Project Maigo

by Jeremy Robinson

  “Asshole,” I say.

  I hear him chuckle, and I have a strong urge to kick his face in, but I decide that will just end badly for me. “Where are we?”

  “Underground,” he says, and I reconsider my boot-to-the-face idea. But then he adds, “Some kind of service tunnel. There’s a ladder here.”

  I can’t see the ladder, but I can hear his voice. Turning toward him, I look up. A thin line of light shows the border of a square hatch. I struggle to my feet, leaning against the wall, and I pause to catch my breath. The air here still smells of ocean, but stings with the tinge of toxic chemicals. The burning in my throat and lungs might not be from more than drowning and being revived, though.

  With a modicum of strength returned, I shuffle across the hallway like one of the undead, and catch myself on the wall, clinging to a ladder rung for support.

  Endo stands next to me. “I know that we will never be...friends.”

  I’m suddenly feeling awkward and uncomfortable, like when I was asked to the prom by Jenny Stillwater, my childhood-friend’s little sister. Not only was she four years younger than me, not only did I remember her in diapers, but she was my friend’s sister. It’s just not done. Of course, when I saw her again, three years later and all grown into herself, I wondered if turning her down was actually the best choice. But Endo isn’t about to grow anything feminine.

  “I just want you to know…” he says, “you have earned my respect.”

  “Just because Nemesis has—”

  “Not because of how Nemesis—or Maigo—views you. Or even because of how you view her. But because you repeatedly put your life at risk to do what you believe is the right thing to do. Including returning for me.”

  In the silence that follows, I realize that compliment time is over.

  “Yeah, well, thank you, fuckface. Would you mind climbing the ladder now so we can find out who ordered that strike and kick their ass?”

  “Gladly,” he says. He starts up the ladder, grunting with each rung ascended. As I follow, barely containing a scream with each step up, I realize that neither of us will be kicking asses anytime soon. There’s a clang of metal as he reaches the top and shoves. A flash of light reveals the brick tunnel around us. But then the hatch closes and Endo lets out a little growl. For a moment, I think we’re trapped down here, but Endo climbs another step, gets his shoulder under the door and shoves. Blessed sunlight pours into the tunnel. I expect Boston’s cool ocean air to follow, but I get a lungful of hot, foul smelling filth. I cough for a moment, while Endo exits.

  When I reach the top, he bends to help me out. We’re not far from where we started, standing on a walkway in what used to be the Christopher Columbus Waterfront Park. It had been spared destruction a year ago, but it’s now a smoldering ruin. The grass is gone, replaced by ash, whisked away by the wind. Most of the trees were uprooted and either tipped over or flung away. Those that remain upright look like large incense burners, smoke twisting away from the tips of still burning branches. Anything that had been untouched by Nemesis has now been destroyed. Buildings. Wharfs. Boats.

  We hobble together, toward the Harborwalk, along the shore. Through columns of rising smoke, I see the harbor. Steam rolls over the ocean’s surface. The remnants of a mushroom cloud billows upward. In the distance, jets circle in groups of three, wary.

  Nemesis remains.

  She’s still in the same spot, curled in on herself, a colossal armadillo. Smoke rises from her protective carapace, but I see no real damage.

  She’s motionless, but not dead. While MOAB is an impressive weapon, wonderful for killing people and destroying buildings, Nemesis is designed, or has evolved, to withstand such an explosive force. Hell, she contains an even more powerful explosive force.

  A grinding sound turns my eyes to the right. We’re standing in the shadow of a long, five-story, brick building. The Marriot, if I’m not mistaken. The red bricks, now scorched black, are crumbling.

  Dread grips me. I’m not sure where it comes from, but its intense. And real. There’s a mountain of shit currently heading toward a very large fan, and we are still squarely downwind. The chop of a helicopter gives me a small amount of hope. I lift my aching arms and wave.

  Betty comes in from the North, flying low and fast. A cloud of ash swirls into the air, whipped up by the rotors. Endo and I run for it while the Marriot caves in on itself behind us. We’re met halfway by Collins and Alessi, who silently help us into the chopper. Rather than bring me to the passenger’s seat—my usual station, Collins rather forcefully guides me to the back. Once I’m in, she slams the door and takes my seat in the front.

  I lean forward, fighting the pain in my ribs, and pick up a headset. Once it’s on, I say, “We need to leave. Now.”

  “No shit, Sherlock,” Woodstock says, lifting Betty off the ground. “We’ll be headed north in just—”

  “Not north!” I shout, the fear taking hold again. “Southeast. Through the North End. Go!”

  I’m glad he doesn’t ask why. I have no answer. It’s just a feeling. We need a barrier between us and what comes next, and the ruins of downtown is the closest thing to a wall around here.

  As we swing around and speed through the still standing skyscrapers of Boston’s North End, I look out the window and up. The line of jets is incoming again.

  They fire.

  Useless missiles trace lines across the sky above us.

  The jets follow, not peeling away. They’re trying to buy time again. But for another MOAB? Or something worse? Seeing our flight-path through the North End is a perfectly straight line, I nearly ask Woodstock to fly us backwards again, but then I notice a tall building, beyond the North End, at the end of the street, still has most of its reflective windows. Looking at the reflection, I can see behind us into the harbor, all the way to Nemesis. The jets close in.

  They’re too close…

  And then it happens. Nemesis stands tall and spins around. Her chest heaves a few times, expanding. Her neck flexes like a dog about to puke.

  I have no expletives to express how I feel at this moment.

  So I just watch as Nemesis performs the super-sized equivalent of hocking a loogie. But the wad that comes out isn’t mucus. It’s a bright orange globule—her explosive fluid contained in some kind of clear viscous film. It arcs through the air, heading for the jets. For a moment I think it’s actually going to strike one of the jets, but the pilots are accustomed to thinking fast, and their planes are even faster. The problem is that the glowing projectile, if left unhindered, will sail clear over the North End and land smack dab in Boston’s heart, erasing all of what’s left of the city.

  Of the thirty-plus pilots in the sky, one of them must realize this, too, because a missile launches from an F-22 before it turns away and kicks on its afterburners.

  The missile strikes home as we clear the North End and emerge over the lower buildings in Boston’s downtown. “Stay low!”

  The light from the resulting explosion turns my eyes away from the reflective windows. To the left, I see the green swath of grass that is the Boston Common, just beyond the Beacon Hill neighborhood. If we have to land rough, that’s the place to do it.

  As the initial blast of light fades, I turn back toward the reflection of the North End, already a mile away. An orange glow chases us. Gaining. It slips through the North End like the buildings were made of air. The already stressed ruins just shatter. The metal glows yellow and melts away. What was left of the North End, is reduced to dust. It’s the last thing I see before the reflective windows providing my view shatter and fall to the ground, tiny twinkling lights.

  The pressure wave strikes us hard, pitching us forward, while the concussive sound of the explosion pounds against our ears and cracks Betty’s windshield. Then we’re out of it, cruising low over the Commons and a string of swan boats.

  While everyone catches their breath, I say, “Bring us up and around. I want to see.”

  We quickly top out
at two thousand feet, high enough to see the harbor from a safe distance. The North End is gone. It’s not just ruins now, it’s totally obliterated. Wiped off the map. A flattened swatch of scorched earth.

  I need to have a chat with President Colossal Fuck-Up.

  Just as soon as I go to the hospital, have surgery and begin physical therapy. My only consolations are that Boston was empty, so no one died, and that Endo looks as shitty as I do.

  “Woodstock,” I say, leaning back and closing my eyes. “Hospital. Rapido.”

  30

  Chris Marshal’s vacation had finally turned a corner. He’d traveled to Thailand from New York City, where he worked as a day trader. His life was loud and chaotic and focused on things he wasn’t sure he cared about any more. Like money. Sure, he understood and appreciated what money could do for him, but the daily act of gathering and hoarding numbers like a squirrel preparing for winter had become a hollow act. At least the squirrel worked for its survival. He toiled for what? More. That’s it. More. So he fled to Thailand for a week of mind clearing, and maybe the comfort of a woman. Or two. But Bangkok didn’t feel very different from New York. Sure, it smelled, looked and sounded different, but the vibe was the same. All eyes turned inward, seeing only what the self desired.

  So he fled again, this time taking the train south to Thailand’s mountainous Pak Song region, where a carpet of green rainforest covered everything. There were no tourists and the locals spoke only Thai, which he got around using the translation app on his smart phone. Despite the communication barrier, he was greeted with smiles everywhere he went. After a week of lounging around, trying new foods and making new friends, he felt a little more human. A little less dirty in his soul. But he also felt restless.

  At the suggestion of the local villagers he’d become friendly with, he set out on a bamboo rafting trip. The lazy trip down the scenic river relaxed him. Helped him forget the stress that ruled his life. As he lay on the bamboo, he listened to the wind rustle through the leaves while the water bubbled by below. He watched the clouds glide by, heavy with rain to be unleashed later in the day.

  I’m going to stay, he decided. Learn the language. Find a wife. This was the life he’d been born to live, and with the money he already had in the bank, he could live it until the day he died without ever having to work. A permanent vacation.

  Not that I’ll live idly, he thought. He’d already begun helping in the village, remembering the carpentry skills taught to him by his father. Working to help people, he’d discovered, was far more gratifying than working for stacks of green paper.

  The raft shook beneath him. He leaned his head up, asking, “What was that?” The three men in the raft with him, Yosakon, Gan and Tanipat, looked bewildered. They spoke rapidly among themselves. Chris reached for his smart phone, but paused. The three were talking over each other. He’d never get a translation.

  Chris sat up to find the placid river transformed. Waves bounced them in every direction. He’d researched the river before leaving. There shouldn’t have been rapids here. Judging by his friends’ reactions, the rough water was a surprise to them too.

  The next quake—he felt positive this was an earthquake—forced Chris to cling to the boat’s side. The three men with him fell down, shouting.

  The next booming quake shook the trees on the shore so violently that the small creatures—frogs, snakes, lizards—clinging to the branches fell into the water. A flock of bird soared past, moving away from the sound’s source.

  He’d never experienced an earthquake before, but he didn’t think you could discern the direction from which it originated. But that last boom had definitely come from upriver. The three men with him must have realized this too, because they all turned around, speaking in worried tones. Their homes were back upriver. Their families.

  Chris looked upriver, waiting for the next shake. The view behind them was mostly river and the jungle closing in on either side. But the open area above the river allowed for a spectacular view of a distant mountain. The village these men were from, where he’d been staying, was at the base of that mountain. Tiny specks appeared over the mountain, moving quickly. More birds.

  But then the scene changed. It took him a moment to fully understand what he was seeing. The trees atop the mountain blurred. Then rose up. That immense unmoving mass of earth was rising! The jungle split apart, falling away. Dark earth and stone exploded into the air.

  Boom!

  The world shook around them, the sound drowning out his compatriots’ screams. The mountain transformed, crumbling over on itself as something rose up above it from behind. A demon, Chris thought. Some ancient Thai god was rising from the mountain. It was Gan, one of his guides, who first understood, shouting, “Nemesis!”

  The monster was known even in this backwater part of the world. While communication with the outside world wasn’t common, some of the shops had televisions and phones, and a few had satellite Wi-Fi. Chris would stop at a street vendor every morning for a breakfast of two potongos, the Thai version of a donut, and some sweet custard-like sauce for dipping. The shop next door, also a post office, offered free Wi-Fi, which he used to read the news on his phone, though he’d skipped that routine this morning. So while his Thai friends knew what Nemesis was, they didn’t know about the other Kaiju rampaging through the world he’d escaped. He’d never considered the possibility that the vengeful creatures would have any reason to come to this peaceful part of the world, but here it was, a monster that looked similar to Nemesis, but was not Nemesis.

  It was built similarly—thick neck, horrible face, armor-plated and spike-covered arms. Thick ropey skin twisted and bundled around a pattern of orange flesh that glowed in the dim, overcast light. But it wasn’t the same. Its face was actually far uglier than Nemesis’s, its brow low and furrowed over a pair of radiant yellow eyes. The pictures he’d seen of Nemesis showed almost human, brown eyes. The biggest difference were the hands. Where Nemesis had five fingers, this thing had three—a thumb and two claws that looks like pincers.

  A second head rose up, just behind the first, eliciting a shout of surprise and horror from Chris, but not just from its presence. It was the thing’s appearance that unnerved him. It looked...human. But not. It stood tall like a person. Carried itself like a confident man. It had two arms. Two legs. Five clawed digits at the end of each appendage. Its face, while human in structure, was anything but. The mouth occasionally dropped open to reveal large triangular teeth, before snapping shut again. And like the first monster, it had angry yellow eyes, thick dark skin, spikes and a pattern of those explosive—what are they called? Membranes. Both creatures had thick backs, like protective shells. He knew that Nemesis hid her wings beneath a similar structure. Were these two capable of the same destructive force? Standing at least 300 feet tall, he didn’t doubt it.

  The pair of giants stepped over the mountain, descending the far side like two hikers out for a stroll, indifferent to the lives they were crushing beneath their feet. The mountainside collapsed, sliding down in a rush of damp earth. Chris had no doubt that the village from which they started their journey was now destroyed.

  The three Thai men wailed at the sight. As one, they dug their paddles into the water and struck out—upriver.

  “What are you doing?” Chris shouted. The men didn’t reply, but Chris answered his own question. They were heading home. To their families. To find the dead. Maybe rescue some lucky survivors. These were brave men. But Chris did not share their commitment to the buried village. In the shadow of these two monsters, a part of his old self, which cared only about himself, returned with a vengeance.

  After taking his phone out of his pocket, he slid to the side of the raft, looked down at the dark water and paused. He didn’t know what kind of wildlife might wait for him in the river, but as the world shook again, he doubted predators would be thinking about eating. Nearly tipping the raft, he slid into the water, keeping his right hand, phone clutched tightly, lifted
up. Using his legs and left arm, he kept himself above water and kept his connection to the outside world dry.

  The shaking impacts came rapidly. The giants, on level ground now, moved faster. He glanced upstream and saw the raft making good time back the way they had come. Beyond them, he saw the two giants, making steady progress...downstream. He needed to reach the shore. He needed to run!

  A roar cut through the air, sending ripples through the water, which continued to stir with each giant footfall. Water splashed the phone. He sucked in mouthfuls, coughing and sputtering, but never slowing his hard swim. But the choppy water fought against him, pushing him back and forth. Downstream was the only direction he could move, so he leaned on his back, kept his phone hand raised up, and kicked hard.

  Despite making good time, he began to weep five minutes later. The giants were gaining on him. Each thundering step brought them closer. To make matters worse, the current seemed to be slowing down. At first he thought that the river was widening, but a look to the side revealed the truth. The banks of the river were exposed, ten feet of mud and roots. As he twisted to look, his backside struck something hard, sending jolts of pain through his body.

  I’ve been attacked! he thought. But then his whole body ground against something rough. His journey down the river had come to a halt. Chris lifted his head to find himself lying on the smooth stoned surface of a barren riverbed. A fish flopped nearby, slapping itself to death on the stones.

  He sat up, trying to make sense of this new world. The mountain, he thought. It blocked the river.

  The ground shook again. Without the water buffering the blow, it felt like he’d been punched. The stones in the riverbed rattled. And then, screams. Three high pitched voices he recognized. Yosakon, Gan and Tanipat. The three men, eyes wide, clothing dripping wet, scurried over the river-bed rocks. They stumbled and fell, covered in blood, but they never stopped.

  And then Chris saw why. The monster that looked like Nemesis had arrived. It towered over the jungle, eyes forward. Its massive tail swept back and forth as it walked, leveling the jungle, sending trees flying. But it never looked down. Never acknowledged their existence. It was simply passing through.