Gojiro

by Mark Jacobson

  It was in the reflected light of the reptile’s image that Komodo saw Sheila Brooks. Again, Komodo stopped, stared. In her red gravity boots and tangerine sundress, he thought he’d never seen her look more lovely. But then, as a tractor-trailer truck blared by, his quavering heart turned cold.

  She was holding a gun to her head!

  Komodo leaped. His jump was long, loaded with apogee, laced with hang time. He beseeched Newtonian dispensation so he might come down in time. He impacted feet first, harder than projected.

  “Oof.” The gun flew one way, Sheila Brooks the other.

  She was lying on her back when he got to her, looking up. Her goggles were up around her hairline. He stared into huge green eyes. “I try,” she sobbed. “I try . . . to get there. But he stops me.” She pointed toward the drive-in screen where that giant squid clamped on Gojiro’s head like a helmet of slime. “I can’t get by him . . . it’s driving me crazy!”

  That’s when it started up, with the two of them on the freeway, looking up at Gojiro. She felt it first. “That time at Albie’s party,” she said slowly, “before the car blew up. I don’t know . . . I looked at you, and there was like a click. It’s like, weird, but it’s happening again.”

  “Yes,” Komodo concurred. The pheromone! It was infusing, right on that beer-bottle-strewn median, just as it had under that smoky big top. Only now there wasn’t a hundred yards to cross, or even a hundred feet. It was inches—inches between their lips.

  “Ms. Brooks . . .”

  “Mr. Komodo . . .”

  The wind ceased to blow and the sound of speeding trucks was sucked out. Then, just as it was beneath Bullins’s birthday tent, all time and space fell away. Again, they could have been anywhere. Atop the great ice floes, upon the endless pampas, racing down the long, mirthless hallways of a Paris office building. They were in a zone of their own, moving forward, according to the pheromone’s irrepressible pull.

  “Ahhh,” Komodo said.

  “Ahhh,” Sheila Brooks said.

  Closer, closer, across that fearsome gap.

  But then Komodo sensed it, things blowing apart, her lips receding, swirling away like blown leaves into the vast desert night. Something was coming between them, driving them apart.

  At first it was far off, then nearer. “Come in, Gojiro! Please heed this humble servant’s plea! Please come in, Gojiro, Bridger of Gaps, Linker of Lines, Nexus of Beam and Bunch, Defender of the Evolloo! Please come in!”

  That strange supplication—someone was chanting it! Komodo whirled to the sound, saw a boy. A wild boy, dressed in rags. He was coming closer, singing all the while. But then that lone voice in the night was joined by another. It was Sheila Brooks, picking up the boy’s refrain.

  “Ms. Brooks!” He reached for her, but she staggered away.

  That was when Komodo felt the cold steel against his ear. “Federal agent. Don’t move. A derringer is a lady’s gun, but at this range, it’ll still make a hole.” Cologne sheared through the diesel fumes. Farther down the median, another man was knocking that wild, chanting boy to the ground. “Please come in Gojiro! Ow!”

  “Wait—”

  “I said don’t move!” The gun jammed harder into Komodo’s skull. “Ms. Brooks, please. There are orders to return you to your home. Your husband is worried about you.” Komodo could see the man now. He was huge and wide-shouldered, with a blond crew cut, wearing bubble shades.

  “Bobby? Worried about me?”

  “Worried out of his mind.”

  “But what are you going to do with Mr. Komodo?”

  “No problem. He’s an alien. His papers are not in order. He needs a medical briefing.” Right then an ambulance pulled up. Out got three heavyset men in white coats. They walked closer, carrying a straitjacket.

  “But—”

  “If you’d just step into the car, Ms. Brooks.” The rear door of that gray Mercedes, which vas now parked beside the little red Corvette, swung open. The man who’d been kicking the wild boy came over to help Sheila Brooks into the back seat, slammed the door behind her. It was hard to see through the tinted windows, but Komodo was certain someone was raising his arm, greeting Sheila Brooks. On the screen above, Gojiro was vanquishing that squid, flinging it around by its tentacles.

  “Ms. Brooks—” Komodo pitched forward, but the blond man was too strong. No doubt the recipient of much special-forces training, he nonchalantly brought a knee up into the small of Komodo’s back, sent him to the ground coughing. “You’re supposed to be dead, so if I kill you it won’t matter much, will it? Be a good Coma Boy and go with these guys. You’re way overdue for a checkup.”

  “What’s a fucking Coma Boy anyhow?” asked the man with the straitjacket, grabbing hold of Komodo.

  “He was big once,” said the blond.

  “For what?”

  “For sleeping.”

  “Sleeping?”

  “Nine years.”

  “Jap Van Winkle.” The man gave Komodo a kick. “Hey, asshole, how come you were so tired?”

  “You’d be tired too if you got hit on the head with a A-bomb.”

  “No shit? That’s rough.”

  “Yeah. Strap that thing on him, tuck this Coma Boy in nice and tight. We haven’t got all night.”

  They were grinding Komodo’s face into the cold sand when half a dozen vehicles pulled up in a rush. Blocky men with video cameras swarmed out, followed by several elaborately coiffed women teetering on unsteady high heels and brandishing microphones.

  “Mr. Komodo! Channel Seven,” a cool brunette yelled. “Is it true that you are the Coma Boy?”

  “Mr. Komodo! Channel Two. Is it true that you escaped from Okinawa in an open boat and the government has been covering it up all these years?”

  “Mr. Komodo! Channel Eight. Are the Gojiro films based on your experiences?”

  “Why are you wearing that straitjacket?”

  “I-I-I,” Komodo stammered. The blond and his henchmen were no longer in sight. They were in that ambulance, tearing down the freeway, followed by the gray Mercedes containing Sheila Brooks. “Ms. Brooks!”

  The newscasters jumped. “Sheila Brooks? Was Sheila Brooks in that car? Is it true that you’ve signed a deal with Brooks-Zeber to make a picture about Joseph Prometheus Brooks? Can we confirm that, Mr. Komodo?”

  Then, through a megaphone, came Shig’s voice. “Mr. Komodo cannot answer your questions now. A full statement will be forthcoming on this spectacular revelation. Whatever you have imagined about this fabulous Coma Boy case, the actual truth will be far more astounding. I repeat, no questions now.”

  The newspeople were in an uproar. “You said we’d get coverage for the overnights. You can’t shut us out now!”

  “Mr. Komodo is still subject to recurring bouts of comatosis, due to the cruel, inhuman, illegal, and morally unauthorized experiments done on him while he was held prisoner by the U.S. Army on Okinawa,” Shig announced through his bullhorn. “Please respect that condition. A detailed account of the lawsuits now being filed will be forthcoming at the news conference soon to be held.”

  “You fuckin’ geek! You promised exclusives! You promised on-cameras. One-on-ones. Up-close-and-personals. We need morning-show coverage. Drive-time supplements.”

  “No further comment!” Shig barked. Then he grabbed Komodo, led him to the limo.

  The reporters pushed forward, their flashblubs popping like microwave corn, but it was no use. The limo was already barreling away.

  Visitors

  IT WAS THE SUN THAT WOKE HIM, the brutal desert rays hard on his loose-slung leathers.

  “Fuck!” Through sleepbound eyes, he saw the metallic creature, its gleaming jaws closing for the kill. Where was he now? In some hideous mecho-world ruled by knife-toothed insect robots? What to do? Instinct offered no advice, substantive or otherwise. He girded himself for ravaging. But then, just as the fiend had approached, it receded, its steely head rising up into the arid blue sky. That’s when the shr
unken reptile caught the true nature of this most recent would-be assailant. It was a pumper. One of those ever-nodding petrol plumbers, set out on a desolate stretch of salt flat.

  He couldn’t move. He was stuck, caught in a circle of thorns. Immediately, the pathetic scenario came clear. Obviously, while in the throes of whatever Quadcameral invasion had catapulted him back into the person of that youthful Echo Man, he’d been snared by a clump of tumbleweed and cartwheeled across the Valley floor, eventually blowing to rest against the side of this lone pumper. “Damn!” Rolled random inside a wind pollinating thicket—was there no end to humiliation?

  Extricating himself from the dry thistle, the reptile sat up and panted. No wonder a hundred lost wagon-train leaders dubbed spots like this Devil’s Furnaces. If he was an oven stuffer roaster, his pop-up button would have blown long ago. The monster looked around. It was hot, all right. Hot and empty. What was an oil rig doing in the middle of nowhere? And why was it covered up with sand-colored canvas? Evidently, someone was trying to hide it; there wasn’t supposed to be any drilling on the Big Panghorn Missile and Bombing Range. Ole Prospector Pete, that paranoiac rockhound, would give his left ball to get the goods on whoever was working this little claim, for sure. Not that the monster cared. Whatever sleazebag graybeasts stole from one another was no nevermind to him, Gojiro thought lying there, watching the pumper pump.

  Up. Down. At first he figured it was the heat, the way he got caught up in the cadence of the metal head’s rise and fall. Up. Down. Hypnotic, like the swing of a carny’s silver-plated watch. Up. Down. Diamond shafts thrusting, piercing sand and shale. Up. Down. Biting, screwing through. Up. Down. Not rock now, but skin. Up. Down. Slashing, sharp on sinew. Up. Down. Muscles severed, bones shattered. Up. Down. Pounding, a stake into the heart.

  “Owww!” The pain shot through.

  Something’s down there! Eyes bulging, Gojiro staggered toward the well, looked down into the hole. He saw the black dot coming, but not in time to move away. It splashed up into his face, seeped into the parietal. A smallest glob of crude, belched from down below, it blinded him for a moment, knocked him back.

  Rearing up on his shrunken hindclaws, the monster reeled away. It was almost his last step. Because right then that engine started up and the lizard came within a hairsbreadth of being gut-crunched by the sandspewing quartet of Michelins. The car must have been parked on the other side of the well; Gojiro never noticed it. “Motherfucker!” Over and over he rolled, dust cramming every orifice. He tried to get a plate number, but the big car was going too fast. All he saw was the fuzzy gray shape disappearing into the heatstreaked desert air.

  * * *

  His stride diminished along with the rest of him, it took nearly two hours to find his way back to the center of the Encrucijada. Thirsty and beat, the monster planned to check Pro Brooks, jot down a few cursory fieldwork notes, then scuttle back to the White Light Chamber to wait for Komodo’s return. But that changed when he saw the gray car again, parked in front of the worldshatterer’s crib.

  The reptile squinted, took a breath. Victor Stiller was there, standing beside Brooks. Stiller and Brooks! Stiller—in his summer suit, gold cufflinks reflecting in the sunlight. Brooks—severe, parched, unadorned in his parson’s outfit. Brothers in fusion, together again in the Valley of Doom.

  Arms spread, fists clenched, Stiller wasn’t his usual impeccable self. He looked all pent-up. He was yelling in Brooks’s ear. Brooks did not appear to acknowledge his longtime colleague. He kept his gaze firmly ahead, maintaining the searching position. Immediately recognizing the potential behavioral bonanza inherent in Stiller’s attempts to alter Brooks’s display, Gojiro moved in.

  Stiller placed his ringed fingers on Brooks’s angular shoulder. “Joseph, this is a serious matter. Your continued presence here is in jeopardy.” He reached into the inside pocket of his suit and drew out what looked to be a snapshot. “Do you know this man?”

  Brooks did not answer.

  “Look at the picture. He was here. He spoke to you. What did he say?”

  Again no reply.

  Gojiro swallowed hard, remembering how Komodo had reached out, seeking to explain the Triple Ring Promise to Brooks, and then—a flash. A hidden camera! Gojiro was certain this was the origin of the photo Stiller was pushing into Brooks’s face, blocking the blackclad scientist’s searching stare. “View impeded, Brooks blinks,” the monster duly noted. It was a first. Until then, as far as Gojiro could tell, the worldshatterer’s ever-forbidding eyes had remained wide open in a steady, uninterrupted gaze. But with that photo thrust before him, Brooks blinked. Then, in one quick motion, he snatched the photo from Stiller’s grasp, crumpled it, threw it to the ground.

  Stiller picked up the picture with glum resignation. “Why are you testing me, Joseph? Haven’t I always cleared the way for you, secured for you everything you’ve ever wanted? How much trouble would it be to answer a simple question?”

  That’s when those army jeeps roared up and that booming voice echoed across the yard. “Damnit, I knew you’d be here trying to tip him off!”

  “Colonel Gaylord Grives, military head of the Project . . .” That’s how he was always referred to in those newsreels. Grives, regulator, crew cut amongst the longhairs, a hardhead to reign over the spaceheads, charged to keep the Bomb commonsensical, American. Black-and-white images cascaded in the reptile’s head. Grives in the Valley, after the Heater’s debut, white booties on his feet, inspecting the shattered tower site. Grives in front of Congress giving testimony, a general now, his medals shining in the TV lights. Grives at Komodo’s bedside, looking faintly embarrassed, his large rough hands placing a teddy bear on the pillow of the Coma Boy. Then Grives at Brooks’s funeral, refusing to speak.

  And, always, in his Black Spot Dream: Grives slogging toward the Lavarock shore, screaming at Brooks, pushing the worldshatterer into the surf, swearing what happened before would never happen again.

  He had to be near mandatory retirement, Gojiro guessed, watching the bulky general hoist himself from his jeep. But even with his considerable girth and the sweatspots radiating from under his hammy arms, Grives retained a reigning presence. He looked strong, alert, ready.

  “Gaylord! A pleasant surprise,” Stiller said jauntily.

  “What are you doing here?” Grives spat back.

  “Visiting an old friend. Joseph is alone out here now. He is entitled to some companionship.”

  “Cut the crap, Victor. It’s over.”

  “Over? What’s over?”

  Grives held out a thick booklet. “The evidence.”

  Stiller raised his bushy eyebrows.

  “Proof, Victor! Proof of what’s been going on out here. And before I’m done, everyone is going to know about it. Everyone in this poor, beloved, deluded country.”

  “Illuminate me.” Stiller was calm, superior.

  “You’ll find out—if you don’t know already.”

  Gojiro drew closer. It was crazy how the two harped on, talking right past Brooks’s face as if he were not there at all. Brooks didn’t seem insulted. Returned to his searching position, he just kept on staring.

  “I never realized you had this flair for melodrama, Gaylord.”

  “You won’t be able to bluff your way out of this. I’ve got the goods.”

  Then something strange happened. Suddenly, Grives and Stiller weren’t yelling at each other anymore. They were standing stock-still, one on either side of Joseph Brooks, locked into a bizarre tableau, looking out . . .

  Searching! The three of them had assumed the position, their sightlines honed to that exact spot. The reptile scrambled to obtain a frontal view. This was a breakthrough, corroboration. Something was out there!

  Grives was the one who broke it off. “No!” he screamed. “I won’t stand here, not in this spot—never again!”

  Then he turned and went into the house, followed by Stiller and, much to the monster’s surprise, Brooks, as meek as any lamb.
r />   * * *

  It was no snap, hanging upside down, suckfooted to the varnished rafters of that ranch house. He wasn’t a fussy little tree frog, there was nary an arboreal indication to be found in even his most strangled helix. Besides, he didn’t have any practice. Try finding a branch from which to drape when you tip in at fifty tons. Now that he was up there, however, Gojiro appreciated the benefits of ceiling-sticking. Shrunk down to a couple of inches, the monster could imagine himself inverted upon on the Sistine Chapel ceiling, bridging the breach between the outstretched hands of Man and God. Also, you couldn’t beat the vantage; who was to notice an anonymous little house lizard, a bug on the wall?

  Scanning down, Gojiro wondered about Brooks. Did he function biogenetically, take a dump, make any kind of mess? In contrast to the ramshackle exterior, the inside of the house was as neat as a 4-H pin. Nothing seemed to have changed. The Pueblo rugs on the wall, heavy plank floors, leather easy chairs, the cow skulls above the giant stone fireplace—the reptile had seen it all before in those pre-Bomb shots of convivial fissionist smokers, the flannel-clothed spaceheads puffing on greenpack Lucky Strikes and drinking highballs, as if they were nothing but congenial collegiates in a rathskeller. The only new item was the army-issue cot pushed against the wall, its wool blanket stretched tight with crisp hospital corners. Brooks slept there, the reptile surmised. The grayframed bed couldn’t have been more than six feet long, not nearly long enough.

  Grives was all the action, strutting about, his belly straining against his khakis, waving his report. “I got some very strange geologic findings in this area. Very strange,” he thundered in the brusque baritone of his Kentucky coal-town origins.

  Stiller leaned back in his chair, filing his nails. “Get to the point, General,” he said with exaggerated impatience.

  “I didn’t come to talk to you,” Grives barked back. “I came to talk to him.” The general walked toward Brooks, tried to catch his eye. But Brooks did not look back. He stood motionless in the middle of the room, his shoulders slumping, like a man waiting for a bus that had long since stopped running.