by Jake Bible
“It’s almost dead,” Bolton says. “The thing can’t even shoot out its tongue. Leave it. Let it die.”
“Is it fucked up that makes me sad?” Holt asks as they continue to back away from the scene.
“No more fucked up than any of this shit,” Bolton says.
Once a good distance away, with enough wreckage and debris between them, Bolton and Holt turn and jog back to the shed where they left their bikes. They check over their equipment, making sure chains are good, tires are full, and everything is tight for the rest of their journey.
They bike off, getting only a mile away before they are forced to ditch the bikes and duck into a mostly collapsed pile of rubble that used to be a Burger King. Three of the four-leggeds stomp past, their heads swaying back and forth. Once past and out of sight, Bolton and Holt move ass, grab their bikes and keep going.
Five minutes later the sounds of gunfire reach them just before the air is split by the roars of the monsters. If there are screams, Bolton doesn’t hear them. Even if he did, he isn’t sure he’d care.
***
His head sinks, sinks, then nods and jerks back up, his eyes blinking and focusing on the door to the staircase.
“I don’t think he’s slept all night,” Terrie says as Krissy hands her a bowl of hot tomato soup. “He won’t leave that spot until he knows that thing is gone.”
“You think it’s still out there?” Krissy asks, curling her legs under her as she sits down and blows on her own bowl of soup. “Still up top? Waiting for us?”
“I don’t see why,” Terrie replies. “I don’t think it wants us, we just happened to be making enough noise to get it interested. The thing is probably back in the Sound, doing whatever it is those things do.”
“They rip the world apart,” Krissy says.
The two women eat a few spoonfuls then both glance over at one of the closed side hatches.
“You think he’s hungry?” Terrie asks. “Maybe you should take him a bowl of soup.”
“We split the can,” Krissy says. “No more left.”
“You could always make more,” Terries says.
“I could, but I won’t,” Krissy replies. “The asshole can feed himself.”
“This is his bunker, you know,” Terrie says. “It was his grandfather’s, but Roy is gone. Now it’s his. Family rights.”
“Fuck family rights,” Krissy says. “It’s ours now. We outnumber him. Squatters’ rights.”
“Please watch your language, Krissy,” Terrie responds, some of the patience gone from her voice. “There is no need to talk like that and it’s offensive.”
“Offensive to who?” Krissy asks. “You? Only two of us here, so why should I let you tell me what to do?”
“Because I’m your elder and it’s respectful,” Terrie replies, finishing her soup and setting the bowl aside. “We aren’t animals, young lady. We are humans and will act like it.”
“Whatever,” Krissy says. “I’m still not making the jerk some soup.”
“Fine,” Terrie says, pushing up from her chair. She grabs her makeshift cane and limps her way to the small kitchen in the corner of the large room. “I am the adult here, so I’ll act like one.”
“Act away,” Krissy says, slurping loudly from her spoon.
Terrie ignores the pain in her ankle, the pain in her midsection, opens a can of pasta and meatballs and starts heating it up over one of the burners on the gas stove. She has a feeling that Tony likes canned pasta and meatballs. It fits his personality.
Once hot, Terrie puts a lid on the pot, grabs up a large spoon, and carries both with her as she limps heavily towards the side hatch.
“Going to have a hard time getting that hatch open by yourself,” Krissy says.
“I know,” Terrie replies.
“Need some help?” Krissy asks.
“Are you offering?” Terrie responds. “Or just being a brat?”
Terrie turns and sees Krissy staring at her, the young woman’s face cleaned of mud, but not covered in bandages. Krissy had refused, saying they itched and if her face was going to get infected then it’s happened already. Terrie knows the girl is using her flayed skin as a defensive mechanism, a shock tool to keep people at a distance.
Krissy sighs and gets up, taking slow, exaggerated strides towards the hatch. She spins the wheel and shoves the hatch open, waving her arm with a theatrical flourish.
“Thank you,” Terrie nods.
“Want me to close it after you?” Krissy asks. “In case the man-child goes rogue and decides to run rampant through the bunker in his undies? Oh, wait!”
Krissy trots off, hurrying to the kitchen then hurrying back. She tucks a juice box in Terrie’s front pocket.
“Can’t forget Big Boy’s juicy juice,” Krissy smirks.
“I have a feeling you weren’t the most pleasant child before all of this happened,” Terrie says and turns and limps quickly into the metal tunnel before Krissy can respond.
The hatch slams shut and Terrie winces at the noise as it echoes in the tunnel. She slows her limp, wincing at the pain in her ankle as well.
The hatch at the other end is cracked, a weak light streaming from the room on the other side. Terrie gets to the hatch, takes a deep breath, and knocks lightly before pushing it open.
“Tony? I brought you some food,” Terrie says as she moves into the room, her eyes taking in the four sets of bunk beds and the long workbench lining one wall.
Tony sits at the workbench, hunched over something, still dressed in his X-Men t-shirt and boxers, both considerably dirtier than when he had first opened the hatch to the bunker. He shakes his head a few times, but doesn’t look back at Terrie.
“This is my room,” Tony says. “You aren’t allowed in here. This is for the kids. I’m not a kid anymore, but this is my room. It’s where I stay. You stay in the room on the other side. You and the angry girl. That’s where you stay. She’s younger than me, but she can’t stay in this room even if it is the kids’ room because this is my room and she’s a girl.” He stops shaking his head. “An angry girl without a face.”
“That’s true,” Terrie says. “She is an angry girl.” She lets the without a face part drop. “But I think she has a reason to be angry. I don’t agree with her behavior, but she has a reason. Just like you.”
Tony’s shoulders stiffen. “I’m not angry. I just don’t like people in my room. And I have a face. So she’s not like me at all. I’m not like her at all.”
“You both lost family,” Terrie says, moving cautiously to the far end of the workbench, about six feet from Tony. She sets the pot of pasta and meatballs down then grabs a stray stool and eases onto it, sighing as the weight is lifted from her ankle. “She lost her parents and her little sister. You lost your mom and grandfather.”
“I didn’t lose them,” Tony says. “I know where they are.” He points up at the ceiling.
“Yes, well, what I mean is—” Terrie continues.
Tony looks at her sharply. “I know what you mean. I’m not stupid. I’m not retarded like the angry girl thinks. I’m smart. Very smart. I just don’t like people in my room.”
“Her name is Krissy,” Terrie says. “You should call her Krissy.”
“Why?” Tony asks. “She calls me man-child and Big Boy.” He lifts a hand and points with a small screwdriver at a set of vents above his head. “I can hear everything since I’m quiet and not busy being mean and angry.”
Terrie glances at the vents and nods. “Oh. Good to know, Tony. Thank you for telling me.”
“Listen,” Tony says. “She’s crying. The angry girl is crying.”
Terrie does listen and she can hear the faint sounds of Krissy sobbing. She looks over her shoulder at the hatch and thinks to get up, but doesn’t. It might be best if Krissy doesn’t know about the vents. Let the girl have her cry and maybe she’ll get some of that anger out of her system.
“What are you making?” Terrie asks, looking at the circuit board i
n front of Tony. “Is that from a computer.”
“Radio,” Tony says. “Broad spectrum, digital radio. Long wave, short wave, UHF, FM, AM.” He looks up at her and grins broadly. “Microwaves. If I can get an antenna set up outside.” The grin goes away. “But…”
“But the monster is out there,” Terrie says. “I’m pretty sure it’s gone.”
“You don’t know that,” Tony says, focusing back on his work.
“You seem good at computers and technology,” Terrie says. “Is that what you did before the eruptions?”
“Yes,” Tony says. “Programmed. Built things. Made good money. Helped my mom. Helped Roy. Made good money.”
“And you’re building a radio now?” Terrie asks. “How will it work? There was a big EMP that ruined all the electronics.”
“EMPs are bad,” Tony says. “But not perfect.” He taps the circuit board gently. “I can test each component. Test until I find one that works then set it aside.”
Terrie looks at the piles of equipment up and down the workbench. The little hope she had for a working radio quickly disappears.
“You aren’t building the radio right now, are you?” she asks.
“Nope,” Tony says. “Quality control. Testing parts. Then I’ll build it. Hard part first. Put in the work then get the reward.” His voice stumbles a bit. “Roy said that.”
Terrie reaches out to put a hand on Tony’s shoulder, but he flinches and she stops.
“Oh, here,” she says, taking the juice box from her pocket and setting it by the pot. “You’re probably thirsty.”
Tony doesn’t respond.
“I’ll leave you to your work,” Terrie says, reluctantly getting back up. “Try to eat something. You’ll work better with food in your belly. Hard to do the work if you don’t have energy.”
Tony hesitates and glances over at the pot.
“Thank you,” he says, surprising Terrie.
She smiles and limps away. “You’re welcome.”
She’s about to the hatch when he calls out softly.
“Tell the angry girl thank you for the juice box,” Tony says. “I know she meant it to be mean, but I am thirsty.”
“I’ll tell her,” Terrie says. “And I don’t think she meant it to be mean.”
Tony huffs in reply and hunches lower over his work.
Terrie watches him for a second then limps out of the room, leaving the hatch slightly open as it had been before.
***
“Is everything in position?” VanderVoort asks. “Where are we with the satellites?”
“Ones we can spare have been tasked and are in position,” a tech replies. “Eyes in the sky are wide open.”
“Don’t get cute,” VanderVoort says. “I’m the cute one. Just say they are in position.”
“I did,” the tech replies. “They are in position.”
“Good,” VanderVoort says. “What do we see?”
New views pop up on the screens, various images of North America, especially the western and eastern coastlines. One image flickers and zooms in, flickers and zooms in, until it shows a churning sea and something pulling itself from the heavy waves.
“Landfall at Nova Scotia,” a tech announces. “The Icelandic creature has come ashore.”
All eyes watch as the massive monster crawls its way up onto land, its giant body dwarfing the small fishing village it tromps through. No one says a thing as the satellite tracks its movement, the image sweeping along as the monster destroys everything in its path before finding the other side of the huge island and sliding back into the water.
“Where’d it go?” VanderVoort asks, breaking the silence.
“Trajectory would suggest it is heading south,” a tech says. “We won’t know until it… Hold on. I think it’s surfacing again.”
The satellite pulls out, changes view, then zooms in on the eastern seaboard directly above Boston. The image adjusts, refocuses, pulls back, zooms in, adjusts then stabilizes. Pixels become sharp images and there are more than a few gasps as the Icelandic behemoth pulls up out of Boston Harbor and onto Logan International airport. Or what is left of it. Most of the terminals look burned down to their steel struts and beams.
The thing stands tall on its webbed rear legs, its fin wings flapping and flexing back and forth until everything in its path that isn’t bolted into the earth begins to shudder, shiver then blow away as if a massive box fan has been turned on. The monster lifts its head to the sky and opens wide.
“Is it safe to say we do not have sound?” VanderVoort asks.
“Yes, ma’am,” the tech replies. “All local surveillance is fried, so no way to tap into that.”
“Then our imaginations will have to do,” VanderVoort says. “I’m thinking it sounds somewhat like a giant seal, but I could be way off.”
The creature closes its mouth and begins walking across the airport, destroying everything still standing, creating more loose debris in its wake. It reaches the far side of the airport and keeps going until it runs into where the Chelsea and Mystic Rivers converge. But instead of slipping into the water, it flaps its fin wings and leaps high into the air, gaining enough altitude to carry it over the bay and far into the mainland.
“Didn’t know it could do that,” VanderVoort says. “Doesn’t have a ton of range, but the thing is so big it covers—”
“We have another coming!” a tech announces.
A new view pops up, this one of the Mid-Atlantic region. Everyone recognizes the location instantly.
“Where is it landing?” VanderVoort asks.
The situation room shudders slightly as the image of the huge winged beast, the French dragon, comes down on the banks of the Potomac.
“Right on top of us,” the tech says. “Two steps and it’ll crush the White House.”
The monster looks around then opens its mouth in what looks like a roar. Then bright green flames issue forth and scorch every single building before it. The Mall is nothing but burning ruins, the Smithsonian complex a massive campfire, the Washington Monument a five hundred foot torch.
Then the creature takes its two steps and everyone grabs onto what they can as dust rains down from above, the entire complex shuddering and shaking about them. When it settles, the monster has taken wing again and is lost from the satellite’s view.
“Get it back,” VanderVoort says, her voice calm even as many in the room cry out in panic. “Find it now.”
While the tech searches, pulling the satellite view back, everyone gets a good, brief look at the ruins from above. The White House is rubble, the debris field nothing but a massive, clawed footprint in soil that had once been swamp hundreds of years before.
“We have it again,” the tech says. “Flying over Pennsylvania, about to reach the Appalachians.”
“Keep your eyes locked on that one,” VanderVoort says. “Someone tell me what else.”
“Italian creature is getting close to Florida,” a tech says.
“Japanese is three quarters across the Pacific with the Australian close behind,” another tech announces.
“Chilean is walking,” a tech says. “Moving up from South America and into Central America.” The tech gulps hard. “It’s eating everything in its path. Wiping out villages as it goes, tearing into rain forests. That mouth hasn’t stopped chewing for miles and miles.”
“At least it’s getting its fiber,” VanderVoort says then rolls her eyes at a few grumbles. “Oh, come on, people. We are well past being squeamish and faux offended. If I can’t have my inappropriate jokes then I’ll have to vent in other ways. None of you want that, I get very unpleasant when I have to stifle my sarcasm.”
“Chinese creature is moving via land as well,” a tech says. “Heading up through Heilongjiang province and into Russia. Probably to the Bering Straits.”
“Call Sarah Palin and ask her to let us know when she sees it,” VanderVoort chuckles. “Really? No one is going to laugh at that? You people, I swear.”
“Kenyan creature is not heading north, ma’am,” a tech says. “It’s moving south and is almost through Zimbabwe.”
“How are the locals fairing?” VanderVoort asks.
“No so well,” the tech says. “It’s eating almost as much as the Chilean creature.”
VanderVoort detects a tone in the tech’s voice.
“And?” she asks.
“The thing spins webs,” the tech says. “And is using them to net entire villages, scooping up people and livestock then affixing them to its back.”
“Saving some snacks for later,” VanderVoort says. “Which means it knows it may get hungry and won’t have a food source. Who wants to bet its heading to Antarctica to whoop it up with the penguins? We may find out more about why only feeders and advance troops have shown up in the land of happy feet.”
“Ma’am? I think we have some problems,” a tech says. She taps at her keyboard and six views are brought up. “Those are the Cascades. All volcanoes. They are being torn open. Rainier is already open.”
“And our Yellowstone ugly seems to have a cousin,” VanderVoort says, sighing heavily. “Same with the other Cascades?”
“Mt. McKinley, Mt. Hood, Mt. Shasta, Mt. Bachelor, and even Mt. St. Helens,” the tech says. “All have creatures coming up out of them.”
“Lovely,” VanderVoort says.
“The creatures must believe the Pacific Coast to be the main front,” Dr. Hall says. “The Japanese, Chinese, and Australian creatures may be stronger than the ones coming in from the East Coast.”
“Or not,” VanderVoort says. “We won’t know until the fireworks start.”
VanderVoort rubs at her belly, her eyes moving from one screen to the next, trying to figure out if the fireworks will leave anything for humanity to salvage or if they are going to blow the whole hand off.
Seven
“This is some heavy gear,” Lowell says, a large duffel bag strapped to his back. “Why am I the pack mule and you get to carry the guns? I can carry guns too. We could plop this pack on those gurneys and let the kid roll it all down the halls.”
