The Mammoth Book of Kaiju
Page 10
Stomp and roar and smash things, grinned the ice-monster voice inside him.
“I . . . I’m fixing a model,” he said hastily, anything to avoid the thought of lighters and signs crumbling in his fist.
“There you go, then.” Tada stood up, her jacket rustling. “You’ll probably be an engineer or something. See you tomorrow.” She ran lightly across the park and vanished in the gloom of the camellia hedge.
He was nearly asleep when the phone rang. He rocketed upright and snatched it off the bedside table before it woke Masaki. Found it, pressed “Receive,” stared uncomprehendingly at the message that shouldn’t be there because the battery was drained.
Kaoru hesitated, then typed
The screen’s blue light flickered, then glowed brighter and brighter until it filled the whole room with blue-white radiance. Kaoru flung up his hand to protect his eyes, then realized the light didn’t hurt. He liked the brightness. He liked being strong and fearless and invulnerable.
The wind blew across the ice plain with a wail like all the spirits of the dead. He didn’t care. No wind could blow him over.
A flat rectangle tumbled over and over through the air. He reached out an arm longer than a telephone pole and caught it. Elaborate characters ran from top to bottom on one side of a wooden board. He recognized the name of the local gang. This was off the door of their headquarters, a narrow building squashed between the butcher and a funeral parlor. Ariyoshi’s dad was a member. He cocked his head at the board, then, remembering the juku sign, ripped the wood in two with the fingers of one hand and flipped away the pieces. That would teach those loud-mouthed bastards, always swaggering around, thinking they could get away with anything.
He noticed the ice plain nearby was covered in irregular bumps tracked through with darker lines. He peered at the bumps and saw they were snow-covered squares and rectangles. Houses? They looked like they were made of blocks or cardboard cartons, a kindergarten playscape. He remembered the daikaiju movies and roared lustily. All those boring lives: bullying teachers, moronic little brothers, nagging mums, work-sodden fathers . . . He roared again. Who needs them?
He stomped, and was gratified to see the nearest houses shudder. Stomped again, closer. The roof of one house rose upwards then broke in the middle, exactly like a cardboard carton house. He blustered and stamped his way through the town until he came out the other side, back to the ice plain. It was only a small town, he noticed with disappointment.
Kaoru jerked awake, sweating on top of his futon as though he’d run a marathon. The digital clock glowed 4:00. He lay there for a while, not wanting to think about the dream. On the other side of the room, Masaki lay in a mound with the futon over his head, as usual.
There was one way to find out if the dream was connected with the real world. Kaoru slid his legs over the side of the bed, tottered to his little TV and flicked through the muted channels. Porn, gossip, sport, gossip, game show repeat, porn, samurai drama . . . on the bottom of the screen, hiding the wicked merchant’s dying gasp, ran a line of text: Earthquake in Hokkaido at 0300 hours magnitude 6, town in ruins.
The remote slid out of his palms, which were suddenly slippery with sweat. I don’t want to hurt anybody, he thought pathetically. His stomach heaved and he clamped his teeth on the threat of vomit. It didn’t seem like a real town, it was only cardboard . . .
The phone buzzed. He grabbed it.
He flung down the phone, pulled on a pair of tracksuit pants over his pajamas, grabbed his jacket and went to leave. But what if the phone kept ringing and woke Mum? Or worse, what if it woke Masaki and he answered? With a helpless gulp, he picked up the phone and dropped it in his pocket.
Outside, the cool air dried the sweat and tears on his face. He crossed the park where he’d met Tada earlier, not bothering to be nervous of the dark shadows. He trudged past the primary school, with its high open fences. Opposite the school, a light shone in the window of the newspaper delivery office. Everywhere else was dark.
What if people had been killed in the earthquake? Did that make him a murderer? But he didn’t know it was real. Tears blurred the darkness.
He kept walking, around the corner and past the kindergarten. On his right, behind a wire fence, ran the railway tracks. He’d have to go to the level crossing to get onto the tracks themselves. At this time of night there’d be nobody to notice or stop him. The first train would pass through at about four-thirty.
There was someone lying on the footpath. A hunched bundle that made a snoring, slobbering sound.
As soon as he noticed, he stood still, hoping he hadn’t been seen. A drunk? In case the drunk reached out to grab him, he edged past on the other side of the narrow street.
A voice wheezed, “Help me.”
Keep going. He was only a kid; he couldn’t carry a drunk home or go and report it to the police because they’d want to know what he was doing wandering the streets at 4:00 AM and he couldn’t say, it’s because I have this problem with turning into a monster, could he? It wasn’t his job to clean up after irresponsible adults. He just wanted to stay out of trouble. Then he realized he knew the voice.
His heart thudding, the phone in his pocket forgotten, he edged closer. One of Ariyoshi’s eyes blinked back at him. The street light on the corner gave enough light to see that the other eye was swollen shut. Most of his face was swollen or bloodstained, and he lay curled up as though it hurt too much to move. But he could still raise his head slightly and groan, “Stinky.”
“What happened?” Kaoru’s shocked voice sounded high like a child’s.
“The ol’ man . . . ” Ariyoshi forced the words through cut and puffed lips. “Thought I took the gang’s door . . . sign . . . ”
Kaoru’s phone buzzed and jiggled in his pocket.
“Go . . . ’way.” Ariyoshi shut his good eye.
Kaoru didn’t want to look at the screen, but his hand held the phone of its own accord.
What?
As if he’d typed a reply, the screen said,
he typed, shocked.
The ice monster would enjoy it. The ice monster would help him get his own back for all the years of torture and misery and playing humble. Nobody would ever know. After all this time, he had power. He could destroy whole towns. He looked down at Ariyoshi, and it was as if he looked down from a great height. All around them blew wind full of icicles. All he had to do was reach out his hand and close it around Ariyoshi’s neck. This time he knew what he was doing. There would be no excuses.
And when he’d got rid of all the bullies?
He’d be alone on the ice plain.
What do you want to do? whispered Tada’s voice in the wind.
He looked down, this time at the phone in his hand. He didn’t want to stay alone on the ice plain, even if he was the greatest monster ever.
The first train would come through at four-thirty.
He ran back around the corner to the newspaper delivery office and pounded on their door. A bleary-eyed man in layers of cheap sweatshirts opened it cautiously.
“Someone’s been mugged,” Kaoru panted. “On the path. Outside the kindergarten. Call an ambulance.”
The man narrowed his eyes. “Is this a joke?”
“It’s no joke!” Kaoru yelled.
The man flinched and turned to a phone on the wall. “Okay, okay.”
Kaoru waited until he heard the man say the street number then ran again. Down the streets of sleeping houses, through the urine-dank
underpass, past the shuttered grocery store to the level crossing. The barriers were raised, and he slid down the edge of the road and ran about a hundred meters along the tracks, left the phone and dashed back to the crossing.
There he waited, shuffling his feet and peering anxiously at the tracks that curved east, glinting under the line of lights. The tracks ticked. In the distance he heard the cling-clang of the level crossing in the next suburb. At the same time, the phone on the tracks started ringing, with a sound all out of proportion to the source, rising until it drowned out the clanging of this crossing, rising until Kaoru put his hands over his ears and screamed with agony.
The words glowed on the screen of his mind.
Under the wheels of the train green sparks flared once, then vanished. The only sound was the fading growl of the engine.
“I fixed your model.”
A week later, Kaoru placed the plastic ice monster on Masaki’s desk, already crowded with robots, aliens, spaceships, rangers and racing cars.
Masaki actually put down his game screen and stood up to take a proper look. “Hey, you can’t even tell where it broke.” His goggle eyes regarded Kaoru with new respect.
“Pretty good, hey?” Kaoru grinned, but a bit uneasily. He still felt horrible about the earthquake and concentrating on fixing the monster had been a way to forget that for a while. The wire rod idea had worked. He’d spent a week’s worth of lunch money on new tools, but he still didn’t have enough time to use them.
So he’d made a decision. Engineers fix things. Things like ruined towns.
“I’m not going to juku tonight, Mum.” He poked his head around the kitchen door. His mother stopped in the middle of stirring a pot of stock, a recipe book held in one hand.
“Are you sick?” she said.
“No.” He kept going on his way to the door as he spoke, otherwise he’d end up in a debate that would last till bedtime. He’d tell her about not going to med school later. “I’m only going twice a week from now on.”
“Kaoru! Your grades . . . ”
“I’ll manage.” As he shoved his feet into his shoes he could hear the spoon being dropped into the sink, the gas being turned off, and the recipe book slamming down on the table.
“I’ll be back later,” he yelled. Tada was waiting for him in the park.
Mamu, or Reptillon vs. Echidonah
Nick Stathopoulos
5:45 PM Yesterday
Sydney sweltered in a heatwave, and with the heat came the bogon moths. The unseasonal weather had provided the perfect conditions for them as they swarmed through the city on their slow migration south, to mate and die.
Swatting one away from his sweaty face, the freelance writer descended a wide concrete flight of stairs that lead to the subterranean platforms of Museum Station. The cool tiled interior was a welcome relief from the heat and hubbub of Oxford Street.
Built in the twenties, it formed part of an underground rail network known as the City Circle, linking Sydney’s central business district to Central Station and the suburbs beyond.
A blast of warm air washed over him as a train rattled onto a platform below. Brakes squealed and carriages shunted to a halt.
Today the writer had been reviewing films for an online news site, and he was particularly pleased with his latest vitriolic savaging. It was directed at a big-budget Hollywood remake of a beloved old British television show, and the results armed him with plenty of opportunities to display his wit. Somehow the Yanks never got them right. He smirked with bemused satisfaction for a moment before the mood was broken.
Oh God, he could hear her echoing up the stairwell. That old aboriginal woman was down there again. How he detested her stupid singing. Even though she sang in her own language—Pitjantjatjara—he could still identify the tune.
“Jesus loves me, this I know . . . for the Bible tells me so. Little ones to him belong . . . they are weak but he is strong . . . ”
She was so annoying.
If he timed it just right she’d be looking the other way, engaging some other commuter, begging oh-so-politely.
“’Scuse me, sir, could you spare some change?” or “Thank you, ma’m, God bless you.” Then she’d go back to her infernal singing, but he’d be safely past.
But there was no avoiding her today. Her eyes fixed directly on him as he reached the bottom of the stairs.
“Shit.”
From the prerecorded announcement he realized the train on the platform was his, so he barreled straight past her, avoiding eye contact. He heard her pause, then sing louder. He knew it was directed at him, and didn’t give a fuck.
She let him pass as she spotted a friendly young woman that was always happy to give.
“Hey lady! Don’t go down there! Not today!” She held her benefactor back as she watched the critic disappear through a turnstile, and smiled knowingly.
He shimmied into the carriage just as the doors closed and the klaxon tooted. Quickly he scanned the interior, pushed past some school kids, and beat a middle-aged woman—arms full of groceries—to the only free seat. He smirked at her in triumph as he pulled out a gossip magazine from his satchel.
The woman sniffed her disgust as the train lurched forward. Madly juggling her load, she grabbed at a handrail for balance.
The writer looked up from his magazine. Something was wrong.
The train abruptly stopped, jerked forward, then stopped for good. Though the new Millennium trains were constantly breaking down, and commuters were used to the delays, a communal sigh of dismay arose from the passengers.
Strange grinding noises echoed up the tunnel, and the carriage fell silent. A bogon moth battered a light fitting.
Then, without warning, the carriage imploded.
Huge black claws tore through, then peeled back, the thin metal sheeting that formed its outer casing. A massive, fleshy appendage probed its way into the crowded compartment.
Incredulous passengers screamed as the gigantic, oversized proboscis wrenched open with a thick, liquid sound, exposing rows of needle-sharp teeth.
The woman with the groceries threw them at the maw, which, as it retracted in surprise for a moment, allowed her to dive through a gash in the floor. She crawled between the bogey and the platform to safety. But the rest of the passengers were not so lucky.
The proboscis punched deeper into the carriage, which now tilted at an impossible angle. A long sticky tongue emerged and flicked madly about, ensnaring passengers on its gooey surface, then slurped them into oblivion.
Trapped like termites, those still standing were unable to find purchase and slid towards the gnashing teeth. Others tried clambering over the backs of seats, over the passengers wedged between them, but the tongue easily located them, too.
Frozen with shock, mouth agape, the dumbfounded film critic stared in utter disbelief as the thing’s tongue now flicked towards him. His magazine flew into the air as it coiled around him, dragging him screaming between its teeth—which closed on his chubby frame with a grinding delicacy.
In the nanoseconds before he died, he should have seen his life flash before him, but no. Instead, he flashed every movie character ever caught in a death throe with some nightmare denizen—aliens, mutants, behemoths, gargantuas, leviathans—now King Kong, chewing on a stop-motion native, now Gregory Peck lashed to the side of Moby Dick, now Jon Voigt swallowed alive in Anaconda, and finally, the penultimate moment—Robert Shaw chomped to bits in Jaws—except these teeth weren’t rubber. He screamed out to the only woman he’d ever loved.
“Ripleeeeeey!”
His, and the terrified screams of other passengers, echoed up into the street, where commuters tumbled from the station in panic. Someone yelled, “Echidonah! It’s Echidonah!”
The aboriginal woman was swept up with the mass, and as she reached street level, spun away from the crowd and around to the back of the now deserted café, where she
paused and gulped air heavily.
“Mamu,” she whispered between gulps. “Mamu.”
She closed her eyes to the sounds of death, and remembered the voice of her kami.
October 15, 1953
“Mamu!”
Grandmother looked up from the hole she was digging with her wira, scooping away at the dirt, and called to the tiny figure in the distance. “The mamu will get you!”
The girl didn’t know whether to believe her or not, and so darted back. Like other cultures worldwide, the Anangu aborigines of central Australia used the threat of a monster to keep children in check. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t true.
Mamu or not, the girl preferred to follow her grandmother on her foraging expeditions than go to the missionary school. There they forced her to wear clothes that made her skin itch and to recite silly songs about Jesus. But today the girl was far from the camp, and she idly lolled behind the old woman.
Presently, they came across a sign, written in English.
“What does it say, little one? I don’t understand it.”
The young girl slowly made out the words, but they had little meaning to her. “I think it says to stay away,” she guessed.
“Then you stay away from it! I don’t trust no whitefella stuff.” She continued to pick her way through the spinifex, and the girl followed.
Sensing something, the old woman stiffened, sniffed the dry air, and rubbed her shoulders as the hair on her body stood on end.
The girl looked up at her grandmother quizzically.
“Kami . . . ? What’s wrong?”
Suddenly a bright flash lit the entire sky beyond the low rocky hills. A low, distant rumble followed in its wake, and the thin clouds above them shuddered then were swept away with the shock wave. The ground trembled and an angry black cloud mushroomed over the horizon.
“A storm!” cried the girl.
But this was no ordinary storm, and the old woman instinctively knew it. “Quickly child! We must find shelter. Quickly!” She grabbed the girl by the arm and they ran for cover.
They were too far from camp to seek refuge there, so they dashed towards some caves in the rocky hills. Kami had often recounted how she and her family had hidden undiscovered there for many days when the whitefellas first arrived, so the girl knew it was a place of safety. But as she looked over her shoulder, she watched in horror as the black cloud blanketed the hills and tumbled towards them.