I bolt to the side, diving into an alley.
A chill grips my legs, but doesn’t hold on. Behind me, the hand thunders down, filling the street. Shards of pavement jut up like crushed peanut brittle. Its weight is immense, even though most of it hasn’t fully resolved.
But will it? I wonder, eyes wandering upward. Pulses of energy reveal a little more at a time, stretching not just up, but back. The creature is as long as it is tall, but I can’t see its back side. It could end in more legs, or a slithering body, or tentacles for all I know. But it’s there, wreaking havoc. I can hear it in the distance, wading through Boston.
Show yourself, I think in anger, afraid to voice it, in case the thing actually hears me.
A haunted howl rolls through the city, coming from far above. The monster’s still-translucent head is present enough to roar. And it sounds…tormented.
For a moment, I feel bad for the thing.
And then a bright light on ground level catches my attention. It bounces and weaves a course around the giant limb, cutting through grime and smoke until it emerges.
“Rain!” I shout, wearing my befuddlement on my face like a neon billboard in downtown Tokyo.
“I know,” she says, just as surprised by her still-living status as I am.
She bends over to help me up, and I find myself staring at her shirt—at Morgan’s shirt, featuring the Queen of Monsters herself… I can’t help but chuckle. “That has to be the most ironic shirt in the—whoa!” Rain yanks me to my feet.
“Go!” She shouts, giving me a shove. “It’s not done yet!”
We flee through the city, heading toward North Station. Rain is faster than me, but without her memory, she has no way of plotting a course. Might not be able to if she had her memory. For all we know, she’s from Florida or Ohio or something.
“How much farther?” Rain asks, when I reduce my pace to a cramp-slowed walk.
“Couple blocks,” I say.
“Where are we going?”
“Train station.”
“Will there be enough room?” she asks.
“Enough room?” I ask. “There’s just the three of us.” I scour the street ahead, looking for signs of Reggie. She’s not a Bostonian by birth, but she’s been here long enough to navigate her way to North Station…if she heard me.
“More than three,” Rain says, motioning behind us.
In the glow of Rain’s light, I see a throng of people following us. For them, she’s a beacon. A sign of where to go. And they’re going to follow us straight toward the train station. Hundreds of them.
I cup my hands. “Reggie!” I wait a moment, and then repeat, “Reggie!”
“I’m here,” replies a faint voice. Reggie emerges from the throng, holding someone’s dusty, petrified child in her arms.
Our reunion is cut short when Rain’s body flickers and then grows brighter. She moans and staggers into my arms.
“What’s happening?” I ask.
“I’m not…” She looks up.
The monster’s massive body—four hundred feet tall and somehow even longer—covered in twisting, luminous coils, and loose, white skin shimmers into view. A long, thin neck leads to an emaciated head, covered by long, flowing white hair, all of it framing a face of eyeballs. There might be a hundred of them, ranging in size from basketball to SUV. And all at once, every single one of them turns toward us.
Not us, I think.
Rain.
“I think it’s after you,” I say, wondering how I can tell all these people to stop following us.
But Rain shakes her head and looks up, toward North Station.
Above North Station.
I stagger to a stop beside Reggie, whose jaw has gone slack.
“Well, fuck,” Reggie says. “There’re two of them…”
15
It’s like seeing something in your periphery, but looking straight at it. There, but not. A hint of a thing not yet coalesced into reality.
While the first ghostly giant projects brute strength, this one flows. Wisps of it come and go. Luminous tendrils, like sheets in a breeze. I never see more than ten percent of its transparent form at a time, but I slowly put together a basic, headless picture.
And it’s haunting.
Twisting coils of what look like living fabric flow around the creature and stretch out hundreds of feet. The…tentacles…for lack of a better word, delicately pick a path through the city. I can’t see where it’s stepping or the destruction it’s causing, but I get the impression that it’s being careful.
While the brute—Just ‘Brute,’ I decide—is indifferent to people, or perhaps worse, seeking people out, this new otherworldly being is…gentle.
Every neuron in my mind is firing off the same signal: Run! But this new monster instills no fear.
In me, at least. Everyone with me screams in horror, frantic for a new escape route.
Rain, like me, appears unfazed by the newcomer. Or perhaps she remains more concerned about the more immediate danger ravaging the city behind us.
“We need to keep going,” I say, looking to…
Wisp.
“I know,” she says, and she takes Reggie by the arm before she can bolt west. With the ocean to the east, a monster to the north and south, west is the only clear choice…unless you’ve got nothing left to lose.
“Hey!” Reggie tugs her arm, but can’t escape Rain’s firm grasp.
“Not that way,” Rain points at Wisp. “This way!”
Reggie is about to argue, when a building crumbles behind us. The sound of it knocks the air from our lungs. The air itself shakes, sending a vibration through my body that’s unnerving. I glance back at Brute, stepping closer, sucking up glowing blue souls as it passes through people on the street, trapped in buildings, or dying in the rubble.
“Now!” I shout, grabbing Reggie’s arm and yanking her behind me, as Rain and I resume our course for North Station and toward Wisp—now heading straight for us.
We spill out into the large Y-shaped intersection in front of Boston’s impressive Edward W. Brooke Courthouse. I’ve spent many hours inside the building, waiting to hear whether one criminal or another was going to walk free or head to jail. At times, the building felt more like my office than my actual office did.
I give the building a glance as we head across the intersection, dodging vehicles as they flee the scene. Had this happened during daylight hours, when the city’s population swells from just over 600,000 to 1.2 million, it would be a chaotic deathtrap. That’s not a lot compared to Los Angeles, or New York, but with only ninety square miles within the city limits, Boston is one of the most densely populated cities in the U.S.
The death toll is going to be in the thousands, if not more, by the time Brute finishes its tour of the city. If it finishes. What it’s here for and how long the monster is staying are mysteries.
All I really know is that we need to get the hell out of the city, or we won’t be alive to find out the answers. And you better bet your God-damned life I’m going to get answers.
An image of Morgan flashes in my memory. Its painful flare focuses me.
Face forward. Keep moving. Right toward Wisp.
The ghostly creature is rising up over the buildings in front of us. A block of shorter, brick buildings are all that separate us from Boston Garden. Some of these buildings have survived the past three hundred years. I have a feeling they won’t make it through the night, though.
A roar spins me around. Brute kicks its way through the massive Government Center Garage, a lasagna of concrete and steel that should have been able to survive a nuclear blast. It’s pulverized by the monster, whose many eyes seem to be locked on me.
Has it even seen Wisp?
Does it care?
I duck my head as concrete bits explode into the air. The fragments pepper the crowd of people still following us. Their numbers have reduced since Wisp appeared, but some of them still believe the glowing woman might know best. I�
��m not sure if their logic, or mine, will lead to death, but most of us are lemmings at heart. We follow whoever leads the pack and hope for the best.
Screams of pain ring out behind us, as people fall victim to flung debris. Their loved ones stop to help, but nearly a hundred people still follow us.
A haunting howl rolls out through the night. It’s higher-pitched than the Brute’s roar, and has a sing-song quality about it, but it cuts through me, right to my soul. Where Brute instills abject fear, Wisp projects great sadness and loss.
But Rain seems to be the only other person to feel it, and since she’s a lightning rod for these things, and what they’re feeling, her reaction is far more intense.
A sob barks from her mouth as her legs buckle. She falls to her knees, skinning them. When I reach her, she’s weeping.
I get my hands under her arms and lift. I’m not a weightlifter or anything, but Rain is light. Ninety pounds, tops. With adrenaline’s help, I get her back to her feet.
“Okay?” I ask, ready to keep running.
She looks me in the eyes, her glowing gaze burning into me, then flashing wide with a kind of recognition. She places a hand on my cheek and then flinches back to herself, shoving me away and shouting, “Keep going!”
The closer we get to Wisp, and the closer it gets to us, the more my feeble mind is able to comprehend its size, and that of Brute closing in behind us. They’re hundreds of feet tall. Who knows how long and wide. But Brute crashed into the Custom House Tower, which is five hundred feet tall. Brute was at least another hundred feet up. Wisp is a little shorter, but much of its flowing body is spread out, supporting its impermanent weight on many limbs instead of on Brute’s four.
I’m assuming it’s four.
Twin high-pitched shrieks draw my eyes to the east. The sound grows louder, fast. Given the night’s events, I expect to see a third monster flicker into view. Instead, I see the navigation lights of two jets streaking down from the swirling clouds. The planes are silhouetted by blue flashing above, helping me identify them.
A-10 Warthogs.
Tank-killers.
Designed for air-to-land combat, rather than dogfights. They pack a punch and scream like banshees.
I wince at the volume of their passage, drowning out the sound of crumbling buildings and horrified people.
Twin sets of missiles launch from each jet. Two streak toward Brute, and I hope they punch a hole in the beast’s ghostly hide, sending it back to whatever hell birthed it. The other two cut a path toward Wisp, and I can’t help but feel afraid for the creature.
Why? I wonder.
Because it’s not here for us, I decide, which isn’t a huge leap in faith, since I’m already running straight toward the thing.
I turn to watch Brute. The first missile strikes the monster’s arm, as it slides into the courthouse intersection. There’s a ball of fire, followed by a boom that knocks the wind out of me, and a shockwave that stumbles me. I manage to stay upright, and I watch as the second missile slips through the transparent upper arm, through the torso, and into the courthouse.
I flinch away from the explosion. I don’t need to see it to know that the building’s façade and a good portion of its insides have been destroyed—but not by the beast. Just before I turn forward again, I see the big arm slip through the fire and smoke. For a moment, it appears damaged, like its skin has been peeled back to reveal a blueish, gelatinous inside. Then the gigantic limb swoops through a crowd, sucking away their lives and replenishing the body’s original appearance.
Pulses of blue streak up through the limbs, igniting the monster’s upper torso, revealing what I think is a mouth in its chest…and the eyes above, partially concealed by the flowing hair…or what I think is hair.
A chill runs through my body.
It’s watching me.
Or maybe that’s what everyone sees when they look at it?
Or maybe it just has enough eyes to watch us all?
A third explosion turns my eyes forward in time to see the Garden’s roof lifted up and cast away by a plume of fire.
The fourth missile misses both Wisp and the Garden.
Following the missile’s trajectory, I realize it’s going to strike somewhere in the West End, a densely populated area that includes Mass General, which is full of people unable to run away. I cringe when the missile’s booming impact rolls into the already charged night sky.
“Oww!” I shout, when sudden pressure compresses my wrist. It’s Rain, tugging me along. I hadn’t realized I’d slowed down, and I pick up my pace.
“We don’t have much time!” she shouts.
“Until what?” I ask.
“Do you not see the two behemoths about to collide?” Reggie shouts, nearly hysterical. “We’re at ground zero, man!”
Before I can reply, a long tendril the width of a king-size blanket flickers to life beside me. It presses to the ground, the pressure of it sending a charge up through the long limb, exposing its flowing form as the tendril rises up into an undulating body, which is actually quite beautiful. It’s like an angel, I think. Not the winged kind from pop culture, but the Biblical kind—both beautiful and horrifying in a way that instills the literal fear of God in people.
Other tendrils snap to life around us, compressing the streets, but somehow avoiding both people and structures.
It’s protecting us, I think.
I hope.
As we pass beneath Wisp, and it passes over us, our band of Bostonian refugees falls silent. But it’s not just that people stop screaming. It’s like all sound is being absorbed, or deflected. I can’t hear the jets anymore. Can’t hear Brute, or the buildings crumbling in the creature’s wake. I can’t even hear my own breathing.
And for a moment, despite the horror, and the anguish—and the previous sadness I felt being projected by Wisp—I feel peace.
It moves through me, emanating not from the air around me, but from Rain’s hand, still grasping my wrist. From the placid look on her glowing face, I know she feels it, too.
And then the world rushes back to life.
The screams return.
The crackling of fires.
The wail of sirens.
Brute’s roar.
Acrid smoke draws raw coughs from my chest.
And then…the monsters collide.
16
Running for your life, while intensely drawn to look backward at what might kill you, is a dangerous recipe. If not for Rain’s intense focus on survival, and her continuing grip on my arm, I’m not sure I’d make it out of the city.
But how can I not look?
This is on par with Moses parting the Red Sea, or the Hindenburg crash, or the World Trade Center’s destruction. While I wasn’t alive for the first two, I know for a fact that for every hundred people running away from the collapsing Twin Towers, there was one standing sentinel, head craned up, watching the impossible unfold. It’s why there’s so much video footage of the event, much of it from vantage points of immediate danger.
Just like there will be video of this.
You don’t need to see it, I tell myself. Just run.
But I can’t look away.
Wisp is a flurry of motion, its many ribbon-limbs flowing through the air, fluttering in and out of reality, pulsing with energy as they make contact with Brute. The long tendrils wrap around the larger monster’s powerful arms, binding it, slowing it down.
Or, at least, attempting to.
Before the larger creature is completely immobilized, Brute swings a backhand into Wisp’s body. While the flowing body is never fully visible, that doesn’t seem to keep Brute from making contact. The creatures are only partially tangible in the physical world, but they seem fully tangible to each other.
Wisp’s core falls back with a haunting wail that actually makes me feel sorry for it.
But why?
Because it’s helping us, I realize. While everything about Brute screams anger, hate, and rage bred by
fear, Wisp is very different. It’s sad. And lost. But also peaceful. Maybe even loving, if something so horrifying is capable of love.
Wisp falls back, leveling several buildings. The creature’s body shimmers from the souls it inadvertently absorbs. When it wails again, I think it’s more for the lives it’s just stolen, than for its own pain.
Brute takes another step, closing in on us as we race down the sidewalk running along the Garden’s ruined side. The entrance to North Station is just a hundred feet ahead.
Wisp, who never relinquished its grasp on Brute, lifts itself off the ground, and in a surprisingly quick, fluid motion springs back toward its larger, more powerful foe. Tendrils wrap and squeeze like pythons.
Brute’s pace slows, but all it needs to do to catch us is topple forward. Its six-hundred-foot height, laid out flat, would close the distance. Luckily, it doesn’t seem smart enough to figure that out.
As Brute clears the buildings behind us, smashing its way through ancient brick, Wisp punches its tendrils into the pavement, anchoring itself.
Buying us time.
For what?
“Inside!” Reggie says, snapping me out of my observer’s point of view. Suddenly back in my body, I stumble through North Station’s open doorway, propelled by Rain, who’s shoving me from behind. The door’s window has been shattered. Did Reggie do that? Or was it already broken? Doesn’t matter, I decide, stepping into the dimly lit entryway.
The throng of fleeing Bostonians follows us, diminished, but still nearly seventy-five strong.
I’ve spent more than my fair share of time in North Station, chasing stories as close as Revere and all the way out to Gloucester. It’s the fastest way to get in and out of the city. And in all those visits, I’ve never seen the terminal empty. Never seen it quiet. If it’s not rush hour, then there’re school groups visiting the Aquarium or the Museum of Science, or art students visiting the MFA, or Red Sox fans ready to watch a game at Fenway. Even the ever-present panhandlers are missing. Then again, I’ve never been here in the middle of the night. The station is open from 5am to 1am, so there’s just a four-hour window where the building is empty, save for night shift janitorial staff, but anyone who is supposed to be here has long since fled.
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