How many times does one have to be in a helicopter for it to get boring? I haven't been keeping track, but somehow I've managed to get used to all of it; the wind blowing in my face and messing up the hair that I spent little to no time on anyway, the roar of the turbines, the thrumming of the blades, and the radio chatter of the people all around me. I can't even count on the scenery changing every now and then; I'm just in the wrong seat. The times when I do get to sit by the window seat is nice; I get to see rolling hills of deciduous forest, sometimes broad fields of wheat and corn, and sometimes barren stretches of desert. That's just in North America alone. Now I'm probably missing out on rugged mountains of coniferous forest in the Pacific Northwest.
And yet there always seems to be a depressing end to each of these trips I take; the smoldering aftermath of what happens when a multi-ton beast that defies the square cube law and countless other laws of physics and biology combined decides to go wild. Which has been happening a lot, I should note. But should I really be complaining? This is all part of the job, the life I've chosen to live with Monarch signing my paycheck.
I feel rather out of place on this chopper; everyone else is wearing military fatigues and carrying a massive rifle, and all I've got among my equipment inside my pack a data pad and a cooler bag. I wonder, is it weird that I'm the only scientist on this whirly-gig? And that part of these guys' job is to make sure I make it out alive? I just wish I had a gun of my own…not that it would do me much good, but at least I would feel safer.
I peek past the other guys on my left to see the landscape rolling by through the window, and I manage to catch a small glimpse of still more tree-swamped mountains. Weird; isn't there supposed to be a volcano around here somewhere?
"Are we there yet?" I say to the big soldier guy next to me.
He turns his head to look at me, and I can see double reflections of a twenty-something girl with tangled orange hair tucked beneath a thick pair of headphones, pale skin sparsely specked with freckles, and hazel eyes looking back at me. What I wouldn't give to have a sister…
"You'll know when we're there, ma'am," he says to me before turning back.
Yeesh, I just wish someone would call me Liza instead of 'Miss Cranston' or 'ma'am' for once; I don't have anything against the brave men and women of the military, but the formality does get a little old.
I sag back into my seat; the boredom's starting to get to me. Maybe it would be a good idea to know what I have to look out for on my visit to Seattle; from my pocket, I manage to extract the data-pad from my pack, and flip over to some on the information available. It isn't much; apparently the destroyer of The City of Flowers first emerged from the northern edge of Lake Washington and, like every other monster that popped up in the last thirteen years, wasted no time in smashing everything in its path. A multitude of photos extracted from both professional cameras and mobile phones paint a sparse picture of the beast; the good majority focus on the thick, apparently impenetrable segmented armor plating, colored a mottled blue-gray, while a precious few others snatched glimpses of a line of tree-trunk like legs pounding the pavement into dust. Unfortunately, much of the animal is hidden by skyscraper and clouds of ash. It's a real shame; as a scientist, it would be great to study Strikeout up close and personal, at least to get a good approximation on its taxonomic classification. If only it wasn't on an apocalyptic rampage in Washington State, with what's left of the local military trying to kill it…
"Attention," the voice of the pilots buzz in our ears, "we are approaching our destination. Be armed and ready to go."
Speaking of which…
My helicopter-mates start to load their rifles. As for me, it's just a couple of deep breaths, a quick check on the camera's battery strength's, and a kiss on my lucky fox pendant.
Just then, I notice that the sky outside has turned a particularly dark shade of grey. Just a little bit ominous…
I feel the gravity begin to drop somewhat; we must be descending. As we do so, I can see through the other window dark shapes rushing by.
Time passes by, with it the descent just keeps going on and on. Something akin to anxiety worms around in me, and more and more I just wish that the door would open and, so long as I had a parachute, that I could just jump out of the helicopter and down into the city below, just to get the waiting part out of the way.
Before I know it, the helicopter slows to a near halt, and begins a slow drop. I quietly count down the seconds until a heavy WHUMP signals that the tires have hit the ground. With that, everyone, including me, starts to unbuckle themselves from their seats. The top-ranking soldier on the plan stands up near the front of the chopper and starts to shout orders. "Remember, you've got two hours to get in there, find any survivors, and escort them to the rendezvous point. If you show up later than that, you will get left behind. Do NOT directly engage the enemy unless attacked. I repeat, DO NOT directly engage the enemy unless attacked."
The enemy? Is that what we're referring to Strikeout as? Was that really an accurate designation? That would imply that the creature possessed the capacity to choosing a moral alignment…then again, the scientific understanding of the intelligence of these creatures was shallow at best…or maybe I'm just overthinking things, again.
My thoughts are distracted, however, once the back door opens. In near perfect unison, the soldiers stand and file out, while I do my best to keep up and follow along.
Stepping outside, I feel rather unnerved by what I find; we've landed in the middle of what used to be a parking lot outside of what must have been a small shopping center at one point. Now it's been reduced to enormous slabs and chunks of concrete and rubble, accompanied by abandoned, damaged cars that take the brunt of the wind and dust kicked up by the rotating blades of the helicopter's dual rotors. The scorch marks covering them, however, testify that no monster was here; perhaps it was a stray rocket or something during an earlier battle.
After I get to a short distance away, the rest of the soldiers roll out of the helicopter. As soon as the last one has filed out, the door/ramp lifts back up again, and after a few seconds the helicopter lifts off into the air, and grows smaller and smaller as it flies off to the east. With it, I sense that one last secure place of refuge has left. Now, we're on our own.
Disturbed by the helicopter's takeoff no more, the air itself has an uncomfortable smell of smoke and burnt things to it, tempting me to pull the oxygen mask out of my pack and put it over my mouth. I turn to the west, and in the distance, I can see the towering skyscrapers of downtown—or at least the ones that are still standing against the sky, darkened by billowing clouds of smoke and ash. One of the towers partially crumbles before my eyes, a good chunk of it falling to the ground. Gunshots and tank-fire echo out there, somewhere.
The soldiers who came with me on the helicopter start to divide into small groups and march off in various directions, except for two. These two soldiers come straight up to me; one of them is about half a head taller than his companion, while both manage to stand taller than me. Both of their features are covered up by their headgear, but I can see that the taller man has slightly tanned skin.
"Miss Cranston," the taller man says, "Corporal Roeser and Private-First Class Meltzer. We've been ordered to accompany you, ma'am."
"Glad to meet you, boys," I say to them, "You know why we're here?"
"No, ma'am," Roeser says, "All we know is that we're supposed to accompany you to your destination." That sounds about right; it wouldn't be like Monarch to tell two army soldiers what the Monarch scientist they're body-guarding is going after.
At that moment, a deep, gurgling growl echoes through the city above a barrage of tank-fire, briefly pulling away our attentions. Just the thought of what made that noise sparks a burst of shudders.
"Well, then," I tell them as I pull out my little yellow GPS and punch in the coordinates, "I'm not one to laze around in a war zone, so let's get to it." The coordinates come up rather quickly. "Our destination is just about two clicks northwest of here," I inform the soldiers, "Let's go."
And off we go, my two armed companions flanking me on either side on our jog. While there isn't an obvious and immediate path of destruction left by the beast, it's obvious that the mere knowledge of the creature was enough to cause alarm in the civilian population; much of what we come across consists of broken windows, cars standing forlorn in various states of damage, and belongings scattered across the ground; once or twice we come across the lifeless form of some hapless victim of mass panic, bruised and beaten by hundreds of fear-driven feet. Barking dogs pepper the ambiance of the scenery almost forlornly, making me think of my poor spaniel waiting for me back home….
Focus on the mission, Liza, I tell myself.
But chaos makes its presence known even more so as we get closer to the downtown area where the buildings grow taller, blocking out more and more of the sky. In addition to what we've seen before (increased tenfold), now telephone poles and streetlights lay like fallen trees across the streets, while fires burn out of control in various places, while cars and even trucks crowd the streets even more, some clumped together in large piles, forcing us to clamber on top of and jump across their roofs to get along our way.
I check the time on my watch; we've got about an hour and forty-five minutes to get to where I need to be, and to get back to the rendezvous point. That's plenty generous, I'll give the army that…
As we come upon an intersection where the traffic light dangles by a thread, Roeser raises his hand, halting us in our path. At his word, we run over to and duck behind a taxicab, where he and Meltzer raise and aim their weapons towards the south street. I look in the same direction, wondering what Roeser had detected in that vicinity to make them take up defensive positions; it certainly wasn't Strikeout…
A middle-aged man, covered in dust, comes scrambling down the street, evidently terrified of something.
My first instinct is humane. "Hey!" I shout, "Over here! We can get you to—"
"NO! RUN!" he shouts to our surprise, "GET AWAY FROM HERE!"
"Sir, calm down," Roeser calls out to him, "It's okay, we're here to help…"
At that moment, a gray-skinned, flat-bodied creature the size of a large horse charges around the corner upon four long, skinny legs. It tackles the man to the ground, spearing a long, curved, tube-like beak into the man's chest back, even as he screams out in agony. Immediately, the soldiers' rifles roar with deafening fire, forcing my hands over my ears. Riddled with bullet holes oozing with copious amount of black fluid, the creature collapses, blood spilling out of its gleaming proboscis.
Roeser and Meltzer first come out from behind the cab, followed closely by me, still recovering from the shock of what just happened. We cautiously approach the body of the man and the creature, keeping clear of the pools of blood. Meltzer fires a single shot into the body of the grey creature, and it makes no move in response. Neither does the man, to my personal despair, and to Roeser's confirmation.
On closer inspection, I find that the creature itself lacks eyes of any kind, but it does seem to have a row of gills on either side of its neck. It's ribcage is visible through its dry, flaking skin.
"What is that thing?" Meltzer asks.
The sheer fact of the creature's attack speaks volumes about its nature to me. "It must be some kind of parasite," I explain through trembling words, "It must have been living off of Strikeout before the attack, and shaken off during the attack. It must have been starving for some time, and could only go after people…"
"I've heard of these things," Roeser says, "Some of the boys who come back call them 'Gorgons'; a lot of the other Kaiju are crawling with things like this."
"That's true," I confirm. Monarch studies had found plenty of similar creatures left behind in the wake of the Kaiju destruction, each one unrelated but uniquely suited to subsisting off their individual host, almost like a miniature ecosystem.
Personally, I'm not sure who to feel sorry for more, the man or the creature; obviously I should feel more sorry for the man who was enduring hell before getting his blood sucked out, but there's still some sympathy for the starving Gorgon. How long had it been wandering around blind in this alien environment, separated from the host to which it had been adapted to, scrambling around desperately to survive…
"Miss Cranston," Roeser says to me, shaking me out of my thoughts, "We've got to go."
I nod my head in agreement, eager to get away from the horror of this scene, but at the same time wishing that we could do something out of respect for the fallen civilian.
Deep down, however, I hold hope that where we failed here, we may make up for it where we're going.
More gunshots fire away in the distance as we continue down the streets. Now, however, we are more wary of what may be lurking around the corner and in the shadows. The closer we get, however, the more debris stood in our way, slowing our progress considerably. As we move along, I want to strike up some conversation with these two men, just to distract from the loss of life we just witnessed. Maybe it's all the running we're doing, or the nature of the mission, but I can't bring myself to say anything aside from how close to where we're supposed to be we are.
Looking back down at the GPS, I find that the tiny dots on the screen pinpointing our position are coming very close to our destination. "We're almost there," I tell the soldiers.
"Almost where?" Roeser asks.
"You'll see," I answer.
Just a few more twists and turns, over a couple of cars, and past the shelled out remains of a Starbucks, and suddenly, "There it is," I say. Across the street lies a tall building colored a faded red, a holdover from somewhere in the 50's and 60's. Its means of identification, rendered in steel letters, still remains intact: Holdman Research Facilities limited, a cover name for one of Monarch's most important research laboratories, of course. Knowing that the goal was within grabbing distance, I rush towards the metal doors of the place, the soldiers following close behind me. Along the way, I put away the GPS, knowing that it won't serve me very well where we're going. At first, the locked doors bar our entry, but with a solid kick from Meltzer, we break into the darkened lobby. The flashlights we produce illuminate a scene of random chaos, with scattered papers and smashed furniture strewn across the floor, while the front desk stands forlornly, a dead computer monitor standing as a blank sentinel.
The soldiers follow close behind me as I head past the lobby and down the adjacent hall. "What are we looking for, exactly?" Roeser asks.
"We've got to get to the lower basement," I explain, there's something there I need to pick up.
Fortunately, a directory still hangs on one of the wall; memorizing its guidance, we move towards the indicated door, and through it we descend a staircase to the lower depths of the facility, the air growing colder around us and the need for a flashlight becoming increasingly necessary. It isn't until the very last floor that we find a large chrome door blocking our path, with a card reader as the only way in; a surprisingly modern addition to such an old place. This time, my MONARCH badge, rather than an assault from a booted foot or the butt of a rifle, should come in handy.
"Ma'am," Meltzer protests, "There hasn't been any power to this area since Strikeout's attack; I don't think that's going to do any…"
Once the card is read, the door opens without question.
"These particular facilities come armed with their own backup generators," I explain to the perplexed soldier, "in case of situations like these. Don't the Boy Scouts have a corresponding bit of wisdom that they follow?"
Going past the metal doorway, we enter into a long hallway of chrome refrigeration units lined up like lockers along the wall, each marked with a particular identification code, and illuminated by rows of fluorescent lights hanging up above. I already know which one I need to visit; with the soldiers following close behind, I run down the hall past each fridge. Finally, after what seems like eternity, I find it: Unit 23-18. I grasp and pull the handle, and letting loose a rush of cold air from inside. Looking within, I find racks loaded with hundreds of petri dishes, and begin sliding out each one, searching for the right one.
It isn't until I hit the third rack down that I discover the one that I'm looking for, and it almost makes my heart stop when I find it. Very gently I reach down and clutch it, and holding it upward in my palm to read the label, written in sharpie marker on a piece of tape:
COMPOUND RG-1, OBTAINED FROM M-01, 5/16/2014, SAMPLE 23.
"Um, pardon me for asking," Roeser asks, "but what is that stuff, exactly?"
"This," I explain while I put the dish into the cooler bag inside my pack, "Could be the answer to our little pest control problem."
That's the short answer, anyway; the more classified answer is that it is a substance found in blood samples from the creature popularly known as 'Godzilla' from his last landfall at San Francisco. Samples of the compound had been sent over the years to other Monarch facilities across the world for further study, and many of those studies indicated that it may be the secret to Godzilla's incredible durability and longevity. With the dawn of the Titan War, many of those facilities were destroyed in the wake of the attacks. Hence, my reasons for being here; to obtain one of the surviving samples before the facility was destroyed, and bring it back to Monarch Headquarters. But I'm not liable to tell the two soldiers that information, which is kind of ironic given what benefits it could give someone like them…with the necessary tweaking, of course.
Just then, Roeser's radio crackles. "Code Red, I repeat, Code Red," a voice comes in through the white noise, "Kaiju Strikeout has changed direction; its turned away from the assault line and is heading southwest, FAST. All rescue teams within the immediate vicinity get to the rendezvous point NOW!"
As quickly as I can, I zip up the pack and follow Roeser and Meltzer out of the basement; after all, there's no need for me to stick around here any longer than I need to. We charge up the flights of stairs, head back down the hallway, and break back into the open air as fast as we can, but even then it seems like we're not moving fast enough.
Once outside, my heart begins to race at the sight of a wall of ash and smoke billowing towards us while buildings topple and crumble into oblivion, all accompanied by the sound of gigantic feet pounding the ground and a deep gurgling growl rippling through the air. I've never come so close to such an apocalyptic sight, like Vesuvius had just erupted…
"Miss Cranston, MOVE!" Private Meltzer shouts out.
At his voice, I turn and run after the two of them as hard as I can, being propelled by something I haven't felt in a long time: the fear of dying.
Never before had I felt so strongly the need to survive, and I find myself praying for the chance to make it out of this city alive.
Sprinting our way down the street, we make it to the next intersection. We turn to our left, hoping that we can jump to the sidelines and let the threat pass by. But then…
BAM! The towering building adjacent to us suddenly explodes forward in a fireless explosion, scattering shattered debris, and to my horror screaming people as well, towards the ground in a deadly shower. Turning to dodge the raining chunks of structure, I briefly stumble, and out of the corner of my eye I see a huge, mantis-like arm, covered in plates and tipped with a large, club-like mass, retract back into the ash cloud.
That only inspires me to run faster.
"So where—huh, huh-exactly is the—huh, huh-rendezvous point?" I shout to Roeser.
"Just further up ahead," he shouts back, "Just keep running!"
Further down the street we go, jumping over stranded cars and climbing over fallen rubble, but even then, the beast continues behind us, unrelentingly constant in its path, and worse, gaining. But there was no way that it could be after us intentionally; that much I know. But that doesn't change the fact that when it catches up to us, it will trample us beneath its feet. So I keep on going, determined to reach the rendezvous point.
"This way!" Private Meltzer shouts, pointing towards a still standing low-rise hotel up ahead, "The rendezvous point!" He's right; even now I can see a large double-rotor helicopter touching down on the roof. Salvation! Blessed salvation at last!
As I run into the shadow of a stable skyscraper, the ground suddenly shudders, throwing me off my feet and onto the ground. The soldiers fail to see this, and run out of the shadow…and into the path of a rushing flood of seawater, sweeping them away. I have no time to think about where that water came from; all I know is that two people, whom I've only known for a few hours, have just lost their lives to it, my horror embodied by the agonizing scream that erupts from my throat.
The water surges towards me; having no other choice, I rush towards a slab of stone high enough to keep me out of its reach, and clamber up its side. The swell flows past me, sweeping away anything light enough away; I find my eyes following the current as it washes past me, only to collide with a massive pair of armored forelimbs taller than the surrounding buildings, covered in enormous scratches flowing across the surface, and past them to finally see a gigantic, bony white head curved like a scimitar with a long nose ending in a point, compound eyes glistening like blackberries set on either side and bearing down, and a mouth flanked by a pair of jagged mandibles that click away while drool spills out in torrents past its sharp, saw-like teeth. The whole thing is set upon a massive domed body covered in segmented, studded armor that blots out the sky above.
It looks like you got your wish, I think to myself.
Strikeout lurches forward, its ten pillar-like feet marching forth in synchronized motion regardless of the flood before it.
I can't believe this is happening. Five years I've spent in the field, and this is how I'm going to die, with the world at the mercy of these engines of destruction, all because of my failure. Tears begin to run down my face as I think of all the people who were counting on me…I'm so sorry, I want to say. I tried; I tried so hard to make things right through my research….
There's nowhere I can run, now. All that's left for me to do now is close my eyes, and let the end come…
Over the roaring rush of the water, I hear the sound of a screeching roar echo through the buildings. It's a sound that I thought I would never hear in my lifetime, not in person.
I look up, and it seems as if Strikeout as heard it too; having halted in its path, it backs away, and turns to the direction from where the sound came, roaring back.
The roar comes again, louder and harsher.
Roaring again, Strikeout pushes its way through the corner of a building as it marches forth towards the intruder.
I can't believe my luck. I'm going to live through this day; even the floodwater slows down and recedes, letting me continue on my mission! But could it really be…?
As soon as the water is low enough, I hop back down and resume my mad rush towards the helicopter.
It isn't long until I've reached my destination, charged through the lobby, up the stairs, and eventually found my way towards the roof, where the other soldiers, along with a host of frightened civilians, are loading on to the choppers, hastened by the high-ranking officers.
I waste no time in clambering aboard…but before I do, I take one last look behind me, to see if my ears aren't fooling me.
In the distance, I can see Strikeout pushing through a sea of buildings and throwing up a cloud of ash and dust towards the western shore. There, I see him; he stands like a towering mountain against the sky upon two thick, powerful legs, a triple row of jagged, pointed spines traveling down his back and across his tail. He bares long, hooked claws upon small forearms. His head, even from this distance, remains fixed upon the approaching opponent; I can't see the details of his face, but I know he's staring down his foe, quite likely sizing him up…
He lets out another roar, and I shiver at the sound.
I step off the ramp, and back on to the ground. There is no way on this green earth that I'm going to miss a match involving the one and only Godzilla.