by Jake Bible
“Krissy, get us in that bunker,” Terrie says calmly, her eyes searching the ruined landscape and the destroyed beach beyond. “Get us in there now.”
“Why? What’s going on?” Krissy asks as her head appears from the hole. She throws her arms over the edge and digs her hands into the mud and rock for purchase. “What is going on?”
Biscuit’s low growls turn into sharp barks. He leaps forward then jumps back, barking excitedly over and over.
Krissy looks off at the former beach then at Terrie.
“Terrie?” she asks, her voice missing all the teenage cockiness. “What does he see?”
“Nothing yet,” Terrie says. “But he either smells or hears something. Or he just knows. Dogs and wolves sometimes just know. It’s the Divine protector in them.”
“Okay, can you ask God what Biscuit smells or hears?” Krissy asks.
“Don’t be a smart mouth,” Terrie snaps and wheels on Krissy. “Get down there and get that boy to open that hatch! Do it now!”
Krissy shrinks back and drops into the hole. She grunts harshly and Terrie almost fears she’s rushed the girl into more injury. Then she hears her pounding on the hatch and calling Tony’s name.
Terrie finds a good sized stick and uses it to get herself to her feet. She stands next to Biscuit, her eyes searching in the twilight for some sign of danger, something to show that Biscuit hasn’t just snapped with the stress of it all. Monsters, mud waves, corpses- it is a lot for any creature, great or small.
Then Terrie hears it, an increase in the sound of the waves lapping at the mud shore. Instead of the rhythmic slapping sound, the waves are now making more of a thrumming, further apart and stronger.
Thrum, whoosh.
Thrum, whoosh.
Thrum, whoosh.
Like something big was moving close to shore. The sound of the wake from a large ship. Or a large creature.
“Hurry!” Terrie hisses out of the corner of her mouth at Krissy.
“I am!” Krissy calls back. “But he’s not answering!”
Biscuit’s barks stop and the hybrid cocks his head, his ears taught, his eyes wide.
Then he takes off running towards the beach.
“Biscuit! No!” Terrie yells.
Terrie starts to follow, but her ankle protest and she nearly falls over into the mud despite the assistance of her makeshift cane.
“Biscuit!” Terrie yells again.
The barking gets louder, more intense, but Terrie can no longer see her hybrid. The sun set behind her, the East is nothing but long shadows and pockets of deep purple.
“Biscuit!”
More barking, furious barking, and a yelp.
The barking stops.
“Biscuit! Biscuit?” Terrie shouts. She listens hard, but can’t hear him. All she hears is Krissy below, pounding and calling out for Tony.
And something else. Something heavy. Something wet and moving towards her.
“Oh, no,” she whispers, her mind filling in what she prays hasn’t found the island. “Oh, Lord, please no.”
She limps over to the edge of the hole and sits down heavily, swinging her legs into the open space.
“Look out,” Terrie says. “Move.”
“Careful!” Krissy snaps as Terrie drops down, pinballing herself against the walls of the tight space to slow her fall. “Are you okay?”
“It wasn’t fun,” Terrie says, looking immediately back up at the hole opening. “Something is up there.”
“Great,” Krissy says and starts to pound again.
“No, stop,” Terrie says, grabbing Krissy’s wrist. “Be quiet. Listen.”
Krissy tries to fight, but stops when Terrie refuses to let go. Her shoulders slump and she tilts her head.
“I don’t— Oh. What is that?” Krissy whispers.
“I think I know,” Terrie says. “Stay quiet and stay still.”
The heavy, wet sound gets louder and louder. Terrie watches as loose dirt, mud and rocks start to tremble then fall into the hole. Krissy’s eyes go wide, two bright spots in a mud dark face and dusk dark hole.
A slithering noise echoes down at them and the tip of a tentacle appears at the top of the hole. It swishes back and forth, feeling at the open space then begins to dip down inside. Terrie clamps her hand over Krissy’s mouth before the girl can cry out or gasp.
Then the wheel behind them spins with a noise like a train’s squealing brakes and the hatch swings open on rusty hinges, creating even more noise.
“I have thought about it and you can come inside,” Tony says, standing there in an X-Men t-shirt and his boxers. He has a juice box in one hand, casually puts it to his lips and slurps.
The juice box is yanked from his hand as the tentacle shoots down the hole and into the entrance of the bunker. Tony screams, turns and runs, but another tentacle shoots down and grabs him by the waist, yanking him into Terrie and Krissy, knocking them both against the sides of the hole. Tony keeps screaming as his bulky body gets wedged in the hole, the tentacle pulling and yanking at him.
The screams turn from shock to pain as Tony’s body doubles over on itself, the pressure from the tentacle obviously about to rip him in half.
“Grab his legs!” Terrie yells and reaches up, grabbing the boy by the ankles. She pulls down hard and he slips towards her. “Do it!”
“I can’t!” Krissy shouts.
Terrie looks over and sees a second tentacle has the girl by the arm and is trying to pull her up as well. There isn’t enough room for Tony, let alone Krissy, and the two become hopelessly wedged as the tentacles continue to pull.
Then a loud roar, like a deep, rotten whale song that rattles the molars and grabs the guts, fills the hole and the island around it. There’s a second roar and Terrie is afraid her eardrums will burst with a third, but instead she hears the distinct muffled snarls and barks of Biscuit when he has something in his mouth.
First Krissy then Tony are set free and fall onto Terrie, leaving all three in a heap on the bunker’s threshold.
“Get inside!” Terrie orders, slapping both of them on the ass as hard as she can.
Neither argue and both scramble up off her, their terrified legs carrying them quickly down the metal tunnel of the bunker’s entrance to the second hatch that stands open at the end, a dim light coming from within over the spiral staircase leading down to the main area.
Another roar and Terrie looks up out of the hole, watching as tentacles fly and dance over the opening, flicking back and forth, undulating with a force that looks to be able to chop anything in their way in half.
“BISCUIT!” Terrie yells.
A fourth roar then a yelp and a bark. Biscuit appears at the edge of the hole and leaps down, but is caught halfway by a tentacle. Terrie screams for him as the hybrid is yanked up and out. More barks, more yelps. Then silence.
Terrie holds her breath, conflicted. She knows she should scramble inside and slam the hatch shut, turn the wheel, then hurry to the other end and do the same to the internal hatch. But she can’t move. The silence is too much for her, paralyzing.
A loud snarl and an even louder bark make her jump. Then Biscuit is falling down at her, his fur matted and bloody, his eyes wide with anger and fear. He collides with Terrie and she screams at the impact. But she doesn’t hesitate. She pulls at the canine and yanks him through the hatch, slamming it shut once there is room to move. She spins the wheel on the inside and collapses to the floor, her hands digging into the fur of her wolf-dog.
“There’s a boy,” she whispers as Biscuit pants and whimpers. “That’s a good boy. That’s the best boy.”
She leans back against the metal of the tunnel and closes her eyes, all the strength gone from her.
***
The wheels of the mountain bikes whoosh in the night air. The tires crunch over gravel and dirt, the chains rattle and clatter.
“It still there?” Bolton asks, not risking a glance over his shoulder at Holt as the man follows closely,
their bikes separated by mere inches. “Bolton?”
“Yeah, it’s still there,” Holt says, also not looking over his shoulder, focused on not running into Bolton. “I can hear the damn thing. Listen.”
Bolton does listen and he quickly hears the sound of the pursuing beast. He doesn’t need to see over his shoulder to know what the thing looks like. He’s encountered them before. He knows the thing is well over 75 feet tall, with four multi-jointed legs. Its body is segmented like an insect’s, but with many more regions than just the standard three. The huge legs seem to work independently of the others, creating a dizzying effect if you stare too closely.
Bolton and Holt did not stare too closely.
After finding the bikes in a collapsed garage, they had only pedaled a few blocks through some nameless, mostly destroyed backwoods town before the creature spotted them and gave chase.
Now they are on mile fifteen or twenty in the chase by Bolton’s guess and the beast refuses to slow or give up.
“Watch your right! Watch your right!” Holt shouts.
Bolton ducks his head, avoiding being taken out by a stray pine bough. His front tire slips on the loose gravel, but he keeps the bike upright, standing tall in the seat and holding tight to the handle grips.
They are still in Montana somewhere, although Bolton can’t tell exactly where. No time to check a map before getting the bikes up and going, no town markers, nothing but destroyed and buckled landscape for as far as he can see.
Holt doesn’t have any more clue than he does. They are traveling dark until they can find some type of landmark that gives them a definite position.
But the compass says south, so they keep moving south.
With a huge monster on their asses.
The night sky is bright with stars and a fullish moon, making their flight less deadly than it could be. Although, Bolton knows that only means the monster can see them easier. He shoves the thought from his mind and focuses on the road ahead.
“Culvert! Twenty meters up!” Bolton yells, veering to the left, crossing the open street.
He hears Holt’s acknowledgement and then a sharp roar from the monster. Holt cries out and Bolton swerves to avoid the silver tongue that darts in front of him. The thing must be only a few meters back for the tongue to be so close. Having dealt with the things before, Bolton knows exactly what kind of reach they have with their tongues.
“Push! Push, push, push!” Bolton yells, steering the bike into a drainage culvert. The large ditch is about six feet deep and littered with debris, but clear enough that he can maintain a steady pace as he hunts for an opening, a way to get up, out and find cover away from the monster.
He sees a small bridge that spans the culvert, just a simple extension of the driveway leading from the house an acre off, hidden back in the shadows of pines and moonlight. Bolton digs deep and pushes himself so he picks up some speed, angling the bike to take the side right by the bridge.
“Get under! Slide!” Bolton yells as his bike climbs the side and he pulls up on the handle bars while also lifting slightly with his legs, making the bike soar into the air as he reaches the lip of the culvert.
He lets go of the bike and lets it fall away, readying his body for the impact. Bolton tucks his shoulder and rolls with the fall, coming up so he is facing back towards the monster.
The thing roars at him as he opens fire, peppering its head with bullets. It shakes them off, enraged, and charges right at him.
It never sees the grenades that Holt lobs at its feet from under the bridge.
Bolton tucks himself into a ball as the grenades go off, ripping the thing’s legs apart, sending blue blood and flesh splashing everywhere. The monster collapses, its 75 feet of bulk toppling right at him. He glances up and sees what’s about to happen, springs out of his ball and takes off running, hoping he can get clear in time.
The monster’s head falls at the back of Bolton’s legs, sending him sliding and tumbling across dead brown grass and into a mailbox long since empty. His back collides with the post and he cries out, swearing his spine is snapped in half. Bolton lies there, his chest heaving and his eyes open wide, taking in the stars. The bright, bright stars.
“Get up, soldier,” Holt says, walking his bike up to him. “We need to find your vehicle and continue the mission.”
“Fuck you,” Bolton grunts. “I’m fucking paralyzed.”
“Bullshit,” Holt says, reaching down and lifting Bolton up by the straps of his pack. “That feel paralyzed to you?”
Bolton stands on his shaky legs and stretches. “No. Feels like shit, though.”
“You see where your bike went?” Holt asks.
“Rolled across that yard,” Bolton replies. “Right there.”
“Next to the fucking monster that’s still breathing?” Holt chuckles.
“Fuck,” Bolton sighs. “Yeah, right next to that.”
Bolton looks around, hunting for an answer. He quickly sees it.
“Watch and learn,” Bolton says.
He limps over to a collapsed shed and yanks a gas can free that is sticking out from between the boards. He finds a garden hose and slices a length off then walks the can and hose over to a dual axle pickup truck across the street. He says a quick prayer, unscrews the gas cap on the truck and sniffs.
“Yes,” he says.
He sticks one end of the hose in, opens the gas can, sucks on the hose until he is spitting fuel then jams the spewing end into the gas can. He waits until it overflows then yanks it away, ignoring the fuel that continues to spit from the makeshift siphon.
“I am very interested to see where this is going,” Holt says as Bolton walks by him. “Very interested.”
Holding the gas can up, Bolton pulls one magazine from his vest then tips the can, dowsing the magazine in fuel. He tosses the magazine as close to the monster’s mouth as possible. The silver tongue darts out and swallows the magazine in a flash.
Bolton looks back at Holt and smiles then lobs the gas can at the monster. Out comes the silver tongue again, yanking the entire can into its mouth. The creature sighs with contentment and struggles to move. Then it begins to thrash and Bolton hurries over to Holt.
“You’ll want to get down,” Bolton says.
Bolton and Holt crouch low as the monster’s body swells, swells, then bursts open, grey foam spilling out in every direction, spreading quickly across the yard until it slows and hardens, looking like cement with a strange greenish tint to it.
“You do know these things,” Holt says, standing up.
“I also know they don’t travel alone,” Bolton says. “Let’s get my bike and get back on the road. A thousand miles is a thousand miles, wheels or no wheels.”
Holt nods and they hurry over to Bolton’s bike. Which is half covered in hardened grey foam.
“That’s going to make for a nice smelling ride,” Holt chuckles.
“Asshole,” Bolton says.
***
National Security Advisor Joan Milligan leans across the table in the situation room, getting President Nance’s attention.
“Sir?” she whispers. “Do you think it’s appropriate for a Secret Service agent to be working with Dr. Hall? Agent Alvarez is a good field agent, but he is hardly a scientist.”
“You know, I have excellent hearing,” VanderVoort says from a few feet away before the president can respond. “And it’s not his call anymore.”
“I believe Joan is within her rights, and duties, to ask me that question,” President Nance says. “It is highly irregular for a field agent to collaborate with a scientist on something this important. Consult, perhaps, but partner and work side by side? That is far outside the Secret Service’s duties.”
“Let’s play the duties game, shall we?” VanderVoort says, turning her attention on the entire table, not just President Nance and Joan. “The Secret Service is there to protect the President of the United States as well as other heads of state and important political figures. Then
there’s the whole financial crimes and counterfeiting thing, but that doesn’t apply. Let’s stick with the protection aspects.”
She surveys all of the faces and smiles broadly.
“Who here doesn’t want to be protected? Raise your hands,” VanderVoort says. No one raises their hands. “Exactly. Now, it stands to reason that by Agent Alvarez helping find a solution to this nightmare he is serving in his capacity to help protect all of you. Hell, he’s helping to protect the entire nation and world. That’s over and above his duties. When this is all over, and if any of us survive, I will make sure the man gets a goddamn medal. Anyone arguing against it can kiss my pregnant ass. Which just keeps getting bigger and bigger by the day.”
She turns away, making it very obvious anyone’s unspoken arguments are completely irrelevant.
“Ma’am? We have movement,” a tech says, bringing up a multi-split screen on the main monitor. “All winged monsters, and even a couple of the more lizard types, have left their regions.”
“Give me specifics,” VanderVoort says. “Start up top.”
“The Icelandic monster has already slipped into the ocean,” the tech says. “We have been tracking it and it is headed directly for North America. It seems to be the one in the lead.”
“Next?”
“The European monsters have taken wing and are flying across the Atlantic right now,” the tech continues. “The Japanese and Australian monsters are in the Pacific, swimming at unbelievable speeds. All are headed for North America.”
“Why?” VanderVoort asks. She looks at Dr. Hall. “Doctor? Give me an answer.”
“A theory?” Dr. Hall replies. “It goes back to our war theory. The Yellowstone volcano erupted and many monsters came out. They all have different functions, just like different troops do in an army. While they may seem at odds at times, like the bigger ones eating the smaller ones, they all serve a purpose towards the greater cause.”
“Which is?” VanderVoort asks.