Kaiju Apocalypse III

by Eric S. Brown

  Or so he hopes. It’s taken him well over a decade, and hundreds of dead end clues, to track down this place, and supervolcano or no supervolcano, Linder has zero intention of letting his one chance slip away. He’s been so close in the past, but come up short every time. This time, he knows in his gut he’s right, that the person he’s been hunting is only a couple miles ahead. And it all came down to one monitored phone call.

  The last refrains of Hank Williams fade away, but Linder ignores the lack of music as he comes around a bend and finds himself facing two sheriff’s patrol cars parked across the road. He comes to a stop and rolls his window down as a puzzled looking deputy walks up to the side of his car, a light blue medical mask across his mouth and nose.

  “Sorry, sir, but the highway is closed,” the deputy says, pulling the mask down. “Champion is being evacuated today and this stretch of road is one way only.”

  “I understand, Deputy…?”

  “Mikellson,” the man replies. Tall, square shouldered, and young, Deputy Eric Mikellson leans forward, his eyes studying the interior of the car. “You have business in Champion, Special Agent…?”

  Linder grins and pulls his badge from his pocket, flipping it open for Mikellson to see.

  “Special Agent Linder,” Linder says. “How’d you know I was FBI?”

  “Good guess,” Mikellson shrugs. “You look federal and your car sure looks federal.” He nods at the air filter gauge stuck to the dashboard. “I just watched the webinar on those things and know they’re only handing them out to agencies assisting with evacuations.” He nods his head towards the patrol cars. “Guess they forgot to ship us ours.”

  “The ash shut down your engines yet?” Linder asks.

  “Not yet,” Mikellson replies, “but just a matter of time.”

  “That’s the saying of the day, isn’t it?” Linder laughs, looking towards the patrol cars. “Think I can get through? I have some business to take care of in Champion.”

  “I doubt that,” Mikellson laughs. “Only business in Champion is fishing, hunting, and camping.” He peers up into the early winter sky and the constant fall of ash. “And ain’t none of that happening around here anymore.”

  “Right, right,” Linder nods, grabbing a manila folder from the passenger’s seat. He opens it and pulls out a photo of a young boy. “You ever seen this boy before?”

  Mikellson reaches for the photo and Linder reluctantly lets it go. The deputy studies the picture for a few seconds, and then shakes his head.

  “Can’t say that I have, Special Agent,” Mikellson says.

  “Linder,” Linder smiles, “you can call me Linder.”

  “Well, Linder, he doesn’t ring a bell,” Mikellson says, “but we get so many kids up here in the summer it’s hard to keep track of them all. Come winter, my mind usually wipes the slate clean and makes room for the new faces that show up in the late spring.”

  “Of course, totally understand,” Linder nods, tapping the photo. “But this is an old picture taken when he was six. The boy would be about seventeen now. I’ve been looking for him since he was born and I got a lead that pointed me this way. He’d probably be a lot taller and might even have facial hair. And he’s staying with an older woman, I believe. Red hair, green eyes, looks like a mature model for L.L. Bean. Or she used to, at least.”

  Mikellson hands the picture back to Linder and shakes his head. “Sorry, Linder. Wish I could help you, but I can’t. Haven’t seen this boy, and to be honest, there’s a lot of fine looking older women up around here. Just the way the land breeds ‘em.”

  Mikellson gives a short laugh and smacks his hand on the car door.

  “Sorry you wasted your time coming all this way,” Mikellson says. “I’m sure you’re needed down with the major evacs to the south.”

  Linder watches the deputy for a long, hard second then smiles wide. “Oh, I don’t think I wasted my time,” he says, then points at the patrol cars. “You mind if I move through and have a chat with your sheriff? Since I’m already here. I promise not to waste any of his time.”

  “Her,” Mikellson says. “Sheriff Stieglitz is a woman.”

  “Really?” Linder asks. “Didn’t know Montana was so enlightened.”

  “We are in Lincoln County,” Mikellson says. “You fit the job and it’s yours. That’s how we do things around here. And it’s the 21st century.”

  “Then may I proceed to Sheriff Stieglitz? I won’t be a bother to her at all,” Linder says. “Scouts honor.”

  Mikellson watches Linder for a couple of seconds then nods. He backs away from the car and pulls his mask up over his nose and mouth.

  “Go ahead,” Mikellson says, then he turns and waves at the other deputy standing by the cars.

  The man cocks his head, shrugs his shoulders and gets into one of the patrol cars. The engine sputters as its starts up, but it catches and the deputy reverses enough to make space for Linder’s sedan.

  “I appreciate it,” Linder says as he puts the car into drive. “I’ll only be a few minutes, then on my way and out of your hair. I know you have more important things to think about than some stupid fed coming around right when you’re all trying to get your friends and neighbors to safety.”

  “We sure ain’t bored these days, that’s for sure,” Mikellson says as he waves Linder along. “Drive safe and watch that filter gauge. The ash is getting heavier and heavier by the day.”

  “Thank you, Deputy Mikellson.” Linder nods as he rolls up his window and slowly moves the car past the two patrol cars.

  The second deputy waits a minute, and then puts the patrol car back in place, so both sides of highway 37 are blocked again.

  “Who was that?” Deputy Shane Weaver asks as he pulls his soft bulk from his car and adjusts his face mask. “Stephie said no one gets through.”

  “FBI,” Mikellson says. “Looking for someone.”

  “In this shit?” Weaver asks, spreading his arms as the ash continues to fall. “Who is he looking for?”

  “Someone that doesn’t want to be found,” Mikellson says.

  ***

  Sheriff Stephie Stieglitz stands on the curb outside Sheena’s Diner, her brow smeared with soot and sweat as she watches a family board one of the school buses being used to evacuate the townsfolk of Champion. The father helps the youngest up the steps, while the mother holds the older one’s hand, waiting their turn. The girl looks over her shoulder and her eyes crinkle, the smile hidden behind her medical mask.

  Stephie lowers her own mask so the girl can see her reassuring smile. Champion is a very small town, and Stephie knows every single person being loaded onto the dirty yellow school bus. This little girl, Brita Hoverson, just turned seven last Monday, the day the Yellowstone supervolcano started to spew ash actively into the atmosphere.

  Pretty crappy birthday present in Stephie’s opinion.

  “Hey, Stephie?” Deputy Mikellson’s voice calls out from the radio on the sheriff’s hip.

  Stephie puts her mask back on and grabs the radio. “What’s up, Eric? You and Shane holding down the fort?”

  “You have a visitor coming your way,” Mikellson replies, skipping the niceties. This gets Stephie’s attention instantly. Eric Mikellson is known for his easy going charm and politeness, so when that disappears then things aren’t good.

  “What kind of visitor?” Stephie asks. “And why is this visitor coming my way when no one is allowed into Champion?”

  “FBI,” Mikellson responds. “He’s looking for our friends.”

  “Shit! Now?” Stephie barks, causing little Brita’s mother to turn and open her eyes wide in surprise. Stephie pulls down the mask, mouths, ‘sorry’ to her, pulls the mask back up and walks off down the sidewalk, careful of the slick ash that covers every inch of the pavement. “You’re sure he’s looking for our friends?”

  “Positive,” Mikellson replies. “He showed me a picture of Kyle when he was a kid, then described Terrie to a T.”

  “Sh
it,” Stephie says again. “Shit, shit, shit!”

  “You want me and Shane to head back there?” Mikellson asks. “You think you’ll need backup?”

  “No, I can handle this,” Stephie says. “What I want you to do is track down Terrie and Kyle. They were supposed to have been here by now, but they haven’t showed. You mind running out to the cabin and seeing if they’re still there? We have to get a move on or we’ll miss the federal convoy rendezvous in Coeur d’Alene. Lu did us a solid by getting us space in that line. I’d hate for her mother to be the one to screw it all up.”

  “What about the agent?”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Linder,” Mikellson responds. “He’s probably getting close to town by now.”

  Linder. Shit.

  Stephie turns and looks down the road, her eyes peering through the ash haze. She sees a black sedan come around the bend in the road, the backdrop of the Montana mountains barely seen as the ash keeps falling.

  “I got him,” Stephie says. “You find Terrie and Kyle. Once you have them, you let me know ASAP. No more names over the radio, though, got it?”

  “You bet,” Mikellson says. “Oh, and hey, Stephie?”

  “Yeah, Eric?”

  “Watch yourself,” he warns. “The guy’s smile don’t meet his eyes. He’s a predator.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, I know all about Special Agent Tobias Linder,” Stephie responds. “I’ll stay on my toes.”

  She places her radio back on her belt and watches as the sedan drives around the line of school buses and parks a few yards from where she stands. Special Agent Tobias Linder steps from the car, pulls on a mask, and walks quickly over to Stephie.

  “Sheriff Stieglitz?” Linder asks, holding up his badge. “I’m Special Agent Tobias Linder. You have a quick second?”

  Stephie looks the man up and down. Tall, dark hair, dark eyes, muscular. She can see the outline of a pistol on his right hip under his suit jacket that’s getting covered in ash. She catches the hint of a backup pistol on the inside of his left ankle. When she looks up again, Linder locks eyes with her and she knows everything she’s heard about the man is right. This guy is a predator.

  “A second is about all I have,” Stephie says as she walks towards Linder. “What brings the FBI up this way? I thought all federal agencies were gearing up for the impending order of martial law?”

  “Yes, well, I’m trying to tie up some loose ends before everything turns completely to chaos,” Linder replies, putting his badge back into his pocket. He pulls out the photo of the boy and holds it out for the sheriff to see. “This boy went missing over ten years ago and new information just came in that he could be around this area.”

  “That so?” Stephie says. “I hate to burst your bubble, Agent Linder-”

  “Just Linder, please,” Linder says, his mask stretching as he grins.

  “Well, Agent Linder,” Stephie says and smiles inwardly as she watches the man’s eyes narrow at the edges. “I know every face in this county, and probably the next two over, and I haven’t seen that one.”

  “He’d be much older by now,” Linder says. “More a young man than a boy.”

  “Strange time to be working a missing persons case,” Stephie says. “I’m surprised the FBI authorized your trip here.”

  Linder doesn’t reply, just stands there with the photo held out.

  Stephie takes the photo and studies it closely, careful to keep her emotions in check and expression neutral.

  “Handsome kid,” Stephie says. “Bet he’s a fine looking young man now.” She hands the photo back. “Must have been hard for his parents when he went missing.”

  “It was,” Linder says.

  “You deal with that a lot, Agent Linder?” Stephie asks. “Breaking bad news to parents when their children go missing? I deal with lost hikers and hunters up around here and that’s difficult enough. Couldn’t imagine what it’s like being in the Missing Persons Division of the FBI.”

  Again, Linder doesn’t reply. He looks at the row of school buses. Stephie follows his gaze.

  “Well, as you can see, I’m a little busy today. Have a deadline to meet so we can get down to Coeur d’Alene,” Stephie says.

  “Coeur d’Alene?” Linder asks. “I thought all civilians in this area were to head due south down to the gulf?”

  “We’re meeting the federal convoy,” Stephie says, “then on to Seattle. We have space reserved on one of the carriers in Everett.”

  “That must have taken some string pulling,” Linder laughs.

  “I have a friend,” Stephie replies. “Didn’t take much, just a phone call.”

  “Yep,” Linder nods. “That’s all it takes. One single phone call.”

  Stephie’s blood runs cold as she realizes why Linder is all of a sudden in Champion. So many years of being careful, then she picks up the phone and decides to call in a decade of favors.

  “Listen, Agent Linder,” Stephie says. “I hate to be rude, but I’m going to need to focus now. Wish I could have been more help. I’d offer to have you caravan with us, but I’m sure you’re busy.” She points at the six buses. “And you can see we’re still filling up two buses, so you probably don’t want to waste your time waiting on us. Better get that car of yours out of the ash fall before that engine gets gummed up.”

  “Actually, I think I’ll stick around and talk with some of your fine citizens here,” Linder says. “I came all this way and it would kill me if I didn’t at least put in the leg work. You don’t mind, do you Sheriff? I promise not to hold you up or get in your way. Like you said, you’re still waiting to fill two buses.”

  “No, go right ahead,” Stephie replies. “But try not to push too hard. Folks around here aren’t always the most friendly to the federal government in the best of times. Put the threat of martial law on them and their tolerance level drops fast. You know what I mean?”

  “Oh, I do,” Linder nods. “I certainly do.”

  He holds out his hand and Stephie shakes it.

  “A pleasure, Sheriff,” he says as he walks towards the first bus. “Hope your trip is a safe one.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Linder,” Stephie replies. “Good luck with your search.”

  Linder pauses and looks at Stephie for a few seconds then shakes his head. “Thank you, Sheriff. I can use that luck.”

  He moves quickly to the first bus and pulls out the photo of the boy as he takes the steps and stands by the driver’s seat.

  “Hello, folks, my name is Special Agent Tobias Linder of the FBI. I’m not here to hassle anyone, just need to know if you’ve seen this boy.”

  ***

  “Grandma!” Kyle Morgan shouts. “Eric’s here! We need to go!”

  Seventeen and still growing, Kyle stands six feet tall with a shock of pure blond hair peeking out from under his baseball cap. A medical mask covers a big toothed grin as he waves at the patrol car pulling up to the cabin he shares with his grandmother, Terrie Morgan.

  Not that they’ve used those last names in a long time. Most folks know to refer to them as the “Holdens” when strangers are around. Their identities are a loose secret in Champion, but a secret everyone accepts. Northern Montana is a place where people go to escape pasts that they would rather forget, so Kyle and Terrie fit in just right and have for quite a few years.

  “Hey, Kyle,” Mikellson says as he gets out of the patrol car. “You and Terrie are supposed to be in town by now.”

  “Hey, Eric,” Kyle says as he comes up and shakes the man’s hand. “Biscuit took off after something and Grandma is chasing after him again.”

  “We can’t wait for your dog to show up, Kyle,” Mikellson responds. “You know that.”

  “Grandma won’t leave without Biscuit,” Kyle laughs, “and you know that. I think she loves that dog more than me half the time.”

  “Well, that’s a crock of shit,” Mikellson says. “Everyone in Champion knows how much Terrie Morgan loves her grandson.”
/>   “Terrie Holden, you mean,” Kyle says.

  “Well, that’s what I’m here about,” Eric says, nodding towards the two story log cabin. “Can we go inside and out of this ash? I’m getting sick of this shit.”

  “Watch your mouth, Eric Mikellson,” Terrie Morgan snaps as she comes around the corner of the cabin, preceded by the massive half-husky, half-wolf named Biscuit. “What the heck you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be watching the road?”

  “We have a problem,” Mikellson says. “Someone’s come to town looking for you.”

  A handsome woman in her early sixties, Terrie Morgan stands almost as tall as her grandson. Her bright red hair is now mostly white and it is twisted up into a bun under her ash covered black cowboy hat. Her face is weathered from a life out in the elements, but still holds a glow of youth and strength common to the people of northern Montana. Some of that strength drains away at Mikellson’s words.

  “Get your butt inside,” Terrie says. “Tell me all about it.”

  She turns and smacks her leg and Biscuit heels instantly, the 100 plus pound canine falling in step as they all walk inside the cabin.

  Terrie shakes off her hat and sets it on a rack by the door. They strip off their ashy coats and hang them up as Biscuit runs to the huge deer hide couch and jumps up, spins around four times, then lies down in a puff of ash.

  Animal heads of all types and sizes adorn the cabin’s walls, side by side with pictures small and large of Kyle with Terrie, as well as Terrie and Kyle with a woman younger than Terrie, who looks just like the two of them. There are also quite a few pictures of Terrie standing arm in arm with Stephie, some with Kyle, some without, but it’s obvious the cabin is home to the sheriff as well.

  “You aren’t boxing everything up?” Mikellson asks as he looks around the cabin, seeing only a few duffel bags and suitcases stacked by the door while the rest of the cabin’s contents remain where they’ve been for years.