Kaiju Storm (Kaiju Winter Book 2)

by Jake Bible

  Kaiju Storm

  Kaiju Winter Book Two

  Jake Bible

  One

  Dr. Blane Hall runs his hands through his short, blonde hair as he looks out the window of his Alexandria, VA apartment complex hallway. For as far as he can see, there are no lights, not a single lit window in any of the buildings or headlights from cars below on the winter streets. Then, slowly, one by one, flickering begins as citizens more prepared than him find candles in drawers and cupboards and light them to fight back the night’s darkness.

  “Hey!” a man shouts from behind Dr. Hall. “Hey, you know what happened? Is it another evacuation order? I thought we didn’t have to leave. What’s going on?”

  “Huh?” Dr. Hall asks as he turns to the man, taking off his thick, black rimmed glasses and wiping them with the hem of his shirt. The man, one of his neighbors from down the hall, holds a large candle in his hand, and the hallway quickly starts to smell like cinnamon and cloves. “No, it’s not an evacuation. Why would they turn off the power in an evacuation? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It’s the government,” the man shrugs. “The bastards never make sense. So, what’s happening out there?”

  “I think it was an EMP,” Dr. Hall says as he puts his glasses back on and fixes his deep brown eyes on his neighbor. “An electromagnetic pulse. The volcano erupted again, I’m pretty sure.”

  “The volcano? That’s in Montana or Wyoming or wherever,” the man scoffs. “No way we’d even notice it here. I thought you were some kind of scientist, but sounds like you’re just one of those internet quacks.”

  “It’s the EMP from the volcano,” Dr. Hall tries to explain, but he can see that his neighbor has no interest in any explanation, so he just shakes his head. “Uh, do you know if the super is home? I got locked out of my apartment.”

  “You need a screwdriver?” the man asks. “Easiest way to get inside, unless you got some extra deadbolts or something.”

  “Deadbolts? No, just the door lock,” Dr. Hall says, then wishes he hadn’t since his less than trustworthy looking neighbor now knows how pitiful his home security is. “Uh, I’m Dr. Blane Hall. I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name.”

  The man stares at Dr. Hall for a couple of seconds then shakes his head. “Hold on, man, I’ll be right back.”

  Dr. Hall stares at the spot the man occupied, then turns back to the window. More and more apartments are lit up by candles and other sources of light all up and down the street, but there are still no car headlights, which makes Dr. Hall believe his theory of another EMP is true.

  “Hold the candle,” the man says, making Dr. Hall jump. “Man, come here and hold this, or you ain’t getting in your apartment.”

  Dr. Hall moves away from the window and takes the scented candle as his neighbor pushes a screwdriver into the door jam and starts to wiggle it back and forth. He quickly breaks the jam free, then slowly works the screwdriver down until it pushes the latch in, and the door pops open.

  “You should get a deadbolt,” the man says. “This neighborhood may be getting all gentrified, but you still got crack dealers a block away, you hear me?”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Dr. Hall nods, handing the candle back.

  “You need one?” the man asks, dipping his chin towards his candle. “I got a whole crate of them. My mom sends me these stupid stinking candles every Christmas. I hate the way they smell, but they come in handy during blackouts.”

  “It’s not a blackout,” Dr. Hall says.

  “Whatever the fuck it is, do you need a candle?” the man asks.

  “No, thank you, I’m pretty sure I have some inside,” Dr. Hall says, and steps into his apartment. “Thank you for the help.”

  “No problem,” the man nods. “You need anything, just come knocking. I’m James.”

  “Thank you, James,” Dr. Hall replies. “I’ll do that. Same to you. Although, I don’t think I’m sticking around for long.”

  “Why the hell not?” James asks.

  “I have to get to the White House,” Dr. Hall replies. “I have important information for the President.”

  James looks about the dingy hallway and gives Dr. Hall a polite nod. “Yeah, sure ya do. Well, good luck with that. Be sure to take a gun with ya, if you got one. It’s gonna get nasty out there fast with the power out. Winter in DC ain’t fun on the best of days. It’ll get a whole lot worse when people start getting really cold. Be careful, uh, on your way to the President.”

  James nods a couple times and heads back to his apartment. Dr. Hall watches him go, then closes his door. Or tries to, but the latch won’t catch anymore, so he pushes a chair up against it to keep it shut while he rummages around his apartment for a backpack and supplies.

  Crackers, some fruit, some cheese cubes and chips, a few bottles of water, an extra change of socks and a shirt, gloves, and a knit cap. Outside a woman screams, followed by a couple of gunshots. Dr. Hall grabs a kitchen knife and puts it in the backpack as well, then steps to his windows and looks out at the bleak landscape.

  “Eight miles from here to the White House,” Dr. Hall says. “Thirty-one degrees out. No gun.” He sighs. “I can do this. No problem.”

  There are a few more gunshots, and he shivers.

  “It’s for the good of mankind,” he whispers as he puts on his coat and his backpack and turns to his front door. “For the good of mankind.”

  ***

  There’s a faint hissing sound and a loud grunting as Dr. Cheryl Probst tries to get her bearings in the pitch-blackness. She feels about on the floor, noting the many small cracks and fissures in the concrete that she was fairly certain weren’t there before, then pushes herself up to her knees. Dizziness washes over her, and she knows that if the room weren’t in complete darkness it would be spinning.

  “Doctor!” someone shouts from behind her, and she tries to turn around, but the dizziness wins, and she ends up collapsing onto her side. The hissing and grunting gets louder, then a sliver of light appears across the room as the door is slowly shoved open. “Doctor!”

  “Here,” she croaks, her throat coated with dust. “Right here.”

  The light grows, and Dr. Probst squints against it, waving her hand at the wielder.

  “Do you mind?” she snaps.

  “Sorry,” the voice says, and the light, a simple candle, is shielded.

  The illumination lets her see the state of the small office she had found in order to catch some sleep. The couch she had been sleeping on is tilted at a strange angle, as is the desk and office chair pressed up against one of the walls.

  “Dr. Probst? Are you okay?” the voice asks.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” she replies. “Just dizzy.” She still hears the hissing and grunting, and frowns. “What is that noise?”

  “That’s Holt and Lieutenant Taylor trying to clear the hallway,” the voice replies. “Half the bunker collapsed after the second eruption. We’re trying to get to Marshal Morgan, Sergeant Bolton, and their son.”

  “Fuck!” someone shouts from the hallway. “That fucking hurts!”

  Dr. Probst is helped over to the couch, and she gladly sits down since her legs aren’t exactly her friends at the moment.

  “So Holt and Taylor are out there,” Dr. Probst says. “Then you are…?”

  “Sergeant Kreigel,” Kreigel replies. “They call me Hellmouth, but you can just call me Kreigel.”

  “Hellmouth?”

  “My first name is Helmut,” Kreigel says.

  “Kreigel it is,” Dr. Probst responds. She looks around again and frowns deeply. “Is the mountain at an angle?”

  “Not all of it,” Kreigel says. “Just this part of the bunker. I’m
surprised this place held up this long considering the size of the first eruption and all the tremors hitting this area for months. Not to mention the nukes detonating at ground zero.”

  “With all the munitions being stored here, I’m sure it was designed to take a beating,” Dr. Probst says. “What do the entrances look like? We aren’t trapped are we?”

  “No, the rear entrance is still viable,” Kreigel replies. “Only problem is there’s no mountainside to step out on to. It’s all gone. If we need to leave we’ll have to repel down or cable across to solid ground.”

  “I don’t repel or cable,” Dr. Probst says. “Although I do skydive now. I only did it the one time, but it was extreme enough that I think I can handle any normal jumps.”

  “No such thing as a normal jump, ma’am,” Kreigel laughs. “Ten feet or ten thousand feet, you land wrong, and legs still break.”

  “Great. Thanks,” Dr. Probst sighs. “Just when I was feeling good about myself. And don’t fucking call me ma’am. Doctor is fine, but ma’am makes me feel old.”

  “Sorry,” Kreigel says. “Doctor it is.”

  “Or Cheryl. You can call me Cheryl.”

  “Maybe when this is over, Doctor. We still have a lot of work to do, and professional is the best way to keep things.”

  “Professional?” Dr. Probst laughs. “Cheryl is my first name, not the secret password into my pants. You can call me by my first name without us having to fuck, you know.”

  Kreigel watches her for a second then laughs. “Yeah, I think calling you Doctor will be just fine. How about you lie down while we keep working in the hallway? Give a shout if you need us.”

  “Mother fucker!” someone yells from the hallway.

  “If we can hear you over Holt,” Kreigel smiles, and then pats her shoulder and moves off quickly to the door.

  Dr. Probst watches him go, then lies back on the couch, very aware of the furniture resting at a strange angle. Her mind tries to think through the ramifications of a second large eruption, but she is still too fuzzy from exhaustion and the tumble she took off the couch the first time. Instead of thinking, she closes her eyes and pictures a place she grew up. Large waterfall, trees swaying in the breeze, the faint smell of ammonia.

  Faint smell of ammonia?

  “Kreigel!” Dr. Probst shouts. “Kreigel!”

  ***

  “Mom?” Kyle asks, his hand to his mother’s forehead as the light from a candle casts a pallid glow on Lu Morgan’s features. A strapping kid of seventeen with almost white blonde hair, Kyle is tall and muscular for his age, but at this moment he looks like a small child as the worry for his mother clouds his face. “Mom? Wake up.”

  “How is she?” Connor Bolton asks as he comes back into the bunker’s break room, his face coated in dirt and sweat. He holds out his candle and stops as he sees how pale Lu is. “Jesus. How’s her pulse?”

  “What? Uh, I haven’t checked it,” Kyle replies. “I’ve just been trying to wake her up.”

  Bolton studies the young man, a teenager he has just found out is his son, and frowns.

  “I’d have thought your grandmother would have taught you some basic survival skills, at least,” Bolton says as he moves to Lu’s side and gently pushes Kyle out of the way. He presses his fingers to her neck and grimaces. “Her pulse is erratic and weak.” Carefully, he turns her head. “Ouch. That’s a serious hematoma.”

  “A what?” Kyle asks.

  “Goose egg,” Bolton says. “Bump on her head. She’s probably got a pretty bad concussion.”

  “Should we move her up onto a couch?” Kyle asks.

  “No, she’s close to going into shock. We should leave her where she is,” Bolton answers, then gets up and grabs a cushion from one of the two couches in the room. “Here. Put these under her feet. It’ll elevate her legs and help with her blood pressure. Keep checking her pulse, and make sure she doesn’t stop breathing.”

  Kyle glances at the door to the break room. “You find a way out?”

  “Not yet,” Bolton says. “But I think I can hear Taylor and his Team working at the pile of debris.” He coughs hard and shakes his head. “I hope they get through soon. I don’t think the air in here is so great.”

  “With the power out, the ventilation system doesn’t work,” Kyle says. “It’s always smelled funky since the first day I got here.”

  Bolton lifts his nose and takes a deep sniff. “No, there’s something else. I can’t quite put my finger on it. Smells like Easter eggs.”

  “Sulfur? Probably from the volcano,” Kyle says. “If it erupted again, then there’s bound to be clouds of sulfur in the air.”

  “Yeah, but that’s not it,” Bolton says. “You don’t smell that? It’s sharp and biting. Kinda burns my nose.”

  Kyle takes his own deep sniff and frowns. “Yeah, there it is.” He gets up, walks to the break room door, and ducks his head out into the hallway. “Stronger out here. It does smell like Easter eggs, but way worse. More like cat piss.”

  “Cat piss? Oh, shit,” Bolton says. “Ammonia. That’s what it is. Sulfur and ammonia.”

  “Why the hell would ammonia be coming out of the volcano?” Kyle asks. “Sulfur I get, even chlorine gas, but ammonia? That’s not normal.”

  “First,” Bolton smiles, “that’s some good volcano knowledge there. You learn that in school?”

  “Yeah,” Kyle sighs. “Volcanos were all anyone would talk about for months before the evacuation.”

  “Understandable,” Bolton says. “Second, there is nothing normal about this volcano. Giant monsters crawled out of it, flew out of it, and sprinted away from it. Then there’s the issue with the nukes not leaving any radiation. Not normal.”

  “How can there be no radiation?” Kyle asks. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Nope,” Bolton agrees. “It doesn’t.” He looks down at Lu. “Stay close to her. I’m going to see if I can figure out where the gas is getting in. This bunker should be locked down and sealed tight.”

  Kyle looks about at the break room and the large cracks running up its walls. He nods towards the table in the corner that is listing at a pronounced angle.

  “I don’t think anything is tight in here anymore,” Kyle says. “We may have to get in those environmental suits if we’re going to make it.”

  “Yeah, problem is, the suits are on the other side of the debris pile,” Bolton says, “with Taylor and his Team.” He studies the door and shakes his head. “I’d say wad some towels up or blankets, and try to keep the gas out, but this door isn’t exactly plum. It’d be easier to hold water with a sieve.”

  Kyle’s face breaks out in a grin, then immediately into a deep frown.

  “What?” Bolton asks.

  “That’s something my grandma used to say,” Kyle replies. “Hold water with a sieve.”

  “Yeah, it was a local saying where your mom and I grew up,” Bolton says. He goes to the young man that is his son and grasps him by the shoulder. “We’re gonna have to do some talking soon about who I am and who you are and all of that. But right now, we need to figure out just how bad things are. Once I’ve assessed the situation, then we’ll come up with a plan.”

  “Okay,” Kyle nods, then realizes something. “Where’s that Lowell guy? I thought he was on this side with us. Or was he with the SEALs?”

  “Lowell? Shit, I don’t know,” Bolton says. “I hurried to find your mom and you once the tremors started. I have no idea where that ass is.”

  “He seemed like a good guy,” Kyle says.

  “No, he’s an ass,” Bolton replies. “Trust me, Kyle, he isn’t a good guy.”

  “He helped you and Mom find me,” Kyle says. “Didn’t he save your life?”

  “We saved each others’ lives out there,” Bolton says. “Still doesn’t make him a good guy. You hear me?”

  “You asked the President to commute his sentence,” Kyle argues.

  “True, but it…”

  “Still doesn’t make him
a good guy. I heard you the first six times,” Kyle mocks.

  “Good. Glad you were listening,” Bolton says. “Now, stay here with Lu, and I’ll be right back. Maybe I’ll find Lowell along the way.”

  “Be careful,” Kyle says.

  “I will,” Bolton smiles.

  ***

  “Hello?” Anson Lowell yells from the bathroom stall floor. “HELLO? Anyone? I could use a little help here!”

  Fouled water pools about him as he lays pinned between a broken toilet and the cracked bathroom wall. Pipes twist about his lower legs, and his right arm is caught in the collapsed stall door and walls. Basically, Lowell is stuck in a puddle of his own crap while half the bathroom threatens to crush him.

  In all honesty, he’s been in worse situations in life.

  “HEY! ANYONE!” Lowell shouts. “NOT KIDDING ABOUT THE HELP!”

  The smell of his own feces is overpowering, and Lowell struggles not to gag. He coughs a few times, then grows alarmed as the coughs become ragged, harsh, and he starts to feel a burning at the back of his throat.

  “Okay, I know I’ve eaten some weird stuff the past couple days,” he says to himself, “but there’s no way my shit stinks that bad.”

  Then it hits him: ammonia.

  Having been in correctional institutions for most of his teenage years and all of his adult life, Lowell is intimately acquainted with the smell of ammonia. It was the go to cleaning product for everything from toilets (although he’s sure it hasn’t been used for some time on the toilet presently jammed against his chest), to the kitchen counters, to freakin’ mouthwash. Lowell shudders at the thought of being forced by the guards to gargle with ammonia.

  There is a slight under stench of sulfur, but the ammonia stink is the dominant aroma. Lowell’s throat begins to burn, and his eyes start to water as the stink grows in intensity.

  “The bunker is broken,” he says, then coughs for several seconds. “Defeats the point of being in a bunker.”

  He tries to shove the toilet away from him while simultaneously trying to free his arm from the collapsed stall. Nothing budges.