A piece of stone the size of a Cadillac plunged to the floor, followed by dozens more. Dust filled the air. Charybdis struck again and a landside of rubble tumbled out of the ceiling. A Marine vanished beneath a slab that smashed into the floor.
Water poured into the cavern. Kraft couldn’t guess how much. Thousands of deafening gallons. Tens of thousands. It was Niagara Falls inside the Grand Canyon.
Carter leaped at one of Scylla’s tentacles, and sank his fingers into the pillar of dark flesh. Kraft wrapped his arms and legs around another one, squeezing it like a child holding their father’s leg. Weaver, Joy, Thater—each of them seized one of the thick tendrils.
The water was waist-high and rising. Charybdis raised her jaws again, pushing through the waterfall, and the rest of the ceiling opened up to the Mediterranean. The water roared and the air pressure savaged Kraft’s ears.
Then he was underwater.
Scylla’s tentacles thrashed at the sea, pushing her up and out. Kraft caught a glimpse of Joy and then another one of a Marine he couldn’t recognize in the whirling bubbles and currents. He looked down and saw a black abyss below them, a bottomless hole.
Then the edges of the hole shifted and the massive jaws came together. A shockwave rushed up at them. A Marine lost his grip and spun away into the dim sea.
Charybdis opened her mouth again and Kraft could feel the currents pulling at him. His finger slipped on the tentacle and he tried to hook his fingers into it the way Carter had. He fought with what little air was left in his lungs.
Joy rushed past him, dragged down by the currents. Her silver scream bubbled up and away from her mouth. A shaft of light revealed Thater reaching out, losing his grip, and tumbling after her. One of Scylla’s tentacles snapped at him and clouds filled the water. The top half of the sergeant sank down after Joy. Kraft saw her outlined against one of the giant teeth and then she was gone, plunging into the depths of Charybdis. Thater’s torso joined her a moment later.
Then a wave smashed into the side of Kraft’s head and sunlight flooded his eyes. He let go of the tentacle out of shock and Scylla flicked him away, out of spite or indifference. He skipped on the surface twice, like a stone on a pond, and crashed back into the water. The sea swallowed him up, but he clawed his way back up into the light, kicking his legs and telling himself it was just like the faculty pool.
Something grabbed his shoulder. He flailed at it and almost drowned himself before he recognized Carter. The Roman steadied them both in the water and pointed.
Scylla pushed through the waves. Only her shoulders broke the surface, but the sea bubbled with movement all around her. Off to her side—Kraft knew it had to be a half mile or so, but her sheer size played hell with his sense of perspective—something long and broad breached like a massive whale and then sank back beneath the surface.
The monsters headed away from land, deeper into the Mediterranean Sea. Kraft watched them go. Even close to a mile away he could sense their excitement. It hung in the air.
“Dear God,” said Kraft, spitting out a mouthful of saltwater, “what have we done?”
“Too late for regrets now,” said Carter. He looked around, spotted land, and took a few long strokes. “Let’s just hope we can make it to shore.”
“And then what?”
Carter turned and looked after the monsters. “And then we find out if they’ll keep their word.”
~
0430 07 23 43 BRIT NAV INT REPORTS SHIP DESIGNATE RAIDER X DESTROYED BY COLLISION W UNKN CREATURE(S) SSW OF MALTA. ALL HANDS LOST.
~
MORNING BRIEF for JULY 29th, 1943: German destroyer Erik Melichor has been lost after a freak whirlpool formed beneath it. No survivors reported at this time. Approximate coordinates as follows...
~
(Translated from German) – U-33 has gone missing, last known location, 08/08/43, off the coast of Algiers. Local fishermen report seeing an underwater explosion, but also report several giant squid in the area—not considered reliable accounts. Search will continue...
~
“...repeat, mayday, mayday, this is the U.S.S. Sherdeman, under attack by an unknown sea creature. The ship is taking on water. Our escort, the U.S.S. Hughes, has been destroyed. Any ship in the area please respond, we have men in the water. Repeat, mayday, this is the U.S.S. Sherdeman, we are under attack by an unknown sea creature...”
Fall of Babylon
James Maxey
And the woman was arrayed in purple and scarlet color, decked with gold and precious stones and pearls, having a golden cup in her hand full of abominations and filthiness of her fornication. Upon her forehead was a name written a mystery: Babylon the Great, the mother of harlots and abominations of the Earth.
Revelations 17:4-5
It’s raining blood.
I’m on my belly atop the Statue of Liberty, jammed against one of the wedges of brass that radiate from the crown, hoping the wind doesn’t to blow me from my perch before I take my shot.
The Lamb is marching straight toward me, balanced on the heaving Atlantic like its solid and calm. The Lamb would look at home in a medieval painting of Hell. He’s part-sheep, part-human, a cloven-hoofed devil covered in thick wool. Of course, if this were a devil, you’d expect him to be red, or maybe black, not pure white, glowing bright as dawn through the blood rain. Seven ram horns curl atop his head like a crown, with lightning crackling between the tips. The Lamb’s been gutted; I’m told he was sacrificed earlier in the day, but that doesn’t seem to have slowed him. His purple entrails snake from his chest cavity like tentacles in a hentai movie.
Did I mention he’s big? It’s hard to pin down his size while he’s out on the water, but I can already tell he’s a hell of a lot taller than Lady Liberty.
Despite the howl of the wind, I hear Baby and that crazy preacher going at each other in the room below. I think, between the two of us, she’s got the tougher job.
All I have to do is shoot a judgmental god in the face. My odds of hitting the Lamb right between eyes are improved by the fact the thing has seven of them. She definitely didn’t mention they’d be full of fire.
The thing’s almost in range. I wipe blood from my eyes, taking slow, steady breaths as I rest my finger on the trigger of the crossbow.
What a fucked up day.
The day started bad the second I crossed onto Long Island and got caught in snarled traffic. I made it to the rehab center three hours late, with the fuel gauge on my Olds Cutlass hovering on E.
People who know I’m related to Baby are surprised I drive such a wreck. My sister’s worth millions. It seems like a little of that money might have flowed my way. Alas, Baby and I aren’t close. It’s been three years since we last saw each other. She was supposed to come to Christmas at our stepmother’s place last year. She even texted me the day before confirming the plan but never showed up. It wasn’t until New Years that she texted again, saying she’d come down with the flu. I knew it wasn’t true. I follow her adventures in the tabloids like everyone else. Baby spent Christmas in custody for underage drinking and public nudity, her fifth arrest.
She wiggled out of jail by checking in to a rehab center in the Hamptons. I knew I’d found the right place from the crowd of paparazzi in front of the gates. They were snapping shots of a bearded man waving a placard. The front read, “For all the nations have drunk the maddening wine of her adulteries,” which struck me as curiously poetic. Then he turned, and the other side said, “GOD HATES WHORES!”
Poor Baby. I can’t imagine a nut like Jude Barnes stalking me 24/7.
The guard at the gate was skeptical of my identity at first, but I had the letter from Baby asking me to pick her up. Why she’d reached out to me was a mystery. Maybe rehab really had changed her.
The Coast Wellness Center looked more like a country club than a hospital. The valet looked mortified when I pulled up, but was saved from getting behind the wheel when Baby burst through the front door and bolted toward the sta
tion wagon.
She was dressed in jeans and a neon purple long-sleeved T-shirt, skin tight, but still conservative for her. Her hair was dark brown. I thought she’d let it go back to her natural color, but when she reached the car I realized it was a wig. Large sunglasses hid her eyes.
Her expression was unreadable as she leaned into my open window and said, “You’re late, bro.”
“Traffic was a bitch.”
“You brought the bag I shipped to you?”
“In the back seat,” I said, getting out of the car and spreading my arms. “How ‘bout a hug? It’s been a long time.”
She nudged against me, lightly touched my back with her palms, then stepped away before my arms closed around her. “Let’s go. I’ll scream if I’m here another minute.”
“It can’t be that bad. This place looks pretty swank.”
“It’s still a prison. You can’t even pee without people watching you.” She slid into back seat of the station wagon. “I can’t believe you’re still driving this heap.”
“I can’t afford a new car.”
“I could have helped out if you’d asked.”
I started to say that, if she’d bothered to keep in touch, she might have known I was still driving our grandfather’s old car. I held my tongue.
She zipped open her duffel bag. “At least there’s room to change in this boat.”
I got behind the wheel. “What’s wrong with what you have on?”
“Are you kidding?” she asked. “Now that I’m not kissing up to my jailers, I can stop dressing like a nun. I’ve a reputation to maintain.”
I couldn’t think of a delicate way to tell her that her reputation wasn’t exactly a positive one.
Perhaps to head off what I was about to say, she said, “Just drive.”
So I drove. Out of the gate, right into the paparazzi. I was half-blinded by the flashing cameras.
“Awesome,” she said. “I was worried the world had forgotten me.”
I glanced into the rear view mirror and practically choked. Baby was stripped down to her bra and panties, taking a swig from a huge bottle of Kahlua.
“Where the hell did you get that?”
“From the bag, duh.”
“You’ll get us both arrested!”
“Don’t get your panties in a wad. Nobody gives a—”
Before she could finish her sentence, the rear driver’s side window shattered. Baby shrieked as a brick landed in her lap. The Bible-thumper, Jude Barnes, thrust his head through the window and shouted, “Babylon! Mother of whores! Only the blood of the lamb can cleanse the filth of your fornication!”
He thrust a yellow Solo cup through the window. Baby’s torso was suddenly coated in foul-smelling, brown-red goop.
“Son of a bitch!” she shouted.
I leapt from the car, not bothering to put it in park, and grabbed the lunatic by the collar. He punched me in the chest. I drove my fist into his nose and felt something pop, then pushed him away. I spun around to find the photographers scrambling out of the way of the driverless car, still rolling. I jumped into the driver’s seat just as the rear passenger door opened and Baby jumped out, running down the sidewalk in nothing but her underwear, holding the Kahlua tucked against her like a football. The paparazzi gave chase. I blew the horn, threw the car into neutral, and stomped the accelerator. The growl of the engine caused the vultures to look back toward me. I threw the car into drive as they scattered.
As the car lurched forward, one of them jumped on the hood and pressed his business card up against the window.
“Andrew Carrick, Weekly World Magazine!” he shouted. “We’ll pay top dollar for info on Baby. Top dollar!”
“Get off my car!” I shouted, cutting the wheel hard to the right, lurching us up over the curb onto the sidewalk. The sudden jolt knocked him free and he slid from my hood and disappeared from view on the passenger side. There was a sickening jolt a second later. I felt suddenly sick, worried I’d run him over.
Then, I had to jerk the wheel the other direction and get back onto the road since I was now about to run my sister over.
“Get in!” I shouted, as I pulled up next to her.
She dove inside.
“Fucking maniac!” she screamed, grabbing the purple shirt she’d discarded and wiping the blood off her breasts. I fixed my eyes on the road as she tore off her bloody bra. “Drive! Drive! Drive!”
I gunned the engine, tires squealing as we went around the corner at breakneck speed. A motorcycle with two riders pulled up beside us. One guy was driving, while the other a camera in hand, snapping photos of my topless sister.
“Fuck this,” I growled, jerking the wheel to the left, cutting them off. The bike veered to avoid me and disappeared into a ditch on the other side of the road.
Baby threw her bloodied shirt out the window, then stretched out on the seat, face down, her body trembling. I thought she was crying, until I realized she was laughing.
“Why on earth is this funny?” I demanded, jerking the wheel to take another corner.
“Oh hell,” she gasped. “Why isn’t it?”
In the rearview, another motorcycle was now on our tail. I did a double take as I realized it was that Carrick dude, his face all bloodied. I was both relieve I hadn’t killed him, and slightly disappointed I hadn’t disabled him. I pushed the station wagon to its top speed, a bone-rattling sixty miles an hour. Carrick was able to easily pull alongside and shout, “Top dollar!”
Then, he suddenly slowed, skidding to a stop and craning his neck toward the sky.
I looked up. My jaw dropped. I pulled the car to the curb.
Baby stuck her head out the window and took a long swig from the bottle.
“Shit,” she said. “It’s the Apocalypse.”
I got out of the car. The whole sky was red and glistening, like someone had applied fresh red paint to a previously unseen ceiling above us.
“It’s Judgment Day!” came a shout from behind.
I turned and saw Jude, the preacher, running toward us.
The maniac made a bee-line for Baby, screaming, “With violence shall Babylon be thrown down!”
I leapt into his path, putting everything I had into a roundhouse punch. I knocked him flat, but cut my knuckles on his teeth.
Jude writhed on his back, but sounded ecstatic as he babbled, “Fallen, fallen, is Babylon the Great!”
I stared at the sky, listening to sirens from every direction. Were they coming for Baby, or was something bigger going on? Another terrorist attack? Nuclear war? What causes a sky to look like blood? I glanced back at that reporter and was relieve to see he thought the sky was more interesting than my sister, at least for the moment.
“You’re hurt,” Baby said, looking at my hand.
“Why the hell don’t you hire a bodyguard?”
“A bodyguard would have searched my bag before he brought it to me,” she said. “The agencies are legally liable if they sit back and watch me drink or shoplift or whatever.”
“What the hell happened to you?” I shook my head, no longer able to suppress my feelings. “I try not to believe half the stuff I read, but…”
“Are you ashamed of me? You used to be proud.”
Which is true. We had a rough childhood. Our mother was killed in a wreck when we were young. Dad remarried, but when he passed away, we bounced back and forth between our stepmother and our grandfather. Back then, I was the wild child with a chip on my shoulder, always in trouble. Baby was the good girl, the straight-A student and musical prodigy, a bookish nerd whose quiet accomplishments were overshadowed by my dumb antics.
When I was 18 I joined the navy, just as Baby got her first taste of fame. Only 14, she’d recorded a video of her singing “Like a Virgin,” doing her own choreography and editing six different music tracks on her PowerBook. The video got a couple of hits on YouTube, until Warner Brothers threatened to sue her for copyright infringement. The story of the giant corporation unleashin
g its lawyers on a teenage girl made the Drudge Report. Within a week, twenty million people had watched Baby’s performance.
Then Baby released her own song, “Not a Virgin Anymore.” The lyrics were full of double entendres about a young girl having her innocence stripped away. She’d performed the video with hands ripping off her clothes, leaving her naked by the end of the song, though with carefully placed shadows hiding enough of her to keep the clip from getting yanked from YouTube. A lot of pundits denounced the video, decrying the exploitation of a minor. Only, it was hard to say exactly who was exploiting her, since everything in the video was her creation.
While I was stocking vending machines aboard an aircraft carrier, she hired a lawyer and had herself emancipated, a legal adult at the age of 15. She had her own apartment in LA and a million-dollar record deal. Overnight, the quiet nerd became an out-of-control party girl. The more she misbehaved, the more songs she sold. I’d always hoped her wild girl persona was an act. I figured Baby was cashing in on her fifteen minutes of fame. But…what if it wasn’t an act?
“That’s a long pause,” she said. “Are you pissed at me?”
I crossed my arms. “It hurts that you only reached out because I’m more gullible than a professional bodyguard.”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
“Is there another way?”
“Probably not,” she admitted. She got out of the car. She was now wearing a red halter-top and a short skirt she’d retrieved from her bag. Her wig was gone, revealing her blonde curls. “I’d say I was sorry, but you wouldn’t think I was sincere.”
“Would you be sincere?”
“Dan, there’s stuff you don’t know about me. Stuff you can’t know. There’s a reason I act like I do. A greater purpose. If I could explain, I would, but…” her voice trailed off. “Let me see your hand.”
I looked down at my bleeding knuckles. “Note to self: Don’t aim at teeth.”
“We should take care of that. Human mouths are rife with bacteria.”
I looked at the sky. “If there’s been another terrorist attack, the emergency rooms are going to be too busy to look at my hand.”
Kaiju Rising: Age of Monsters Page 34