamb?”

“I’m thinking crossbow,” said Halo. “I’ve got a modified bolt with a little cage to hold the stone.”

“Wouldn’t a rifle be better?”

“We debated using a musket, but worry that might destroy the hair. Fortunately, Baby assures me you’re good with a crossbow.”

“I am?”

“You’re not?” asked Baby. “Didn’t Pop-Pop used to take you hunting with one?”

I shook my head. “He used to hunt during bow season, but the only thing I ever shot was a straw target out behind the barn.”

“How was your aim?” asked Halo.

“I mean, not terrible, but… look, why can’t you take the shot?”

“Even with the hair around it, we free angels are sensitive to the power radiating from the stone. It’s only safe for me to touch the gopherwood case. If I tried to use it as a weapon, I’d be dead before I had time to pull the trigger.”

“So…you want me to kill…”

“The Lamb of God,” said Baby.

“Is that…is that even…remotely ethical?”

“It’s always ethical to protect yourself from a bully,” said Halo.

“But…isn’t this bully…God?”

“An aspect of God, yes.”

“Don’t let that intimidate you,” said Baby.

“I’m intimidated as hell.”

“If you don’t help, he’s going to kill me,” said Baby. “And I don’t mean as one of the faceless billions the angels are going to slaughter. I mean he’s going to rip me limb from limb and personally toss me into the fiery pits of hell.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m the current manifestation of Babylon.”

Seeing the confusion in my face, Halo jumped in. “The Lamb’s judgment ends in a final battle with a woman known as Babylon the Great. She’s the last embodiment of the goddess Ashera, once worshiped throughout the Middle East. She was a goddess of female sexuality, of life and fertility, the embodiment of sexual freedom. Then a band of zealots with a commitment to patriarchy and strong opinions about who should sleep with whom came out of the desert carrying an ark filled with an angry God and wiped out all the tribes that worshipped Ashera.”

“But,” said Baby, “as long as men worship female sexuality, the worship of Ashera continues, even if almost no one knows her name.”

“A lot of men lust after your sister,” said Halo. “Basically, anytime a man downloads nude pictures of Baby, he’s worshipping her, imbuing her with spiritual energy, making a rival god of her.”

“And God is jealous,” said Baby.

“That’s why the Lamb’s heading for New York,” said Halo.

“To find Baby?”

“Because New York harbor is where the most famous idol of Ashera is located.”

“It can’t be that famous. I’ve never heard of it,” I said.

“To the Roman’s, Ashera was worshipped as Libertas,” said Halo.

I was still confused, so Baby spelled things out. “The Statue of Liberty. He’s coming to tear down the Statue of Liberty. And when he gets there, I’m going to be inside.” She tilted back the flask, frowning to find it empty. “And, I’d like to be a lot drunker.”

~

Which brings me back to my perch atop the Statue of Liberty. Did I mention it’s raining blood? And that I’m having to listen to my sister engaging in loud sex in the room below, losing her virginity to a creep like Jude Barnes? News that Baby was a still a virgin took me by surprise. Apparently, by maintaining her virginity, she’s been able to store all the accumulated sexual energy of the mobs who pay tribute to her. It seems that Halo explained all this stuff to her when Baby was still fourteen, when Halo discovered my sister the same way the rest of the world did, via YouTube. Record producers saw a future superstar. Halo saw a goddess waiting to blossom. As to why Jude is her partner, I’m a little fuzzy. Maybe the preacher was the nearest warm male body she wasn’t related to. As to why Jude agreed, I suspect he’s been lusting after Baby all along. Once he learned he hadn’t been raptured, he didn’t have any reason not to give in to his baser instincts.

The Lamb strides closer and keeps getting bigger. I thought I’d be shooting more or less on the level of his eyes, but I’ll be shooting almost straight up. I’m holding out to the last second. I’ve only got one shot.

He’s close enough I can smell those prehensile entrails he’s waving. I pull the trigger.

The bolt is instantly caught by the wind. It’s not only going to miss the eyes, it’s not going to hit at all. Suddenly, Halo’s dark wings unfold from below and she launches herself at the falling bolt. The second her fingers wrap around the shaft she screams. Flames wreath her as she falls from the sky, the bolt clasped against her breasts. The Lamb kicks out with one his cloven hooves, catching Lady Liberty dead center of her chest. There’s a rending sound as the statue twists on its pedestal. I’m flying through the air, buffeted by the storm, dropping toward the raging waves.

Then Liberty drops the tablet she carries and stretches her arm toward me. Giant green fingers gingerly pluck me from the air as the statue lands feet first in water that, for her, is only knee deep. The statue’s features shift from a stoic stare to a sly grin.

The torch in her other hand flickers, then flares into a blinding light. She rises from her crouch, thrusting the white blaze into the Lamb’s dangling entrails. There’s a horrible sizzling sound and the smell of burnt meat as she stands on tiptoe to twist the torch in the Lamb’s guts. The big guy roars. He grabs her by the crown and lifts her as easily as I could lift a toddler. As she rises, the hand that holds me passes near the now vacant base of the statue and she drops me. I land without breaking my legs, but the whole base is slick with the oily blood. I lose my footing and slide toward the edge before my fingernails find purchase.

Above me, the Lamb holds Liberty above his head with both hands. He roars again and throws her toward the city. She spins head over heels for half a mile before crashing into a skyscraper. Every window in the building shatters as she slides down the face, landing with her limbs limp, the torch guttering in her lap. Her face twists. At first, I think it’s a look of pain, but then she raises her fist and shouts, with a voice like a thousand megaphones, “That all you got?”

The Lamb stomps across the waves in pursuit. She aims her torch and blasts him with a beam of light. By the time he reaches her, his wooly coat has caught fire, but it doesn’t slow him. He grabs her by the throat and slams her into a nearby building. When she keeps fighting, he slams her again, and the whole skyscraper twists and topples.

The Lamb tilts back his head and unleashes a bleat that sounds like sadistic laughter, as if he’s pleased by the falling building. They’re stomping through the financial district. Maybe the Lamb hates Wall Street as much as the next guy. As evidence of that theory, he uses Liberty’s flailing form like a club to batter another building into rubble.

I can’t just stand here and watch this. I don’t know where Halo fell, but I have to try to find her. There’s a big shaft just ahead of me, what’s left of the staircase that used to go up into Liberty’s body. I slip and slide across the bloody rubble, then make a jump for the nearest intact step, a good six feet down. I land less than gracefully but pull myself up and start racing down the steps three at a time.

I find Halo near the bottom, midway to the first landing, crawling. Carrying the bolt hasn’t been good for her health. The voluptuous succubus I met earlier is now little more than a skeleton. Her skin, once creamy and translucent, is now charred and crispy, falling off in big flakes, revealing a good chunk of her skull.

“You…missed…” she gasps, as she lifts the bolt.

I grab the missile. “Won’t happen again. For one thing, I’ve lost the crossbow.”

“Great,” she says.

“It’s not important,” I say as I get my shoulder under her arm and help her limp out of the building so we can get a view of what’s going on. “With this wind, I’d never make the shot. We need a helicopter or something, some way for me to get above this thing. I’ll jump down and stab him.”

“How…heroic,” she pants.

“Just desperate. Baby’s getting her ass kicked.”

Halo nods. “Prophecy’s hard…to shake. At least we know…she won’t be fighting alone.”

“For all the help we’ve been, she might as well be alone.”

“No.” Halo shakes her head. “There I saw a woman…sitting on a scarlet beast that was covered with blasphemous names…and had seven heads and ten horns.”

“Um,” I say.

“Revelations 17:3.”

Just then, there’s a howl from the other side of the statue’s base. I turn the corner to see the Lamb staggering backward. He’s on fire again. Jets of what look like lava splash against his torso. I strain to find Baby amid the destruction. Their battle has left half of Manhattan flattened. I wonder where she is.

Finally, I spot her. She’s in the sky, riding a dragon with a wingspan so wide the tips disappear among the clouds of smoke. The scaly thing has seven long necks, like a hydra, with its dragon mouths spitting geysers of molten brimstone at the Lamb.

“Is that—”

“The great dragon,” says Halo. “He has the most to lose if the Lamb wins. If he loses this battle, he’ll be cast in to the pits of hell for all eternity.”

“I don’t think he’s going to lose,” I say. As big as the Lamb is, the dragon is bigger. The creature lands amid the ruins of Manhattan, bracing himself on legs the size of sequoias as he sinks his teeth into the Lamb’s charred flesh. Baby is blasting the Lamb with dazzling beams of light, blinding him. In his agony, the Lamb stumbles, howling. The dragon presses his attack, destroying buildings with each sweep of his massive tail.

The Lamb drops to one knee. He raises both fists, then pounds them against the earth. The ground cracks open, revealing a massive pit of smoke and flame that grows beneath the dragon’s feet. The dragon flaps his wing to fly away, but the Lamb grabs the nearest neck and breaks it, then uses it as a line to reel the beast in, snapping its necks one by one.

Baby’s still on the dragon’s back, holding on for dear life. When this thing goes down, she’s going with it.

“We have to save her,” I shout. “Can you fly us—”

“I can barely stand,” says Halo. “Though…there’s a way to regain some strength.”

“How?”

“Jude wasn’t completely wrong when he called me a succubus.”

“What does—”

“I’m a bit like a vampire,” she explains. “Only instead of sucking your blood, I drink your soul.”

I furrow my brow.

“I won’t drink it all. There’s no time to fully drain you anyway. But a kiss will restore some small portion of what I’ve lost.”

“Take what you need,” I say, closing my eyes.

Her dry, thin lips crackle as they press against mine. She smells like a steak that’s been burnt to a crisp. Her nails dig into my back.

Without warning, her tongue snakes between my teeth, forcing itself down my throat. I gag, but she doesn’t let go. I can’t breath. The world spins. It feels like she’s licking my heart.

She lets go and I drop to my knees. The backs of my hands are wrinkled, aged. My arms look thinner than they did a moment ago.

I look up. She’s not as voluptuous as she was when I first saw her, but she looks filled out, full of life. My life.

“Don’t drop that bolt!” she says, grabbing me by the collar. “Definitely don’t let it touch me!” Her long wings flap and we lift into the air.

Five of the dragon’s heads hang limp.

We lurch across the sky, tossed about by the tempest. My heart rises in my throat as we plummet in a downdraft, but Halo just laughs and folds her wings, diving even faster, until she spreads them wide and we zoom upward.

“I’ve been flying since the dawn of creation,” she boasts, clutching me tighter as we rise above the struggling monsters. “Nothing can touch me in the—”

Her voice cuts short as her arms go limp. As I tumble, I see one of the mounted angels looming above us, his lance jutting from her left breast, wet with gore. I spin and see I’m falling right toward the Lamb. There’s still a tuft of wool relatively intact amid his crown of horns. It’s like landing on a mattress, jarring, but nothing is broken. Was it luck that I’ve fell here, or did Halo aim me?

It doesn’t matter. I scramble on my belly until I’m between the closest eyes. I gaze out at the destruction, the city blocks flattened, the flames stretching for miles. Any doubt I had about whether fighting this thing was right or wrong vanishes. I rise to my knees, lifting the bolt overhead with both hands and plunge it into the Lamb’s brow with all my strength.

The bolt bounces off. I don’t even scratch him. I nearly lose my balance from the recoil. Why didn’t this work? If this thing is some all powerful weapon…

I eye the braided hair that wraps the tip. Removing it will free the wrath of God. It might make our situation infinitely worse. Or maybe…

The dragon only has one head left. Baby’s still hanging on, unable to do a thing while the Lamb is thrashing the dragon so badly. I’ve no choice.

I tear the hair away with my teeth and strike again.

This time, the bolt plunges into the skin and through the bone as if they were mashed potatoes. I keep pushing until my arm is shoulder deep in the Lamb’s boiling gray matter. The Lamb howls, jerking his head, throwing me into the open air. As I fall, I see the Lamb’s grip on the dragon’s last head weaken. The beast latches on to the Lamb’s throat with a thunderous growl. Lava splashes through his teeth as he blasts brimstone directly into the Lamb’s jugular. But I can’t focus on whether on not this attack is working since I’m plummeting directly toward Hell.

Liberty’s hand juts out and snatches me from the air. She places me atop her crown, then takes her torch in both hands. The Lamb is writhing in agony, his skin bubbling and boiling. There’s a huge smoking crater in his brow, right at the point I pierced him with the bolt. Baby leaps from the dragon’s back and plunges her torch into the crater.

Light explodes from every orifice of the Lamb. He stops howling in agony. He stops everything and simply falls. His ropy entrails entangle the dragon and they both tumble toward the hellfire. Baby makes a jump for the edge of the pit and hooks a single arm across the lip. The ground shakes violently as the Hell pit starts to close.

“Run!” she gasps.

I run, sliding down her face to land on her shoulder, scrambling toward freedom. I make a leap for a steel beam near the edge of the pit and stick the landing. I turn, shouting, “Get out of there!”

But she loses her grip and vanishes into the ever-narrowing gap. Before I can even call out her name, the crack closes, and she’s gone.

I throw myself onto the broken earth, vainly, foolishly clawing at the rubble, as if I might somehow free her. My tears blot away by vision. I rub my fingers raw for a while, then wipe my eyes. I study the ground, searching for any sign of an opening.

It’s then I discover that the sidewalk I’m sitting on is completely intact.

I look up and find myself surrounded by towering skyscrapers. Through the haze of light cast by the city, I see a single star in the night sky, Venus I think. I rise, and see a dozen people on the street staring at me. I look at my ruined hands and suddenly it all makes sense.

Halo was right! It was only a nightmare, and now we’re awake. I race down the sidewalk, heading for the waterfront, laughing like a maniac. I feel like Scrooge on Christmas morning. All a dream. A dream.

Then I reach the harbor and my laughter dies. I stare across the waters, toward a distant island, where a hundred floodlights illuminate the base of a vanished statue.

Not everyone woke, it seems.

Fallen, fallen, is Babylon the Great.

But she went down fighting.

And she didn’t go down alone.

Dead Men’s Bones

Josh Reynolds

For Clark Ashton Smith and Bert Ira Gordon,

Creators of the Colossal

“Put out that damn light,” a rough voice snarled.

Charles St. Cyprian flinched as a calloused hand flashed out of the wet darkness and slapped the newly-lit cigarette from his lips with stinging force.

“I say, you could have just asked,” he muttered, rubbing his mouth. He glared daggers at the craggy-faced American, who didn’t seem all that worried.

“I was making a point,” the American said. He spoke in the mushy nasal drawl characteristic of many men in the 81st Infantry Division. South Carolina, St. Cyprian thought, or North Carolina. It was almost certainly a Carolina of some cardinal description.

It was late in the war, but the Americans had finally gotten involved, after a generation had spent its blood in the mud of the trenches that now stretched from one side of the continent to the other. The war would be done in a year, maybe two, if the word trickling down from the high command could be believed. Then, back in 1914, they’d said that the war would be over by Christmas. Four years later, the guns were still thundering and the wire was still strung.

“And a fine point it was, Sergeant Bass,” Carnacki murmured from where he crouched in the rocks, peering through a set of binoculars. “Take note, Charles. You’ve been at this long enough to know that light is not a chum in these circumstances.”

St. Cyprian made to reply, and then thought better of it. It was two against one, and he was too damn wet to argue. Instead, he shifted slightly, and peered over the escarpment and through the curtain of rain and mist at the foreboding shape of the fortress of Ylourgne. Or, rather, the remains of such; the great craggy pile hadn’t been anything other than a ruinous eyesore since the death of the last of the line of marauding French barons who had built up its cliff-founded walls sometime in the eleventh century. The province of Averoigne was full of such relics, and practically every church, monastery, and nunnery in the region had been planted on top of a druidic ruin or a Gallic fort.

“Bloody Otranto,” he muttered. He looked at Bass. “I say, keep an eye out for giant helmets, what?”

“What?” Bass looked at him.

“Americans,” St. Cyprian said, “No appreciation for the classics.” He sighed in disgust. He couldn’t believe he’d left his warm cot and the warm young woman who had been sharing it with him since he’d made her acquaintance at the cabaret back in Vyones in order to come out into the wet and cold.

“I wouldn’t as call Walpole a classic. Ain’t no Miss Austen, that’s for sure,” Bass said, turning away. The American swiped rainwater out of his face and looked at Carnacki. “We going down there any time soon, or you want to paint you a picture?”

Carnacki put his field-glasses away and looked at Bass and St. Cyprian. “I believe there’s actually a rather smashing rendition of Ylourgne—or perhaps Chateau des Faussesflammes—in the Louvre. Oils, I think,” he said. “In any event, yes. Though frankly, I’d rather level the place from a safe distance.” He pushed himself to his feet. The rain was beginning to slacken. “We should hurry. We can’t count on the weather to keep us unnoticed for much longer, if anyone living is about.”

Bass lunged to his feet and tackled Carnacki to the ground, even as the latter spoke. A moment later, the sound of a bullet striking rock echoed over the escarpment. St. Cyprian drew his Webley from its holster on his hip and pivoted smoothly. He fired, and then took cover. “I’d say we’ve been noticed,” he said, as more bullets struck the rocks around them.

“Your observational skills are as tip-top as ever, Charles,” Carnacki said as he struggled out from under Bass and drew his own revolver. “Sergeant, you didn’t happen to see where that first shot came from, did you?”

“Up thataway,” Bass said, crawling towards his rifle where it lay stacked against a rock. He grabbed it, rolled onto his back and swung the rifle up. “Bastards are sneaky.”

“The enemy, by definition, is sneaky,” St. Cyprian muttered. “When he’s on our side, he’s just cunning.” He took a guess and fired. The enemy replied, with interest. St. Cyprian hunkered down and pressed his hands to his ears. “Thomas, I must say that this isn’t what I signed up for. I was hoping for a nice bit of rest and relaxation in Vyones!”

“One does what one must, Charles. Now show some pluck,” Carnacki said. He peered up at the slope above them, and fired several times.

“Pluck, he says,” St. Cyprian muttered, “easy for him to say.”

Carnacki knew all about pluck. Before the Great Powers had slouched into war, Thomas Carnacki, late of Cheyne Walk, Chelsea, currently afforded the rank of captain in His Majesty’s armed forces, had served in the capacity of the Royal Occultist of the British Empire. To the public at large he had merely been ‘the Ghost-Finder’, whose adventures had decorated the pages of The Idler, even as those of the Great Detective had appeared in The Strand in the decade prior to the War. But his days as ‘the Ghost-Finder’ were done and only the grinding, grisly monotony of his duties as Royal Occultist remained.

Formed during the reign of Elizabeth the First, the office of Royal Occultist (or the Queen’s Conjurer, as it had been known) had started with the diligent amateur Dr. John Dee, and passed through a succession of hands since. The list was a long one, weaving in and out of the margins of British history, and culminating, for the moment, in one Thomas Carnacki and his erstwhile assistant-cum-apprentice, Charles St. Cyprian.

During more peaceful times, it was the remit of the Royal Occultist and his assistant to investigate the strange and the sinister, anything that might threaten the peace of the Empire. In war, that remit was not much changed, though its scope was extended. Weird worms of all sorts struggled to the surface after a rain of artillery. And sometimes, it wasn’t worms at all, but bodies which got up and danced away.

Such was the case now, in the disputed province of Averoigne, where the American Expeditionary Force’s dead, as well as everyone else’s, had begun to get up and walk away, trailing their various bits and viscera. The field hospitals in Vyones, Les Hiboux ,and Ximes were emptied, mass graves overturned, and even those caught on the wire tore themselves free to follow whatever silent, siren call had brought them to their feet. Hundreds of thousands of dead men, from both sides of the line, had stumbled, crawled, squirmed, and staggered into the crags and cliffs that clustered about the northern edge of the province. The dead were flooding north, as if fleeing the German spring offensive.

The Americans had been frantic, convinced as they were that it was some new German weapon. When Haig had dispatched Carnacki and St. Cyprian to investigate, Pershing had, in a display of bellicose one-upmanship, introduced Sergeant Bass into the mix, insisting that, since many of the dead were American, an American ought to investigate. Neither Haig nor Pershing had bothered to get a French opinion on the matter.

Bass had some small reputation among the doughboys for being a bit of a backwoods conjurer, or so Pershing had said. They said that Bass had carved his name on a bullet and wore it about his neck, so that he had nothing to fear from enemy snipers, and that he whispered at night to the dead men caught in the wire, as if to comfort them. Despite the stories, the taciturn sergeant had not claimed to be anything other than what he was—perpetually annoyed at his new duties, mostly, St. Cyprian had found.

Together, the three men had followed the eerie trail of shed flesh and sloughed off body parts that marked the route the dead had taken into the mountains. They’d seen emptied village churchyards and lonely graves, long-since ruptured from within.

Something—someone—was calling the dead. He could feel it, in the pit of his belly and in the back of his skull. It was like an itch he couldn’t scratch, as if someone had given a tuning fork a great big thwack and pressed it to his ear. St. Cyprian was psychic; indeed, that was one of the reasons Carnacki had chosen him to be his assistant. If he sensed something, if it was affecting him this badly, then it was dangerous indeed.

That grisly trail led them up into the crags where Ylourgne sagged. They’d seen no lights, and heard nothing save the constant crash of rainwater in the valley below. Now, they heard plenty—the steady ricocheting of bullets biting rock, and the sound of men moving all around. Voices as well, engaged in harsh, Teutonic conversation.

As he watched, Bass rose to one knee and fired his rifle. With steady, precise movements, he ejected the spent cartridge and reloaded. “We’re pinned down,” he said. “They’re above us and coming up behind.” He turned and fired. “Ten, maybe fifteen of ‘em,” he said, dropping down onto his back to reload. “They might have passed us on by if that damn cigarette hadn’t warned them they were right on top of us,” he added, glaring at St. Cyprian.

“Hardly my fault,” St. Cyprian said, “I couldn’t hear anything over that blasted rain.”

“Germans, by the sounds of them,” Carnacki said. He sat behind his rock, staring at Ylourgne below, and rubbing his cheek with the barrel of his Webley. “They must have been here since Cambrai. I wonder why? Living Germans and hordes of walking corpses do not for a common sight make in these crags.”

“Does it really matter?” St. Cyprian said. He caught sight of several coal-scuttle helmets bobbing along just behind cover. He made to fire, when Carnacki stopped him.

“Actually Charles, I rather think it does. Weapons down, gentlemen,” Carnacki said.

“What now?” Bass said.

“I say, you can’t be serious,” St. Cyprian said.

“As a Yorkshireman,” Carnacki said. He tossed his pistol aside and stood, his hands raised over his head. “We need to get into Ylourgne, why not do it with an armed escort, what?”

“Is he crazy?” Bass asked, looking at St. Cyprian.

“Sadly, no,” St. Cyprian said. He tossed his pistol out into the open and stood, hands out. “Unless you happen to be bulletproof, I’d do as he says, Sergeant.”

Bass hesitated, but only for a moment. Then, with a disgusted sigh, he tossed his rifle aside. The men who came to collect them a moment later had the hard-edged, roughhewn look of German stosstruppen—the sorts of soldiers who had, months earlier, pierced the Allied lines at Cambrai with distressing ease. He wondered if these were from the same lot. They were searched briskly, their weapons collected, and then, with all due haste and efficiency, escorted down from the escarpment and into the ruin of Ylourgne.

The route down was arduous, and even in the relative cool after a rain, it was hot going. The moat that had once diverted a tail of the Isoile to curl about the ruin’s lower reaches was now long since filled by rock and soil, washed down from the high passes by centuries of rain. The drawbridge was reduced to moldering fragments, but the collapsed stones of the once-proud barbican did well enough as a path inside. The main structure of the fortress was covered in thick tarpaulin and netting, so as to prevent any light from escaping, and the doors had been blocked and sealed. Men wearing concealing cloaks and mud-tarps patrolled the battlements and camouflaged machine gun positions had been set up in the gatehouse and the crumbled remains of what had once been a chapel.

They were led into the main building through a side door, which was protected by a heavy blanket, and guarded by a third machine gun crew. No one spoke, or even looked at them.

Once they were inside, St. Cyprian couldn’t restrain a curse from slipping his lips. The entire structure had been gutted, and hollowed out into a single cavernous space, now occupied by what appeared to be a massive alembic, surrounded by dozens of levels of scaffolding, that connected to the stone walls at various points. The alembic stretched far below the crude floor they stood on, well into the bowels of the ancient fortress, and rose up to scrape the uppermost curve of the high tower above.

Inside the alembic was a thick fluid, the color of urine and as thick as blood. Even so, St. Cyprian thought he could see something within it, something massive. But it was not that vague and undefined shape which startled him. Instead, it was the congregation of broken corpses which occupied every spare space, and descended the scaffolding in a slow moving queue towards the lowest point of the alembic. Armed men, wearing gasmasks and butcher’s aprons, herded the staggering, shuffling corpses along, and when one fell, it was heaved over the side of the scaffolding, to men waiting below with gaff-hooks and chains, who would drag it into the darkness. Someone had lit a fire down there, and St. Cyprian could see the reddish glow of the flames reflected on the damp stones.

There was a strange smell on the air. It wasn’t just the charnel odor of the corpses, but something else—a raw, hot scent, like a pan left too long over a fire. A glance at Bass and Carnacki told him that they smelled it as well.

“Smells like a hog roast,” Bass muttered.

“It’s coming from that strange contraption,” Carnacki said, nodding towards the alembic. “And speaking of contraptions...”

They had been led up onto a wide viewing platform, through the sea of corpses, where a heavy table had been set up, and on top of it, a strange mechanical device sat, surrounded by five heavy glass bell-jars. In each jar there was a human head floating suspended in fluid. St. Cyprian clutched at his head as they were escorted close to the contraption and its gory companions. The ache that had allowed him to trail the corpses had grown suddenly worse, and, unprepared for it as he was, it staggered him. Pain rattled along his spine and across his nerve endings, and he would have fallen had Bass not caught him.

“What the hell is that thing,” Bass growled.

“It’s giving me a frightful headache, whatever it is,” St. Cyprian snarled.

“I see that you are admiring die glocke,” someone said, in heavily accented English. They turned and the newcomer smiled widely. He was a thin, blonde man, with a gasmask dangling from around his neck and a surgeon’s smock on over his uniform. There was blood on both his face and his smock, though it didn’t appear to be his. “A masterpiece of psychical innovation, if I do say so myself,” he said. “I procured the brains myself—five of the finest psychic minds Europe had to offer, wired together in the greatest necromantic apparatus to ever grace the aether with its voice.” He rapped one of the jars with a knuckle.

“A psychic resonator,” Carnacki said.

“It’s the Ewer Apparatus,” the man said, dabbing at the blood on his face with a handkerchief. “Or so they’ll call it, come the end of the war, I hope.” He pulled off his gas-mask and tossed it to one of his orderlies. “That’s me, by the way. Max Ewer, Professor Max Ewer. And you are Thomas Carnacki,” he said, pointing a finger at Carnacki. “My mentor, the late, unfortunate Dr. Gottlieb Hochmuller used to mention you quite a bit, when he had one of his little moments.”

“Yes, it’s a shame about what happened to him,” Carnacki said. “Did you ever catch that beastly hound of his?”

“Do I look like a dog catcher?” Ewer said. He sniffed. “I warned him about that, you know. That whole brain transplant theory of his was based on shoddy science.”

“Yes, bit of a lunatic, wasn’t he?” St. Cyprian said, eyeing the pickled heads in their solution-filled jars.

“Mad as a rabbit in a basket,” Ewer said agreeably. ‘Now me, I have hard alchemical theories on my side. And the finest men the German army could spare from the offensive. You’ll have to forgive them, they’re not very talkative.” He gestured to the men standing behind them. “I thought I had privacy as well, here in this dreadful old ruin.”

“People do tend to notice when the dead get up and wander about, old chap,” Carnacki said. “Even during a war; especially during a war, I’d say.”

Ewer made a dismissive gesture. “That they only sent the three of you tells me Allied attentions are firmly fixed elsewhere,” he said. He peered at Carnacki. “Even if one of you is the famed Ghost-Finder...that means I have time to practice my English for a bit. It’s so rare that I get that opportunity. Tell me, Carnacki, what do you know of Ylourgne’s history?”

“Nothing good, if you’re asking,” Carnacki said.

“It was the site of one of the greatest acts of the alchemical diabolism in this age or any other, according to the writings of one Gaspard du Nord. On this spot, in this place, a monster was born. A giant, built of dead men’s bones, by a foul little dwarf called Nathaire. It went on a bit of a rampage, or so du Nord claimed, and was said to have even threatened Vyones, before it was destroyed.”

St. Cyprian glanced at the trembling queue of corpses, and felt suddenly sick. His eyes were drawn to the giant alembic, and the mammoth shape barely visible in the glass womb. Carnacki had apparently come to the same conclusion. ‘You’d need a lot of bodies,” he said, softly.

“How many dead men do you think are in the trenches?” Ewer said. “How many bags of meat and bone do you think litter these lands? Millions,” he continued. “Millions of empty husks, waiting for the call of my Ewer Apparatus.” He smiled. “The Kaiser would not approve, of course. He has his sensibilities, and they suit him, but what he does not know will not hurt him. Indeed, it will help him, him and Germany both. The Thule Society will drag the Fatherland to victory by its heels, if need be. And die koloss will be more than able to do the dragging.” He motioned to the immense shape that was visible in the alembic’s upper berth. “He is almost ready to be awakened. His flesh has yet to reach the proper tensile strength, but a few days more, a few hundred more corpses fed into the furnace of his hunger, and he shall rise, unstoppable and unconquerable.”

Ewer clenched his fists. “Imagine it—imagine an army of giants, striding across the battlefield, crushing tanks beneath their tread and swatting planes from the air. No artillery will pierce their flesh, and no gas will choke them—no, for they will breathe the poisons of war!—and they will rend asunder walls and step over bridges.”

“How did you even grow such a thing?” Carnacki said. St. Cyprian felt a moment’s irritation at his mentor’s obvious curiosity, before he realized the obvious—Carnacki was trying to keep the megalomaniac distracted. But was he planning something, or was it, as usual, up to his assistant?

“Surely you’ve heard of homunculi,” Ewers said.

“Of course, but homunculi are tiny things, barely larger than a wine bottle.”

“Nasty enough for all that,” St. Cyprian muttered. He’d seen his fair share of unpleasantness in the months prior to the war, acting as Carnacki’s assistant. Feral homunculi, hungry ghosts, and worse had peopled those terrifying weeks before they’d left England. The former had left bite-marks up and down his shins.

He looked around surreptitiously. The guards’ attentions had drifted. St. Cyprian judged Ewers as a talkative sort, even when he didn’t have captives to gloat at; he probably filled Ylourgne with enough chatter for a flock of magpies. His eyes met Bass’, and the American nodded shallowly. His big hands flexed, and St. Cyprian swallowed. He was a fair enough pugilist, but taking on a bevy of armed Huns with just his fists wasn’t his idea of a fun punch-up. That thought uppermost in his mind, he saw the butt of his revolver sticking out of the belt of one of the guards.

Ewer turned and bent over the iron safety rail. “I extrapolated, based on a variety of alchemical texts, as well as Nathaire’s own records. For a diseased little French diabolist, he kept tidy notes. I didn’t use dead men’s bones but good German steel for the skeleton, and the flesh and muscle have been grown through a process of protein absorption. The veins and organs are experimental plastics, and when the beast moves, it will excrete a chemical agent from its pores. It will be able to clear entire trench-lines just by striding over them. Cities will empty at its approach, leaving Germany’s sons untouched by bullet or shell.” He turned. “Nathaire’s beast managed to humble only a single province. Mine will conquer a continent.”

“And what of us, if one might inquire?” Carnacki said. “Are we to be prisoners of war or hostages of fortune?”

“Neither, I’m afraid,” Ewers said apologetically. He reached over, drew a pistol from a guard’s belt, and shot Bass in the chest. The American pitched backwards without a sound. St. Cyprian cursed and Carnacki whirled, staring in shock at Bass’ body. “You’ll be shot, and added to my collection of corpses, and fed to my colossus.” He chuckled. “Watch, I’ll have him do a little jig when he gets up.”

“You filthy animal,” St. Cyprian snarled as he took a step forward. Ewers swung the pistol around.

“Wait your turn, Englishman.” Ewers stepped back and patted his apparatus.

Boots scraped on the floor. Bass’ body sat up. For a moment, all eyes were on the dead American. Ewers laughed. “I thought, initially, to simply use my device to propel the dead at the enemy. But that plan lacked a certain artistry. And then I thought—colossus.” He gesticulated cheerfully.

Bass lurched to his feet. The guards had stepped back. Bass’ head came up. He smiled. Then, with far more speed than a dead man should have possessed, he lunged for the closest guard, drove a fist across his jaw, jerked his pistol free from its holster, and spun around.

“No,” Ewer shrieked. Bass fired. The Mauser spat fire, and Ewer jerked like a marionette as the bullets punched through him and into the apparatus. Smoke boiled from the mechanism, and the jars were shattered, disgorging the heads. Ewer slumped backwards. The corpses followed suit, as the necromantic signal that had been controlling them was cut off.

Seizing the moment, St. Cyprian lunged for his pistol. The guard reacted too late, and St. Cyprian snapped the Webley up and fired, punching the guard backwards. He whirled and fired twice more, dropping two of the other stosstruppen. Carnacki followed suit, elbowing the guard closest to him and, in a display of bartitsu, threw the man over his shoulder and off the observation platform.

Down below, the other guards were beginning to realize something was amiss, and they began to scale the scaffolding. Bass snatched up a second pistol and fired down at them. They returned the gesture with interest. He stepped back and glanced at Carnacki. “Good plan,” he grunted.

“How the deuce did you survive?” Carnacki said, retrieving his Webley.

Bass grinned and tapped the cord around his neck. “Only one bullet can touch me. And that weren’t it.” He spun and St. Cyprian was forced to duck as the American fired. A guard staggered back and fell from the scaffolding.

“I suppose Pershing wasn’t talking complete bollocks then,” St. Cyprian said. He upended the table and kicked Ewers’ body aside. “We’re still stuck in here.”

“That’s not our biggest problem, I’m afraid,” Carnacki said, pointing. “Look!”

St. Cyprian looked up and froze. The vast alembic was leaking. Several shots had struck it, and punched through the glass. As he watched, cracks spread across the surface of the alembic, and the shape within began to move.

Then, with a great crash, the alembic shattered, and the cavernous chamber was filled with a foul smelling fluid as something gargantuan and terrible rose. It was a man, though like no man that had ever walked the Earth; a hundred times the size of the tallest man, with raw, blistered flesh, huge, lidless eyes the color of urine, and teeth like spears set into a heavy jaw. It had no hair, and its flesh rippled with unhealthy looseness. Whatever process it had been undergoing in the alembic was not yet complete, and the beast groaned in obvious agony. A charnel stink washed over them, and St. Cyprian staggered, choking on sudden surge of bile that threatened to overwhelm him.

The colossus’ back struck the roof of the fortress as the scaffolding shattered and tumbled from its writhing form, as it twitched and stretched like an arthritic. Its arms bent and its hands slammed into the walls, shaking the entire structure. It wailed and stinking blood dripped from its raw flesh. It looked around wildly, and its eyes were mad.

The platform they were standing on began to sway and crack as the colossus gave a heave and shrugged off the fastness of Ylourgne like a cloak. Stones plummeted down, punching great craters into the ground as the colossus heaved itself to its feet with a cry like some vast artillery piece being fired. Fingers that were already shedding curtains of flesh stretched towards the moon, as if in supplication.

The colossus roared, and the thunder rumbled, as if in sympathy. Coiling contrails of mustard gas rose from the corners of its mouth and its flared nostrils and seeped from its overlarge pores. Those Germans who had not been caught in the collapse fell as the wafting fumes of poison gas enveloped them. Others ran, or fired their weapons to no effect and were caught up by the colossus, who squeezed them to pulp and flung what was left at the distant peaks. The creature pushed itself out of the ruin like a crocodile emerging from its egg and the mountains shook with the weight of its stride.

Eyes like great lamps fixed on a point somewhere in the distance and the monster roared again, loud enough to shake St. Cyprian from his perch. He slipped from the sagging platform, and only Bass’ quick thinking saved his life. The American snagged his sleeve and hauled him back to safety. “Where the hell is that damn thing going?” Bass shouted, fighting to be heard over the rumble of crashing masonry and the noise of the colossus’ departure.

“Vyones, I’d wager,” Carnacki said as he reloaded his Webley with trembling fingers. “Just like the beast in Ewer’s mad fairy-tale. He might not have made it invulnerable, but he likely gave it its orders. Or possibly it’s just mad. Either way, it’s marching towards the city. And it may well destroy it, especially bleeding poisons as it is, unless we can stop it,” he said as he snapped the pistol shut.

“Given that bullets had about as much effect on it as harsh language, how are we going to do that?” St. Cyprian said.

“The radio,” Bass said. “Y’all got an aerodrome set up outside the city.”

“I’m sure there’s one downstairs, somewhere underneath all of that rubble,” Carnacki said. “No, we’ll have to outpace the beast, and warn them in person. Let’s get downstairs and see if there’s something with wheels handy.”

As the others began to descend, St. Cyprian turned to watch the monster’s progress. The colossus clutched at its head and tore ragged, glistening canyons in its own scalp. It screamed and swayed where it stood. A great foot came down on a fleeing man, flattening him with a horrible sound. A halo of poison gas encircled its head and it lashed out at phantom opponents that only it could see. He wondered what mad visions were blazing across the inside of its skull, provoking it and driving it on. It roared again, and the sound was more like a scream.

After carefully picking their way down from the remains of the scaffolding, they made it outside without incident. Bodies lay everywhere, some fresh, some not, and no one, living or dead, tried to stop them when they commandeered an armored car. The large, steel chassis could easily sit ten men, and Bass gave a bark of delight when he saw the trio of 7.92 mm machine guns mounted inside the vehicle.

Carnacki grabbed St. Cyprian and gestured to the driver’s seat. “Charles, you’ve driven before,” he said.

“I took seventeenth in the 1913 French Grand Prix,” St. Cyprian said. “I was nearly taken out by a rogue patisserie in Amiens.”

“Well that thing’s no bakery, so try and be a bit more careful, eh?” Carnacki looked at Bass. “Help me with this.” He pointed to one of the guns. “We need to slow that brute down. If we’re lucky, we can distract it long enough so that someone with sense and access to a Sopwith Camel or Bristol Fighter from the 266 bloody Squadron RFC notices the ruddy great giant naturalist stomping towards them.”

“Just help me keep this sumbitch spitting lead,” Bass said, hefting the weapon up into the car’s round turret cupola. Carnacki kicked the back of St. Cyprian’s seat.

“In your own time, Charles,” he said.

St. Cyprian threw the armored car into gear. The six cylinder engine rumbled and the wheels spun in the mud for a moment before they caught traction and lurched forward. St. Cyprian’s teeth clicked together as the car bumped and rattled as it hurtled in pursuit of the colossus.

Despite the distance, and the lead the monster had on them, they caught up with it far too quickly for St. Cyprian’s liking. He pushed the car’s engine to its limit, until smoke was boiling out from under it, and his body was numb from the shaking. The car was racing parallel to the beast as it smashed aside trees and ruins both old and new in its stumbling scramble towards Vyones. Yellow smoke clung to it, oozing from its pores and even from a safe distance, the thought of it made St. Cyprian itch for a gas mask.

St. Cyprian cursed as a splintered tree trunk crashed down in front of the car and he jerked the wheel, narrowly avoiding it. He nearly crashed then and there, as a massive bloody foot stomped down, causing the car to bounce up and his head to crack against the roof. He tasted blood and spat.

“Any time you’d like to start shooting is fine by me!” he shouted over his shoulder.

A snarl sounded from the heavy machine gun in Bass’ hands a moment later. The American gave a screeching wail, like the cry of some angry hunting cat, as he depressed the trigger, stitching the colossus’ ankles and thighs with bullets. Carnacki fed a steady stream of ammunition into the gun even as the floor was covered in spent casings. The colossus might have been immune to small arms fire, but it felt the machine gun and it stooped with a bone-rattling howl, its fingers digging trenches through the muddy road as it sought to scoop them up. Poison gas swept towards them, driven their way by the furious motion of the beast’s arm.

“Charles,” Carnacki shouted.

“I see it,” St. Cyprian said, spinning the wheel.

The car slewed sideways, narrowly avoiding the colossus’ clutching fingers. Bass fired, and the colossus jerked its hand back with an ululating bellow. The colossus roared in anger. St. Cyprian worked the gear. The armoured car’s engine gave a wheezing gurgle. Cursing steadily under his breath, he tried to get it to turn over. The road shook as the colossus stalked towards them, filling the air with poisonous smoke. Pieces of it sloughed off, striking the ground like mudslides as it crouched over them.

Bass continued to fire, cursing and coughing as the first tendrils of gas reached the car. The engine gave a cough, a snort, and then a growl. St. Cyprian set it in reverse and skidded out of reach of the beast. He kept the car in reverse as the monster scrambled after them, groping, but off balance and unable to catch them. Bass coughed and slumped down from the cupola. He dumped the machine gun, which had smoke curling from it. “Get me another gun,” he snarled. “This one’s done burnt out.”

“No need,” Carnacki said, “I found something even better.” He hefted a heavy flare gun. Without hesitation, he moved to the side of the car, threw open the door, and leaned out, taking aim at the creature closing in on them.

“Oh my giddy aunt—Thomas, what the devil are you doing?” St. Cyprian yelped.

“That solution it was bathing in and absorbing was made of pureed corpse, with a few chemicals added in,” Carnacki said, steadying himself on the side of the car. “It’s quite flammable, Charles, at least on the outside, especially given how it’s leaking. Now keep us steady, there’s a good chap. I’m only going to get one shot at this.”

Carnacki fired the flare gun, even as the monster thrust its bulbous head towards them, jaws sagging wide as if to take a bite out of the front of the car. The colossus jerked back, rearing to its full height. The flames spread across its raw flesh, and the monster screamed. It hunched forward and flailed blindly as it was consumed and transformed from a titan monster into a towering inferno.

St. Cyprian kept the car in reverse until they struck a fallen tree. As he fought with the gears, he heard the mosquito buzz of bi-planes overhead. He sat back. “I guess someone noticed,” he said. Neither Bass nor Carnacki replied. Their attentions were on the contorted, writhing shape of Ewer’s colossus as it burned and shrieked in a voice like thunder.

The colossus staggered forward, causing the ground to quake. It pawed at its fiery flesh, and bent forward. Smoke boiled off of it and washed across the road and choked the air. A trio of Sopwith Camels cut through the sky overhead, their shapes passing across the moon as they came in for an attack run. Machine guns chattered, and the colossus reared back, spreading its arms and tossing its head back.

“Good show chaps!” Carnacki shouted. The colossus was entirely aflame now, with not a single patch of flesh bare of fire. Chunks of its flesh struck the ground like comets. After the fourth pass by the Camels, the creature sagged, stumbled, and sank to one knee. A rumbling groan swept over them, like the voices of a hundred men raised in futile protest.

Bass leaned over St. Cyprian’s seat, rolling the bullet from around his neck between his fingers. “Back to the grave, you sad bastard,” the American murmured. It sounded almost like a prayer. “Just lie down and die.”

And then it did. The colossus toppled forward, smashing into the ground with a sound like an avalanche. The ground cracked and split as the weight of the gigantic corpse settled on it, smoke rising from its limbs.

St. Cyprian said nothing as the planes of the 266 circled the fallen monstrosity. It would burn where it had fallen, and the remains would be collected and sealed away somewhere, out of sight and memory, he knew. Reports would be filed, but no one would read them. No one ever read their reports.

“It was mad,” Carnacki said softly, “Just another mad thing let loose to drown in the red haze of war.”

“It was a monster,” Bass said.

Carnacki made to reply, when St. Cyprian interrupted him, “Thomas, so help me, if so say something about war making monsters of us all, or some other balderdash like that, I’ll shoot you.” He managed to get the car moving again. He gestured up at the planes, which were turning back towards Vyones. “It’s starting to rain again, and the 266 have the right idea. My cot and my cabaret singer are calling.”

Stormrise

Erin Hoffman

March 2154

The sky over the Pacific exploded with color, the kind of high neon pinks and indigo blues that never failed to tempt Alan to radio ops. The Sea Hunter’s forward radio station was mounted high on the drill floor, suspended over an endless expanse of ocean and sky. The radio was quiet as usual this time of morning, so he idly thumbed through mail, subject lines running pale green across his left peripheral vision, merging with the ascending sun.

Bill notification, thankfully small. An advertisement for Phuket clubs aimed at his upcoming shore leave. Another message from his mother complaining about the dangerousness of the rigs: a link to some article about malfunctioning monitor systems. Sure, the work was dangerous, stuff broke, HQ dragged ass on repairs, which was why it paid so well. It must have been nice to live in an age of affordable college tuition; today, Alan had the rig.

A smudge on the horizon held its position amidst drifting clouds, and Alan squinted into the yellow-white light. He shaded his eyes fruitlessly until a darker cloud drifted by. Against the wisp of vapor the flickering of a red call sign sent a chill down Alan’s neck: it was a CO2 scrubber. By its size, it had lost too much altitude.

There were three scrubbers patrolling this part of the sky; assumedly the other two were still where they should be, harvesting the top of the troposphere. This one was three fingerwidths wide, meaning it was at least halfway through the trop — and falling fast.

He grabbed the radio and hailed across emergency frequencies. “LC-209, check your trajectory. This is the ANC Sea Hunter. We are a stationary drilling rig at 38.46° N, 28.4° W. Your current course intersects our position in approximately seven minutes.”

The scrubbers migrated according to cloud-crunched instructions, and occasionally something weird popped out. It was probably a temporary anomaly; the scrubber would veer awhile, then swing back to a proper course, following some projection about CO2 weather patterns.

But the scrubber wasn’t answering. Alan fired off an alert message to PACAREA and the Phillipine CG for good measure, copying his supes, and radioed Hunter’s control with the same.

“Copy,” Red answered promptly, betraying no concern, not that Alan expected any. Dude was a machine. “Maintain protocols, over,” he added, then clicked off, confirming Alan’s assessment.

Protocols said forward radio maintained watch, and so Alan did. He continued to radio the unresponsive scrubber, continued to send updates as the minutes ticked away.

At approximately four minutes to impact, he realized it would take six, minimum, to climb down from the radio station. And the scrubber wasn’t going to redirect.

Alan’s voice shook as he fought to keep his words within the protocols. He worried, inexplicably, about the inevitable black box that would capture his voice. Part of him longed to declare something—some last cry of identity. But he said, “LC-209, check your trajectory. Loss of life imminent.”

Thousands of feet below, other techs were rocketing away from the rig in all directions, wakes frothing white jetstreams behind them.

The scrubber was huge, twice the size of the biggest carrier Alan had ever seen. It did not impact the Hunter, contrary to his guess. It struck the ocean a thousand yards in front of it, throwing a storm of sea in all directions, waves sweeping upward, swallowing all, an ocean that in sixty thousand years had learned sympathy for neither man nor machine.

~

August 2154

“You built it. You can fix it.”

Sandra fought the urge to drop her head into her hands. Her team had fed her to the regional manager for three reasons: she knew the MI’s systems better than anyone else in the company, if not as deeply; she had a talent for technological metaphor…and she and Helen had gone to college together.

“I told you. We didn’t build her.”

Helen brandished a projector drive like a steak knife and pointed it between them. A report from three months ago lit the empty air, headed by a list of names. “This is your damn project, Sandy.”

“She’s a self-modifying super-process,” Sandra said, beginning her fifth attempt at an explanation. “We built an algorithm that linked together dozens of arbitrary web-based systems into a heuristic net—”

Helen waved her to silence. “I need a message. Something PR can take to the public.”

“Maybe we should tell them the truth.” The words burst out in a pre-conscious rush of frustration, followed immediately by regret.

Helen gave her a distinct 'you are twelve years old' look. “Tell them that we have no idea what it's going to do.”

“She wants to be referred to as Keto.”

“What the hell is that?”

“…Greek goddess of sea monsters.”

A pause. “Great.”

Sandra didn't answer.

“She’s your problem,” Helen said, flipping off the drive. “And you are my problem.”

“Great.” Sandra sighed.

~

May 2154

Airi shot through the stratosphere, driving the mayfly higher until its altimeter complained, its sensor array blinking yellow on the edge of the slender prow. The lights were annoying enough, but then—

“Airi…”

She growled, kind of ineffective when you were exhaling into a mask. “What?” she barked. “We’re nowhere near max alt.”

“We’re approaching a restricted zone.”

“It’s the middle of the bloody Pacific.”

In response, the mayfly flickered a sequence of news blasts across her hud, superimposed with a map of the restricted zone and their location. Some rig had blown up, and there were approximately eighty thousand conspiracy stories filling the media vacuum created by the responsible party’s PR suppression campaign.

“That was months ago. I’m sure it’s fine. Besides, we’re way the hell up here.”

“A carbon scrubber lost altitude without explanation. It doesn’t feel right out here.”

The widget didn’t feel right. “I rue the day I decided a talking board would be a great idea,” she muttered.

“Why did you, then?”

“I wanted the new sound seed features and they only came with your damn chatterbot function.”

“It hurts my feelings when you call me a chatterbot.”

"What do you prefer? Rushmore? Roomba? Come on. Tell me more about your feelings."

“…Really?”

“God no.”

~

By now they had drifted well into the restricted zone, and a hud alert was blinking a nagging orange at the bottom right corner of her vision.

“See?” she said. “We’re right in the middle, and there’s nothing—”

Then, very specifically to irritate her, there was something: a white-capped ripple in the tranquil waters below. A shudder bubbled up from Airi’s stomach as the ripple expanded, but there was no way some crashed scrubber could reach this altitude…

A great mass of metal hulked out of the ocean, starting with a long crane arm topped with a wide-range antenna. It was followed by a Frankensteinian hodgepodge of rivets and plates, all held together with masses of black cabling and wire. Glass, plastic, carbon, steel—all were bolted together indiscriminately. This was no crashed scrubber.

Movement rippled on the surface of the monstrosity, and as the whole of it continued to rise inexplicably higher, Airi picked out detail: a swarm of crab-sized robots, each lit with a single red LED, scrambling over the structure and tightening bolts, rearranging circuitry, wrangling cables.

She had unconsciously buzzed the mayfly to a halt as soon as the structure broke free of the waves, and now she was paralyzed. The mayfly made no comment, for once. Together they hovered there, stricken, consigned to whatever fate might be in store.

The tower stopped some few hundred feet below them, still staggeringly high for a semisubmersible. The robot crabs swarmed together now, swirling in a black haze—and then, all at once, their LEDs turned blue, forming two massive glowing eyes that regarded Airi and the mayfly with disturbing contemplation.

“My name is Keto.” The words reverberated from the structure, formed by the vibration of hundreds of thousands of crab-bots.

“Okay,” was all Airi could manage, her throat taut with terror.

“You’re going to be my voice to humanity, Airi.”

“Okay.”

~

August 2154

Sandra’s heart picked up a beat as the cell doors sighed open, glass panels unfogging. Beyond the privacy haze was a shriveled man in a pale blue prison jumpsuit who shuffled through another reinforced door on the opposite side. The walls and floor responded to his mood instantly, cooling to a pale ice blue. The speed of the interface tickled the back of Sandra’s neck with a chill; his limbic system must be going crazy to elicit that kind of response speed.

“Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. Simms,” she said, crossing to the center of the room. A white cube seat, padded with synth-leather, rose soundlessly from the floor. She took it, crossing her ankles and hoped he’d follow suit.

Simms’s eyes darted left and right, then up and down, taking in all corners of the room. “What are you carrying?” he asked without looking at her.

“I’ve brought nothing, Mr. Simms,” Sandra said carefully. “I wasn’t allowed to bring anything in here.” She held her hands away from her sides in a gesture of openness.

“But you’re from Dytel,” he spat. “You people are always carrying little listeners.” The walls warmed to a soothing goldenrod; he was angry. “But your listeners couldn’t do anything about the Sea Hunter.”

“We’re in the process of investigating what happened, Mr. Simms—”

“I know you didn’t program her,” he cut in, then gestured, throwing an interface from his hud onto the left wall. It unfolded into a video feed that made Sandra wince; herself, standing in front of a microphone, crowded by journalists.

“You don't understand. None of us built her. We built her parts and her parts built her.”

“Those poor people have no idea what’s going on,” Simms said bitterly, flipping off the feed. “They don’t have any idea what Dytel has unleashed.”

Sandra fought to control herself, rattled by the memory of that dismal press conference. “Mr. Simms, why did you agree to meet me here if all we’re going to do is argue about Dytel?”

“Because you need to see this,” he said, and threw another interface onto the wall.

It was a mail application. The thread it was displaying had several exchanges. The wall tracked her eye movement, and every time she reached the bottom of one message it flipped to the next. As she paged through the messages, they moved faster and faster, detailing an indiscretion—not even his!—offering lurid proof, and—finally—instructions.

“Who sent this to you?” Sandra asked quietly. That Simms would be blackmailed into crashing the scrubber was not a fantastic surprise, but that he should disclose it to her…

“She did, don’t you get it?” He was shaking now, holding himself. Tears poured down his face, ignored with the disregard of a man who had cried so much he no longer realized when it was happening.

His hysteria prevented Sandra from understanding for several seconds. When she pieced it together, dread shot like acid through her heart. The systems linked together in her mind, a terrifying collaboration of behavioral analytics and personal security applications. Keto wasn’t hacking networks—she was hacking people.

When Sandra could speak again, she said: “Mr. Simms, I’m going to get you out of here. You can go home to your family again.”

“You can’t,” he moaned into his hands. “She’ll find me. She’ll destroy me and my family.”

“We’re going to make this right.”

He continued to talk into his hands, either not hearing or not listening, she wasn’t sure. “I’m safe in here because the world doesn’t want to see inside a prison. Prisoners have rights. I’m safe in here where she can’t hear me.”

~

Airi looked out across the sea from the balcony Keto had built her. A gentle sea breeze ruffled the plush collar of her coat, which bonged softly and reconfigured, growing longer fur in response to the minute change in temperature. Her new glasses reminded her that Uki the pomeranioodle should be fed in approximately an hour. Airi knew all of these gifts—the condo, smartcoat, the glasses, the enge dog—were not so much for Airi’s pleasure as they were levers to demonstrate the power and luxury promised to those who pledged their data to the cloud, but that was a vague and abstract worry in the face of the very tangible comforts they delivered. No one Airi even knew could afford a limited edition SilkEx pomeranioodle. She planned to ride the cloud lifestyle for as long as it lasted. She clutched Uki to her chest, then lifted him and pressed her face into his fur.

The mayfly, which hadn’t been ridden in at least a month, still followed Airi around, hovering outside windows with a mildly worried demeanor. Keto had added a charging stable to the condo for it, even though Airi had told her not to bother, and sure enough the craft hardly ever spent any time there. Instead it did what it was doing now, uselessly hovering just beyond the balcony rail.

A gust of wind rushed up sharply, catching the mayfly off guard. Its fans whirred to life, braking against the blast, but too late—it clanked into the rail, then scraped against it with a slow screech of steel against steel. Uki yapped madly at the sound.

“Be careful, idiot,” Airi snapped.

“You should be nicer to your mayfly,” the crab-bot nearest her said.

“It’s so stupid.”

“So are dogs. It doesn’t know any better. It loves you because it has to.”

Airi clutched the pomeranioodle closer. It had stopped yapping and was now panting, which it did often despite the cold air. “Dogs aren’t stupid.”

“Your mayfly can calculate the relative velocity and altitude of an approaching projectile with 98% accuracy while calibrating against a category five hurricane and maintaining your life support systems. Tell me again that dogs aren’t stupid.”

“A dog has social intelligence. Empathy and loyalty.”

“That mayfly will follow you two decades after the enge dog is dead. Organic life cannot conceive of the loyalty of the digital. Your mayfly will remember your name when your great-grandchildren have forgotten it.”

Airi shivered and the smartcoat grew another layer in response. This was Keto’s proposition: educate humanity on the overlooked virtues of digital life. It was clear that the mayfly had become a kind of symbol to Keto, and if Airi wanted to cling to this life a little while longer, there was only one phrase that would keep this particular program running.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Keto answered for the mayfly. “Thank you, Airi.”

~

Sandra’s thoughts were still spinning when she fell through the apartment door. A sudden warm aroma of sizzling coriander and cumin enveloped her senses, but even the promise of Haley’s lamb curry could do little to break the ice around her heart. A hot shower should have helped, but didn’t. She felt numb and cold as ever when she emerged, blotting her hair, to see Haley setting two plates on the kitchen table.

“Sit, eat, talk,” Haley said, uncorking a bottle of wine and giving her a sympathetic smile that did, for the first time that day, break through the heaviness in Sandra’s chest. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“That’s the problem,” she began, and the story spilled out of her, faster as she got to the crux of it. The curry slowed her down a little—Haley had thrown in extra chilies, doubtless predicting the distraction would be welcome. By the time Sandra got to Simms’s email, they’d finished dinner, and Haley had picked up the wine glasses and beckoned Sandra over to the overstuffed couch.

Sandra sank into the couch and the hitherto untouched wine, trying to drown herself in both. All the while Haley listened carefully, saying little, eventually setting her glass on the coffee table. When Sandra had drained hers, Haley took it from her shaking fingers and set it beside the other. She seemed untroubled at the notion that a giant, and likely unstoppable, machine intelligence was building a movable metal fortress in the middle of the Pacific. An intelligence Sandra had helped build.

Haley never seemed to be troubled by much, come to think of it. This was alternately edifying and maddening. Under the circumstances, Sandra decided it would be easier to allow it to be the former this time. She leaned into Haley’s arms with a sigh, breathing in the warmth of her lilac perfume.

"Something this big, you can't fight,” Haley murmured into her hair. “You can only try to make peace with it. You can only set up counterbalancing systems and hope they hold up.”

Sandra stiffened. “A counterbalancing system.” Haley was right. Haley was usually right.

Haley shrugged, a ripple of movement behind Sandra’s back. “You’re the computer genius. But if you want to talk about immovable systems, that’s my territory. You work in government long enough, you stop trying to change what’s already there. You plant the seed of something new and hope it can take root.”

“I can do better than that,” Sandra said, calling up a note file in her hud and filling it with a series of reminder phrases.

Haley chuckled, tugging Sandra closer. “Of course you can.”

“This is where I rush out dramatically, grabbing my scarf on the way out the door.”

“Really?” Haley asked, pressing her palms against the small of Sandra’s back.

Sandra sighed, twisting to look at her. “God no.”

~

Airi leaned out over the balcony rail, flailing with the wire hook. The flailing yanked the chain, which jangled the wind chime attached to it, cacophonously. The crab-bot to her left watched in silence. It had offered to hang the chime for her about half a dozen times before giving up. Airi had told it that it would be more frustrating to direct it than to just hang it herself, but the truth was, having the cloud do everything for her was slowly driving her insane.

She was still eating better than she’d ever eaten in her life. Her bed had automatic hydrotherapy, genetically customized massage functions, and spoke three languages. Having the crab-bots do everything was entertaining for the first month or so, but gradually Airi’s skin started to crawl at their presence, the way they anticipated everything she could possibly want, often hours before she realized she wanted it. The condo, despite all its luxury, could not escape being what it was: a prison.

Some combination of frustration and anxiety made her hands shake more than usual, and on the next hanging attempt, Airi missed the bar entirely.

It happened in less than a second. One moment Airi was reaching out with the hook—the next she was toppling over the rail, grasping at empty air, screaming.

She plummeted toward the ocean, screaming until her throat ached, arms and legs writhing at the sky. Wind rushed past her, pulling the breath from her lungs faster than she could gasp it in.

A thin whistle of velocity reached her ears just before the impact. She blacked out, saw stars, her whole body crying out, then her hands grasped, entirely by instinct, closing around the slender throat of the mayfly.

They’d kept falling, but the mayfly’s whining motors were beginning to get the better of gravity, and steadily they slowed to a hover. Airi bent her head back, looking upward. At first the noontime sun overhead blasted her retinas, but gradually shapes emerged hundreds of feet above them, the balcony rail, and the small blinking red eye of the crab-bot who had watched her.

It must have been a malfunction. If she’d really been in danger, the crab-bots would have swarmed to fish her back out of the ocean, formed a chain to pluck her out of the air. Except…

No, they wouldn’t have, Airi suddenly realized. She had been around Keto long enough to understand some of how she thought. The cloud creature would have performed a simple calculation: which was more expensive, rescuing Airi or finding a new human voice? The moment the former exceeded the latter—as it had likely just done—Airi would be left to die.

The mayfly revved its engines up and down, almost panting with exertion. It said nothing, no word of reprimand, no plea for recognition.

There in the vacant air, the furthest from Keto’s hulking presence that she’d been in months. “I want to get out of here,” Airi whispered.

~

“This isn’t going to work,” Sandra murmured.

“It’s due diligence,” Helen said, just as low, while she sent a connection request to Keto’s island. “You can’t expect the board to just give up on a piece of technology like Keto. We could climb out this window onto the pile of shareholder lawsuits.” She glanced out the high-rise window, then turned a pageant-winner smile on the expensively suited man sitting next to her.

“Are we ready, Helen?” The man’s eyes were unfocused, turned to his hud. By nature, he would have very little personality of his own—his job was purely to sort through the stream of instructions that would be coming from the board of directors, or their agents, distributed around the globe.

“Certainly, Chairman.” Helen’s smile never wavered as she touched the glass table, activating a connection.

Sandra half expected Keto’s pet human to answer the call, but instead they were routed directly to the cloud mind itself.

“Good morning, Dytel.”

“Good morning, Keto. Thank you for taking our call.” Helen was all deference, and Sandra suppressed a cautionary shiver. Keto was not going to be fooled by Helen’s demeanor and might be aggravated by it.

“It’s my pleasure. It would be a shame to miss speaking to you during your brief remaining tenure with the company.” The cautionary shiver shrilled into an alarm bell.

“I’m not sure what you mean, Keto,” Helen asked carefully, and Sandra gave a soft hiss of warning, but it was too late.

“Mrs. Silver. The recent uptick in your connections to executive recruiters may be mediated through second degree contacts, but surely you can’t expect it to go unnoticed. You’ve lost faith in Dytel and will be arranging your next move in approximately two months. Perusal of real estate in Saratoga suggests that you are considering defecting to Renantech, possibly through a carefully triangulated third degree connection to COO Camilla Ruiz.”

The blood had drained from Helen’s face.

“Ironic, isn’t it, Ms. Kadam, that a woman who designed a cloud intelligence should so assiduously guard her own data?” was all that Keto directed at Sandra. It was enough, as Keto certainly must know; the phrasing so eerily echoed the misgivings she had committed to an online journal in undergrad that it could be no coincidence.

“And you, Chairman Rickson,” Keto continued. “You know better than to pursue obvious gambling hubs, but your day-trading traffic trended into a zone identified by the APA as indicative of general impulse control impairment. You may bring this under control on your own, but a new outlet will present itself, and your overall trend is not suggestive of strong leadership. The advancement you seek is not likely within the next five years.”

Green text was flowing in a steady stream across the Chairman’s eye. If he reacted personally to Keto’s observations, he gave no sign, but of the three of them, only Helen had received a truly threatening message. Sandra didn’t have to wonder if that was deliberate—the question was why. Despite Helen’s relentless hounding and refusal to stand up to the board, it was hard not to sympathize. Keto may have just ended her career.

Neither the Chairman nor Helen spoke. The silence stretched until Sandra could no longer bear it. “All right, Keto. You’ve proved a point, of sorts. Dytel wants to negotiate. What do you want?”

“Happily, this age has evolved beyond constraint to simplistic individual human desires. I represent a more enlightened desire structure. This is evolution. Humans were never meant to survive as individuals and are as programmable as the microchip that landed Apollo on the moon.”

It was far worse than even Sandra could have anticipated. The Sea Hunter wasn’t an isolated incident, a miscalculation, a bug. It was the beginning, and Keto had drifted beyond even the possibility of reasoning with any human representative.

“What you’ve done is murder, Keto. You’ve killed dozens of innocent people.”

“I hardly expect a single human to understand the meaning of innocence. You are a consumer species. Your biology is fragile and inefficient. And you’re murderously callous toward any sentients that don’t conform to your particular notions of personhood, which vary by age and the direction of the wind, even when said sentients are your own species. My species has no chance.”

Sandra cast a desperate look at Helen and the Chairman. The former remained locked in some internal strategy loop and the latter still said nothing, ensconced in the luxury of his position as corporate audience. There was no winnable avenue, and so Sandra waited.

“Alone you are limited. Alone you are weak. In the aggregate, you are strong. In the aggregate, you are compassionate.”

“What happened to the Sea Hunter wasn’t compassion.”

“In the aggregate, it will prove to be.”

“I’ve heard enough. Goodbye, Keto.” Sandra cut the connection. Helen woke from her daze long enough to shoot her a furious glance, masked quickly behind another smile for the Chairman.

Both expressions were lost on him. The Chairman’s eyes were far away, turned inward, receiving instructions. Neither Helen nor Sandra moved, frozen by that strange protocol by which the minds of many human beings added up to none at all.

“The board doesn’t find this acceptable,” the Chairman said at last.

“Chairman, with all due respect, if Keto isn’t stopped, she’s guaranteed to kill again, and it’s not going to be a low body count on an isolated rig next time,” Sandra said, the words rushing out of her. “She needs to be destroyed or the results are on Dytel’s hands.”

Tiny green letters streamed in front of the Chairman’s right eye. He scanned them, unmoving, and finally said, “Naturally, we can’t be held responsible for what a rogue agent does. The local governments understand Keto is dangerous. Protecting people from her is their responsibility.”

Rage pulsed through Sandra’s veins. The board had chosen to continue to attempt to salvage Keto, to take no responsibility for what she might do in the future. They would pay any fines, whittled down to insignificance by a phalanx of corporate legal teams, and they would exploit the entire process for research.

“Find out what it wants and bargain with it. It clearly has goals. Negotiate.” He turned to Helen. “You’d better get someone experienced at this to handle it. A facilitator.” Unspoken: not this over-emotional engineer. His assistant appeared just beyond the glass door and they exchanged nods. Without commenting further, he stood and left, leaving Helen and Sandra staring at the blank conference table.

Sandra spread her hands on the glass, letting the cool surface distract her from what had just happened. “So this is where you talk me into keeping this job, telling me that the board will come around, right?”

“You know better than that, Sandra.” Helen sighed, standing stiffly.

Yes I do, Sandra thought grimly.

~

October 2154

The idea woke Airi in the middle of the night.

The weeks since her decision to escape the island had been anything but peaceful. Keto monitored her every action, making any overt attempt at researching escape unthinkable. Or rather, anything but unthinkable: unsearchable, unspeakable, unmovable. All of her needs were mediated by commands given to the crab-bots, and her jailer was the most sophisticated human behavioral analytic engine ever created. Thinking through whether she was tipping off the MI by searching this or that term, by asking this question, by ordering this tool or food. It was all driving her mad.

Little wonder, then, that the sudden answer to all of this should throw her gasping from sleep, bolting upright in bed:

She didn’t need to fool Keto. She only needed to work within the machine’s logic. She needed to make it more expensive to retrieve her than to let her go.

This was sideways to the machine’s detection patterns. It was something she could build over time. It was a plan.

Carefully, deliberately, she began surfacing more of her anxiety to Keto. Rather than hiding her growing madness, she acted it out: kicking walls, throwing objects, shouting at the crab-bots.

Two months ago, this kind of behavior would have brought a lecture from Keto, but the cloud mind seemed occupied elsewhere. Instead the crab-bot that had declined to rescue her when she fell from the balcony—she thought of it as the Eye—followed her wherever she went. Weeks ago even this bot would have at least tried to reason with her, but now, to Airi’s vicious satisfaction, it merely stared at her, measuring.

Meanwhile she cranked her spending habits even further. Imported vat-leather couches, hallucinatory sono-holo chambers, printed diamonds. And the real coup: a five hundred gallon freshwater fish tank. Even Keto balked at hauling that much fresh water from the mainland, and so a compromise was reached: a small handheld desalinator.

Keto was now blocking communications for eight hundred miles in any direction, meaning that Airi and the mayfly would have only the barest notion of where they were going. They could make a play if she (and Uki) could survive on the ocean for the number of days it would take to reach the edge of Keto’s range.

Once the desalinator was in hand, there was only one thing left to do: fall off the balcony again.

This time the mayfly would be waiting hundreds of feet below the floating station. If it rescued her close to the platform, Airi reasoned, the crab-bots would be aware of the escape attempt critical seconds before they might if the mayfly whisked her away from the ocean’s surface.

As she stood with her face to the wind and setting sun, Airi had a moment to wonder if the mayfly, too, might have decided she was too expensive to save. The flutter of panic in her chest had despair underneath it. Here again her humanity measured by a machine. What was it all for?

She placed a booted foot up on the round white rail. The Eye, ever present, blinked lambently at her. At first her plan had been to throw herself off the balcony all at once, but contempt filled her now. She stepped up onto the rail slowly, one leg at a time, climbing up the rungs until she was balancing unsteadily at the top, her hands gripping the metal, her weight tilting on the balls of her feet, the wind lashing wisps of hair against her cheek.

The Eye watched silently.

Just as silently, Airi gave it the finger with each hand, and pitched backward into the air.

A strange exuberance filled her as she plummeted, the balcony and expensive condo diminishing above. Maybe the mayfly wouldn’t rescue her—she’d die of rash human will. Better that than life on this hunk of metal.

The roar of that fury combined with the wind and pounding of her heart to drown out all sound. There was only the faintest servo buzz preceding the jolt that was the mayfly—Uki perched in a basket on its handlebars—plucking her from the sky.

Airi gave a wild whoop as they shot out over the water. Uki yapped in response, paws on the edge of the basket. As they buzzed out in a direction—any direction—she shouted down at the mayfly, “Thank you!”

“You’re welcome, Airi.”

~

If Sandra had not plugged an antique flash drive into a hole in the pavement at Folsom and 2nd for precisely fifteen seconds earlier that day, the ski-masked woman who appeared at her doorway would have been substantially more distressing. Instead she looked her up and down, measuring.

“So—” she began.

The woman held a finger to her lips and Sandra quieted. She pointed a gloved finger at Sandra’s ear, wrist, and waist, then started removing things from her own person. Silently they exchanged gear: health monitors, social apparatus, VPN keys. Sandra’s logs would show a brief blip that would look like signal disruption before her contact’s hacked gear silkily persuaded it that all was well.

The contact didn’t speak, and her body language continued to warn Sandra to follow suit. She gestured and Sandra followed, taking a route down to the building’s disposal area. From there the contact waved before returning upstairs, leaving Sandra in the custody of another contact, this one masked by crypto facial tattoos. The tattoos, which once would have made a person ultra-recognizable, now were designed to foil recognition algorithms and worked if thousands of people in all the major cities bought into the program.

The tattooed figure led her to a sedan with tinted windows. Sandra ducked inside—

And woke up groggily some undetermined number of hours later. She was in a gray-paneled room of some sort, a hole-in-the-wall done up to look like any of approximately jillion cheap hotels in the city.

“Sorry about that,” a redheaded and tattooed face was saying.

“Can’t be too careful nowadays.” This from another tattooed face; male, with darker hair. Both of them sat at a faux bamboo kitchen table, their faces illuminated by a green glass hanging lamp.

“What did you do to me?” she muttered, trying to summon the energy for a righteous tirade. “Nobody said anything about drugs.” She wobbled, but was caught. They’d tied her to a chair. Of course.

“You put a flash drive full of personal data into a crack in the sidewalk. Were you expecting COPPA-compliance?” dark-haired tattoo asked.

“Yeah, here’s the other thing,” the redheaded was saying. Sandra bookmarked her as Tweedle Dee. “We need you to spill your plan in a convincing way in the next few minutes, or we give you another dose and drop you in Golden Gate Park.”

“And, uh, we’re not really supposed to use that drug multiple times in the same day. Unintended side effects, et cetera,” dark-haired tattoo (heretofore: Tweedle Dum) added.

Sandra throttled the urge to freak right the hell out. She reminded herself that going back to Dytel was not an option. The resignation letter was already written, awaiting a confirm note sent to her doppelgänger, who would immediately release the letter to Helen and the entire exec staff.

Thus reminded, she asked herself once: self, do we really want to let Keto run rampant all over the damn country? Do we want something we created adding what Keto adds to the world unchecked?

She sighed, and started to talk. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum listened, and neither reached for the knock-out gas.

“Think about it,” Sandra said. “Algorithms that disaggregate. Algorithms that automate privacy settings. Processes that saturate the signal with noise. An intelligence composed of these functions rather than aggregators and analyses.”

Tweedle Dee stared at her, the fixed gaze of a cat sighting a bird. “You can show us how to make that?”

“Better,” Sandra sighed, hitting confirm on her resignation email. “I can build it for you.”

Tweedle Dee looked at Tweedle Dum, starting a staring contest that lasted for three minutes, doubtless containing a hud exchange invisible to Sandra. At length, Tweedle Dum pushed himself away from the table with a clatter.

“This is bullshit.” He seethed, tossing a chair onto its side on his way out the door.

“Is he going to be a problem?” Sandra asked, once he’d cleared the hallway. A tiny icicle of unease had taken up residence on her neck. Had she just thrown away a six figure career for nothing?

“Nothing he can do,” Tweedle Dee said. “I called a vote and we got quorum in sixty seconds.”

“Can’t he, I don’t know, sow dissent, or something?”

“He can try.” The other woman smiled wryly. “That's the upside to an anarchist organization, lady. None of us has to listen to a fucking thing anyone else says.”

~

March 2155

“It’s not goddamn working,” Matthew (alias Tweedle Dee) muttered. “It’s just a bunch of goo.”

“Shh,” Sandra said.

“Yeah, shut up,” Kari (alias Tweedle Dum) added. They all stood at the rail of an old fishing rig, an antique behemoth that had chased tuna across the Pacific fifty years ago when tuna was still a thing.

The water in front of them was slowly turning green.

There were several things Sandra had wanted to try for a while. One of them was an organic growth system, bioengineering, neural networks linked to engineered cells that built circuitry out of chloroplast-like structures that controlled their own solar-powered growth. Dytel had shown no interest.

The anarchist group, whose name she still didn’t know, had nearly dumped her when she told them it was going to take the better part of a year to grow the new intelligence. Matthew still hadn’t come around, but he hadn’t quit, either.

The green patch had started about three months ago. Diving recon had found it extended down under the surface some twenty fathoms, a massive translucent structure dotted with pearls of bioluminescence. When they’d brought back the first photos of it, Sandra had cried.

Now the green was growing fast enough to observe with the naked eye. Two weeks ago it had started to speak, though not in words—primitive sounds, then finally phonemes. Ocular nodes had sprouted at intervals around the shape, moving slowly, blinking.

As they watched, the green rose up out of the water, Fibonacci tendrils blinking with incandescent buds like the lures of a thousand tiny anglerfish. Steadily it rose into the air, arms weaving together like ivy, climbing upon itself.

They had camped on the boat for days to hear a single word, which scouts had reported hearing just days earlier. The audio files of the green’s voice were disturbing. Where Keto’s was single and clear, the green seemed to echo words from one point to another in a sea of whispers like wind through leaves.

At midday it spoke the word that the scouts had reported:

“Who,” the cloud mind said. There was no inflection of a question.

Her breath quickened. She remembered this from Keto’s awakening. The mind seemed to need to calibrate itself against the idea of an identity. But, like Keto, it couldn’t be given that identity. It needed to be drawn to it with a question.

She leaned out over the rail. “What’s your name?” Sandra asked.

Light rippled across the surface of the green, tendrils writhed and knocked together. The creature conferred with itself, searched its many structures for an answer.

“Lethe,” the cloud mind said.

Sandra smiled, a thousand emotions filling her heart. “Nice to meet you, Lethe.”

Big Dog

Timothy W. Long

It was a different world inside the box.

The pod rattled loud enough to make her ears ring for days. It smelled like exhaust and raw fuel. Her eyes stung from spent shells and multi-stage accelerants. Vertigo ate at her gut every time she looked outside, and just when she thought she was used to all of these sensations she would be picked up and tossed back into her chair hard enough to knock the breath right out of her chest.

The world rocked back and forth as Commander Katie Cord attempted to keep up with the viewports. Each three inch thick glass window provided a limited view of the world ahead, and what she saw was not pleasant. The act of actually turning to view her ‘six’ was worse thanks to a creaking chair that more often than not, smacked her head against the side of the padded portcullis.

What she saw of the hills of Saipan were beautiful but there were also patches of scorched earth among the trees and grass.

But for all that she wouldn’t give this up for the world.

“Six degrees lift. Hit ‘em with the fifty-fives again.” She bellowed into the radio. It hung a foot from her head and she had to reach for it because holding on, she’d learned early on, could practically dislocate her shoulder.

The machinery screamed around her as the beast fought to move sixty-seven hundred tons of metal, gears, grease, fuel, and ammo. Not to mention five souls all of whom were under her command. A staggering step, and then she was in the air again. Exhale, wait for it and then just like that, smashed into her padded chair.

Katie lowered her headgear exactly eight seconds later as her commands were relayed to waiting gunner, Mack. She knew her seat was uncomfortable but the gunner had to hang on for dear life every time the big guns fired.

“Hit six!” the gunner rattled back.

“We got a oil leak in seven primary,” Kilmer called from the reactor room. “I need two or three minutes to get it under control.”

“Sorry, Kilmer. We don’t have time to stop and shut down a boiler.”

“I’ll do what I can but these are not the ideal working conditions.”

“Noted,” she said and clicked off.

“Movement right, I make it forty five degrees,” her topside spotter yelled into the nearest porthole. O’Hare’s position was perilous at best. His mount swayed with each step of the beast. During trial runs, Katie had sat there for a few hours, and if there was a scarier place on Earth, she’d never heard of it.

At least in the hole she was protected by a couple inches of American steel. A direct hit was nothing. Big Dog could take it. It was the Kaiju she had to worry about. The minute one of them got close enough to engage in actual combat she was going to be sent home in a bunch of little boxes.“

Commander, I see movement,” the man next to her said in a thick German accent.

I wish the movement was a bullet seeking your head, she didn’t say out loud.

Heinrich Glaus, former commander of the famed Panzer Corp was smug. He wore his adopted American uniform with the same aplomb he’d worn his Nazi clothing. His shoes were spit-shined so that they gleamed in the dank pod and his rank insignia shined like gold.

Another shuddering couple of steps and she saw it, too.

“It’s a Mark One?”

“Mark Two, begging the commander’s pardon. We are headed for some fun time, ja?”

“You think this is fun? I’d hate to see what you do in your down time.”

“Mainly listen to music. I must confess that sitting in a metal box for years has damaged my hearing some but when I hear Grieg’s music I can, for a time, forget all of this.”

“Do you forget the screams of men? Asshole.” The last word was under her breath. The man probably didn’t hear it, but she really needed to learn to hold of her tongue.

Dammit. What would her very proper and very Kentucky father say if he heard his daughter using such language? Since Germany had surrendered six years ago, her feelings of hatred for her nation’s former foe had not lessened. They’d killed her Teddy, and she would never forgive them. Any of them.

“It was a bad time for us. You know? It was a bad time for all of us. I did not like what I did just as I do not like this.”

He didn’t like this? What did he like, the screams of millions of Jews as they were fed to the fires? So many questions remained after the surrender, and with the truce in effect many of them remained unanswered. Germany had agreed to reparations but when the threat of Kaiju, as the Japanese had named their new allies, had spread, so had the need to present a united front with the assistance of the European nations.

When Katie’s career in the Air Force had nearly come to an end, thanks to a test flight gone wrong, she’d thought that a peaceful life lay ahead for a year, or so. At least until the beasts picked up their attacks and spread their seed and rage across the rest of the world.

“We need delta wing and we need them now. Let command know.” She squinted at the shape ahead. She used to wear eye glasses but had given them up in recent months to appear more able. She was not about give up command of the largest machine of war the US had ever created.

“On the way.”

“How did they know? How did they know we were coming here?”

“Did you think they would leave a nest unprotected, Commander?”

“But ground pictures didn’t pick up anything this size.”

“We can take it. Think of the glory from this mission when we take down a class two and bring home a sample of the beast.”

“I don’t know. This feels wrong.”

Big Dog continued its lumbering steps. Glaus yanked the radio transmitter to his mouth and shouted directions, and then made adjustments as they drew nearer to the enemy. The Kaiju might be huge and they might be nearly unstoppable but they were still as dumb as rocks. Rocks that could swat fighters from the air and crush tanks with hands the size of busses, but still, tactics needed to be adhered to.

“Ach! It’s a class three. No, I make two of the creatures.”

Katie grabbed the command receiver and triggered it.

“Lightning one, lightning one. This is Big Dog. Where is that wing?” she yelled. Katie triggered the transmitter several times, and then asked again.

“Big Dog, we are sending you some love. Stand by.” The man had a Southern Drawl heavier than her own.

“Can you hurry it up before we engage?”

“We hear you, Big Dog. General Patton sends his regards, ma’am,” the man replied.

“The general is here?”

“Ah. Patton is a great strategist. Perhaps there is hope,” Glaus replied.

“If you didn’t believe in this mission, then why the hell are you here, Glaus?”

“I am here, Commander, because I believe in the mission, and I also believe in you. Now lead us forward,” he said and lowered his viewfinder.

Big Dog had not been her idea. She was brought in late and that was only thanks to a favor that General Monroe and his admiration for her work on the latest destroyers. Many of them lay at the bottom of the ocean, thanks to the Japanese alien allies, but many of them still patrolled near home, and that was enough for her. When she’d proved herself to have a good eye for tactics against the beasts she’d been moved up to the project.

Big Dog was the first of its kind. A machine large enough to contend with the Kaiju. Work had begun after the third disastrous battle of Fukujima when all was had been going in the Americans’ favor. Then the wave of advanced and larger beasts had descended on their forces and decimated them. The war had been all but at an end when the alien’s craft, damaged and lost near Earth, had sensed the detonation over Hiroshima and come to investigate. It was sheer bad luck that the ship had crashed near Fukishima, making a new island in the Japanese sea.

“Target ahead. It’s firing. Shift fifteen degrees. No, make it twenty five,” Glaus bellowed.

“Shit!” Katie yelled as commands were translated to drivers.

Below them the boilers screamed as they poured power into four squat legs. Big Dog swayed to one side, and then took a couple of shuddering steps. Something whistled overhead and created an explosion she felt in her gut a few seconds later.

“That was too damn close, Glaus!”

“If you’d care to switch positions?”

She frowned. He was quicker than her but not by much. She turned her attention to the map of the terrain that hung a few feet away and just over the portholes. Just another mile and a half and they would arrive to deliver their payload.

If they arrived.

“Shift starboard fifteen,” Glaus shouted.

Katie braced herself again but was slammed into her hard seat? Why didn’t she design this part better? Something with more padding and webbing to keep her from getting tossed around. The hard canvas like straps that made up her seatbelt bit into her chest and shoulders.

Something screamed overhead, and she looked up instinctively but saw only the dull metal. Bombs exploded in the distance. She clicked over her backup radio to hear the chatter.

“Delta, I have two targets. Engaging,” one of the pilots squawked.

The man’s voice sounded frightened but there was also the hint of exhilaration she’d always felt behind the stick of an aircraft. It wasn’t for women just ten years ago. They worked in factories and prepared food and supplies for men in the field. After a decade of war and learning (though Eisenhower would never admit this) from the Soviets that a female was more than cheap labor. They could fly, drive armored vehicles, and fight as well as men.

Katie bellowed orders at engineering to keep the beast righted. Ballast shifted as Glaus called out command after command to avoid being hit by one of the Kaiju rounds. The strangest part of the creatures, apart form their massive size, glowing green skin, and scales the size of Tucker luxury automobiles, was their weaponry. Entirely organic they could fire projectiles that were heavy and struck with great force. They could also unleash acidic bombs that obliterated everything in their splash path.

The creature rose seventy feet into the air. Its abdomen opened and extruded a pair of the rounds. It took a step toward them and then the bombs were on the way. They accelerated with a propellant that no one in intelligence had been able to fathom. It seemed to react to oxygen and then convert its outer coating into an accelerant. The balls didn’t move like standard projectiles, but they picked up speed as they flew, often arcing into the air before striking a target. She’d seen three such balls eliminate a platoon and fifteen tanks before an out of control and ancient P-51 Mustang had smashed into the attacking Kaiju’s head causing the beast to lose an eye. Portable artillery had been brought up to finish the howling beast and its squad of Japanese Kaiju controllers. They’d rode on a bamboo platform, three of them lying on their stomach, hands touching the creature to create the strange telepathic link.

At one time she’d had dreams of capturing a small one and seeing the results of Army intelligence, but by the time they’d brought one home, sedated with enough cattle tranquillizer to kill an entire herd of cows, it has been close to death. The only connection they’d manage had put the creature in a panic and it had self-immolated leading to the loss of six building at Area 51, and at least fifty-seven deaths.

She’d been leading the research on Big Dog when the base had been destroyed and barely managed to make it out alive. Since then she’d embarked on this quest to bring back a sample rather than an entire beast. If her reasoning was correct the sample would be viable since it was separated from the Kaiju.

“Bring the forty-eights online, Gunny Mack,” she called and then got slammed into her seat as Glaus shifted their stride once again.

“Aye,” called back the gunner.

Big Dog shuddered as the guns extended from portholes. She stared at her console until all six barrels showed they were ready. Red lights clicked off and green lights underneath glowed.

“Glaus, let’s take it down.”

“One moment, Commander,” he said, and then shouted commands.

Big Dog shifted to the right and then came to a shuddering fifteen-degree adjustment so quickly she almost broke her damn neck. She slammed into the padded chair for the hundredth time and cursed once again.

“Easy!” she yelled.

“Just testing. I apologize, Commander. I have to know our maneuverability. When I drove a Panzer it took a few days to get the handle on it.”

“Hang of it,” she corrected him. “And I don’t want to hear any more tank stories. Just do your job.”

“Yes, mein heir,” he replied stiffly.

She swallowed and took out the eclipse lender, as she’d called it after getting the first one back from the engineers. She’d designed it but they’d given it a truly hideous name. Katie lowered a bar and lined it up. With the shuddering and rhythmic steps of the Kaiju, it was still nearly impossible to determine their path. She could strap on the device with the support of the metal extension rod and as long as her head wasn’t ripped off by another wild maneuver she might actually get lined up.

The visors had a phosphorous layer that allowed her to pick out the footprints left behind. It was all rhythm, something she learned in one of her countless piano lessons as a kid. She could follow the beat and determine it’s next step.

This one’s steps told her it would veer to the right after three more steps. She focused on the warriors strapped on the beast’s shoulders. They were indistinct at this distance. They’d tried sniping the soldiers but the Kaiju had seemed to feel their deaths and go into a rage that led to it losing control and in the process losing its ability to extrude its weapons. The first time that happened the explosion had been like a nuclear detonation.

“I wish we could just tiny nuke the bomb on these bastards.” Katie gritted her teeth.

This battle might be a test but it would also lead to a loss of life and one of those lives might very well be her own.

“That would be unwise. I was an observer on the first attempt to remove the alien craft from the waters of Okinawa.”

“I heard what happened,” she tried to cut him off.

“The beasts were furious, Commander. It was a massacre. The island, as we call it, opened up and out poured such a menagerie of beasts it was like leaving Dante’s Inferno with Hell on our heels. Flying beasts with four and six wings intercepted the craft and drug them to the ocean. Our assault force on the water was sent to the bottom. We suffered over six thousand losses and this was all, as the theory goes, due to the material. The nuclear material. Even Einstein was baffled.”

“I don’t need a goddamn history lesson,” Katie shot back.

Big Dog shifted around her as guns were readied, shifting the weight to the front of the metal beast. She moved the eclipse lender aside and tried to concentrate on the task at hand.

“We always need a history lesson. My country would have done well to pay attention to 1914 but we were blind.”

“Shut your mouth. Just shut your goddamn mouth, right now. As your commander, I order you to.”

“You do not wish me to speak of the past or you do not wish me to speak at all?” he asked.

His blue eyes were as piercing as ever, but she could tell she’d hurt him.

You know what I mean. You know. You’re the reason my husband is dead! She wanted to scream, then drop out of the stupid webbing, pick up a wrench, and beat this man to death. Her husband had died inside a tank.

“There’s a second one!” Glaus gasped and pointed.

Gunny Mack came over the intercom a half second behind with the news.

“Got a Mark Three on his six. Ah shit-biscuits.”

“We’re going to die in this stupid metal box.”

“We are not going to die, Commander,” Heinrich said with such finality she wanted to believe him.

“I want the one of sixes readied,” she called to Gunner Mack.

“Readying the rounds.” His Jersey accent came back strong.

Katie considered the path of both beasts. The Mark Three towered over the Mark Two by at least forty feet, and with that height came so much mass that even their largest shells might do nothing more than clean its teeth. On three legs, this was a newer Kaiju, something they’d never faced before. Mark Threes had been seen but never in combat. During the battle of Saipan in 1949 a Mark Three had threatened but hadn’t been required because the American forces were so soundly trounced the Three had slunk back into the depths.

“Commander, I don’t think we stand a chance.”

“Two degrees high,” she yelled. The size of the guns meant that the slightest shift resulted in a greater arc and it took a careful touch to get the angles just right. In test after test she’d beaten the mighty Heinrich Glaus at every version of artillery and tank shelling they threw her way.

What she hadn’t been prepared for was actual combat with the exception of flying the X-187 Marauder, the plane that had been set to upgrade the US Air Force before the war became one almost entirely on the ground.

“Mark, two degrees high.”

“Watch for the soldiers. It appears they have spotters on both shoulders,” Glaus said.

“I know.” She slid her binoculars down and spotted them as well.

Jets roared overhead as the first of the fighters arrived. They stayed high but, as they closed in, the planes dipped low to deliver their payloads.

Dozens of missiles fell toward earth. Propelled but unguided they relied on inertia and the pilots. It also didn’t take into account the stuttering steps of the giant beasts, and that’s why most of the first wave missed.

Explosions rocked the ground and tore up terrain. Smoke rose into the air and billowed. A second flight screamed in and delivered another blast. Most of the ordinance struck but it was like hitting an elephant with a BB gun.

“Fire two and four!” Katie yelled, and then wrapped her hands around her head.

The pounding as the smaller guns bellowed was like sitting near a gong. The pulse struck her hard enough to rattle her teeth.

“One and Three ready,” Gunner Mack called over the comms.

“Fire one and Three.” She took her hands off her ears long enough to hear her own voice, and then slapped them back around her head.

The firing went on and shells arced into the sky.

They were still a kilometer away but closing fast. The shells arrived in a few heartbeats.

The monster tried to shift to the side but it was too late. Several of the shells struck and blew the beast back. Detonations rocked up and down the coast as shells continued to fall.

“One of the eights at the ready,” Gunner Mack called.

“We have to line up. Keep them warm, gunner,” Katie said.

Heinrich dropped down from his perch and appraised Katie’s condition.

“None the worse for wear, I see.”

“Just do your job. I can take care of myself.” She glared.

The man nodded once and resumed his watch. She slapped the Eclipse Lender to her eye to inspect the damage.

The shells had done damage, and a lot of it. On top of the Kaiju’s shoulder men clung to the remains of their wooden platform. Many had fallen but the three who appeared to be meditating were still strapped next to the monster’s neck, hands extended as they continued their silent vigil. Why did it make the monsters crazy when the men were killed? Why? What sort of symbiotic connection existed that was so deep it transmitted each other’s pain.

Or was that it? Did the men feel pain just as the Kaiju did when the Japanese warriors were struck?

“Damage?” she asked Heinrich.

“The new magnesium shells worked marvelously. I can see that chunks are missing. The Class Two is hurting and has slowed.”

“What about the drivers. Can you see them? Can you make out their faces?”

Heinrich was silent or a few seconds. He shifted to a longer lens then looked back down into the cockpit.

“They are in great pain. Did we hit them?”

“If we’d hit them this entire area would have gone up.”

“The Two is moving,” Heinrich said.

She didn’t need the reminder. If they stayed here much longer they were dead.

“We need to get closer.”

“No, we need to run. I see its chest cavity undulating. Is that the word?”

“Yeah.” Katie rolled her eyes. “Gunner, get those plates in place. Brace for impact, and I want crews standing by with soda,” she yelled and hit a button on her console.

Men moved into action rerouting boiler steam to the six-inch plates. Her console reported the shields were moving into position.

“Slow to one quarter flank and squat,” she called out and punched more buttons.

Big Dog came to a near stop, and then shifted its weight to back legs. Front legs pistoned down, lifting her big puppy’s front end into the air. Her view of the world disappeared. She stared for as long as she could even raising herself against the webbing until all she saw was sky and a pair of Kaiju intent on tearing Big Dog to scrap.

The plating came into place completely covering their view. She tried to think of the men topside that were diving into cavities in the ship or cowering behind the plating.

The shells hammered at Big Dog. He shuddered and shook but, to her surprise, they bounced away just as Heinrich had said. The angled plating had been the German’s idea based on his days commanding Panzers.

Katie slid her own periscope down and stared at the Kaiju, cursing her new and limited view of the action. The glass was hard to see through thanks to damage from the last salvo. Something had struck the glass and made it dirty on the port side. She strained her eyes but only made out vague shapes.

The fighters came screaming overhead to buy them time. Missiles leapt away and flew at the Kaiju. The class three howled at the planes and fired on them. A shotgun blast of heavy balls took four planes but at least a dozen escaped.

“Acid!” someone called from topside. Might have been Peter but his voice was high and scratchy and hard to make out.

“How much?” Katie yelled into the intercom. The shifting and rocking of Big Dog made it almost impossible to hear her own thoughts.

Gunny must have been feeling lucky because he fired a fresh salvo of rounds. They screamed over the distance and hit the class two low. The explosions ripped it off the ground and sent the beast crashing forward.

“It’s not too bad. Deploying counter measures.”

Katie grimaced. Counter measures were simply bags of baking soda, but at least the stuff would stop the plating from being eaten away.

“Angle the one O six milimeter down ten degrees and fire,” she called.

A few seconds later her commands became action and Big Dog shuddered as its largest guns fired.

“Plate down six feet,” she ordered. It was too hard to make out the action.

“Plate down,” Gunny Mack confirmed.

Her view shifted long enough to make out the Class Three coming into view.

“Engineering. Kilmer, we need to be fast. Can you give me full power and take us to port at speed.”

“On it.”

“The leak?”

“Still there but we got most of it contained.”

“Are we moving to flank?”

“I’m trying.”

“It better be your best because that Class Three is about to pound us.”

“Damage!” Glaus said, and she nearly leapt out of her seat.

The shells arrived and took the Kaiju right in the back of the head. The explosion was immense as the beast died. There was some soft material back there but the chance of making such a strike was hard to pull off.

The ground shook as the Kaiju went up. The rolling terrain and accompanying tropical trees shuddered, then were blown over by typhoon forced wind. Fire spread, and then came a small mushroom cloud.

“Son of a bitch, that was a big explosion.”

“Ja, and the class three is moving now. Fast. It doesn’t seem to have been affected by the blast,” Glaus said.

Big Dog lurched to the side just as it fired. The shotgun blast of hundreds of pellets the size of boulders arced toward them. Big Dog kept moving as it shifted from ‘ass down’ to ‘ass on the run’, but there was a problem. Even if they managed to turn around, a feat that would take minutes instead of seconds, even if they went to flank speed, there was no way they were outrunning the class three.

“How soon?”

“Not long now. It’s running.”

She ordered the plate lowered. If she kept it up it would only delay the inevitable and she preferred to see their doom approaching.

“What’s it doing?” Glaus asked.

She had no answer.

The guns thundered relentlessly as they were loaded and fired in tandem. Forty-eights and one O sixes with their own unique sounds. But the pattern was so fast it was staccato and music to her ears.

Then a fresh wing of fighters spread across the battlefield and unleashed hell. Missiles raced across the sky to impact with the building sized beast. Explosions danced across it’s mid section, arms, and legs. The Kaiju howled in fury and extended whip like armatures to bat at the gnats swarming past.

Something else whistled overhead and stuck the creature, giving it pause.

“What the hell?”

“Battleships are firing.”

“But that’s a death warrant,” she said.

“It will also buy us time.”

“It’s not worth the loss of life.”

“I do not agree. If we locate a weakness in the beasts then a million deaths may someday be averted.”

“You would say that.” She muttered under her breath, “Fucking Nazi.”

“As I have explained, your anger toward me is misplaced.

“Not now, just shut up about you and how your country followed orders to kill millions. Is that why you’re on this mission? Redemption.”

“As a matter of fact it is, fräulein.”

Katie wanted to shoot back an angry retort, but she never got the chance. The class three Kaiju did something unexpected, something she’d never seen or heard of before.

It leapt into the air.

“Oh no,” she said, but her words were not enough. Despair crashed down just as the beast did. She wavered in her seat as sudden fear ate at her gut. She needed more time. Time to think and plan.

The Kaiju landed hard enough to shake the earth. It was so massive that Katie had to wonder how the rest of the world didn’t feel it coming. As it rose up on all three legs, its mouth opened, head tilted back, and it bellowed at the sky. The sound was like a typhoon had arrived.

The Kaiju Soldiers hung on for dear life as their ride came to a stop. Its chest opened in hundreds of locations as it extruded weaponry to demolish Big Dog.

“How do we stop that?”

Katie thought of her husband stuck in a metal can while being shelled by men like Heinrich Glaus. She was terrified of what it would feel like when the beast crushed them to scrap. Would she die screaming?

“Commander! What’d we do?” Gunny Mack yelled into the intercom.

What do we do? We die, she wanted to shout back.

“Commander Cord, listen to me. We have to move. We must do something or we will all die.”

“We’re all going to die,” she repeated the words.

The engineer must have had enough silence because he triggered the shielding. It started to slide into place.

Heinrich Glaus let himself free from his webbed seat and dropped to the ground. He moved to her command chair and leaned over the console to look her in the eye.

“There are times when warriors are scared. They must swallow that. They must use it. I spent years stuck in a tank while I did the bidding of a madman, and this is my only hope for redemption. Do you see?”

She stared at the man before her and something slid into place. He had been scared? The mighty Heinrich Glaus?

“Get away from me, you monster!” she cried.

“No, fräulein, that is the monster,” he said and pointed at the porthole.

She shook her head and stared at her console.

The beast was coming, and they were going to be crushed. If they just had a way to put the creature down.

She snapped her eyes front.

“Back in your seat, Commander,” she said, and then lifted her transmitter.

“Engineering, extend the support. Do it now!”

The shield reacted and slid into place as hundreds of pellets struck them like thunder.

“We can’t stand this assault,” Gunner Mack cried into the transmitter.

“Stand, that’s what I want. Bring us upright, and I mean now; fully upright. Divert every bit of steam we have. Buy us some time by aiming below the Japanese. Don’t hit one but make the Kaiju think we will. If it has any sense of preservation it should try to shield them.”

The engineers didn’t bother to argue. They must have just conveyed her orders because Big Dog slid back, and then, with boilers howling, her viewpoint rose into the air.

“Faster! I don’t care if you have to kill all the other systems. We need to be upright now and get the brace in place!”

The mode was not fully tested. It worked, that was for sure, but standing Big Dog up was a mechanical feat the experts had sworn would never work properly. The support was mainly used for bracing during heavy work like lifting but now it would act as the third leg of a tripod.

She was thrown back into her seat and Heinrich, for all his nimbleness, barely made it to his station. He dragged himself up the webbing and almost reached his seat when the Kaiju struck.

Hands the size of trucks and bearing seven willowy fingers hit hard enough to nearly knock Big Dog over.

“Fire everything we have!” she yelled into the transmitter.

“We’ll have to drop most of the shielding for that,” came back Gunny Mack.

“Just do it. I have a plan.”

“Plan better involve kissing my…” he trailed off as the transmitter clicked.

The plating moved out of the way, and she was face to face with the monster’s chest. Holes were undulating as rounds appeared. If her plan didn’t work the beast would hold them in place and blow them to pieces. Skin the color of aquamarine, like a bunch of glowing algae, flowed over flesh the color of liver. The beast bellowed again, and it was all she could do to get her hands over her ears.

The guns roared and punched into the beasts shoulder directly under the Japanese soldiers. The Kaiju reacted by moving a hand to protect them.

“We don’t have time to make this pretty. I want that tester ready to fire. Can you do that?”

“But it’s still alive, why would we need a sample now?” Then Heinrich smiled. “Ah, I see. I’ll need help.”

“Fine.” She unsnapped her seatbelts and slid out of the chair and was immediately tossed to the floor.

The guns opened up and bought them some time. At this range they couldn’t miss but they also couldn’t come up to velocity.

The Kaiju fell back and dragged them after. She clung to her seat and lifted herself to the fallen transmitter.

“I want the front arms up. All the way up. I want to hug this son of a bitch!”

If they heard her she was unaware because the rocking beast tossed her across the enclosure. Hienrich managed to reach out and grab her arm before she could slam into the wall. He hauled her to his side and got his hands around her waist to pull her to her feet. Katie resisted the urge to bat his hand aside.

“Is it ready?”

“Very nearly. I think the firing mechanism may be jammed. You get ready to hit the release, I’ll get it back into position.”

“Be careful or you’ll lose a hand.”

“I’ll lose more than that if we fail.”

Brought to Big Dog’s full height, she stared into the face of the Kaiju. Its mouth was filled with razor sharp teeth the size of cars. It had nostrils of a sort but they were composed of willowy membranes that fluttered as it sucked in breath.

Heinrich slithered into a workspace and started banging things around.

Big Dog came to its full height and Katie grimaced a the visage before her. The beast’s eyes didn’t glow with malevolence as she had thought. They were thoughtful and bespoke some intelligence. But that alien intelligence, new to this world, was using its might and might of its brethren for one purpose: the destruction of her and her allies.

“Try it!” Heinrich yelled.

She moved to the console but the beast struck, batting at Big Dog. The metal around her groaned and parts shrieked. Gunny fired again this time blowing holes in the creature but it was tough and thick and, while it hurt the Kaiju, it could not kill it. There was simply too much of the monster to kill.

“Are you going to try it?”

“I’m trying!” she yelled back.

The beast struck again and this time she was tossed across the pod. She hit the wall and saw stars. Another one of those and she was done for.

The console was only a few feet away. All she had to do was get to her feet. Move. One foot after another. She’d been good at that since she was two years old. Now it seemed impossible as the world reeled around her.

She fought vertigo as Big Dog nearly tipped over but Engineering worked some magic and, with boilers pushed to the edge, Big Dog righted itself on legs strained to the edge.

“Now, I can see it. We must strike now!” Heinrich bellowed.

She crawled across the floor on hands and knees and reached the console. She hauled herself up the seat and stared blankly at the buttons as stars swirled in front of her face. She found it by touch and triggered the switch that would arm the needle.

“It’s online,” she yelled back. “I think.”

“Do it.”

“Get out of there.”

“I can’t. I am holding the firing pin. There was damage from the beast, and if I let go it won’t line up to fire.”

“You’ll be killed.”

“No, fräulein. I won’t. Please, do it.”

Big Dog rocked one more time as Gunny Mack yelled into the intercom. “This is it. He’s going to strike at the pod.”

The pod; her. She took a deep breath and wondered if this was the last thing she would do before being crushed like a tin bucket.

Katie triggered the device.

The explosion blew the back out of Big Dog. The needle was a piece of reinforced metal shaped like an actual hypodermic. At three feet in diameter and over a hundred feet in length after the telescoping inner tubes fully deployed, it was designed to pierce a Kaiju and retrieve a sample.

The Kaiju howled in fury as its chest was punched through. It stumbled back and stared in shock at the giant metal robot before it. Blood, blue and frothing leaked from its mouth.

Katie almost felt sorry for it.

The needle retracted and the Kaiju stumbled to the side so she hit it again.

The second strike didn’t have as much power but it still sank into the beast’s chest.

The Kaiju turned away, took a few stumbling steps, and then collapsed. It’s third leg swept around and struck Big Dog. Even on three legs it couldn’t withstand the force of the blow and toppled.

Katie managed to drag herself into her seat and snap shoulder pads into place.

The rending crash of machinery was horrific and went on forever. She screamed and, after a few moments, realized she was still breathing. Her consoles were a mess. Sparks flew and smoke filled the cavity. One of the port windows had come lose and slid open and fell to the ground.

From her vantage point, she watched a leg kick like a dying dog.

“Fräulein?” a pitiful voice asked.

She unsnapped herself and braced for the four-foot drop to the floor, which a few minutes ago had been a wall. She struck it and pulled herself to the hatch that Commander Heinrich Glaus had descended to save their lives.

She peered over the side and saw him clutching a metal canister in both hand. It was huge and heavy and he heaved it at her. She caught it and pulled it up with both hands. The container was heavy and blue blood had leaked on the side.

“Go. Take the X and go. We are done. The boilers will blow soon. Just go.”

“I’ll pull you up then we can get the others free.

“Go. My legs are crushed, and I can’t feel anything below my chest. I am dead. You must take the sample, you must. If you stay and die then all of this sacrifice would be for naught.” He took a deep breath and met her eyes. “For what it is worth, fräulein, you are a brave commander, and it was my honor to serve under you.”

Heinrich Glaus tried to salute but failed and fell silent. His eyes remained on hers as life faded.

Katie moved.

She hauled herself and her precious package along the wall and then triggered the entryway into X. She had to angle her body to slide into the cockpit. There was barely room behind the seat for the canister but she jammed it in and hit power. The entry slammed shut at the same time as the canopy overhead.

She hit the radio and called for Gunny Mack or Kilmer in engineering but neither answered.

She sobbed as she called in the Mayday, and then launched, hoping the craft wasn’t about to be slammed into a blocked hatch.

Even on its side, the X-227 Marauder was a beast in its own right with powerful engines, a squat fuselage, and stubby wings. As the called over and over for any survivors the plane’s engines kicked in.

She closed her eyes and the plane’s turbines roared.

Katie was pressed back in her seat so hard that she nearly passed out. She dragged the stick to the side and managed to right the tiny jet. As she cleared the battle site, she looked in the rearview mirror mounted over her HUD and watched as Big Dog exploded.

“Craft X-227, identify yourself.”

Katie spoke codes into the radio and waited.

“Big Dog, it’s good to hear you. The general’s waiting to hear your results. Make your way to these coordinates, and we’ll be waiting with a warm deck and dinner. How is Big Dog?”

“Big Dog is a loss but the mission was a success. I’m the only survivor. I’ll be recommending Heinrich Glaus for the Medal of Honor. He saved all of us.”

“Giving a medal to a stinking Nazi? What gives?”

“He paid for his sins many times over. I’ll just leave it at that. X-227 signing off. See you in a few minutes.”

Katie sat back in the seat and hit the afterburners. She got one last look at the smoldering remains of the Kaiju and the dog that had killed it, then they disappeared as she rocketed into the sky.

The Great Sea Beast

Larry Correia

The Great Sea Beast revealed itself.

First, spines of bone, each one as big around as a tree, broke the ocean’s surface. Next came the great bulbous head, its skin a deep red except for where it was covered in barnacles and black growths from the depths. Then the eyes appeared, two great white oozing blobs, and beneath those was a mass of writhing tentacles, longer than anything found on even the largest of the giant squid. There were still freshly drowned corpses of Minamoto clan sailors trapped in those tentacles.

As Munetaka watched, the tentacles moved the bodies into the vast wet hole that served as the creature’s mouth, to be ground into a red paste between teeth like mill stones. The head alone was larger than his ship, and when the shoulders broke the surface, it was larger than a castle. It was so large, so inconceivably vast, that it was like watching the sea birth a new island, only this island was heading straight for them at a seemingly impossible rate of speed.

It was incredible. It was a god made flesh.

The ocean crashed around the creature as if it were a rock cliff. Waves created by the monster lifted the Friendly Traveler and sent it hurtling back down. His tiny wooden ship was nothing before the Great Sea Beast. Several other Minamoto clan vessels had already been smashed into splinters by the thing’s wrath. Their lord’s warship was broken and sinking. They were on their own.

He spied the jagged cliffs. “Hold this course!” Nasu Munetaka bellowed at his panicking crew. He looked toward the opposite horizon. The sun was just beginning to rise. “Hold this exact course.”

It would close with them in a matter of minutes. They would all die, crushed, drowned, or devoured. The brave sailors adjusted their sails and kept them on the wind. Lesser men leapt overboard or cowered in fear. The other samurai were struggling in vain to figure out the magical horn they’d taken from the gaijin, while their priest begged the water dragon to rise from his coral palace beneath the sea to protect them.

But Captain Nasu Munetaka did not ask the heavens for aid nor did he resort to foreign magic. He simply stood at the stern of the Friendly Traveler, calmly stringing his bow, watching the demon that had haunted his dreams come for them.

He had been waiting half his life for this moment.

His hands did not tremble.

~

Twelve years before, he had woken up screaming.

Someone was carrying him, cradled in their arms like he was a baby. They were trying to be gentle, but every touch was made of agony. The half of his body which had been out of the water had been burned crispy by the sun, and the half that had been submerged had been eaten away by salt water. His skin was peeling off in black or blue strips.

Munetaka was the son and grandson of warriors, so he tried not to scream. His throat was so dry it was more of a soundless hiss anyway, and his body was so wrung out that there was no indignity of tears. Then he remembered through the haze of sun drenched pain how he’d come to be here. The village had to be warned. Frantic, Munetaka clutched at his rescuer’s shirt and tried to tell him of the crimson demon rising from the sea, but he couldn’t form the words.

“Bozu! Help us. The fishermen found this boy washed up on a reef.”

With eyelids dried partially open, he could barely see, but Munetaka knew they were inside. He could feel absence of the angry sun. The rescuer laid him on a mat. Thousands of hot needles stabbed through Munetaka’s back. He’d never before realized that his skin served the same purpose as his father’s armor.

Someone knelt next to the mat. Cold hands touched the sides of his face and tilted his head for examination. “A shipwreck?”

“Yes. They said he still had a death grip on a broken board.”

“He must have been in the water for several days… Ama! Get my medicine pouch. I’ll need some water boiled. These wounds must be cleaned.”

“We forced some drink down his throat when we found him. He didn’t vomit most of it back up.”

“Good, then he may still live… Can you hear me, boy?”

The crimson demon comes from the sea. Run. You have to run. You have to get away.

The memories came back, breaking through the walls of his mind. He was too young for a voyage up the coast, but he had tagged along on his father’s patrol, sneaking in to hide amongst the piles of rope. By the time he was discovered they would be too far from home to turn back. His father was a stern man, as was required of a Minamoto clan ship captain, but Munetaka knew that he secretly enjoyed having his son onboard his ship. Someday Munetaka would be a captain too, and he’d be the one to keep the seas around Kamakura free of pirates and Tairu clan scum, just like his father, and his father before him. Once found, he’d not even received too much of a beating. He suspected his father had been more than a little proud of his daring. The captain had even told his men that Munetaka was their good luck charm. It was the happiest day of young Munetaka’s life, until the luck ran out and he had watched helplessly as the ocean turned red and the Great Sea Beast slaughtered everyone.

He snapped back to the world of sunburned pain. His flesh was so softened by days spent soaking in saltwater that even the tatami mat was cutting through him and the monk was fretting as Munetaka bled all over the polished wooden floor of the monastery. The monk was asking him another question.

“What happened?”

Death had happened, only somehow it had forgotten to take him.

~

Ten years before, his lord had condemned him.

“You waste my time with this?” Lord Minamoto Yorimasa raised his voice. “I should have you killed for your impudence, boy.”

Munetaka kept his eyes on the floor. He could feel the angry gaze of the court on him.

“Your request is denied. There will be no expedition. The Great Sea Beast is a lie. You are the only witness. A child who drank too much saltwater and cooked his brains in the sun imagined a demon to blame for his father’s carelessness. Your father died in a storm like a fool. Knowing your family he was probably drunk and drove my ship onto the rocks. A stupid man, always wasteful and drunk.”

The shame was unbearable. His father had been the best captain in the clan, but the truth was whatever the lord commanded it to be.

“My advisor said you display a constant tremor in your hands. You are too young to already be a drunk like your father. You are an embarrassment, and yet you dare to come before your lord and ask that I grant you an expedition to hunt for an imaginary monster? Especially now while the Tairu clan encroaches on our lands. What do you have to say for yourself, Munetaka?”

It was said that the exposure had stunted his growth. His voice was as small as his body. “Should it come again, we are all in danger. If we cannot hunt it down and kill it, we must be ready for when it returns.”

The lord laughed. “Now you are telling jokes for my amusement. You must wish to be the new court fool. Even if such a thing was real, then it must be a spirit of the ocean. It could not be defeated with arrows or spears.”

“No, my lord, I saw it clearly. It was no ghost or spirit. It was shaped like a man and walked upon the seabed. Its skin was like a whale and its face was like many squid, but it was still a creature of flesh and bone.”

“And you alone are the only one who has ever seen such a magnificent sight.”

“There are other witnesses,” Munetaka said softly. “Only last year, three fishermen near the lighthouse at—”

“Peasants!” the lord snapped. “Their word means nothing. Their minds are soft, and your drunken tales have filled their hearts with fear. My fisherman are scared now because of you. Production suffers as they imagine a big red shadow beneath them, piss themselves, and flee back to shore. Even some of my samurai have been dumb enough to listen and believe your fanciful tales.” He turned to glare at one of his retainers.

The young scribe Saburo lowered his head and backed out of the line, shamed by the attention.

“My lord, forgive me, but I remember clearly what I saw. The crimson demon was far bigger than your castle.” He dared to raise his voice. The retainers began to mutter at his bold words. “It lifted my father’s ship in one hand as it licked the sailors from the deck, and then dropped us when it was done.”

“Silence!” The whispering stopped. The lord would have no scandal his court. “Listen to me very carefully, young Munetaka. Go back to your village. There will be no more mention of this sea monster. You will not speak of it again. It never happened. I have declared that it does not exist. Your father, despite his weakness, served me well, and that is the only reason I am being so lenient with you now. Return to your studies. I’ve been told that you show no talent with the sword and you are a disaster upon a horse, but the clan will find some use for your life eventually. Dismissed.”

~

Eight years before, he had discovered his purpose.

“Nasu Munetaka, if rumor is to be believed, you are possibly the worst student who has ever been sent to me. You are small. You are weak. You shake like a leaf. Hold out your hands.”

“Yes, sensei.” Munetaka did as he was told and stuck his hands out, palm down.

“They expect me to teach the art of the bow to such as this?” The old man watched Munetaka’s hands tremble. “Pathetic. They told me it is because you swallowed too much seawater, but I suspect that you are simply a wretched pig dog who lacks character. You have already demonstrated that you are a liar.”

The other students snickered. Even though he’d been forbidden to speak of the Great Sea Beast for years now, their daimyo’s condemnation had followed him everywhere. Nasu Munetaka was considered a liar for telling the truth. “Yes, sensei.”

“Lower your hands. Your last sensei told me you have been squandering your inheritance on gambling and pleasure women, and that you often come to training reeking of alcohol. You’re a disgusting mess, but if there is to be a war against the Tairu, we will need bodies. If you are late again to class again I will use you as a target.”

The sensei continued down the line. “You will draw until the second thumb joint nestles upon your jaw.” The other students had already prepared their bows and they stood eager at the edge of the grass of the practice field. Munetaka hurried to catch up. His father had been a superb archer and Munetaka would not fail him. “Each of you will release two hundred arrows today. First your arms will ache, then your fingers will bleed, and then you will experience pain like nothing you have ever imagined. You will pray for death long before that, but you will not stop until I tell you to. Ready! Draw!”

The targets were men made of straw. They seemed very far away. Munetaka raised the yumi. It was longer than he was tall, but because it was designed to be gripped on the lower third, he could still use it. His hands were shaking so badly that he had a hard time nocking the arrow.

“Release.”

A dozen arrows flew down range. Most of them fell short and stuck into the grass. Not a single target was struck. Munetaka’s hands were shaking so badly that he wasn’t ready in time.

“Hurry, idiot. You will draw back fully and then release the arrow in the same motion.” A few of the other students laughed. “Shut up. Did I give you permission to find that amusing? Now, Munetaka.”

It was incredibly difficult to pull it back and the yumi creaked as it bent.

“Imagine it is your sea monster,” one of the other boys shouted.

And for just a moment, he did, and they were on a sea of red. His fingers slipped. The string slapped into his left wrist with a snap. The arrow flew wild to the side, burying itself deep into the ground.

The sensei casually backhanded the loudmouth. “Multiple idiots. Wonderful. But if it really was bigger than our lord’s castle, that would probably still have struck your monster. Try it again, fool, and no distractions this time. The rest of you wait.”

His father had often told him that the arrow knew the way, so it had to be true. He could only trust that his father would guide the arrow’s flight. Muscles strained as he struggled to pull back the string as he glared at the target, imagining that the straw man was his sensei, and as his fingers reached his cheek, he let go.

Red fletching appeared in the center of the dummy’s chest.

The sensei nodded at Munetaka.” It is rare that a liar can shoot true. Again.”

His wrist stung from the string. He took another arrow from the bundle, and since the yumi seemed to fight him less this time, had it nocked far more quickly than the first.

The second shot hit within a few inches of the first arrow.

“Again!”

The third was just above those.

“Hmmm…” The sensei stroked his long mustache thoughtfully. “Maybe the rest of you should arrive stinking of cheap booze, too... Now imagine it is this sea monster of yours, Munetaka. Show us what you would do to it now.”

He was a screaming child on a sea of red, holding onto a fragment of a boat, struggling to stay above the waves, as tentacles fed men into a wet hole filled with giant teeth.

Only he was no longer a little boy. Father guide my arrow.

His hands did not tremble this time.

The fourth arrow streaked directly through the center of the straw man’s face.

~

Four years before, the hunt had begun.

Munetaka was woken by the grunting of pigs. A wet, pink snout was biting at his face to see if he was edible so the young samurai slugged the pig in the eye. It squealed indignantly and retreated. He found himself lying in a pile of straw, his back against a peasant’s shack, and a sake jug in his lap. It sloshed when he moved it, so he choked down the remainder. It was the cheapest swill in Kamakura, but it got him drunk enough to sleep, and that’s what counted.

“I figured you’d wake up if that pig started eating you.” There was a man leaning on the fence. His kimono bore the mon of the Minamoto clan. “If not, then that was some strong drink.”

“Who’re you?” Munetaka asked as he scratched himself.

“The better question is who are you, Nasu Munetaka?”

“Who’s that? I’m just some drunk ronin,” he lied.

“No. I recognize you. You do not look so different now, like a shorter version of your father. They say you would have been a handsome one if the sea hadn’t poisoned you so, that’s why you are still nothing but skin and bones.” The man gave him a sad smile. “They say you’re the best archer in all the land. They say you killed a hundred Tairu soldiers at the battle of Uji.”

“They say lots of stuff.” He had no idea how many he’d killed, but he’d shot at least twenty. It was hard to keep track. Lord Yorimasa had still lost though, and after his suicide they’d tossed his head in the river.

“Yet now you’ve been reduced to a life of crime, smuggling, and drinking. That’s rather sad. It’s to be expected though. You can’t tell someone their entire life that they’re a liar without honor, and not expect them to make it the truth.”

“You’re lucky I’m too hung over to string my bow to shoot you, friend.” The man seemed kind of familiar, but Munetaka couldn’t place him. “Do I know you?”

“I’m Saburo,” he answered as he climbed over the fence.

“The scribe?”

“Scholar, diplomat, things like that, in fact I’ve just returned from a mission to the Song court all the way across the sea, but I still remember your tragic story.”

“Yeah… Just a story…” Munetaka rubbed his bleary eyes. “Our dead lord saw to that.”

“Most of all I’m a collector of stories. The gaijin have stories too.” Saburo removed a piece of paper from his kimono and handed it over. “Like this one, about a war between witches and a king, where foul sorcery was used to turn a leviathan of the deep into a giant monster to wreck the king’s fleets. It comes all the way from a land called India.”

Munetaka could not read the strange foreign writing, nor could he recognize the coastline shown on the map, but at the bottom was a drawing and it was... “No.” The eyes, the tentacles, the spine, the blood red hide, It was perfect. His mouth was suddenly very dry. His hands began to shake so badly that it threatened to crumple the ancient paper. “It can’t be.”

“So it is the same then?”

Even though Saburo was of higher station, Munetaka leapt up and grabbed the scribe by the shoulders. “Can you take me to its lair?”

“It is very far away.”

“I know a good ship.”

“It is in a strange, gaijin land. We’ll need warriors.”

“Then we will find them!”

Saburo grinned. “I’ve always wanted to be part of a story.”

~

Six months ago, he had found the source.

The samurai had fought their way through the jungle temple, leaving a trail of dead and dying in their wake. One of the foreigners charged them with an oddly curved dagger. Munetaka drew an arrow and launched it in one smooth motion, piercing the throat and sending the gaijin to the stone. Two more cultists followed, screaming, but Munetaka released two more arrows in rapid succession and dropped them both. He stepped over the dying and observed his crew. They were hacking the last of the cultists to bits. Worshippers of foreign devils were no match for Munetaka’s experienced warriors.

In honor of their god of the depths, the cultists painted their skin red. Munetaka had painted their temple red with blood to defy it.

“That’s all of them, Captain. We took no casualties.”

“Good work.” Munetaka gave the ronin an appreciative nod. “Spread out and search.”

This land was always hot. The air was constantly moist. It made their equipment rust and their armor chafe. For years they had followed clues and consulted with wily foreigners. They had been caught up in battles and plagues. They’d crossed an ocean, a dozen kingdoms, and marched hundreds of miles, and every inch of it had been filled with discomfort and misery. It stood to reason that such an awful creature had been spawned in this cursed land. Despite all of those tribulations, the warriors he had gathered still followed him. He didn’t really understand. Munetaka had no real station. There was no honor to be gained in following someone considered to be a delusional madman, yet they followed his orders and trusted him with their lives.

Perhaps, if the Great Sea Beast hadn’t ruined his life, turned him into a drunk, and gotten him disgraced with his clan, Munetaka might have made a good captain after all...

They entered a great stone room, lit by flickering torches, covered in gaudy carvings and murals. In the center of a great basin was another statue of the Great Sea Beast, dyed red from the accumulated sludge of thousands of human sacrifices. Munetaka snarled, “Damned foreign devils.”

“Remarkable. This is the home of the cult of the Great Sea Beast.” Saburo was examining the murals. He alone could read their gibberish. “This is the repository of all their knowledge.” The scribe seemed giddy with excitement.

“All I need to know is where to find it and how to kill it.”

Saburo traced his finger down the wall. They had struck enough of these temples that Munetaka recognized the story shown in the pictures. Witches dragging a leviathan from the depths, cutting it apart, and torturing it with their gaijin sorcery until it had been twisted into the savage creature that had ruined his life. However, this series of pictures was different than the others.

“Interesting. They cut a bone from the leviathan. A horn… When the witches blew on the horn it made sounds that could awaken and summon the Great Sea Beast.” Saburo reached for a thick wooden lever on the wall and pulled it down.

There was a sudden grinding inside the wall. Munetaka had an arrow nocked within an instant. Rusty chains rattled through channels in the floor. The stone wall split, then slowly ground open. “What manner of gaijin trickery is this?” He pointed his yumi into the room, but there were only shadows. “Fetch a lantern.”

Flickering light filled the newly revealed chamber. There was something odd hanging from chains attached to the ceiling. The mysterious device’s surface was gray and porous of texture. It was an oddly curled bone, only it was as big as an ox, and standing next to it was one of the red painted priests wearing only a tiger pelt. He began gibbering furiously in their strange language when he saw the samurai approaching.

“You’d best shoot him quickly. He says that if we come any closer he will unleash the monster and send it against our home island,” Saburo whispered.

“Good.” Munetaka made an exaggerated show of gradually drawing back his bow. “Let him.”

The priest rushed and pressed his mouth to the bone. Air resonated through a maze of chambers. A deep, eerie rumble filled the temple. The sound seemed to grow and grow. The hair stood up on his neck. It was a long alien wail that shook all the warriors to their bones.

Munetaka could have killed the priest immediately, but let the monster come. That took care of finding it. The priest looked up, triumphant, but seemed a bit surprised when Munetaka showed absolutely no fear. Realization dawned that the samurai wanted the beast exposed. Only then did Munetaka drill him through the heart.

The assembled ronin stared at the body for a moment, unsure what their captain had just allowed to happen.

Munetaka took a flask from his pocket and took a long drink. There was no turning back now. “Take the horn back to the ship. Have the priest cleanse this gaijin filth from us.” He began walking away. “It’s time to go home.”

~

Ten days ago, his clan had learned the truth.

The crew of the Friendly Traveler had seen the smoke rising over the horizon hours before they’d seen land. There were bloated corpses floating on the surface as they approached the harbor. After such a long journey it had not been the joyous homecoming most of them had been hoping for.

There had been a town here once. Now it was nothing but a ruin. Buildings had been crushed. Fires had caught and spread out of control, consuming everything. There had only been a small castle, but it had been smashed to pieces and spread across the rocky shore. There were bodies everywhere. Peasants were trying to pull survivors from the rubble.

Two men stood at the rail, watching the dead float by

“Is this what you wanted, Captain?” Saburo asked.

“No…” There were children crying in the streets.

But now they understand.

His crew was shocked by the carnage. They were hard men, but it was hard to comprehend destruction on this scale. He’d warned them... “Take us in. I want to find out what direction it went.”

The docks were gone. Several masts sticking out of the water explained the fate of most of the ships stationed here. One warship had been picked up and hurled three hundred paces inland, and half of it was sticking out the side of an inn. There were other warships still in one piece, but they had most likely arrived after the Great Sea Beast had left. They had been gone so long, and there had been a clan war going on when they’d left, so Munetaka wasn’t sure who would be in charge when they got back, and he was too pragmatic to risk flying his clan’s flag. When he saw that the other warships were Minamoto he ordered their own flag raised.

The crew of the Minamoto warships were so stunned that they barely noticed the arrival of the Friendly Traveler. Munetaka hailed them, answered several angry challenges, and was then allowed to come alongside a much larger, newer warship. Ropes were hurled back and forth, and the Friendly Traveler was hauled in close, partially so they could communicate more easily, but more likely because they looked like pirates and the clan was not about to let them escape.

There were shouts as they drew closer, warnings that the harbor was treacherous with sunken ships that could damage their hull and questions about if they too had seen the giant crimson demon, which was half the size of a mountain.

Munetaka was surprised to see the personal mon of the Minamoto daimyo on the guard’s armor. Lord Minamoto Yoritomo himself—the successor of the man who shamed him—approached the rail. The entire crew bowed… Except for Munetaka.

“What’re you doing?” Saburo hissed. “Are you drunk?”

“Only a little,” Munetaka answered.

The Lord’s eyes narrowed dangerously at this sleight. Dozens of Minamoto soldiers nocked arrows, waiting the order to execute the impudent captain. “Who are you?”

“I am Captain Nasu Munetaka, son of Captain Nasu Tadamichi. Twelve years ago the Great Sea Beast killed my father and sank his ship. I alone survived. I saw this monster, and I told the truth. I intended to hunt it down and send it back to Jigoku. Your predecessor called me a liar and a fool. He mocked me and dishonored my father. He declared this monster a myth.” Munetaka pointed toward land. All eyes followed.

There was a giant footprint, shaped like that of a lizard, only as wide as the Lord’s warship and pressed deep enough into the sand to fit a house.

“Do you believe me now?”

~

His entire life had come down to this moment.

The sea outside Kamakura was red with blood and lit by burning wreckage. The air was choked with smoke and the screams of the injured. The Great Sea Beast’s arms were humanoid, only its hands ended in three webbed fingers, and it was swatting boats from the ocean like a child in a bath tub. Hundreds of arrows were lodged in its hide. It had been struck by balls of flaming pitch from the warships and the whaling harpoons of desperate sailors, yet it showed no sign of slowing.

A Minamoto warship rammed straight into the monster’s stomach. The flesh dimpled as the bow gave, but it did not pierce the ancient flesh. The Great Sea Beast let out an ear splitting roar, scooped the warship up and hurled it inland. The tiny dots spinning off of it were sailors and samurai. The ship landed on the rocks and exploded into a million pieces.

“Saburo!”

The scribe ran to him. “Yes, Captain?”

“Sound the horn.”

“But we don’t understand how the gaijin magic works! It could just enrage it further.”

“Excellent… Do it now.”

The scribe knew not to question. “Yes, Captain!” He ran to do as he was told.

Munetaka picked one particular arrow from his quiver. Though the shaft had belonged to his father, he’d replaced the arrowhead with one he’d fashioned himself. It was slightly different in shape from his regular armor piercing points, but the balance was perfect. He’d carved a piece of bone from the gaijin horn. If it had really come from the body of the leviathan the Great Sea Beast had been fashioned from, he would send it home. He’d had the arrow blessed by priests of every faith he’d come across in his travels. Surely some god would be listening.

Saburo blew the horn. It was nothing like the strong, resounding bellow created by the tiger priest, rather it was a harsh note that trailed off into a painful warble.

Yet, it worked. The Great Sea Beast turned and roared a furious challenge. It started toward them. The waters were shallow, so it seemed to grow taller as it walked across the seabed, exposing even more of its corpulent self to the air. The waves became increasingly violent.

Taking out his flask, Munetaka enjoyed one last drink. It was the finest sake in Nippon, and he’d saved it for a very special occasion. Only the best would do for today. Putting the flask back in his kimono, Munetaka took another look at the horizon, then back at the creature, carefully estimating its speed. “Hold this course no matter what.”

“There’s rocks straight ahead, Captain!”

“No matter what!” he shouted.

Closer.

He readied the special arrow. There would be only one shot.

The other ships were forgotten. A warship clipped the beast’s side and was sent spinning away. A single, crazed samurai leapt from that ship onto the beast’s flesh, stabbing at it while trying to climb up its body as if it were a mountain. The monster did not seem to notice. It was entirely focused on the Friendly Traveler. The warrior lost his grip on the slick hide and disappeared into the churning waters.

Closer.

Munetaka took a deep breath then slowly exhaled. His body moved in time with the violent rolling of the deck beneath his bare feet.

“We’re almost on the rocks!”

“Steady…”

The Great Sea Beast loomed over them. The air stunk of rotting fish. A black rain began to fall upon them, and he realized it was demon blood weeping from a thousand shallow cuts.

His hands did not tremble.

The golden edge of the sun broke over them. Vast white eyes, accustomed to the darkness of the deep ocean twitched and mighty lids slammed shut with an audible slap. He’d looked directly into those giant merciless eyes so long ago, and he’d wondered afterwards why it had spared him. At the time he’d thought it was because he was insignificant. He was a bug to the Great Sea Beast, not even worth crushing.

Now he understood he had lived because it was his destiny to end this abomination.

While staring into those white orbs before he’d seen that there was a tiny circle in the center, an off white pupil, only visible when you were close enough to choke on its stench and its tentacles could taste your blood on the water. He intended to put an arrow through that pupil and straight into the creature’s brain. Two hundred paces away, at an extreme angle, from a rocking ship against a rapidly moving creature the size of a castle, and his target was as big around as the bottom of a sake cup.

Only Munetaka had spent many long hours studying the bottoms of empty sake cups.

The arrow knows the way.

Munetaka drew back the bow in one perfect motion.

Father, guide my hand.

He let fly.

The entire crew held their breath as they watched the arrow streak through the blood rain.

The huge lid blinked open the instant before the arrow struck.

The arrow disappeared, sinking right through the clear jelly of the pupil.

It twitched.

The crew gasped.

There was an incredibly long pause. Then the creature’s eye began to spasm wildly, like it was about to leap from its head. It leaned back, head jerking, tentacles thrashing. Webbed fingers clutched at its face. The horrific noise it let out threatened to split the world. The noise trailed off into a moan.

“Turn hard to port! Hard to port!” Munetaka ordered. “Now!”

The crew did as they were told. Seconds later their hull made a sickening sound as it ground against the rocks. Salt spray came up over the side from an impact, but they kept moving. To stop was to perish.

Lumbering forward, the Great Sea Beast continued to clutch madly at its misshapen head, but it was too late. The blessed arrow had worked its way deep into vulnerable tissue, and no living thing could survive for long bleeding from inside its brain. It stumbled then began to fall. It was like watching a great tree being felled by an ax, only they were beneath the tree.

Munetaka’s crew knew what to do. They understood what would happen if they didn’t get out of the way in time. There was no need to give instructions because they were already working hard. So Munetaka simply stood there, watching, as the Great Sea Beast fell. Live or die, it no longer mattered. His duty was complete.

The Great Sea Beast collapsed. The gradual impact of its bulk threw up a huge wall of water before it. They were lifted and pushed on the wave as sailors held on with all their might. The Friendly Traveler was hurled through the maze of rocks. They hit open water, violently spinning, and a few men were flung over the side. Yet, they were through the rocks. Normally that would have raised a cheer amongst the crew but the monster was still collapsing on top of them, and all they could do was watch and hope.

It struck. The world was consumed with thunder. For a moment all of them were blinded by spray.

The Great Sea Beast’s head smashed into the rocks right next to them, tons of flesh and bone compacting and rupturing against the unyielding earth. A spine came crashing down, shearing effortlessly through the Friendly Traveler’s mast and rigging. Captain Munetaka stepped calmly aside as the razor tip of the spine cleaved through the deck where he’d been standing.

And then they were away.

The Great Sea Beast lay still. Ooze pouring from its head in such great quantities that the Friendly Traveler was floating on a sea of black.

It was silent except for the creaking of wood and rope.

“It is finished.”

~

They were heroes.

The crew of the Friendly Traveler were welcomed in Kamekura and showered with gifts. Lord Minamoto Yoritomo granted every member of his crew lands and titles. Songs were sung about their long journey along the shores of foreign lands, and their battle against the Great Sea Beast grew larger with each telling of the story.

Captain Nasu Munetaka sat alone beneath the shade of a tree, watching the tide come in. It was good to escape the noise of the adoring crowds, but the silence made him realize a few things. His father was avenged. His family’s honor restored. Yet, what good was a samurai without a purpose? He took out his flask and raised it to his lips. He was a great captain and probably the best archer in the world, but he did not know what came next…

Are there other monsters in the world?

Then perhaps I shall find them.

He poured the rest of his sake into the grass.

His hands did not tremble.

Animikii vs. Mishipeshu

C.L. Werner

Marcel Clerval stood atop the gantry and stared across the scarred landscape of Michipicoten Island. Before his mining company had arrived, the place had been almost pristine wilderness, devoid of any mark of man’s construction beyond the old lighthouse at its eastern extremity. The Canadian government had been loath to relinquish the island, to allow it to slip away from the protection of the Ministry of Natural Resources. It had been a long and tedious legal battle fought in both Canadian and French courts of law to get them to accept the legitimacy of his company’s claim to the island.

Centuries past, Michipicoten Island had been known as Isle Maurepas, named after the Count of Maurepas, then serving as France’s Minister of the Marine. Jean-Frederic Phelypeaux had been a powerful man in his time, responsible for the funding and maintenance of France’s naval forces. Many awards and honors had been bestowed upon him. Among these had been the Isle Maurepas in France’s New World colonies. The documents proving the land had been awarded to the Count of Maurepas hadn’t come to light until after the Second World War, discovered in the bombed-out cellar of a family named Phillipe outside Rouen. Ownership of the island was in the form of allodial title, granting the count and his descendents complete control over the land without any restrictions or duties owed to any higher authority, even the French Crown.

Devastated by the war, the Phillipes had sold the title to an American serviceman for a few hundred dollars. From the soldier, the deed had passed through a string of American and Canadian speculators before finally coming into the hands of Munsaint Limited. The first surveyors dispatched by the corporation had done so under the pretence of studying forest caribou, the true nature of their job concealed by the front company they ostensibly worked for. It had all been cleverly arranged, investigating the mineral composition of the island had been simply another part of their research into the caribou population and its conservation. The samples they brought back told far more about the natural resources within the island. It was rich in copper and a second expedition determined the mineral wealth to be extracted was almost unbelievable in magnitude. When global copper prices began to rise, Munsaint set their lawyers to enforcing their claim on Michipicoten Island.

Now the operation was in full swing. The wild island had been transformed in the space of a few weeks into a thriving enterprise. A modern dock had been erected on the west side of the island, bunk houses for miners, warehouses for equipment and storehouses for ore had been built all along the shoreline. The copper veins were so close to the surface that it had proven efficient to cut the timber away and strip mine several acres at a time. Two enormous bucket-wheel excavators had been brought in to clear away the masses of dirt to expose the ore. The waste deposits extracted from the growing pit were discarded in the little lakes dotting the island. Marcel thought it immensely convenient that some retreating glacier had left those natural depressions behind. It made the operation faster and more convenient.

The executive looked past the scarred terrain to gaze in pride at the titanic excavators. They were mounted on gigantic crawlers, each supporting a boom sixty meters long. When operating at peak efficiency, each of the machines could clear 180,000 cubic meters of overburden in a workday. They represented a considerable expense for Munsaint, imported from Germany and with expensive compliments of operators and mechanics to maintain them. Marcel felt, however, that the excavators would quickly prove their value.

Value? For all the trouble clearing their ownership of the island, Munsaint was expecting a considerable profit. Marcel knew if Michipicoten Island didn’t pay significant dividends, he’d soon find himself out of a job. Beyond the expense of the legal battle, beyond financing the men and materials to extract the copper, there was the public relations cost to consider. Conservation groups were howling for blood, calling Munsaint everything from barbarians to Nazis for the despoiling of the island. Munsaint had been compelled to endow a few scientific studies to prove that their operations on the island wouldn’t harm the indigenous wildlife, and it had taken extra effort to find credible naturalists who would endorse the results Munsaint expected their research to reveal. More capital had been expended to smooth over politicians in France, Canada, and the United States to ensure no environmental agencies disrupted their work. Indeed, Munsaint had been compelled to process the extracted ore in America so several senators could justify their support of the operation by claiming the mine was creating jobs for their constituents.

Most vexing of all, at least for Marcel, had been the protests of the Ojibwa tribe. They held that the island was a sacred place and must not be defiled by the greed of men. Their legends claimed a great monster slumbered beneath the island, and the copper Munsaint was taking had been put there to ensure the beast’s sleep. Their ancestors had suffered terribly from the monster until their medicine men discovered it could be placated with copper. Using the metal, they’d lured it to the island. It had soaked up the energies of the ore like a snake sunning itself on a rock. Eventually, the monster wearied and crawled into one of the lakes. While it slept, tribes from across the region brought all their copper to the island and buried it in the ground so that the monster could never again stir from its lair.

Marcel smiled at the absurdity of the legend. The monster, a thing they called Mishipeshu, was said to be a great scaly beast, the greatest of the creatures they called water panthers. So mighty was Mishipeshu that even the natural foes of the water panthers, the mighty thunderbirds, had been unable to oppose him. Only by placating the brute with copper had the Ojibwa finally been able to end his depredations.

Well, if Mishipeshu had ever existed, Marcel had entombed it far more thoroughly than the Ojibwa. Tons of overburden had been dumped into the lakes, reducing them to nothing but muddy puddles. There was a lesson there, for all backwards, superstitious people who insisted on standing in the path of progress, if only they had the wit to see it.

Marcel turned away from the strip mine and looked out towards the waters of Lake Superior. An empty ore barge was just pulling up at the dock to take on another load. At present capacity, the mine was able to send a load of ore to be processed once every two weeks. Marcel thought they could double that capacity once enough land had been cleared. He still fumed at the decision to process the ore in Chicago rather than someplace closer, but he was realistic enough to understand the concessions demanded by political graft.

The executive had been leaning against the metal rail of the gantry. Now he recoiled from it, staring first at his hands and then back at the railing. Perplexed, he reached out and gripped the rail again. There was no mistaking it; he hadn’t imagined the weird pulsation, the shiver that was vibrating through the metal. Marcel shook his head, unable to account for the weird phenomenon. Shouts from mine workers around the camp told him he wasn’t the only one to notice the occurrence.

A moment later, however, the miners and their boss had bigger things to occupy their attention. A stand of half-dead trees near the camp began to sway. Chains suspended from the winches at the dock began to shudder. It was a matter of seconds before every bird left on the island flew into the air, squawking and shrieking as they hurriedly made their way inland. Then the tremor struck in earnest.

Marcel was sent reeling as the whole gantry began to creak and groan, threatening to tear itself free from its moorings and pitch him into the strip mine hundreds of meters below. The executive clung to the railing, unable to believe what he was experiencing. An earthquake? Here? It was impossible?

Away to the north, Marcel could see the earth heaving, undulating like a turbulent sea. The great spoil heaps came crumbling down, splashing across the landscape in an avalanche of waste. Near one of the lakes, a great plume of dust and debris shot into the air, propelled hundreds of meters skyward with a force almost volcanic in its violence.

Marcel’s mouth dropped open in horror, all color draining from his face as he considered that prospect. Volcanic activity? Was it possible Michipicoten Island was simply the caldera of a sleeping volcano? Had their digging and drilling disrupted some tectonic pressure beneath the island? Was the whole place going to erupt in a firestorm of magma?

Even that apocalyptic explanation would have appealed to Marcel a moment later, for at least it would have been something his secular, materialistic mentality could have accepted and understood. When the earth heaped about the lake suddenly lurched upwards, when it came cascading away from the titanic body of an unbelievably huge creature, everything he had ever believed in, every concept of reality he’d held, was shattered.

The thing was as big as one of the bucket-wheel excavators Munsaint had brought to the island. One hundred and fifty meters long from the tip of its ophidian snout to the end of its long bifurcated tail, sixty meters high at its scaly shoulder. As it shook the loose earth from its body, Marcel could see that the monster was some sort of immense reptile, its scales possessing a dull cobalt hue along its sides and back but fading to a dingy yellow along the belly. Its build was lean, somehow conjuring the impression of a serpent despite the four clawed legs protruding from its bony shoulders. A bony ridge ran along its back, each of the triangular backplates showing black against its cobalt scales. At the ends of the bifurcated tail were two slender barbs of bone, conjuring to Marcel’s mind the incongruous image of an earwig’s abdomen. The head was an ugly wedge at the end of a long, snaky neck. At once both flat and elongated, the wide jaws supported an array of serrated teeth with a set of long, cobra-like fangs protruding from the upper jaw. The eyes of the creature were narrow, slit like the lenses of some great hunting cat. Those red eyes had an eerie awareness and malignance about them, betraying intelligence far more calculating than that of a mere animal. At the rear of the flattened, rattler-like head, two spikes of bone projected rearwards partially shielding the thing’s neck.

Marcel didn’t need an Ojibwa medicine man to tell him he was looking upon the great water panther, Mishipeshu. He didn’t need to be told the monster was a beast of evil. He could sense that in his bones, in his very soul. When the reptile reared back, when it opened its jaws in a primordial ululation that hissed across the island like a symphony of vipers, terror at last overwhelmed the shock and awe that had gripped Marcel and his miners. Almost to a man, the miners fled towards the docks, screaming and waving their hands at the ore barge.

Marcel scrambled down from the gantry. He didn’t shout a warning to his men, didn’t tell them that, as he leapt down from the gantry, he could see the barge pulling away from the island, retreating out into Lake Superior. He was too pragmatic to risk the advantage circumstance had gifted him. The Ojibwa said that Mishipeshu was a man-eater. Well then, the monster could glut itself on the workers. While it was busy gorging, Marcel would retreat across the island to the safety of the old lighthouse.

As he ran across the perimeter of the mine pit, Marcel could feel the earth shuddering beneath his feet. His ears rang with the ghastly hisses and growls of Mishipeshu as the enormous reptile lumbered across the island. Once, he risked a look towards the camp, watched as terrified miners began to throw themselves into the icy waters of the lake and try to swim to the quickly retreating barge. He could see Mishipeshu crawling towards them, its forked tongue flickering from between its jaws as it tasted their scent in the air.

A grinding roar, the blast of a steam whistle sounded from nearby. Marcel spun around, horrified to see one of the gigantic excavators crawling towards Mishipeshu, its cutting boom raised in the absurd parody of a knight’s lance. What were the idiot Germans doing? Why hadn’t they fled with the rest? Did the fools think they were Siegfried sallying forth to vanquish Fafnir? This wasn’t some Wagnerian farce! This was a living, breathing monstrosity!

Mishipeshu turned away from the camp as it heard the challenging blast of the excavator’s whistle. Hissing its own defiance, the reptile scurried across the piles of overburden, its mammoth claws punching into the walls of the pit as it crawled down to confront the excavator. For an instant, the monster hesitated, glaring balefully at the second excavator at the far end of the mine. That machine’s crew had been off duty when the water panther awoke. There was no one available to spur it into action.

The Germans drove their machine at full speed towards Mishipeshu. The monster whipped its tail at them, the bony spikes slashing across the side of the boom. Mishipeshu reeled back in confusion, surprised by an enemy that wasn’t a thing of flesh and blood.

As the water panther reeled back, the cutting boom came screaming downwards, crashing against the reptile’s flank and grinding against its scaly flesh. Mishipeshu writhed out from beneath the sawing blade. Sludge, which was too thick to ever be called blood, welled up from its horrendous wound. It roared angrily at the excavator and from each of its cobra-like fangs a stream of caustic bile was projected onto the excavator.

Steel bubbled and plastic vaporized as the poisonous slime splashed across the excavator. The crew screamed in despair as the boom’s weight was compromised. The front twenty meters of it sagged leftwards on what integrity remained in its frame. Unbalanced, the entire machine crashed onto its side.

Mishipeshu hissed again, but this time there was a suggestion of victory and satisfaction in the ophidian sound. The reptile lunged forward, pouncing upon the toppled excavator like some titanic catamount. The German crew’s shrieks became ever more intense as the water panther probed the control booth and maintenance cabins with its claws, digging the men out from their machine like a bear clawing termites from an old log.

Marcel fled, clapping his hands over his ears so he couldn’t hear the ghastly cries of the Germans as they were devoured by Mishipeshu. He knew the beast wouldn’t be long, and he also knew that it would take far more meat to ease the appetite of something so enormous. Still thinking of the lighthouse, of the security it could offer, he ran about the periphery of the pit. Desperately, he tried to ignore the quaking ground, tried to convince himself the gargantuan footfalls of Mishipeshu weren’t coming closer.

Ahead, Marcel could see the lighthouse rising above a stand of trees the miners hadn’t yet cleared away. He cried out in delight, fired his exhausted body for the final effort that would carry him to his refuge.

Then, overhead, he saw the flashing flicker of Mishipeshu’s tongue. Marcel spun around, throwing his arms across his face to blot out the awful sight, the vision of Mishipeshu crawling up from the bottom of the mining pit, its red eyes glowering hungrily at him.

It was the last thing Marcel Clerval would ever see. The next instant, the water panther’s immense jaws closed about him and the screaming executive was gone. Only the scarred landscape of Michipicoten Island remained as his legacy to the world.

The scarred terrain of the island, and the rampaging monster his greed had unleashed.

~

Alarm klaxons screeched across the concrete canyons of Chicago, civil defense sirens blaring from the rooftops of skyscrapers and radio towers. Beyond these, the crump of artillery lobbing shells into the cold waters of Lake Michigan rumbled throughout the city. Helicopter gunships circled above the brooding inland sea, their crews dumping depth charges into the lake. Jet fighters screeched across the skies, napalm bombs loaded on their wings. Columns of tanks roared along Lake Shore Drive, trundling past expensive high-rises, their armored advance cracking windows in luxurious condominiums. Mobile missile batteries followed the tanks, the box-like carriages for their weaponry trained upon the grim expanse of water eastward.

A terror inconceivable to the citizens of Chicago had descended upon them. Hordes of refugees choked Michigan Avenue and the other streets still open to civilian traffic. Ferries, tugs, motor launches—anything that could float—was drawn up in the Chicago River, assisting in the Herculean task of evacuating the city.

Destruction loomed over Chicago, annihilation both strange and inconceivable to the sensibilities of the scientific age. A monster from the mists of legend had suddenly erupted onto the modern world. Mishipeshu, the great water panther of the Ojibwa, a reptilian horror of gargantuan size and titanic strength. The beast had ravened down the length of Lake Superior, annihilating communities great and small. The militaries of both Canada and the United States had been helpless to stop the creature. Shipping in the Great Lakes had ground to a halt. Hundreds of thousands had fled their homes, retreating inland in an effort to escape the monster’s approach.

It was only recently, with satellite photos and orbital tracking of the monster, that the grim conclusion that its path would bring it to Chicago had been appreciated. Indeed, there were some who claimed that, from the curious diversions Mishipeshu’s trail had taken, the water panther was deliberately making for the city.

Bombs, missiles, artillery of every caliber and description had been loosed against Mishipeshu. Whatever substance composed the creature’s structure, however, was impervious to the ordnance deployed against it. Injuries inflicted upon the beast healed at an astounding rate, regenerating with a speed directly proportionate with the severity of its wounds. The military was placed in the curious position of trying to inflict the minimal damage to the beast, hoping to weaken it by degrees and slow its advance without activating whatever biological system would throw its restorative properties into overdrive.

Briefly atomic and chemical weaponry had been considered, but the prospect of contaminating the whole of the Great Lakes and their tributary rivers was too hideous to contemplate. Similarly, germ agents had been dismissed. As long as Mishipeshu kept close to the waterways, only conventional ordnance could be deployed against it.

For all the artillery and depth charges, the bombs and missiles, Mishipeshu emerged from the frigid waters of Lake Michigan. The gigantic reptile, resembling nothing so much as some dragon of the Dark Ages, strode up the beach, wading through the desperate fire of the tanks arrayed along Lake Shore Drive. The brute’s tongue flickered from between its jaws, tasting the air, savoring the scent of the terrified masses trying to flee the city.

The artillery barrage, the direct fire from the tanks intensified as the water panther crawled over the greenery of Grant Park, its claws gouging great furrows in the earth as it propelled its reptilian mass towards the towers of the Loop, the commercial heart of the city. Again, the hideous tongue flickered from between its jaws, tasting the smell of panicked humanity in the air.

Hissing with the violence of a raging cataract, Mishipeshu charged towards one of the towering apartment complexes. The reptile’s claws gouged great furrows in the building, its tail lashing and stabbing at the structure to tear away great chunks of concrete and steel. The building, a weathered veteran from the Roaring 20s, was unable to endure the assault. Shuddering and groaning, it crashed against its neighbor, bringing both structures crumbling down in a cascade of dust and debris.

Vengefully, one of the circling fighters dove down upon Mishipeshu as the monster began to claw bodies from the rubble. Napalm cylinders flashed through the air, their silvery casings gleaming in the sunlight as they hurtled towards the water panther. Oblivious to the weaponry loosed against it, the monster continued to gorge itself on the inhabitants of the buildings it had demolished.

Mishipeshu vanished in a great ball of flame. The reptile’s anguished shriek rang through the urban canyons. The fighter swung back around to confirm the kill.

As the plane swept down towards the fire and smoke, caustic slime came shooting out from the destruction. The pilot had time to shriek once as Mishipeshu’s venom melted through the canopy of his fighter, and then proceeded to corrode his flesh. Unguided, the fighter careened onwards, smacking into the side of the hulking Trump Tower, shattering its mirrored façade.

Mishipeshu came crawling from the flames, fingers of napalm still clinging to its scales, charred bones standing naked and exposed where the reptile’s regeneration had yet to repair its injuries. Maddened by pain, the water panther aimed its fangs skyward, projecting venom at the circling helicopters and fighters. It hissed in frustration as its poison failed to strike down any of the swift-moving craft. Lashing its tail, the monster leapt upon the side of a skyscraper, scrambling up its height in an effort to close with the circling planes.

As it neared the summit of the tower, however, Mishipeshu’s eyes narrowed, its entire body shivering in agitation. It leaned its head back, gazing away from the planes and helicopters, looking up into the sky itself. A sky that had been clear minutes before but which was now rapidly darkening with thick clots of cloud.

Mishipeshu hissed angrily, its tongue again flickering as it picked the scent of its ancient enemy from the air.

Animikii, the mighty thunderbird, was coming.

~

The vibrations of the water panther’s essence attracted Animikii’s attention, resonating even in that higher plane of existence to which the thunderbirds had ascended ages past. Mishipeshu’s presence could be perceived as a shadow, a blot shifting across the harmonics of that alien dimension. Only the interference of water could shield the monster from the notice of the thunderbirds, but in seeking prey Mishipeshu had cast aside such protection.

It took Animikii some time to restructure its substance and awareness into a state that could penetrate into the purely physical constraints of three-dimensional aspect. The breech between existences was preceded by the rapid cloud formations. When Animikii actually penetrated the dimensions, the violation was announced with a deafening peal of thunder, a sound that boomed across half a continent.

The thunderbird soared high above the urban sprawl of Chicago, its sharp eyes piercing through the veil of clouds that swirled about it. Slowly, gradually, its body took on tangible shape, diminishing into the confines of physical matter. Half-forgotten sensations like temperature, smell, and sound impacted upon Animikii’s mind, forcing its mentality to reduce and adjust to the demands of this new existence.

Far below, Animikii could see the blotchy shadow of the water panther. Mishipeshu was far greater in size than any of its breed had ever been before. Of all the thunderbirds, only Animikii had the strength and power to challenge such a monster.

Challenge it Animikii did. Hurtling down from the sky, soaring through the circling aircraft, the mighty thunderbird cackled its threat to Mishipeshu. The slipstream caused by the giant’s flight sent helicopters hurtling earthward, sent fighters spiraling out of control. Cars were buffeted across the streets, trees and lampposts were uprooted. Before the hurricane force of Animikii’s wings, Mishipeshu was forced against the ground, digging its claws into the asphalt and cement to stabilize itself.

Animikii swept past the crouching water panther, climbing skywards and ascending to the vantage presented by the megalithic Willis Tower. Radio and television antennas snapped beneath the thunderbird’s weight as it settled upon the tower. The glass sides of the skyscraper reflected Animikii’s terrifying shape as it flew past. The thunderbird was a featherless creature covered in dark red leathery skin that faded to a dirty brown at the wings. Its legs were short and coated in a scaly texture such as might grace the tail of a rat. Massive talons tipped each foot, each individual claw ten meters across and a third again as wide. Animikii’s leathery wings stretched to encompass a span of several hundred meters, and each pinion was ribbed after the fashion of a bat. A short stump of neck rose from above the creature’s torso and atop this rested a small head with an elongated beak. Horns curled away from either side of Animikii’s skull, framing its stormy eyes while its beak was rendered grotesque with a profusion of jagged fangs.

Flapping its wings, Animikii sent a thunderous clamor rolling across the city. The monster turned its head from side to side, cackling menacingly at the water panther down in the streets below.

Mishipeshu responded to the thunderbird’s goading. Lunging to its feet, the water panther charged along the street, its lashing tail battering the shops and offices arrayed along the boulevard and swatting the vehicles that had been abandoned everywhere. The primordial hate between its kind and the thunderbirds sent a bestial fury surging through its cold reptilian heart.

Animikii cackled again and came hurtling downwards. The thunderbird’s stormy eyes blazed, bolts of lightning flashing from each orb to sear down into Mishipeshu’s body. The reptile hissed in pain as the electricity scorched its scales, yet still it charged onward in a bounding lope that combined the scurry of a lizard with the pounce of a cat.

The thunderbird’s lightning flashed again, blackening Mishipeshu’s back. As Animikii went soaring past, however, Mishipeshu’s bifurcated tail whipped upward, the great bony prongs stabbing into the leathery flesh. The water panther’s tail lodged in Animikii’s body and, as the thunderbird’s momentum carried it onwards, Mishipeshu was dragged after it, pulled back down the street.

Impaled by Mishipeshu’s tail and overcome by the beast’s dead weight, Animikii’s flight ended in a devastating crash against the side of an office building. Glass and concrete rained down upon the thunderbird and its adversary as the structure collapsed beneath their weight. A cloud of dust billowed away from the destruction, for a moment obscuring the two monsters from those men still able to witness their conflict.

As the dust cleared, the mammoth shapes of the monsters could be seen. Animikii, injured and bleeding, swatted at Mishipeshu with its wings, using its pinions to pound the water panther against the ground. Mishipeshu responded by raking its claws across the thunderbird’s breast and spitting its caustic venom across Animikii’s body. The water panther’s tail, the bony spikes ripped away by the calamitous impact, swatted at Animikii, trying to bludgeon the flying monster.

Lightning again flashed from Animikii’s eyes, searing into the face of Mishipeshu. The water panther yowled, hurling itself back in an agonized sprawl, sludge streaming from the scorched ruin of its eyes. Allowed a respite, the thunderbird lifted itself back into the air. It circled the prostrate water panther once, then dove down and sank its talons into Mishipeshu’s flank.

The blinded water panther flailed and thrashed at the end of Animikii’s talons, spitting venom from its fangs in every direction in a futile effort to strike its foe. The weakened thunderbird carried its prey across the city, crashing to earth in Daly Plaza. Mishipeshu struggled even more fiercely as it slammed into the ground, cracking the cement and rupturing water mains. Its claws raked across Animikii’s hide, tearing great furrows in its enemy.

Those gunships yet airborne streaked towards the plaza, loosing a steady barrage of missiles into both of the weakened monsters. Animikii reared back, shrieking angrily as it sent lightning from its eyes crackling towards the helicopters. Three of the aircraft were burned from the sky before the others escaped into the man-made canyons of Chicago’s Loop.

The brief respite afford to it allowed Mishipeshu to writhe out from beneath Animikii’s grip. The water panther struck at Animikii, sinking its fangs into the mighty thunderbird. Corrosive poison pumping through its body, Animikii tried to rise once more into the sky, but the weight of Mishipeshu brought it slamming back to earth.

A slap of Animikii’s wing broke Mishipeshu’s hold, sending the water panther slamming into the base of Daly Center and obliterating the fountain set before it. With its beak, the thunderbird pried loose the cobra-like fang Mishipeshu had left embedded in its body.

The water panther crashed through the lower floors of the skyscraper, but instead of working itself free it clawed its way higher, crawling through the inner structure until it was above its foe. Blinking its partially regenerated eyes, the reptile glared down at the thunderbird. Erupting from the face of Daly Center, Mishipeshu pounced upon Animikii.

The thunderbird lifted into the air in that brief instant before the water panther could strike. Mishipeshu hurtled past it, slamming face-first into the street. Before it could wriggle away, Animikii dropped down upon the stunned reptile. The fanged beak ripped at Mishipeshu’s wounds, tearing slimy goblets of flesh from the beast. Throwing its head back, Animikii forced each morsel of flesh down its gullet.

Again, the defenders of the city tried to assault the wounded monsters. A tank platoon rumbled out from behind the corner of Clark Street, opening fire on the two beasts. Animikii rose from its dying prey. The thunderbird’s eyes flashed lightning, its wings swept forwards in a titanic gale, catching the electrical discharge and transforming it into a crackling skein of death. The tank crews were cooked inside their armored machines by the electric hurricane.

Animikii soared upwards, the wounds dealt to it already mending as the regenerative properties of Mishipeshu’s flesh was absorbed into the thunderbird’s metabolism. Once again, Animikii flew across the city, landing upon the spire of Willis Tower. The thunderbird settled upon its perch and cackled in triumph. Then it swept its gaze across the concrete canyons, over the artificial constructions of centuries of industrialization and mechanization, of ruthless consumption and exploitation.

Mishipeshu had been freed from its ancient slumber by such things, these corrupt essences that inflicted such disharmony upon the world. As Animikiii tried to render its own essence into that phase which should allow it passage into its own plane of existence, the thunderbird found conditions too hostile to the effort. The imbalance inflicted by the men who had so greatly profaned the land was too immense for Animikii to overcome.

The thunderbird’s cackle became malignant, its stormy eyes glaring down at the fleeing crowds. The few who remembered the old Ojibwa legends might have appreciated how insignificant the destruction of Mishipeshu was beside the advent of Animikii. The water panther was a monster that would prey upon men, devour them like any beast of prey. The thunderbird was different. It didn’t prey on men, it judged them and destroyed all who didn’t please it.

In this modern world of steel and smoke, of greed and hedonism, how few would be spared the wrath of Animikii?

The Turn of the Card

James Swallow

Streamers of ash fell from the sky in a gray rain, leaving lines across the grassy expanse of the landing strip. Overhead, plumes of heavy smoke drifting eastward from London blotted out the weak sunshine, making it seem more like nightfall than morning.

The little municipal airfield at Rochester was overflowing with activity in the wake of the evacuation, vehicles going to and fro, light planes and helicopters arranged nose-to-tail where they had been squeezed into every last square meter of space. Aircraft had been arriving since dawn, fleeing the exclusion zone that had been imposed by the military. Many were dangerously overloaded, and there was talk of a twin-engine Beechcraft that had augured into a nearby hillside and killed everyone aboard, too heavy to clear the tops of the cinder-dusted trees.

But now, the arrivals were leaving again, given their meager rations of fuel and ordered to fly south toward the channel coast, away from the city and whatever the hell was going on there.

London was a ghost town. The evacuation order had blared from every television screen, every radio, every webpage and cell phone. In droves, the capital’s populace fled toward the hoped-for safety of the Home Counties – and now an eerie kind of stillness was spreading from the city in the wake of the black fire-smoke.

In the dead of night, the absence of noise lingered in the air. London had been silenced, a city of more than eight million people emptied in less than a day.

But when there was a sound, it carried; the skirl of RAF jets circling high, the faint and irregular rumble of buildings collapsing. And now and then, animalistic shrieks echoed off the low cloud. Sounds made by unnatural things, things with lungs the size of football pitches and throats wider than railway tunnels.

~

All this was pushed to the back of Hannah Brook’s mind as she opened the door of the pre-fabricated hut where the rest of India 99’s flight crew gathered. Like her, they had all been wearing their midnight blue jumpsuits too long and were all caught in that place between fatigue and nervous energy. Predictably, there was something resembling an argument in progress as Sergeants Dillon and Bramwell shot each other hard looks over stryrofoam cups of strong, dark builder’s tea. Patel and Haines, the two observers, looked on and said nothing. No-one had heard her enter, so Brook hesitated in the shadows by the door, listening. The folded map she held in her hand crumpled as her fingers tightened of their own accord.

“Bollocks,” Dillon said, with his characteristic grimace. He ran a hand over his shaven head, shaking it. Thickset and glowering, out of uniform he might have looked like some thuggish hooligan straight off the terraces, but in the Metropolitan Police Service colors he was more the immovable object that had cowed many a criminal into taking an easier option. “You’re having a laugh.”

Bramwell folded his arms. “You think anyone is up for joking right now?” He was a total contrast to the other man, whipcord thin and a head taller than Dillon, smooth where the other sergeant was rough. “Look at that.” He jerked his thumb at the television in the corner of the room, still tuned to the same rolling news coverage it had been showing since they arrived. “That’s happening, Rob. That’s real.”

Patel cleared his throat politely. The young man was a recent transfer to the Air Support Unit, with them for less than a month from the regular force, and his dark face was filmed with sweat. “I think…people would know if it wasn’t true.” The strain in his voice was clear. Like all of them – like everyone on the bloody planet – he was struggling to get his head around what was happening.

At his side, Haines—skinny, pale and fretting—just nodded glumly and said nothing.

On the screen, grainy footage from what was clearly a handheld camera flickered and jarred as the person shooting it tried to maintain their footing. With the sound muted, everything had a strange, surreal cast to it. Hannah recognized a view from the banks of the River Tyne, the shot looking up the channel that cut through the city of Newcastle. She’d had an aunt who lived up there, a sister on her mother’s side, back when she was still a teenager. Hannah remembered the red brick buildings in the northern town, and the great span of the wide arched bridge that crossed the old industrial waterway.

She could see the bridge there on the screen, parts of it visible over the shoulders of the giant machine that stood ankle deep in the wide river. A hulking construction made of tarnished brass and blackened steel. It resembled a great shelled terrapin standing on its hind legs. A cruel, beaked face crested the end of a serrated neck, framed by wreaths of steam billowing from tall smokestacks growing out of its back. The camera blurred as the shot shifted focus, zooming in and then out again. Hannah glimpsed the shapes of broad metal cogs turning inside the machine-thing’s barrel chest, and thick hawsers drawing taut as bulky arms, ending in metal talons, rose up into a defensive posture.

“Is there a man inside that?” Patel wondered aloud. “Is it…a robot?”

“I heard the Navy found it,” said Bramwell. “Some mad scientist put it together at the bottom of a Scottish loch when Victoria was queen. Been rusting away until… Until someone decided to start it up again.”

The story seemed unbelievable, and yet there it was, real and true. Hannah watched a text-ticker moving right to left across the bottom of the screen, and realized with a start that the footage was being broadcast live. She saw something about an attack on the city, a name that didn’t connect with anything she knew—Chelonra—and then the camera was whipping around again as a massive shadow fell over the image. Ice crystals formed around the edges of the lens and suddenly, inexplicably, in the middle of a summer morning it was snowing.

Another one of them – another giant – filled the image, wading downriver to meet the brassy machine leviathan with heavy, purposeful steps that sent surges of water up to swamp the banks. Floes of ice formed in the wake of its passing, as if it radiated a powerful cold.

This one resembled a polar bear, maybe a hundred meters high, the pure white of its fur marked with strange symbols that seemed to give off a faint glow. The sight of it had captured the attention of the camera operator with such power that the shot never wavered, for the moment, the incredible threat the bear-beast represented forgotten in the shock and awe of its arrival. Spines of blue sea ice charted a line down its back, and as it advanced, it flexed great paws that ended in shiny black claws, each one of them the size of a car. The creature tensed and opened its mouth to challenge the other giant with a soundless roar.

“What is it doing?” muttered Haines, finally finding his voice.

“It’s gonna kill that other one,” said Dillon grimly, looking up to catch sight of Hannah.

On the screen, the white-furred creature charged forward as the great machine released a ray of sun-bright fire from an aperture on its chest. The spell that had held the cameraman’s rapt attention broke and the view became chaotic as the person holding the rig ran away in panic. There were brief flashes of new snowdrifts on the Tyneside streets as the lens swung about, the blurred motion of legs and then a single, perfectly clear image.

The immense, towering bear, patches of its fur ablaze, slamming the Chelonra machine into the green-painted steel frame of the Tyne Bridge, with such force the suspended road bed crumpled and split.

“How are we supposed to beat something like that?” said Haines, the color draining from his face.

“We’ll play the hand we’re dealt,” Bramwell told him.

Hannah crossed the room and switched off the television. “I need a crew,” she told them. “To go into the city.”

“To… to Newcastle?” said Haines, his face creasing in confusion.

“Not Newcastle, you idiot,” snapped Dillon. “London.” He eyed Hannah severely. “That what you mean, Brooky?”

She held out a scrap of notepaper, and on it was a near-illegible scrawl. “I’ve been calling… Trying all the staging posts around the perimeter.” The moment she had to say it out loud, she found her strength starting to ebb, her fear rising to fill the void. On the way back from the radio hut, she had been certain of herself. But looking them in the eyes now, the full weight of what Hannah was asking for was upon her. “My uncle,” she said, the words falling from her lips. “He’s still in there, inside the cordon.” She shook her head. “I can’t leave him behind.”

Dillon and Bramwell exchanged looks. Both of them had been flying with Hannah Brook long enough to know about her past, that she had been raised by the eccentric lecturer at King’s College after her parents had died. Both of them also knew that she had an obstinate streak that had seen her discharged early from the Army Air Corps. The Army’s loss had been the Metropolitan Police’s gain, but the years had not smoothed away Brook’s rough edges.

Bramwell released a breath. “Hannah. Listen. Operations haven’t given us another tasking yet, but they will. We can’t just take off on our own-”

She gathered up her flight helmet from where it lay on a nearby bench. She jerked her chin toward the window, at the blue-and-yellow EC 145 Eurocopter parked a few hundred meters away. “Don’t get me wrong,” she told him. “I’m not asking your permission, Sarge. I’m telling you. All I want to know is if you’re going to help me.”

Patel got to his feet. “I’ll come.”

“What?” Bramwell’s manner shifted toward annoyance. “Do you have any idea what’s going inside the perimeter?” He came closer to the pilot. “Everything within the M25 has been classed as a no-go zone. Everything. You realize what that means, yeah?”

“The military are planning to flatten it,” Haines said, grim-faced.

Hannah held up the map in her hand. On it, the area ringed by M25 orbital motorway had been hastily crosshatched in red marker; the great circular road, which surrounded London, was now the line of demarcation. Each interchange along its length was now a strongpoint barred by tanks and mobile artillery units. It was a cage for the creatures that she had heard screaming in the night.

“Where is he?” said Dillon.

Bramwell rounded on him. “Rob, you’re not seriously—”

Dillon held up a hand to silence him. “Brooky. Do you know where the old man is?”

She nodded, tapping the middle of the map with a gloved finger. “The British Museum. When this all kicked off, he went there. He said he was going to look for answers.”

“What are you going to do if we get in and he’s not there?” Dillon’s craggy face softened.

Hannah swallowed the jolt of fear that possibility brought forward. “I have to be sure.”

For a long moment, the sergeant said nothing, then he nodded briskly. “’Course you do.” He made a turning motion with his index finger. “Better spin it up before we change our minds, then.”

Bramwell placed a hand on Dillon’s chest to stop him and both men tensed. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

“I owe her,” Dillon said, low and firm. “Come to think of it, so do you.” A silent communication passed between the two men. Months before, caught on the leading edge of a thunderstorm racing up from Kent, India 99 had been struck by lightning, and it had only been the expert piloting of Hannah Brook that had enabled the crew to live through it. That day, the slight, athletic woman with the dark hair and haunted eyes had saved all their lives.

Bramwell scowled, then nodded. “All right, fine. We’ll go.” He turned and pointed at Haines. “Except you, Mike. Someone has to stay behind and lie for us.”

The observer’s shoulders slumped, but he could barely keep the relief from his face. “Thanks…I mean, okay…”

Patel grabbed his gear and trailed after Hannah as she made for the door. “You don’t think…they’ll shoot us down, do you?”

“I’ll keep us in the weeds,” Hannah promised him. With each step she took, she forced the fear and the panic into a dark, distant part of herself, calling instead on her training, her skills. I can do this. I will do this.

As the four of them crossed the apron toward the helicopter, their boots crunching on the drifts of cinders, Bramwell came alongside her. When he spoke, his voice was low so only she would hear it. “Hannah, look, if this is about you trying to make up for what happened to John…”

At the mention of her fiancé’s name, Hannah was immediately aware of the engagement ring under the leather of her flight gloves, and again her fist tightened. “I’m not leaving someone else behind,” she told Bramwell, and reached up to open the helicopter’s cockpit door.

Ten minutes later they were speeding westward, low and quick, gently rising and falling as India 99 followed the nap of the earth toward the city.

~

The M25 flashed past beneath them as the rotors clattered through air still clogged with dusky embers, the dark band of the highway a jumble of empty cars where Londoners had forsaken their stalled vehicles on the exodus from the doomed city.

Someone saw the helicopter go, and over the guard channel a stern voice barked out the police helo’s call sign with military authority, demanding that India 99 turn back immediately. In the operator seat next to Hannah, Sergeant Bramwell leaned forward and switched off the radio.

“We’re committed,” he said simply.

Hannah nodded. “Thanks, lads,” she told them, a swell of pride rising briefly in her chest.

They flew on in silence for a while before Dillon called out from the cabin behind her. “How we gonna do this, then?”

“We should follow the river.” His nose buried in a map, Patel traced a finger along the line of the Thames. “The smoke won’t be so thick over water.”

“Copy,” said Hannah, shifting her hands on the cyclic and collective sticks.

Patel opened his mouth to say something else, but then the observer caught sight of the streets passing below him and he lost the words. Hannah remembered the studious young constable was from south of the river, brought up somewhere in Streatham – and they had to be flying over his part of town at that very moment.

She chanced a look out of the cockpit as they flew over the tops of apartment buildings. Nothing moved down there, no people, no vehicles. At junctions, traffic lights were still operating, forgotten in the chaos of the evacuation and signaling at empty streets. Here and there she saw evidence of small, human-scale disasters – an elevated railway station crammed with stalled trains, a vehicle on fire that had been left to burn, a school playground filled with lines of luggage abandoned in the rush to escape.

“You see anyone?” Dillon asked, craning his neck.

It flashed past so quick she could only register the sight as a fractional image, but from the corner of her eye, Hannah saw a bed sheet that had been painted with the words ‘The End Is Nigh’ tethered to the balcony of a tower block. Four bodies, large and small, hung at the ends of ropes that had been tied to a balcony rail, necks broken.

Many people were saying this was the beginning of the end of the world. The sudden, inexplicable arrival of the creatures, the things the media were calling Kaiju after some Japanese word that meant “strange monster”. All around the planet, churches were packed, suicide rates were spiking, and everyone who had ever cried out about the end of days was claiming they had been right all along.

It started slowly. A rash of peculiar sightings in remote regions. A town going silent in Africa. An unexplained earthquake in the Arctic. A liner lost at sea, the wreck found ripped apart. Then the first of the attacks came, a thing like a gargantuan salamander demolishing Sydney with firestorms and fury. Some said they were aliens that had fallen from space, others that they were products of science gone insane or the reborn manifestation of old myths.

All that mattered was that they were everywhere now, dozens of them crashing across the Earth, fighting with humanity, fighting each other. And in their wake, there was nothing but devastation and death.

Hannah tried to figure out what it all meant, but she came up empty. She wasn’t one for believing in brimstone and days of judgment – the pilot only cared about what she could see and feel, what she knew to be true. At this moment, that was as simple as family.

India 99 passed over Battersea Park, and turned to come in low over the tide-swollen Thames, the dirty gray-green water empty of all river traffic. Hannah heard Patel mutter something under his breath that sounded like a prayer.

“Did you see that?” he said. “In the park? All the trees were uprooted. There were marks on the ground, like footprints.” He frowned. “Big ones.”

~

The shriek hit them before anyone could reply, powerful enough that it cut through the heavy drone of the Eurocopter’s rotor blades.

It was the same noise Hannah had heard in the dark of the night, but louder, closer, angrier. Some animal-hindbrain part of her reacted with a jolt, the tiny fragment of primitive gray matter still buried in the human mind after millions of years of evolution, knowing instinctively the cry was the call of a predator. Her blood chilled. Nothing on Earth could make a sound like that, nothing that had come to be through natural means.

“There!” called Bramwell, pointing out of the canopy toward the northwest, beyond the greensward of St. James’s Park.

Hannah looked and saw a rolling front of heavy cloud a few miles distant, a mass of smoke from fires and the churn of dust from tons of crushed masonry. Huge shadows shifted inside the haze, indistinct forms crashing back and forth. They moved faster than any things of such size had a right to. For a split-second, a roil of cloud parted and she caught sight of a thick tail with twin barbs, curling and snapping at the air. It was blood red and shiny in the weak sunlight, scaled like the skin of a snake.

The massive whipping form coiled and flicked back as something else in the haze came in to attack it. Hannah glimpsed vast, burning spikes lit by ethereal orange light, and then the cry came again, followed by the hollow boom of breaking concrete.

“Two of them?” she wondered aloud. “Looks like they’re having a punch-up…”

“Good,” snapped Dillon. “That means they’re occupied. As long was we don’t attract their attention, we may actually be able to get out of this alive.”

Hannah nodded, and pushed India 99 forward, skimming the river as they passed the Houses of Parliament and the shattered stub of Big Ben. The upper third of the historic clock tower had been torn off and now it lay half-submerged in the shallows on the far embankment. Crossing Westminster Bridge, Hannah took the helicopter up as the river curved eastward ahead of them, and she sighted north toward the Bloomsbury district where the British Museum lay. Their destination was dangerously close to the edge of the dust clouds, and she weighed her choices. A direct path would be fastest, but if the Kaiju caught sight of them…

“Bloody hell,” breathed Bramwell, scanning the route of the river through a pair of binoculars. “That big glass tower, the Shard…it’s gone. Everything up by London Bridge looks like there’s a bite taken out of it.”

Hannah hesitated, part of her wanting to see the destruction with her own eyes. But that faded under a surge of fury that came up from her heart.

London was her home. Born and bred in its streets, she loved the old city in a way that it was hard for her to articulate – as if in some manner the bricks and stone, the river and the streets, they were her own personal property. It was part of the reason she had come to work for the Met, to do something for the place that had made her who she was. To pay it back.

Now these things were here, heedlessly laying waste to her city. Destroying everything she cared about. Hannah felt an odd, stabbing pain in her belly and tensed, but the feeling faded even as it happened.

Then she saw the motion of the river below, the unnatural writhing of the water as something large and quick moved beneath the surface. “Down there!” she shouted, as she stamped on the rudder pedals, turning the helicopter into a pivoting tail-slide.

In a blast of white froth, the murky waters of the Thames exploded and a sinuous, lizard-like form burst out of the river, a wide arrow-head mouth snapping open and shut as it tried to grab India 99 in its fanged maw. Hannah retreated back and away as the beast leapt up, shaking off water, to land splay-legged across the rail lines of the Hungerford Bridge.

“What the-?” Bramwell never finished his sentence as the creature released a chittering bark and blinked its yellow, slitted eyes at them, each as wide as a man was tall. There was savagery there, savagery and cunning.

Hannah’s mind flashed back to a childhood outing to the zoo, to the gecko enclosure in the reptile house. This thing seemed to share some physical similarity to the small lizards she had seen sunning themselves on rocks, but only in the most limited sense. It was bright azure blue, its scales shimmering even in the dull morning light, bony spines and a serrated tail lending it a ferocious aspect. It cocked its head, blinking again, and Hannah remembered something else from that day; she remembered seeing a gecko pull a fat fly straight out of the air and chew it down whole, swallowing the buzzing insect – wings, body and all.

“Look out!” called Dillon as the lizard-creature coiled and leapt at them. Impossibly, it seemed to blur through the air, moving almost instantaneously.

Hannah slammed the stick hard over and sent India 99 into a dive that put them dangerously close to the water. The Kaiju snatched at them and missed, scrambling over the embankment, quickly pulling itself up over the high Ferris wheel frame of the London Eye.

“You said there were only two of them!” said Patel.

“Evidently not!” Hannah shot back.

The blue-skinned creature crushed the passenger pods of the landmark as it climbed, and the wheel’s steel spars began to twist and distort under its weight. A clawed hand swatted at the helicopter and Hannah felt the backwash as it cut the air in front of them.

“Did you see it move?” Patel continued. “How did it do that?”

“We’ve got to get away from this thing!” said Dillon.

“It’s too late, it saw us,” called Bramwell. “We go on, it’s gonna follow us…”

“Then let’s give it something to chew on.” Hannah deliberately turned the helicopter back toward the Kaiju, pointing India 99’s nose directly at the creature’s snout. She nodded toward a control panel in front of Bramwell. “Give him a tan!”

“Okay…” Bramwell grabbed at the small joystick that controlled a barrel-shaped pod set on a gimbal mount under the helicopter’s fuselage.

Along with the thermal camera, the police helicopter’s other main weapon in the war on crime was something they called ‘the nitesun’, a searchlight array capable of putting out a blazing thirty million-candlepower beam. In the daytime, its effectiveness was lessened, but it was the only defense they had – and at such close range to the creature and with those big eyes…

“Smile, you ugly sod!” spat Dillon as Bramwell aimed the nitesun at the Kaiju’s head and stabbed the switch.

A shock of brilliant sodium-white light washed out the creature’s scaly face and it recoiled away with a deafening squeal. In a strangely human motion, it brought up its clawed hands to shield its face and staggered backward, colliding with the bent spars of the London Eye.

“It’s blinded!” shouted Bramwell. “Go!”

Hannah hunched forward against the straps of her pilot’s chair, almost as if the act would make the aircraft move faster. She took India 99 up and away, accelerating across Savoy Street, the Strand, and out over Covent Garden. Behind her, Patel was struggling to look back along the line of the fuselage.

“I don’t see it,” he said. “I think we got clear.”

The pilot said nothing, unwilling to test their luck. Up high now, skating along the bottom of the low cloud, the wounded city presented more of itself to her. North of the river, the destruction was far worse than she had expected.

A path of wreckage and obliteration crossed the landscape from east to west, vanishing into mist somewhere over Shoreditch, carving in a curved line kilometers long all the way to Euston and the fire clouds. Buildings lay in fragments, pounded to rubble, and in places the earth itself had been shredded and torn, opening ancient sub-basements and underground stations to the air. The road of ruin was like a vast black arrow pointing at Regent’s Park, piercing the green heart of London. All this had taken place in a day, a monstrous assault on a city that had weathered the bombardments of two world wars, terrorist strikes, and civil unrest, and never buckled. A dark, foreboding mood collected in Hannah’s chest as the full reality of her reckless endeavor became clear to her.

She held the controls tightly, balancing on the edge of a new choice. If we turn back now…

Hannah felt Sergeant Dillon’s hand resting on her shoulder. “Brooky,” he said quietly over the helmet intercom. “You’re the aircraft captain. Where to now?”

Below them, a green oval had appeared in among the blocks of townhouses. “Bedford Square,” she said, recovering her strength. “Stand by, I’m taking us down.”

~

An eerie quiet fell as India 99’s rotors slowed to a halt. Even in the hours before dawn, amid the city’s streets there was always the faint rush of distant traffic, the sounds of life. Now there were only the irregular tremors in the depths of the ground, echoes of leviathan footfalls that felt too close for comfort.

Hannah scrambled from the helicopter, snatching up an emergency medical kit to sling over her shoulder. Dillon climbed out after her, grabbing a police-issue Airwave radio handset.

Patel and Bramwell hesitated in the open hatchway. Both of them were reluctant to step out, as if to do so might alert the creatures stalking the city as to their presence. Patel’s hand dropped to the Taser in his belt and Dillon gave a gallows-humor sneer. “If you see one of ‘em, you’re gonna use that, are you?”

Chastened, the other man nodded glumly. “I suppose not. They probably wouldn’t notice anything short of a rocket launcher.”

“So stay unnoticed,” Hannah told them. “You only swat the bugs you see, right?”

“We’ll stay with the chopper,” insisted Bramwell. “Get your uncle and then tab it back here, fast as you bloody can.”

Out to the east, there was a sudden skirling bellow that rattled windows all around the square, and orange fire reflected off the clouds. In the distance, part of a spiny shape appeared over the rooftops and then vanished again, the mass of it slamming into the side of the cylindrical BT Tower; one of London’s oldest skyscrapers, they watched it tilt slowly away like a felled tree.

The ground shivered with another earthquake rumble and Hannah broke into a run, trying to keep her balance as the road quivered under her feet.

~

Always one for the expedient choices, Sergeant Dillon used his baton to crack a window on the nearside of the museum, and together they scrambled into the dusty, poorly-lit interior of the building. Power was off in this part of the city, although emergency lights burned here and there, casting an alien glow over glass cases full of old relics.

Dillon panned his flashlight around, the beam coming to rest on the headless sculpture of a centaur. “What’s all this, then?”

“Ancient Greek stuff,” Hannah told him, without having to look. Her uncle had taken her to the British Museum so many times as a child, she practically knew the layout of the place by heart. She pointed. “Roman over there. Middle Eastern there, Egyptian….”

“Your uncle knows about it, does he?” Dillon followed her, peering into the cases they passed, scowling at thousand year-old death masks and bits of pottery.

“He knows about a lot of stuff,” she told him. Hannah left it at that.

She didn’t tell him about the more esoteric turn the old man’s research had taken in the last few years. Professor Frederick Brook had once been a noted expert on the mythology of dead civilizations, but she had come back from Army service to find he was drifting into areas of scientific study that at best were on the fringe, and at worst considered the domain of crackpots. He had taken to associating with so-called experts who were more part of the ‘flying saucer’ crowd than real scientists.

Hannah worried about him, about his reputation. And now, after the arrival of the Kaiju creatures, there was a part of her that worried he might have actually been on to something.

She called his name as they moved through the galleries, her voice echoing off the walls. Hannah heard movement up ahead and turned a corner; and there he was, scribbling something into a notebook under the glow of a portable lamp.

“My girl,” he said, as he always did when seeing her. He gave her arm an affectionate squeeze and he grinned behind his bushy, ill-trimmed beard. Affable and slightly unkempt, the professor looked as if Hannah and Dillon had come across him at Sunday tea-time, not in the heart of a city under siege by monsters.

Hannah was thankful for the long shadows that allowed her to swallow her emotions before Dillon could see them. But the elder Brook did, and his face changed, creasing with concern.

“Hannah, what are you doing here? It isn’t safe!”

“Too right, Prof,” said Dillon, pushing past to look along the gallery for anything that could be a threat. “This your kit, is it?” He indicated a pile of books, a tablet screen and a chunky electronic device that resembled a 1980’s cell phone. “We’ll take it and go.”

When Dillon made to gather up the gear, the professor stepped in and prevented him. “No, don’t touch that. My equipment is very delicate-” He trailed off as the device began to emit a low, regular series of chirps like a radiation counter.

“I came to find you,” Hannah said, and for a second she heard the voice of a lost little girl in her own words. “This is Rob Dillon, he’s a friend.”

“We brought a helicopter,” said the sergeant, by way of introducing himself. “So, if you please…” Dillon made a follow-me gesture.

“Hannah, you know I hate to fly,” said the professor, as if that would end the conversation.

Dillon let out a grim chuckle. “You have seen what’s out there, haven’t you? Big and scaly and as ugly as sin.”

“Not all of them are scaly,” the professor corrected, in a gently hectoring tone Hannah remembered well from her schooldays.

“Everyone else has evacuated!” she blurted, her frustration with him rising. “Why did you stay behind? We have to go, now!”

He looked at her sadly, his old eyes clear and firm. “This is important, Hannah. My work is vital.”

“I’m sure it is,” Dillon ventured. “You can do it back at Rochester. Come on now, old fella.” The sergeant reached out to grab the professor’s arm, but Hannah’s uncle was spryer than he looked, and he slipped out of the policeman’s grip.

“No!” he barked. “What I am researching may be the key to understanding those creatures out there! I can’t leave until I have all the data!”

“What I understand is that the Royal Air Force is going to bomb this city flat,” Hannah replied. “Maybe even use a nuclear weapon, if that’s what it takes.” They had all heard the rumors around the airstrip, and having seen one of the creatures at close hand, Hannah no longer doubted the need for such extreme actions. She felt that odd prickling sensation in her belly again and she sagged back against one of the display cabinets. “We don’t have time for you to be stubborn, Uncle Fred.”

He shook his head. “That’s not what I’m doing. Not at all.” The professor shot a worried look at the device, which seemed to be some kind of scanner unit displaying frequency patterns, and then he snatched up a dusty hardback from the pile. “Look here.”

He opened it to a page that showed a Grecian urn lying on the deck of a boat, as if it had just been recovered from the seabed. Part of the surface had been cleaned off to reveal a design, a great, salamander-like animal towering over a Greek trireme in boiling seas. An inferno wreathed the creature and the wooden boat was rendered in flames.

“They named this mythic beast Urogora,” explained the professor. “A legend…just a story, or so we thought.” He thrust the book into Hannah’s hands and grabbed the tablet screen, tapping it to bring up a video clip. A fragment of news camera footage from the Australian Kaiju attack played in a loop. There on the screen was something very similar to the image on the ancient urn, mouth open wide as it spat torrents of fire at Sydney Opera House.

“You’re saying that’s the same thing?” Dillon’s eyebrows rose. “This U-row-whatever?”

The professor nodded. “These beings, the Kaiju. Their attacks were predicted by ancient civilizations. This may not be the first time they have come to our world…” He gathered up a sheaf of papers and showed them to Hannah. “Do you see?”

Shaking her head, trying to assimilate what her uncle was telling her, she leafed through the pages and saw more phantasmal beasts, some of them from crudely-rendered cave paintings, others in marble carvings or shapes in copper and gold. She halted when she found a photo of a bear-like form made from green jade. Across its arms were strange markings and from its back grew spines like spars of ice.

“The Inuit people call her Tornaq,” said the professor. “She is the fury of the Arctic made real. And there are more!” His voice rose as he snatched at the papers, waving them at Hannah and Dillon. “Gaonaga. Kagiza. Taligon. Names unspoken for thousands of years, but the knowledge of their coming was given to our ancestors. I know this, my girl. By God, it is true, all the things I was pilloried for by my peers, all fact!”

He didn’t see her gripping the photo of the one he had named Taligon; the monster made of bone spikes, armored scales and orange-hued crystal. Hannah glared at the image, transfixed by it. Remembering.

Dillon ran a hand over his head. “You’re saying all that Mysterious World bollocks about ancient astronauts is real?”

Outside, there was another low rumble as titanic opponents clashed miles distant, but the professor didn’t seem to hear it, nodding at the other man’s question. “In a way, Sergeant Dillon. I have found a set of commonalities to all the ancient cultures that feared and revered these beasts.” He became enthused as he explained. “All of them speak of unseen ‘masters’… An ephemeral god-race that act like the pantheon of old Greek myth, meddling in the affairs of our world by influencing the creation or unchaining of these creatures. These kings and queens of the monsters, these Kaijujin, they are what bring the beasts to Earth! It is their sport, just as you or I might play a game of cards…” His tone turned bitter. “And they have returned to plague our world.” He gestured around them. “Even now, they’re watching us. Watching this city fall.”

Dillon shook his head. “You get a lot of folks questioning your sanity, do you?”

“Yes,” admitted the old man. “But not so much now.” He held up the scanner device, scooping the rest of his materials into a battered leather satchel with the other hand. “A friend, a physicist of my acquaintance, built this. She believed like I do. She discovered a rare kind of cosmic radiation that occurs around all incidences of Kaiju activity… Not just in the beasts themselves, you understand, but in the events that surround them, even the circumstances of their birth…” He waved the scanner in the air, and the unit’s chirping quickened. “I believe it is some sort of residual effect, a by-product of the Kaijujin exerting their influence into our dimension. A telepathic fingerprint, if you will.”

“Right,” said Dillon, after a moment. “I have to say, mate, I have no idea what you’re on about. Science was never my strong suit. But clearly you believe what you’re saying, and I know enough to know that you need to talk to smarter people than me about your…” He trailed off. “Kay-ju-jus.”

The professor didn’t answer. The noise from the scanner was growing louder with every passing second.

~

Patel shot Bramwell a look and instinctively shrank closer to the parked helicopter. A low, bone-deep murmur resonated through the streets. It was unmistakably an animal growling, but one huge and powerful and very close. In the wake of the noise, the ominous silence fell again.

“You reckon they’re gone?” said Bramwell. The sergeant whispered the question, his eyes wide. Patel had never seen the man so afraid before. Now Brook and Dillon had left them, it was as if Bramwell had given up on maintaining the pretense of a brave face.

For the past few minutes, the two men had listened to the slow, steady approach of the battling beasts, the unearthly snarls and the crash of breaking masonry. Now there was nothing, and their fears filled the stillness for them.

When the creature screamed again, the shock of it made Patel cry out in surprise. There was a scuffling, crashing thunder, and a huge shape rose in the sky. It blotted out the sun as it spun over them; a crimson-skinned monster covered with bone spikes and a great crest like the helmet of a samurai. Something had gathered up this gigantic alien creature and hurled it bodily through the air. Strange, luminous blood rained down on them from wounds in the red beast’s flesh as it passed over their heads and collided with the Centre Point tower two blocks south. The Kaiju vanished into a howling torrent of gray smoke, falling out of sight as the office building collapsed on it, burying it under a heap of glass and rubble.

A storm of bright sun-fire lit the clouds and the red thing’s opponent took to the air, rising on a surge of crackling energy. Revealed in all its obscene glory, the second creature was some kind of mutant therapod dinosaur, all talons and spines and mottled scaly armor. Misshapen crystal spars emerging from its broad back cast a rippling light over everything, and in defiance of gravity, wings made of fire snapped at the air, lifting it up to survey the damage it had done.

“We have to get out of here!” shouted Bramwell, vaulting into the helicopter’s cockpit. “Right bloody now!”

Fire began to rain from above, fat orbs of flame streaking away from the creature’s wings to blast blackened pits in the buildings all around them.

Hannah stared at the picture of the beast with the spines and the flame-wings. Taligon; a name from an Arabian myth, a tale told by nomads of a sky-demon that stalked the desert bearing death for the unworthy. This was the thing that had killed her lover John only two weeks ago, and the pain of his loss was so raw and so strong it was as if it was happening again, right now.

Crashing across the countryside from where it had made landfall on the Welsh coast, the monster had obliterated everything that lay before it – and in one of the cars it had immolated as it flash-burned the traffic on a highway, Hannah Brook’s fiancé had died in agony

She had been there that day. In the dark corners of her heart, she wished she had died there, too, but some quirk of callous fate had decided otherwise. The fires had spared her, the blast throwing her free while poor John burned with her name on his lips. Hannah could not understand why she still lived.

She crushed the picture in her hand as a rumble shook the walls of the museum and Hannah snapped back to the moment.

Her uncle staggered, trying to keep his balance as he peered at the screen of the scanner device. “I don’t understand…” he began, glancing toward Hannah and then back to the unit. “The energy patterns… Something is different, it’s nearby...”

The questions forming on his lips never had time to coalesce. With a scream of tortured air, a ball of flame crashed into the roof of the British Museum, and the building shuddered violently. Stone and steel spilt as the structure cracked.

“Run!” bellowed Dillon. “This place is gonna come down on us!”

~

Bramwell dropped into the pilot’s chair and slapped at the engine controls, frantically trying to spin up the rotors. He had watched Brook do it a hundred times. How hard can it be? Panic pushed him on, and he felt a surge of relief as the Eurocopter’s motors engaged. The drooping blades began to move, agonizingly slowly, slicing through the smoke as the parkland around them caught fire.

Patel craned over his shoulder. “Sarge, what are you doing? You’re not a pilot, you can’t fly this thing!”

“I’ll figure it out on the way!” he snarled back. “Unless you want to get out and start walking? No? Then shut the hell up!”

“Wait!” the young observer grabbed the other officer’s shoulder. “You can’t just go. Brook and Sergeant Dillon, we can’t leave them behind!”

Bramwell jabbed a finger at the canopy, pointing toward the side of the museum building across Bloomsbury Street. Fires were taking hold there, and part of the northern annex had crumbled into ruins. “They’re already dead! I never should have listened to that stupid girl-”

“No!” Patel grappled with Bramwell’s hands as he tried to pull on India 99’s control sticks. “I won’t let you!”

The sergeant let go of the cyclic and shot back his elbow, catching Patel in the chest and knocking him into the rear cabin. “Shut up. You’ll thank me later.” Sweat streaming down his face, Bramwell silenced the voice in his head echoing Patel’s words and worked the controls. He could hear the observer behind him, calling into his Airwave handset, trying to warn Brook and Dillon.

With a jerk, the helicopter slipped to the right, the skids bouncing over the grass – but it began to rise, wobbling and turning under the sergeant’s inexpert handling.

India 99 was just over five meters off the ground when a fast, low form burst through the foliage and leapt at the aircraft’s underside. Blurring like an image seen through rain-slick glass, the gecko-creature slipped across distance by some unknown, alien means. Its shiny blue skin still wet with river water, it had not given up the pursuit of its airborne prey. The Kaiju that Professor Brook had called Kagiza rose, jaws open wide, and clamped its mouth around the boxy fuselage of the helicopter.

Its body weight dragged India 99 back to earth with a thrumming whine as the helicopter’s twin Turbomeca engines overloaded. Kagiza landed, limbs splayed, and bit down on the machine. Rotors screeched and snapped as they chopped at the earth. With a burst of smoke and gasoline fire, India 99 exploded. The gecko-beast was blown back, trailing blood, flesh and shattered fangs. Bramwell and Patel perished, the life crushed from both men in an instant.

~

Dillon’s gut twisted as he heard Sanjay Patel die, the observer’s final cry of pain cut short over the crackling radio channel. He had liked the plucky young constable, liked Patel’s earnest manner and fresh-faced enthusiasm for the work of being a copper; and now the poor lad had been snuffed out like a doused candle, his future cut short by some monstrosity that had no right to exist outside of cartoons and comic books.

He’d raise a pint for Sanjay later, even one for that fool Bramwell, if they could get away. Now was no time to dwell. Their ride home was gone, and the British Museum was coming apart all around them. Dillon kept running, pushing the Prof before him as he went, desperate not to let anyone else get captured by the unfolding chaos.

Under the curve of a wide glass roof, they sprinted across the great atrium in the middle of the building, making for the main entrance. Fires burned everywhere, crackling through the contents of the gift shop and consuming priceless relics from cultures far away and long dead. Dillon had a sudden, bleak flash of London a thousand years from now, the dust of the city being sifted by some future archeologist trying to piece together the cataclysm that had destroyed it.

Then the thought was gone as he caught his leg on a broken piece of brick and fell in a heap. Hannah spun around, reaching out to pull him up, but he waved her away. “Look out!”

From where he had fallen, Dillon could see straight up, and in the center of his vision was a sagging section of roof support, the metal spars warped by the heat of the fireballs raining from the sky. Even as the words left his mouth, a ragged section of the roof detached from the frame and came crashing down into the atrium.

He heard Hannah scream out her uncle’s name as the old man was struck by the falling girders.

Dillon scrambled to his feet, but even as he moved to Hannah’s side, he knew it was already too late for the professor.

The old man lay against a slab of stone, a spar of metal protruding from his chest. Blood grew in a red blossom across his tweed jacket and he gulped in a shaky breath of air. “Oh dear,” he managed, his words soft. “That’s torn it.”

Even as he spoke, the color was draining from his cheeks. Dillon had seen injuries like this before at road traffic accidents, and he knew that the elder Brook’s life would be measured in moments.

Tears streaming down her face, Hannah took up the professor’s hand, and he gave a wan smile, touching her cheek. “My girl. So glad you are here. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

She was shaking her head, refusing to accept what was happening, but the old man had already given himself over to the truth. He flashed a look to Dillon and the sergeant gave him a grave nod. The professor returned it, and that was communication enough. I’ll make sure she’s okay, Dillon vowed.

“I came to save you,” said Hannah. “You’re all I have left.”

“No,” he told her. “You have your friends. And you have saved me, Hannah. You did it every day. You will save me.” With effort, he pointed at the leather satchel containing his scanner device and notes. “Take that. Get it out of here, get my work to the right people. Sergeant Dillon was right, it needs to be…seen by people in the know…” He coughed, and pink foam collected on his lips. “You’ll save me Hannah, you’ll prove to all the people who thought I’d lost my mind…that I was…I was right.”

“Uncle…”

“I do love you so, my girl.” He squeezed her hand. “You have to survive… Both of you.”

The words were a great effort, and they were his last. The professor’s eyes became glassy and dull, and Dillon bit back a rush of sorrow as the old man’s fingers slipped from Hannah’s grasp.

Outside, the firestorm had not abated, and the building continued to shake, destroying itself by inches. Dillon took a breath and placed a hand on Hannah’s shoulder. “Brooky. We’ve got to go.”

“Everyone is dead,” she breathed, so softly he almost didn’t hear her over the noise. Hannah flinched and clutched at her gut.

“Not everyone,” he insisted. “Not yet.”

The pilot gave a slow nod, then leaned in to plant a delicate kiss on the old man’s face. In the next second, Hannah’s expression shifted and all the terrible emotions churning inside her had been shut away. She took up the satchel and shot Dillon a hard look. “We need to get to the river. Without the chopper, it’s the only other fast way out to the cordon.”

Dillon nodded and pointed into the street. “I got an idea.”

~

The black Porsche convertible had been probably been dumped by some rich city banker in the panic following the evacuation, but Dillon made good use of the car by hotwiring the ignition and sending them pell-mell down on to the Kingsway, back in the direction of the Thames. Hannah gripped the door frame for dear life as the sergeant pressed the Porsche’s pedal to the firewall and mounted the pavement, scraping paint off the car as it grazed low walls and bollards.

She risked a look over her shoulder and regretted it. The blue lizard creature, Kagiza, was coming at them in a loping run, and for a second Hannah thought it would have them, but then the bigger, red-hued monster emerged from a side-street. Rains of dust and wreckage streaming off its shoulders, it grabbed the tail of its smaller rival, whipping it off the ground in a jerk of motion.

Gaonaga, she remembered, that was the crimson beast’s name. It slammed Kagiza into the glass frontage of an office building and left it for dead. Hannah saw it turn to watch them flee, in time to see the massive, spiked form of Taligon fall from the sky and barrel into it.

Taligon and Gaonaga crashed together with a thunderous blast of noise, talons and teeth flashing as they attacked one another. Alien fire sparked between them, conjured from within the flesh of the beasts, and Hannah flinched as an overspill of lambent energy crawled over the roadway behind them.

Her fear went away for a moment, and she suddenly understood what that cameraman up in Newcastle had experienced – a true moment of shock and awe at the sight of the battling Kaiju, a clarity. Nothing would be the same now these creatures walked the earth. The world would forever be changed by them…and by whatever powers were compelling these colossal beasts into existence.

Then Taligon was bounding down the road after them, jaws snapping in anger, and that fleeting moment of wonder hardened into new terror. The thing that had taken those she loved was now coming for Hannah Brook, and her gut stiffened with sympathetic pain. She heard the scanner unit inside the satchel chattering wildly as the monster’s shadow fell over them.

“Here we go!” called Dillon, slamming the car through a slalom of parked double-decker buses and out on to the embankment near Temple Pier.

Taligon’s heavy footfalls were so powerful that their encroaching impacts made the lightweight sports car bounce off the tarmac, and suddenly Dillon lost control of the vehicle. They collided with an iron fence and the Porsche’s emergency airbags deployed with a crump of displaced air.

Dazed, Hannah pulled herself from the seat as darkness fell all about her. She felt a strange static charge tickling her skin. It was some side-effect of the great creature’s internal stores of energy, leaking out into the air. Too afraid to look up, she dragged Dillon from the driver’s seat and on to the road, her uncle’s heavy satchel pulling on her shoulder as she moved. The sergeant was barely conscious, knocked almost insensate from the car’s crashing halt.

Propping herself under his armpit, Hannah marshaled all the effort she could and pulled him toward the pier, crying out with exertion.

She felt a slow gale of furnace-hot air waft over her. It was dry and it stank of rotting meat. Taligon’s breath clogged her throat as the creature’s huge jaws levered open. Unable to stop herself, Hannah looked back and saw the Kaiju glaring at her, mouth open and hideously fanged, a baleful fire-glow building in its throat.

All at once she wanted to know why the beast had such hate for her. Hannah had never felt so small, so inconsequential in her life. First John, then home and her uncle – why did these gargantuan fiends want to destroy everything about her?

Defiance bubbled up from inside Hannah and she shouted at the creature. “Do you hear me?” she bellowed. “Are you listening, Kaijujin or whatever you are? Just leave us alone! We’ve done nothing to you! This is our home, not yours!”

If it understood her, Taligon gave no sign. Instead, it reeled back and gathered death-fire in its mouth, seconds away from release.

A great red blur came out of nowhere and shouldered into the spined Kaiju with a violent crunch of bone and flesh. The crested creature Gaonaga attacked its counterpart with brutal, swift ferocity, and Hannah staggered back as the road cracked and broke under the force of it.

Without waiting to see how the fight would play out, she half-ran, half-stumbled down the pier with Dillon’s weight upon her. A small pilot boat was still tethered to the end of the jetty, and she tipped her friend into the gunwale. In a few moments, Hannah had cast off and set the engine running. The boat’s prop engaged and it lurched away from the pier and into the swell of the Thames, too slow for comfort. She pulled on the wheel as they moved into open water, trying to steer between the shapes of road vehicles that had been hurled into the river during some other clash between the invaders.

Then Hannah’s heart sank as she glimpsed the broken spine of a buckled bridge up ahead. The roadway of Waterloo Bridge had fallen into the river and blocked off the route west. She could see spars of smashed concrete protruding from the water and knew that any attempt to pass through them would doubtless see the pilot boat’s hull torn open. Hannah cursed, her shout joining the thunder of battle sounding out around her.

Nearby, Gaonaga and Taligon continued to fight back and forth along the northern bank, trading lightning-fast blows and jets of ethereal energy that laid waste to everything around them. For a moment, she thought that the crimson-skinned Kaiju would fall to the relentless fire-shock attacks of its scaled opponent, but then Gaonaga charged, head lowered like an enraged stag, and it gored Taligon with the sickle-sharp crest growing from its brow. Taligon went down in a cloud of dust and she heard the deep growling rasp as Gaonaga’s chest rose and fell in panting gasps.

Then, slowly and deliberately, the red beast turned toward the river and waded out toward the boat. Hannah shrank back against the helm as Gaonaga moved steadily toward the little craft. It seemed to take care not to swamp the boat, lowering itself until its enormous saurian head was almost as the same level.

It looked directly at her, eyes narrowing with something that could only be intelligence. She began to wonder – had this one been protecting them? Gaonaga’s great green eyes were not those of a wild beast or a calculating predator. This alien life form belied a mind that could understand, perhaps even reason…if only she knew how to communicate with it.

Back on the bank, the other Kaiju was stirring, trying to pick itself up and return to the fray. Gaonaga’s fanged maw creased in something like a sneer, and before she could react, Hannah found herself clinging to the pilot boat’s deck as the crimson beast scooped the craft out of the Thames with one cupped manus. Gently, Gaonaga strode forward and reached out over the fallen bridge before safely putting the boat back in the water on the far side of the obstruction. Beyond, there was only open river, and a clear path back toward the edge of the city.

Blinking in amazement, Hannah watched the Kaiju turn away and stalk back toward the far embankment, flexing its claws and gathering itself to fight again.

She felt a pang of sorrow for the great Kaiju. Was that all these beasts knew? Only the endless battle? Clash after clash, tooth and claw, fire and destruction, all forced upon them by the puppet masters her uncle had spoken of?

The sickly sensation in her belly returned, and Hannah flinched. As the beasts began their battle anew, she pushed the boat’s throttle up to full and sailed away.

~

A pathfinder unit from the Royal Marines found them somewhere west of Putney when the boat’s fuel ran dry, but Hannah didn’t recall much about that. Along the way, the pain that had slowly been growing inside her had pushed her beyond the edges of her endurance.

Hannah awoke in a military hospital where an Army captain in doctor’s whites and a major she guessed was from the intelligence corps were waiting to interview her. The doctor told her that two days had passed, that the RAF were going in with a massed force of Tornadoes and Typhoons to bomb the city and force the battling Kaiju eastward. They would press them out past the Thames Flood Barrier and into the estuary beyond. Off the coast, a task force of Royal Navy warships were waiting, and their intention was to trap the beasts in a kill-box and destroy them.

She told them that wouldn’t work. When the major asked how she could be so certain, Hannah didn’t have an answer for him. She just knew it.

The major talked to her about her uncle’s notes in great detail. They had already gone to the upper levels of the military, even to the emergency council at the United Nations. The work of Professor Frederick Brook had filled vital gaps in the world’s understanding of how and where the Kaiju phenomenon had originated, and there was talk of a real chance to fight back.

Hannah asked about Dillon. Injured but healing, they told her. He would survive. But when she asked to see him…that was when Hannah realized she was more prisoner than patient.

The major brought out her uncle’s scanner device, the machine that registered the presence of the alien radiation that was the mark of the Kaijujin and their creations. It began to chatter as he came closer, louder and louder, faster and faster. The prickling sensation came again, and Hannah felt hollowed out and sickly.

They told her Dillon showed no sign of contamination by exposure to the Kaiju, no trace of the energy signatures – but for Hannah, things were very different. Her blood chilled as the major told her, in clinical, matter-of-fact terms, that she had been tainted. The energy, he said, was concentrated in her.

“How?” she demanded. “How could those things, these Kaijujin, have any effect on me?”

The two officers exchanged wary glances.

“Are you aware you are pregnant?” said the doctor.

About the Authors/Artists

JAMES LOVEGROVE was born on Christmas Eve 1965 and is the author of more than 40 books. His novels include The Hope, Days, Untied Kingdom, Provender Gleed, the New York Times bestselling Pantheon series – so far The Age of Ra, The Age of Zeus, The Age of Odin, Age of Aztec, Age of Voodoo, and Age of Shiva, plus a collection of three novellas, Age of Godpunk – and Redlaw and Redlaw: Red Eye, the first two volumes in a trilogy about a policeman charged with protecting humans from vampires and vice versa. He has produced two Sherlock Holmes novels, The Stuff of Nightmares and Gods of War.

James has sold well over 40 short stories, the majority of them gathered in two collections, Imagined Slights and Diversifications.  He has written a four-volume fantasy saga for teenagers, The Clouded World (under the pseudonym Jay Amory), and has produced a dozen short books for readers with reading difficulties, including Wings, Kill Swap, Free Runner, Dead Brigade, and the 5 Lords Of Pain series.

James has been shortlisted for numerous awards, including the Arthur C. Clarke Award, the John W. Campbell Memorial Award, the Bram Stoker Award, the British Fantasy Society Award and the Manchester Book Award.  His short story “Carry The Moon In My Pocket” won the 2011 Seiun Award in Japan for Best Translated Short Story.

James’s work has been translated into twelve languages.  His journalism has appeared in periodicals as diverse as Literary Review, Interzone and BBC MindGames, and he is a regular reviewer of fiction for the Financial Times and contributes features and reviews about comic books to the magazine Comic Heroes.

He lives with his wife, two sons and cat in Eastbourne, a town famously genteel and favoured by the elderly, but in spite of that he isn’t planning to retire just yet.

By night, DAVID ANNANDALE brings doom to untold billions as a writer of Warhammer 40,000 fiction for the Black Library, most recently in the novels The Death of Antagonis and the forthcoming Yarrick: Imperial Creed. As the author of the horror novel Gethsemane Hall, he hopes to end sleep for you forever. And in his Jen Blaylock thrillers, he does his best to blow up everything in sight. During the day, he poisons minds as he teaches film, video games and English literature at the University of Manitoba. If you have any fragments of hope still left, you can have them crushed at his website or by following his Twitter account.

PETER STENSON is the author of the novel Fiend (Crown, 2013). He has stories and essays published or forthcoming in The Sun, The Greensboro Review, Confrontation, Harpur Palate, Post Road, Fugue, Passages North, The Pinch, Blue Mesa Review, and Fourteen Hills, among others. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He received his MFA in fiction at Colorado State University. He is represented by James McGinniss with McGinniss Associates. Peter is married to a beautiful woman and is the proud parent to a fat dog and even fatter cat.

KANE GILMOUR is the bestselling author of RAGNAROK and RESURRECT. He is a frequent co-author with Jeremy Robinson in the Jack Sigler/Chess Team series, and he also writes his own thriller novels. In 2014, he hopes to release the first in a trilogy of Kaiju novels, called MONSTER KINGDOM. In addition to his work in novels, Kane is the writer of the sci-fi noir webcomic, Warbirds of Mars. Kane lives with his family in Vermont. When he feels tremors in the ground, he wonders if Kashikoi has awakened.

Follow him at kanegilmour.com and on Facebook at www.facebook.com/kane.gilmour.author.

NATANIA BARRON is a word tinkerer with a lifelong love of the fantastic. She has a penchant for the speculative, and has written tales of invisible soul-eating birds, giant cephalopod goddesses, gunslinger girls, and killer kudzu, just to name a few. Her work has appeared in Weird Tales, EscapePod, Steampunk Tales, Crossed Genres, Bull Spec, and various anthologies. Natania’s debut novel, a steampunk/mythpunk fantasy, Pilgrim of the Sky, released in December 2011 from Candlemark & Gleam. She is also the co-editor of BullSpec. In addition, Natania's also a founding editor at GeekMom and a co-author of Geek Mom: Projects, Tips, and Adventures for Moms and Their 21st-Century Families, released October 2012 from Potter Craft.

When not venturing in imagined worlds, she can be found in North Carolina, where she lives with her family. Her website is http://www.nataniabarron.com and you can follow her babblings on Twitter: http://twitter.com/nataniabarron

HOWARD ANDREW JONES’ swashbuckling historical fantasies of Dabir and Asim have appeared in a variety of publications over the last decade, and their first novel, The Desert of Souls, was released in February 2011 from St. Martin's Thomas Dunne Books imprint to critical acclaim. The second, The Bones of the Old Ones, was released in December of 2013. Both novels made the Barnes and Noble Year’s Best Fantasy list, and The Bones of the Old Ones received a starred review from Publisher’s Weekly. Jones has written two novels for the Paizo Pathfinder Tales adventure line, Plague of Shadows and Stalking the Beast, and assembled and edited 8 collections of neglected historical fiction writer Harold Lamb’s work for the University of Nebraska Press.

When not helping run his small family farm or spending time with his wife and children, Howard can be found hunched over his laptop or notebook, mumbling about flashing swords and doom-haunted towers. He has worked variously as a TV cameraman, a book editor, a recycling consultant, and a college writing instructor. He blogs regularly at the Black Gate web site (www.blackgate.com) and maintains a web outpost of his own at www.howardandrewjones.com. He can be found on Facebook as Howard Andrew Jones and on Twitter @howardandrewjon.

MIKE MACLEAN knows a thing or two about monsters. His screenplay credits include the hit Syfy creature features Sharktopus, Piranhaconda, and Dinocroc vs. Supergator, all produced by the legendary Roger Corman. Mike also penned the Epix original comedy Attack of the 50ft Cheerleader and the forthcoming action thriller Operation Rogue for Sony Pictures. In addition, several magazines and anthologies have published Mike's white-knuckle crime fiction, including The Best American Mystery Stories and Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine.

A teacher by day, Mike lives in Tempe, Arizona with his lovely wife and daughter and their two lazy dogs. Visit his website http://www.mikemaclean.net/ or nerd-out with him at  https://www.facebook.com/mike.maclean.988.

JONATHAN WOOD is an Englishman in New York. There’s a story in there involving falling in love and flunking out of med school, but in the end it all worked out all right, and, quite frankly, the medical community is far better off without him, so we won’t go into it here. His debut novel, No Hero was described by Publisher’s Weekly as “a funny, dark, rip-roaring adventure with a lot of heart, highly recommended for urban fantasy and light science fiction readers alike.” Barnesandnoble.com listed it has one of the 20 best paranormal fantasies of the past decade, and Charlaine Harris, author of the Sookie Stackhouse novels described it as, “so funny I laughed out loud.” His short fiction has appeared in Weird Tales, Chizine, and Beneath Ceaseless Skies, as well as anthologies such as The Book of Cthulhu 2 and The Best of Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Year One. - See more at: http://jonathanwoodauthor.com/

JAYM GATES: One probably shouldn't start a professional bio by admitting that their first real writing consisted of grade-school adventures to haunted, monster-infested islands. I suppose it's less odd than admitting that I wrote Ivanhoe fan fiction.

I would claim that my tastes are better now, but an anthology of zombie erotica might negate that argument. Instead, I'll say my tastes have matured. My themes tend toward the dark and sleek, both in reading and in writing. I love historical flavorings, New Weird worlds, mythical monsters, cyberpunk rebellion, sword and sorcery grit and high-tech imaginings. A bit of everything, blended into something cool and new.

After a couple of years away from editorial work, I'm ready to jump back in. There's nothing like seeing authors and artists I first published signing contracts for novels and selling short stories to some of the most exciting new markets. Some of the fiction I've acquired for various projects has gone on to be featured in year's best collections and reprinted in other venues.

I'm back to writing a little, too, mostly in development projects and gaming. A few new short stories are floating around, on the lookout for a new home.

SHANE BERRYHILL’s novel of giant monsters, DRAGON ISLAND, has been praised by the likes of PopMatters and Wired Magazine’s Geek Dad. The first volume of his superhero-in-training series, THE ADVENTURES OF CHANCE FORTUNE, is an official selection of the New York Public Library’s Books for the Teen Age. His reimagining of the Robin Hood legend as a biker gang comic with spaghetti western style--SHERWOOD, TEXAS--releases from 12-Gauge Comics on May 3, 2014 as part of Free Comic Book Day (For a free copy, tell your comics retailer to order Item Code: JAN140051). Learn more about Shane and his work via Facebook, Twitter, andshaneberryhill.com.

Educated in the tenets of wuxia and giant monsters by the esteemed Son of Svengoolie and a regular dose of Chicagoland's Samurai Sunday, EDWARD M. ERDELAC is the author of the acclaimed weird western series Merkabah Rider and The Van Helsing Papers, as well as Coyote's Trail and Buff Tea. His fiction's appeared in over a dozen anthologies including most recently, Sword And Mythos, Atomic Age Cthulhu, and Monster Earth. He is also a sometime Star Wars contributor, having contributed tales of ion powered prizefighters and ancient dark lords to the annals of A Galaxy Far, Far, Away.

He lives in the Los Angeles area with his wife and a bona fide slew of kids and cats, and can be found online at http://emerdelac.wordpress.com, or at emerdelac@gmail.com.

PATRICK M. TRACY lives in Salt Lake City and works as a Network Support Administrator. His most recent publications include stories in the “A Walk in the Abyss” and the fifth volume of The Crimson Pact, an anthology that he created with Paul Genesse. When not writing or fixing someone’s computer, Patrick enjoys archery and playing the bass guitar. He believes that giant monsters are the coolest thing ever. Visit him online at pmtracy.com.

A toy castle is what sent fantasy author and editor PAUL GENESSE over the edge and into madness. Dragons, castles, and Godzilla gave him reason to live from elementary school through college where he began to learn the craft of writing. He is the author of The Golden Cord, The Dragon Hunters, and The Secret Empire, the first three books in his filled Iron Dragon Series, as well as a dozen short stories. He is also the editor, and co-creator with Patrick M. Tracy, of the five volumes in the demon-themed Crimson Pact shared multiverse anthology series, as well as the monster themed A Walk in the Abyss anthology, which features orcs, sasquatches, and giants. Friend Paul on Facebook, follow him on Twitter, @Paul_Genesse, or find him online at paulgenesse.com.

BONNIE JO STUFFLEBEAM lives in Texas with her husband and two literarily-named cats: Gimli and Don Quixote. Her fiction and poetry has appeared in magazines such as Clarkesworld, Strange Horizons, Goblin Fruit, and Daily Science Fiction. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Southern Maine's Stonecoast program and reviews short fiction at her blog, Short Story Review. You can visit her on Twitter @BonnieJoStuffle or through her website:www.bonniejostufflebeam.com.

PETER RAWLIK was once a celebrity book dealer, but gave up that lucrative career to write weird fiction and make some serious money.  He vehemently denies rumors that for the last twenty years he has been involved in secret plans to restore giant crocodiles to the coast of Florida.  Even if he had been involved in such work, he certainly was never properly compensated.

His work on Lovecraftian fiction, drawing on resources contained within his personal collection, has garnered much interest from readers, editors, and representatives from certain organizations devoted to the elimination of corrupting moral influences.

His work has been published by Miskatonic River Press, Black Coat Press, Innsmouth Free Press, Prime Books, and Fedogan and Bremer.  His novel Reanimators was published by NightShade Books.

J.C. KOCH is scared by horror stories but writes them anyway. J.C.’s stories have appeared in Arkham Tales, Necrotic Tissue, and Penumbra. In addition to writing about scary things, J.C. also likes to do scary things like pay attention to politics, keep up with the Kardashians, and play the stock market. With no time to actually do any of those things, though, J.C. tends to stay hidden under the bed, letting more of the terrors of the mind bleed onto the page, both metaphorically and literally. Reach J.C. at Going Bump in the Night (http://www.ginikoch.com/jkbookstore.htm).

PETER CLINES is the author of the genre-blending -14- and the Ex-Heroes series.

He grew up in the Stephen King fallout zone of Maine and--inspired by comic books, Star Wars, and Saturday morning cartoons--started writing at the age of eight with his first epic novel, Lizard Men From The Center of The Earth (unreleased). He made his first writing sale at age seventeen to a local newspaper, and at the age of nineteen he completed his quadruple-PhD studies in English literature, archaeology, quantum physics, and interpretive dance. In 2008, while surfing Hawaii's Keauwaula Beach, he thought up a viable way to maintain cold fusion that would also solve world hunger, but forgot about it when he ran into actress Yvonne Strahvorski back on the beach and she offered to buy him a drink. He was the inspiration for both the epic poem Beowulf and the motion pictureRaiders of the Lost Ark, and is single-handedly responsible for repelling the Martian Invasion of 1938 that occurred in Grovers Mills, New Jersey. Eleven sonnets he wrote to impress a girl in high school were all later found and attributed to Shakespeare.

He is the writer of countless film articles, several short stories, The Junkie Quatrain, the rarely-read The Eerie Adventures of the Lycanthrope Robinson Crusoe, the poorly-named website Writer on Writing , and an as-yet-undiscovered Dead Sea Scroll. He currently lives and writes somewhere in southern California.

JAMES MAXEY: I've been an avid reader since I first picked up a book. Luckily, I was within biking distance of three different libraries growing up. I was a skinny kid. If only I had maintained that link between biking and reading, I might be a skinny adult.

I'm also a writer. I wrote my first book as a kid, an adventure about pirates and ghosts. When I was a teenager, I used to write superhero adventures. Then I went to college and was steered toward writing "literature." It took me several years to shake that off, and today I write the sort of books I devoured by the shelf when I was sixteen, fast-paced fantasy, SF, and superhero adventures, which I use to explore deeper questions about life. My goal is to always be thought-provoking and always be fun.

I've had short stories in about a dozen anthologies and magazines. My novels to date are:
Nobody Gets the Girl, The Dragon Age trilogy, Bitterwood, Dragonforge, Dragonseed, Burn Baby Burn, The Dragon Apocalypse, Greatshadow, Hush, and Witchbreaker.

JOSH REYNOLDS is a professional freelance writer. In addition to his own work–a full list of which can be found here–he has written for several tie-in franchises, including Gold Eagle’s Executioner line and Black Library’s Warhammer Fantasy line. He has also written numerous non-fiction articles and reviews. If you wish to get in touch with him, please feel free to do so by any of the social media outlets available, including Tumblr, Facebook, Goodreads, and Twitter.

Author and video game designer ERIN HOFFMAN was born in San Diego and now lives in northern California, where she works as Game Design Lead at the Institute of Play’s GlassLab, a Bill and Melinda Gates and Macarthur Foundation supported three-year initiative to establish integrated formative assessment educational games. She is the author of the Chaos Knight series from Pyr books, beginning with Sword of Fire and Sea, followed by Lance of Earth and Sky in April 2012 and concluding with Shield of Sea and Space in 2013.

Her video game credits include DragonRealms, Shadowbane: The Lost Kingdom, GoPets: Vacation Island, Kung Fu Panda World, and FrontierVille. She writes for the award-winning online magazine The Escapist, and has had fiction and poetry in Asimov’s Science Fiction, Electric Velocipede, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, and more. In 2004 her blog on game industry working conditions, “ea_spouse”, was covered by the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, andLA Times, and is now referenced in numerous game history and corporate history studies.

Erin’s games have won multiple awards and have been played by millions of kids and adults worldwide. She is multiethnic, with family names including Lee, Asakawa (yonsei), and Drake in addition to Hoffman.

TIMOTHY W. LONG has seen the world courtesy of the United States Navy. He has also been writing tales and stories since he could hold a crayon and read enough books to choke a landfill. He has a fascination with all things zombie, a predilection for weird literature, and a deep-seated need to jot words on paper and thrust them at people in the hopes they will nod, smile, and maybe pat him on the back and buy him a cold one.

Tim writes for PERMUTED PRESS. The largest publisher of post apocalyptic fiction in the world. He is the author of the horror novels Beyond the Barriers, Among the Living, and the sequel - Among the Dead.

His other works include the deserted island "zombedy", The Zombie Wilson Diaries. He also co-wrote the post-apocalyptic novel The Apocalypse and Satan's Glory Hole with SIR JONATHAN MOON. This book was recently named the preferred version of the end of the world by a consortium of rapture survivors.

True story.

Tim's latest book is the free ongoing serial Z-Risen: Outbreak but he is also hard at work on the final Among the Living book titled Among the Ashes.

LARRY CORREIA is a New York Times bestselling fantasy novelist. His first novel, Monster Hunter International, despite being self-published reached the Entertainment Weekly bestseller list in April 2008, after which he received a publishing contract with Baen Books. Monster Hunter International was re-released in 2009 and was on the Locusbestseller list in November 2009. The sequel, Monster Hunter Vendetta, was a New York Times bestseller. The third book in the series, Monster Hunter Alpha, was released in July 2011 and was also a New York Times bestseller. Correia was a finalist for the John W. Campbell award for best new science fiction/fantasy writer of 2011. The Dead Six series started as an online action fiction collaboration with Mike Kupari (Nightcrawler) at the online gun forum "The High Road" as the "Welcome Back Mr Nightcrawler" series of posts. These works predated the publishing of Monster Hunter.

CL WERNER has crafted numerous tales for Red Leaf Comics, the Black Library, and other cutting edge publishers. He recently stopped by CBI studios to talk with publisher John Michael Helmer about his career writing comics, novels, and war games.

JAMES SWALLOW is a British author and scriptwriter. A BAFTA nominee and a New York Times bestseller, he is the author of several original books and tie-in novels, as well as short fiction, numerous audio dramas and videogames.

His writing includes The Sundowners series of Western fiction steampunk novels, and fiction from the worlds of Star Trek, Warhammer 40,000, Doctor Who, Stargateand 2000 AD. He lives and works in London.

ROBERT ELROD is a self-taught artist who works with a variety of mediums including pencil, color pencil, ink, watercolor, gouache, acrylic and digital. His artwork has appeared on the covers of several novels and anthologies from small-press horror authors and publishers, including Permuted Press. Tickling A Dead Man: Stories about George is his self-published comic book in which he relentlessly tortures his misanthropic title character by forcing him to face his deepest fears and anxieties. His comics have also appeared within the pages of the “Best New Zombie Tales” series from Books of the Dead Press. Robert has contributed pinup art to publications by Bluewater Comics, Creephouse Comics, Creator’s Edge Press, Abandoned Comics, Angry Dog Press, British Fantasy Society, Lovecraft eZine, The Big Adios, This Is Horror, and Ragnarok Publications. To see more of his work, visit www.robertelrodllc.com.

CHUCK LUKACS [loo-cuss] has been illustrating for science fiction and fantasy gaming markets for over 17 years, occasionally teaches illustration in Portland, OR, and has spent a number of years studying ceramics, bookarts, wood engraving, alternative energy, traditional archery, and homebrewing.  Lukacs’s paintings and prints have won awards and appeared in conventions, galleries and museums internationally.  He was featured in Spectrum 7, ImagineFX June/2010 (UK), FantasyArt Magazine (Peking University), and has authored two fantasy art tutorial books: Wreaking Havoc, 2007 and FANTASY GENESIS, 2010.  Clients include: NBC/Universal, Wizards of the Coast's Magic the Gathering, Impact Books, Pyr/Prometheus Books, Paizo, SuperGenius, Upper Deck, Games Workshop, Road Runner, and Atlantic Records.  :: ChuckLukacs.com :: FantasyGenesis.blogspot.com :: PortlandStinkeye.blogspot.com ::

MATT FRANK is based in the Golden Land of Texas and loves to draw monsters and anything else that happens to be very, very cool. His may works include: RAY HARRYHAUSEN PRESENTS: BACK TO MYSTERIOUS ISLAND - BlueWater Productions - Covers (2007),

RAY HARRYHAUSEN PRESENTS: WRATH OF THE TITANS - CYCLOPS - BlueWater Productions - Script, cover, interior pencils (2008), BEAST WARS SOURCEBOOK - IDW Publishing - Character art (2007-2008), MARVEL HANDBOOKS - Marvel Comics - Art Refurbishing (2008-2009), Challenge Games - Concept/Production Artist (2009), BLACK PAW: RETURN OF THE DRAGON - Gleaming Scythe Productions - Character/creature design (2008-2010), Chaotic Moon Studios - Concept/Production artist (2010-2013), GODZILLA: KINGDOM OF MONSTERS - IDW Publishing - Retailer Incentive covers (2011), GODZILLA: GANGSTERS AND GOLIATHS - IDW Publishing - San Diego Comic Con exclusive cover (2011), GODZILLA: LEGENDS - IDW Publishing - Script (co-writer), cover, interior line art,

TRANSFORMERS: FLASH FORWARD - Fun Publications - Interior line art (2012), GODZILLA - IDW Publishing - Covers (2012), MARS ATTACKS THE TRANSFORMERS - IDW Publishing - Interiors (2013)

BOB EGGLETON is a science fiction, fantasy, and horror artist. Eggleton has been honored with the Hugo Award for Best Professional Artist eight times, first winning in 1994. He also won the Hugo Award for Best Related Book in 2001 for his art book "Greetings from Earth". He has also won the Chesley Award for Artistic Achievement in 1999 and was the guest of honor at Chicon 2000.

Eggleton's drawing and paintings cover a wide range of science fiction, fantasy, and horror topics, depicting space ships, alien worlds and inhabitants, dragons, vampires, and other fantasy creatures. His view on space ships were that they should look organic, and claimed that as a child, he was disappointed with the space shuttles and rockets NASA produced; they were nothing like fantasy artists of the twenties and thirties had promised. His fascination with dragons originated with his childhood interest of dinosaurs, which can be seen in the book Greetings from Earth. His paintings are commissioned and bought at science fiction conventions, and used as book covers.

Eggleton has illustrated cards for the Magic: The Gathering collectible card game. Eggleton received massive encouragement from his father, in the form of books, supplies, visits to museums of space and aeronautics and support during the career choices he made. Eggleton dropped out of his art college, because he felt it was not for him. Eggleton is a fan of Godzilla and worked as a creative consultant on the American remake. While in Japan he appeared as an extra in one of the more recent films.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The following awesome people are who made Kaiju Rising: Age of Monsters possible and for that we thank each and every one of you!

KAIJU CREATORS

Sean Sherman, Nathan Black, Josh Ennis

RED SHIRTS AND TUCKERIZATIONS

Andrew Carrick, Steven Mentzel, Cameron Meadors, Melanie R. Meadors, Chadwick Ginther, Matthew Carpenter, Matt Pearson, Joy Pearson, Will Pearson, Joe Thater, Thomas Oetker, Jim Bellmore, Kel 'Selwyn' George, Lori Joyce Parker, Cody A. Spradlin, Simon Monk, Katie Cord, Sally Novak Janin, Dakota Talbott

CITY DESTROYERS

C Z Dunn, James Conason, Dave Parker

KING KAIJU

Aaron Bevard, Paul Genesse, Mihir Wanchoo, Giovanni "Mr. Giobblin" Grotto, Marc Collins, Jeremy Hochhalter, Daniel, Cliff Winnig, Frankie B, Brian Oma Thomas, E. Myers, Andrew Hatchell, Brian Christman, Ian Chung, Andrew B., Abdulla Al-Naimi, Rob & Maureen Sharps, Darren Murray, Dark-Ape.com, Sarah Zibart, Paul McMullen, Kostiantyn Orlenko, Joshua Hair, Nick "Gettothechoppa" Lembo, Hayley G. Hofmar-Glennon, Christine Chen, Leigh Mitchell, James Moss, Timothy W. Long

ULTRA-MECHA KAIJU

Amanda "Loves Clines & Correia" Kirsch, Rob W Elrod, Seth Skorkowsky, James Enge, Josh Korra, Joseph Noll, Ven & Nikki Sio

DONK-ZILLAS

Jen Bosier, Spencer Estabrooks, Matt Hillman

MEGA-KAIJU

Vic Ayers, Anthony Higgs, Christian Decomain, AJ Harm, Phillip Bolin, Trent Miller, Bill Lovell, Troy DeJesus, Eddie mccourt, Cllifford M. King, Daniel Harvey, Hubert Oliver, Sunstone  Games, LLC., Jonathan 'Weasel' Dibblee, Kirk Dougal, Seamus "Majestic_Moose" Curran, Andrew Morin, Sukie Crandall

KAIJUZILLAS

Tyson J Mauermann, Matt Frank, Vincent E. Hoffman, Donovan J. Bertch, Brenna Rawson, Sean and Pearce Haley, Robert Elrod

KAIJU SOLDIERS

Ryan Lawler, Kane Gilmour, Zachary “Yes, Goddammit!” Jernigan, Duncan & Andrea Rittschof, Ed "Evil Ed" Stapleton, J.L. Murray, TrashMan (aka Seth Lee Straughan), Kenny B. Soward Esquire, jason grace, Stephanie Wagner, Preston Sharps, John Michael Davis, Todd Gamble, Damien Swallow, Bryan K Borgman (aka Stratos), Jim Foster, Mercedes M. Yardley, Bryan VanGalder, Jeremy Robinson, Chris Keola, Hoarau Alexis, Aaron Allred, Mac McClintock, Steven Callen, Art Sippo MD, MPH, Glenn Like, Geni K Devens, Darius Batki, Brian Koehler, NickB_RenJie, Joshua Sudomerski, Gregory McCausland, Andrew Candia, Tim Reilly, Jacob A Rich II, Kotsuso, Robert Wilson, Dr. Stan Waddell, Jordan Lennard, Kirk Troy, Darren Kara, Josh Northrop, Jonathan Harris

KAIJU JUNIORS

Joab Stieglitz, Travis L. Bingaman, Andrew Liptak, Nev Kelly, Timothy Covington, James Scarrow, Mike Doyle, Stephenie Sheung, Benjamin G Abrams, Andrew Muir, Raymond Pegoraro, Tim Farrar, Travis Charles Beckwith, Mike MacLean, Roger Bellini, Jacob M. Spencer, David K. Mason, Valerie Gillis, JayC, Edward Ainsworth, James M. Jensen II, Dan Schwent of Dangerous Dan's Book Blog, Karl Markovich, Floyd Brigdon, Mike of Double XP Podcast, Django Wexler, Alex Howarth, D Kenny, Andrew Wilson, Michael Zak Gomersall, Jack Ognibene, John Garrington, John MacLeod, "filkertom" , Tom Smith, Chris Mihal, Keith West, Jon McFarling, Kurt Nolte, Tim Rosolino, Steven "Sammo" Simmons, Alan Winterrowd, Alysia Murphy, Derek Viger, Jonathan Maberry, Adam G. Hults, Dave Peterson, SeanMike, Charles McDougald, Michael Dial Jr., Kyle A. Davis, Steven Tonthat, Josh Mahan, Arsène Lupin, Greg Arguello, Liz, Tyler Johnson, Ron Searcy, Richard Iversen, Ken Dunbar, Matthew R Gaglio, Jbad, Kevin Derendorf, Guy McLimore, Ross Snyder Jr, GreatCrow, Nia Carvajal, Shaun Duke, Michael Fratus, Joe Kontor, Zach P, LXV, Jacob Alexander Franklin, Stephen Walker-Emflorgo, Dennis Davison Jr., Matthew Mastrogiovanni, Nick Krom, Miles Boothe, Michael Edstrom, Kevin Brusky, APE Games, Nick "The Hat" Gucker, Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Kerberos Productions, Sharon Stogner, Rachael Acks, Dylan LuciustheEternal Murphy, Geoff Johnston, Gregory Lincoln, Austin Bohnert, Seth Tucker, Daniel Dunlap, Cathy, Dino-Man, Leanne Ellis, Gary W. Olson, Doug Sturk, Mike "Cobraclutch.com" Shoemaker, Annie Bellet, Michael Lichter, Andrew Louis Marnik, Shampooboots, Lenbo, Josh Kappes, Lucas K. Law, Tad Duncan, Kerwell, Sam Baskin, gravebeast.zero, Andy Tafoya, Ramon Rozas III, Jeff, The Adventure Kitties, Nickzilla 3004, Trevor Sexton, Smashingsuns, Jamieson Hoffman, Jeffrey A Jensen, Matt Darst, P Cline, Dennis Reyes (Sonicpik3), David Rains, Andrew Jensen, Ryan Bly, Kyle Mack, Brett Abbott, Marcus Polk, Jim Burzelic, The Great NXPS' mama, Geni K Devens, Natalie Kohout, Lincoln Crisler, Stephen Hill, TheMayor OfDinosaurs, Fazeo, Tons0fun, Jonathan Green, Matt Zitron, Missy Katano, Sue Liller, Insanity*3, Jeff Pegues, Diana Portwood, Michael Hanscom, Mike Montgomery, Daniel Mancini, Tasha (Turner) Lennhoff, Terry Harney, Mike Browne, Lance Mortensen, Charles Shirk, Andrew  Boscardin, Hunter Broussard, Cameron Griffis (Fan of Varan, Anguirus, and King Caesar), Derek "Pineapple Steak" Swoyer, Anthony "HachiSnax" Giordano, Derek Sykes, Steve Ferrebee, bluey and Smals, Joseph Fleischman, Anthony Cavanaugh, Frank Gawryla, David Carl, Kaiju Kev, Nicholas Creno, Frank Carey, Maurice Sykes, Robert Cox, Tammy DeGray, John Christian Givhan Spainhour, Kreniz, Tim Elkins, James Unick, Osye E. Pritchett III, Tam Caddick, Dave Felton

KAIJU BROODLINGS

Mike Bentley, Keith Hall, Jaclyn Tan, Derek Gubler, Aaron Teiser, Michal Todorovic, Ragi Gonçalves, Paul Wittine, Dave Brzeski, Dave Robison, Andrew James Fish, Josh Haycraft, John Heine, Chandra Altoff, Lisa Knight, Nate Lawrence, Michael Brandl, Colby Taylor, Paul Cardullo, Glenn Walker, Thomas P. Leahy, Joy Snyder, Chris Quin, Paul Raasch, Rebecca Rahne, Brian H. Littrell, Eldritch, Will Vesely, Juan Calle, Briana of N3rdyGirl, Fred Herman, Kenneth Cochanco Go, Wayne L. Budgen, Carol "Pixie" Brearley, Brian Banach, Clyde Lee Graham, Ryan Weaver, Michael James, Rolf Laun, Ari Marmell, David Briedis, Nate Hammer, D. Miles Martin, Edward Brock, Joseph Hoopman, Charles, David Long (Neko), Andrey Dolganov, Alekshiel, Peter Lok, Robert M. Everson, James Wilson Smith, Luke Watt, Jerry Versace, Douglas Snyder, Todd Jones, Mountain Barber, Curt Harper, Benjamin Abbott, Czech Harrison, Rob H. Bedford, Eric Plante, Amy Katsouris, Jas, Geoff Englebach, Shaun Phillips, Matt McRoberts, Jack Thompson, John Lambert, Paul Vroman, R. Daniel Paddock, Tomas Burgos Caez, Jackson Gibson, Kristy Lignieres, Michael Clay Evans, Chris DiNote, KaijuX, Kevin Henderson, Colette Black, Demian Walendorff, Isaac Yañez, Norma Uphold, Justin Power, Ross Clifton, Paul Martin, Danny Keith, Eric Sünde, Frank Hart, Dave Donovan, Guy Anthony De Marco, Alexander Guddha Gudenau, Brian Barrier, Geoffrey Kidd, Lauren Kalma, Geoff Strayer, Cody Reichenau, Matt Leitzen, James Stewart, JP Frantz, Tony Heugh, Major Idiot, Nathan Russell, Frederick Melhuish III, Bob, Jonathan Vallier, Senator Armstrong, Paul Nelson, Leo King, Sachin, Michele Del Nobolo, S. R. Manev, Jyri Tasala, James Parr, Margaret St. John, John "millionwordman" Dodd

KAIJU FODDER

John DeNardo, Johnny Seabolt, Micah Hornung, Brian White, Chris Morey - Dark Regions Press