by Kevin Holton
AT THE HANDS OF MADNESS
A Kaiju Novel
Kevin Holton
Chapter 1
We’d all been asking ourselves the same thing: how do you kill a creature with no head?
It had become my job to keep morale up among the new recruits in spite of this impossible task. We’d all joined Hyperion company for different reasons, but I looked out and saw five faces, people who’d never had to lay eyes on the beast. One of these kids slouched, arms crossed, eyes glazed from boredom, pointedly ignoring me. Three were a sister and two younger brothers. The last sat in a wheelchair. I’d give them all the same speech, even if one was far more likely to die than the others.
Arrogance gets people killed. Wheelchair Kid wouldn’t be making the smug punk’s mistakes and ignoring the advice that might one day save his life.
“None of you have faced it before, have you?” I turned my head slowly, taking them all in as they shook their heads, confirming what I’d assumed. “Here’s the situation then: our unit, Hyperion, only intends to fight Medraka if it has to distract it from going after Great Bend.” I pointed to the city not that far away. “My name’s Hennessy Jones, callsign Heartbreaker, and I’ll be your point of contact for any issues you might face or guidance you might need in fulfilling our missions. Joining our unit means keeping the area safe from the Phranna. You know what those are?”
Smug Boy rolled his eyes. A girl of about sixteen raised her hand. “They’re… bugs, right? The TV said something about them. Mom didn’t want us watching the news. I heard they’re, like, people-bugs, with hard shells. Right?”
From what I understood, this girl and her two brothers, both younger, standing by her side, had been visiting one of the Great Lakes when Medraka showed up. The kids had stayed in their tent the whole time. The parents went outside to see it. As with some of those more mundane folks who weren’t prepared for what it looked like, her father went mad, killing their mother, then himself. Suburban types always got it worst. They’re so used to order and normalcy that they drown in the first splash of chaos.
Footsteps came up close, then ran off again. We were in the southern part of Camp Hyperion, our base of about ninety—now ninety-five—members. Burlap tents jutted up like sand dunes. Sleeping quarters surrounded the central concourse, housing four to six people per tent. The food, supplies, and munitions waited in tents surrounded those, ready for easy access if an attack came at night. They could wake up, sprint to a weapon, and keep charging to the perimeter without breaking stride.
“Yes, the Phranna are about seven feet tall, blue, and have hard plating over their head, back, and outer sides of their limbs. The inner part of their arms is razor sharp, so if you do wind up as one of our soldiers, avoid close quarters at all costs. You could be decapitated so fast you wouldn’t think to scream until your head hit the ground.”
Letting out a hearty scoff, Smug Boy looked my way for once. “Really? And what’s the kaiju look like, Mr. Oogie Boogie? A burlap sack screaming, ‘My bugs!’ Ooo, so scary.”
Part of me wanted to like the kid for knowing what Nightmare Before Christmas was, since the movie fell a little outside his generation’s range, but this wasn’t the time or place. Damien entrusted me with making sure they were prepared to serve us in any way possible, which meant at least priming them to see the beast itself. A glance toward the three siblings told me they wanted to hear, even if they weren’t ready.
No one is ever ready.
“No, kid, Medraka is far worse. I know news channels have been ordered not to show it, so frankly, I don’t blame you for not knowing what it looks like. That’s a moronic move, if you ask me. Seeing it on screen is like a vaccination. Keeps the real deal from…” I looked at the three siblings. “Keeps you from suffering too much when you have to see it for real.
“At over one hundred feet tall, its size alone would drive terror into most people. It has two long legs, but at the hip, it splits like a tree ripped down the middle by lightning, each half sporting two arms. The right gets two right arms, the left gets two left. Neither torso has a head, nor eyes, nor ears, nor… other weak points.” It didn’t seem necessary to say ‘genitals’ to this relatively young group. “We’re not sure where it comes from, but everyone agrees on one fact: it couldn’t possibly have originated in our dimension.”
They’d all paled, but Smug Boy looked green.
“The beast’s skin is a brownish-yellow, like waste, but ripples like water when it’s ready to unleash the Phranna. They claw their way out, tearing open its skin from the inside and swarming over whatever’s nearby. The main job here, plain and simple, is to mow those mutants down whenever they show up. But, as you can probably assume, it’s not always an easy job, considering where they come from. Their plating is hard enough to deflect bullets, so the main tactics are fire, explosives, or the gaps between plating, typically the throat and underarms. Or, if you’ve got really great aim and a little luck, dead center of their chest, right over the heart.
“Our real difficulty lies in Medraka’s psychic abilities. It arrived on our planet just over a year ago with no warning, appearing to have teleported, or perhaps it tore open a hole in reality and slipped through from a crawlspace between heaven and hell. We’re not really sure. It can appear and disappear at will, and often warps its Phranna to different locations all over the globe, making their arrival unpredictable. Lack of warning is our main issue, even if we intentionally attract them. Many militias, like ours, have set up sonic beacons that draw them in, a sort of dog whistle, making them swarm us instead of the city, but there’s always a chance Medraka will show up too.
“So far, our greatest advantage lies in the fact that it seems to view destruction as a passing interest, and not an obsession. It can level a city in hours, but often passes them by, seeming to enjoy instilling fear more than killing. Some go insane upon first seeing it, which is why I describe it to you now: to give you a little bit of a primer. You’ll get more later on, pictures and such, so you’re eased into seeing it for real. Others have bowed in worship at its feet, thinking it’s a god, but don’t make their mistake. This creature doesn’t recognize piety, and has no love of acolytes. All who’ve tried to appease it have perished.” Dramatic, fire-and-brimstone language, I’d found, makes the younger crowds take Medraka more seriously. The stiff authoritative feeling gives them a sense of a preacher, handing down knowledge straight from God to their ears. I’d stopped believing long ago.
“When it does fight, it can easily crush people, or let out shockwaves by stomping, or clapping its huge hands, but it often uses remote abilities. Even though many go insane from looking at it, Medraka can also take over someone’s mind, psychokinetically lift or crush objects, or…” I trailed off, for just an instant, getting lost in a memory. “Or turn someone completely inside out.”
With my eyes on the ground, I didn’t notice Smug Boy’s unsteady stance, but heard a thud as he fainted. I informed the rest that I’d finished our intro spiel, and that they’d report to other areas for duty assignments. The Siblings’ first task? Pick up the idiot who got all cocky then passed out from a little talking, and get him over to the medical tent. If he couldn’t handle the intro, he wouldn’t be relegated to combat, so he’d probably wind up a medic anyway.
“Medical tent’s in the west and east concourse. There are two, noted by the big red cross over the entrance flaps. All the metal bits up north mark The Scrapyard. That’s Damien’s place. Don’t bug him unless you have to, because he’s usually engineering some kind of mech or exoskeleton, and one of the other members of the Core Division can assist you. That’s me, Damien, Grover, Steve, Lisa, and Alle
ssandra. You’ve met Damien and the two goofs already. I’ll come find you and introduce you to Lisa later. Allessandra will introduce herself to you. Now, get him some attention, and pass on what I’ve said when he wakes.” The siblings nodded, hoisted Smug Boy into the air, then walked off.
Wheelchair Kid rolled my way. He had a face still pudgy from youth, but sunken eyes mature beyond his years. “I heard it killed the president. That it showed up to the White House one day, and he cut his own head off.”
The story didn’t merit going into, but I believed in transparency with our troops. “It did, and he did. And yes, it psychically used his own hands to shove his head up his own ass.”
Wheelchair Kid stifled a giggle. I couldn’t remember the last time I genuinely laughed. A little over two months ago, I supposed. He wanted to know how he could help.
I didn’t want to make him feel less than capable by keeping him out of the field, but still, a manual wheelchair, against a flesh-eating horde of interdimensional bug monsters and their headless, psychic benefactor? I tapped my chin, giving a big show of thinking, then told him to report to Joe, the radio head. Wheelchair Kid could be a new Radio Boy, who’d monitor the airwaves for important news, and sound the sirens if trouble headed our way, not that we’d always have a warning. When his face fell, defeated, I told him I’d talk to Damien about what kind of assistive combat mechs he might be able to throw together. We could always get more material from the cities, but we couldn’t leave our troops sitting in the wings if we could instead strap this kid into some kind of exoskeleton and get him out in the field.
He looked at his limp, thin legs, having no doubt been paralyzed for quite a while. “You really think I’d be a good soldier?”
“You’d be better than that guy,” I said, gesturing to the medical tent, where Smug Boy languished in the dark of his unconsciousness. “Now, you report to Joe, and I’ve got to go see someone else. You’ll meet the rest of the Core Division when the time comes.”
He beamed and began rolling away, but stopped, looking back. “Is it true? They say, right before you die, you see it… like it was. Together, with a head. That it’s just a mouth crammed full of teeth.”
I grimaced. “Don’t know. Let’s hope neither of us have to find out.”
With a vacant stare, he nodded, rolling off. Wheelchair Kid seemed like a good egg, the sort of child I’d have been proud to call my own, though I’d once been a father. I wasn’t anymore.
Statistically, it didn’t make sense to bother learning all their names. Attacks came roughly ten times a month, and ammunition had begun to dwindle worldwide. We were overdue for a supply run, assuming time enough remained to make one. If those kids survived their first month in a militia like ours, they’d get names.
Letting out a sigh, as if it could remove the weight from my chest, I made my way to the supplies tent, where Allessandra Oksana prepped first aid material. Damien’s only duties for me that day were to instruct the newbies, and help her out. She nodded at me as I came in, politely enquired about the recruits, and if any were noteworthy. I mentioned Smug Boy fainting, which we chuckled at, as well as Wheelchair Kid, which reduced our mirth a bit. Some might’ve called it ablest to want him as far from danger as possible, but we’d both seen enough of these battles to know the slightest disadvantage was a near-guaranteed death. Untied shoelaces would get you killed out there, and we were both tired of death.
We’d also both seen Medraka in person. The only way any of those five would survive encountering the kaiju is if they hid and prayed, wheelchair not withstanding.
“You know, some nights, I could swear I hear its footsteps,” I said to Allessandra as we prepped medical supplies. My hands moved on autopilot, tucking bandages into zippered pockets and sealing up little packets of antibiotic ointment. “I dream of it coming, then I wake feeling the ground tremble from its steps. Is that… I don’t know, weird? Cowardly?”
She shrugged, her crystalline eyes shimmering like they might shatter at any moment. “Seems like that’s the way the world works these days. I’ve had the same dreams, and I’ve woken the same way. I hear it stomping, breathing. Whispering. …But, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve heard a voice that wasn’t there.” Her resting expression was one of an almost absolute emptiness. One of listening without judgement or cynicism, because she was so used to being judged. If I hadn’t known the turmoil underneath this placid surface, I might have once assumed she was a former monk or spiritual guru. The more I got to know her, the more I noticed her unhealthily-thin frame, how her shoulders tended to slump forward, how her feet scuffed the ground as she walked, dragging, never fully lifting from the dirt.
Nodding quietly, I wasn’t quite sure how to respond. She’d run out of medication a long time ago. Science came a long way in the past few years, in spite of—or maybe because of—nuclear war, which really benefited people like Grover, our team’s chef and one of our best specialists. He used to have type one diabetes, but gene splicing changed that pretty significantly. Allessandra? There wasn’t anything people could do for the hallucinations, and Medraka had destroyed roughly two-thirds of our prescription manufacturers. There were no cures to implant, and no pills to administer.
“Well, no matter what you hear, I’m glad you’re on the team.”
She smiled, and I smiled back, then went back to stocking first aid kits. We’d lost a few in a recent battle against the Phranna, but only a few, and she’d been here a while. There weren’t many left to pack.
“Think we’ll ever be free of this life?” Despite her posture, she always sounded resolute, albeit a little dreamy, conveying a hard-won strength. She had a storm cloud voice, soft, ready to grant life-restoring rain, but bearing threat of lightning.
“You mean, the constant being on guard, fighting monsters, all that? Well, it’s been, what, thirteen months since its arrival?” Thirteen long months, for sure. Her mouth set hard at the edges, no doubt thinking the same as me: time had slowed, and life, for us on the front lines, had stopped. Those in the cities, the safe zones, might not have even noticed a difference. “…I don’t know. No. No, I don’t. I think even if we win, we’ll carry them on in our nightmares. Fight them in our sleep. The trauma of war is the burden we carry so our children don’t have to suffer.”
“Hm. I like that.” Her head cocked to the side. She frowned, hearing something she didn’t like, and shook her head. The expression left little creases along the corners of her mouth. An expression she’d grown used to making, complimented by dark circles under her eyes. We didn’t have mirrors or any kind of make-up products at Hyperion—an unspoken, mutually agreed upon rule. Aesthetics fell by the wayside with humanity’s survival on the line. Sure, a few people occasionally applied lipstick or a manicure in still moments, but overall, the only ‘cosmetic’ changes people went through were battle scars.
“I think I’m done. How many do you have left, Hennessy?”
I slid some bandages into another secure pouch, zipped the pouch, zipped the kit, and hung it from a stand nearby. It wasn’t as space-efficient as stacking them on a table or the ground, but it kept them from toppling into a big, messy pile, which would make it hard to figure out how many we had.
“I think that’s it. Let’s tell Damien, see if there’s anything else we should be doing.”
She nodded, so we stepped out of the medical tent and into our camp’s main concourse. The Core Division rarely sat still, everyone generally off doing some position-specific assignment, while we had a few dozen greener members performing maintenance, checking security, and cleaning weapons. These worker ants scurried about, exercising and generally working to prove themselves. Sure, they wanted to kill Medraka—we all did—but they also wanted to be remembered. They would be, even if they failed. None of us would forget those sacrifices. We couldn’t if we tried.
The sun would be setting in about two hours, which meant dinner was soonish. I wasn’t hungry yet, but in these times, I wasn’t one
to refuse a meal. Besides, Damien chewed out anyone who didn’t at least try to eat, and I didn’t feel like getting yelled at. “Keep your strength up!” he’d say. “We’re soldiers of fortune, and this is war, folks. Eat what the good people of Great Bend have been willing to donate in exchange for protection. Keep a taste of home cooking in your mouth so you remember what we’re fighting for.” Most of the farms were intact, and the food lines were fine, so we could easily just go into Great Bend and buy food if the donations ran low, but he liked fostering a survivalist mentality. It was another part of his efforts toward making sure we didn’t get comfortable. Comfort would drop our guard.
I’d only been with the group for two months, but I learned who was who pretty quickly, since there wasn’t much room for leisure activity in our lifestyle. Damien Gearheart was the engineer and group leader. When he wasn’t administering a fitness test or working out, he was building some new car, mech, exoskeleton, or war machine for those of us who’d spend battles charging into the fray. Muscular, tattooed, and covered in engine grease, he probably would’ve been in movies or on magazine covers if he hadn’t been leading the fight against these monstrosities. His position was, “Anything to keep my people at their absolute best,” but it was obvious from first meeting him that he didn’t exactly like being social. In fact, he rarely spoke to anyone, even when addressed, beyond the occasional group-wide pep talk. How he became the group’s leader was beyond me.
“Damien!” I called, as we approached his section of the camp.
The camp didn’t actually have sections, but The Scrapyard, as we called it, was so littered with machinery and metal components that if you didn’t have to venture through it, you probably shouldn’t. His unshaven face popped up from behind his latest project, square jaw set hard against harder days. Tattoos glistened against his sweat-drenched skin, tank-top soaked through despite the breeze and dropping, near-Autumn temperatures.
