Chapter 6

FORT TUSCARORA, MASSACHUSETTS

Tina Llewellyn entered the base dining area, tray in hand. Most of the other diners were grouped at half a dozen tables surrounding the Sony television, mounted to the south wall. Tina sat at an empty table as far as she could get from the others.

Her dress had moderated somewhat: Today she wore a pair of boy’s Levi’s blue jeans, a regulation Camo T-shirt and a pair of Reebok sneakers. Her hair, though still radically shorn above the ears, was now back to its natural dark blonde color, gathered into a short ponytail behind her head. Her earrings had been reduced in number to two per earlobe, and all but one small ring had disappeared from her slender fingers.

Removing her turkey and cheese sandwich, bottle of Diet-Coke and slice of apple pie from the tray, Tina set about the desultory task of eating alone. She peeled back the plastic wrap from the sandwich, took a bite--it wasn’t half-bad: Jack cheese, smoked turkey, and spicey-hot Gulden’s mustard with a layer of crispy Romaine lettuce--and poured half the contents of her Diet-Coke bottle over the ice in a plastic cup. She paused, waiting for the fizz to die down.

“--hearts go out to the families of the brave men and women lost in the battle with Godzilla.”

Tina looked up at the familiar voice. Though just audible across the length of the room, she had identified it as that of Admiral Benedek, her mom’s boss. He stood before a phalanx of reporters; mics stuck in his face. The addressed crowd reacted in excitement to the odd name. Tina stopped her chewing to listen.

“Godzilla? Is that the creature’s name?” one reporter asked.

Another: “How do you spell that? One L or two?”

As Admiral Benedek clarified the name’s spelling, a tickertape running along the bottom of the screen announced that the spot-price of gold on the London exchange had jumped to two hundred and eighty dollars an ounce since the announcement of Godzilla’s existence. An inset in the screen’s upper right-hand corner showed a besieged-looking Aaron Vaught, desperately signing copies of a book shoved at him by dozens of fans. When her mother’s countenance replaced that of Admiral Benedek on the screen, Tina stopped eating entirely.

“What do I think?” her mother responded, anger barely in check, Tina saw. “I think they should put the thing on a barge somewhere, shove a nuclear bomb up its ass, and blow it to Kingdom Come. That’s what I think.”

The shot cut away to a reporter standing with his back to the Golden Gate Bridge, the immense form of the prostrated sea-creature dwarfing the men and equipment around it. Tina became wide-eyed at the sight, her mouth dropping open.

“That was Dr. Jill Llewellyn,” the reporter announced, “who has been credited with the capture of the giant sea monster, this ‘Godzilla,’ as Admiral Benedek calls it.” The scene cut away to an aerial view of a jagged rift in the top of a huge glacier, a cluster of huts and out-buildings arrayed along one edge. The reporter continued: “We’re told this is where the creature first appeared, in the Arctic ocean, somewhere above the 170th Parallel. Where exactly seems to be a military secret, or at least a secret the military is not yet ready to share with the public yet.”

The reporter’s knowing grin made Tina imagine a mad pilgrimage of sightseers to the frozen Arctic; ooh’s and ah’s and pointed fingers as though the birthplace of the creature was some natural tourist attraction, like Old Faithful in Yellowstone National Park.

The reporter visibly sobered. “We’ve also been informed that the creature may have been responsible for the deaths of an expeditionary team of scientists and military personnel first sent to study the creature, led by Dr. Llewellyn and her late husband, Dr. Keith Llewellyn.”

Tina’s stomach clenched at the sight of her father, grinning widely and with more than a tinge of embarrassment from within the fur-lined hood of a bulky parka.

“Dr. Llewellyn and two-dozen others were killed when the monster first escaped.” The scene shifted suddenly, this time to a long-lens shot of the Golden Gate Bridge, with six insectile-looking Flying Crane helicopters slowly circling the center span. “As you can see,” the reporter went on, shifting topics as easily as the live feed had shifted scenes, “the military is making arrangements for transporting Godzilla, seemingly in record time.”

Tina watched as a fire truck laid a powerful stream of some red-black liquid all along the head, neck, and shoulders of the unconscious beast. Another helicopter, this one with an odd-looking silver tank mounted within the cargo-cavity--Tina would swear it was a fuel tank liberated from the undercarriage of some gasoline delivery truck--moved in directly over the back of the creature’s neck.

“We’re told this is a device to administer the so-called ‘amniotic’ fluid to the creature’s skin,” the reporter informed her, “which will keep Godzilla tranquilized throughout the flight to ... well, wherever they’re taking him. If in fact, the creature is a ‘he.’”

“Of course, it’s a ‘he’,” Tina grumbled irritably. “What else could it be?”

The truth was, and for no reason that she could put a finger to, she didn’t believe the creature had a sex, that, like some giant Hollywood ‘effect,’ the beast was more a creation than an evolved animal. She couldn’t have told you why, but that’s what she thought.

On-screen, a crew of hurrying workers lowered the silver tank into place, then made it fast via a pair of huge, hydraulic clamps. Almost immediately, the hovering Sky Crane helicopters assumed positions over Godzilla’s recumbent form, lowering thick cables of braided steel into place at shoulder, waist, and knee. Tina sat frozen, watching in amazement as the great creature was made ready for flight. She thought that, if the admittedly powerful-looking Sky Crane helicopters ever got the creature off the bridge, he would look like a bizarre, Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon.

In ten minutes, the work was done. Cables were attached to each of Godzilla’s extremities; the helicopters hovered overhead; cables taut. Her food completely forgotten, Tina sat at the table with her hands clasped between her knees, watching this spectacle, aware that what she should be feeling was not remorse for the creature, but hatred. But somehow, she just couldn’t do it. To her, the presence of Godzilla--and mankind’s response to its presence--epitomized mans at-odd’s stance with the planet and its eco-system. If something was in mankind’s best interest, exploit it fully; if not, kill the damned thing. Better yet, do both.

The scene cut back to Fort Point, where Admiral Benedek and her mother were still besieged by reporters. The admiral answered questions in the practiced, calm tone of the experienced public speaker; her mother’s answers, in contrast, were terse, one sentence--sometimes, one-word--replies. Over their shoulders could be seen the activity on the bridge.

“Admiral, is it true that Godzilla will be transported all the way cross-country to a base in New York?”

He said apologetically, “The creature’s final destination has not yet been determined.”

“Dr. Llewellyn? You have more than a scientific interest in the studying of this creature. Could it be best said that you’re slightly at odds with the military’s view of the situation?”

“I think you could say that’s true, yes. But please keep in mind,” Jill said, obviously forcing the words, “that scientific inquiry--”

A sudden outcry from the surrounding crowd cut Jill off. The Flying Crane helicopters had begun to lift the enormous bulk of the creature from the bridge span and, even as the cameras shifted their focus to the developing action, long-lens cameras took over and showed the scene in detail.

“As you can see,” a reporter said in a voice-over, “the helicopters have begun to lift Godzilla from the bridge.”

Tina could hear a cheer go up, presumably from a location close at hand to the bridge. Suddenly the screen split and there was the reporter himself, shirt untucked, propwash from the rotors turning his thinning blonde hair into a whipsaw of commotion. He shielded his eyes and looked up, the camera lens following. Tina could now see Godzilla’s full form on the left-hand side of the screen, while the portion on the right showed the creature’s immense, dangling head in closeup. Tina was amazed they had let anyone get so close.

For the next two hours, she sat glued to her cafeteria seat, not taking her eyes from the screen, not interested in the sandwich nor the Diet-Coke, not even the unopen slice of apple pie, her favorite kind. Not even her near-to-bursting bladder served to move her. Seen in a wobbly zoom-shot at the horizon, the tiny Godzilla and his flotilla of helicopter escorts did indeed, look like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon.

“Believe it or not,” a grinning reporter announced, “there are unconfirmed reports of gunfire near the Nevada border. Apparently, some folks are taking pot shots at the creature as he goes by.” Tina shook her head at the appearance of a graphic in the screen’s top, right-hand corner: a fanciful, “Godzilla-over-Utah” decal. “As a result, the helicopters have been instructed to route the creature away from all inhabited areas. The FAA, meanwhile--”

Tina never got to hear what the FAA thought of the matter, because the scene shifted to another location, and yet another excited reporter. A large crowd partied behind her; a crudely lettered banner strung between two light-poles announced: BOULDER WELCOMES GODZILLA.

“We have two young brothers with us here,” the reporter announced, tipping her microphone toward a pair of grinning, slightly abashed-looking boys, “Gregory and Phillip DeAntonio. Boys,” she said, sagaciously, “when you first saw Godzilla, were you afraid?”

The younger brother, looking up to his older sibling for guidance--or perhaps out of worry--answered bravely: “Naw, I wasn’t scared. Monsters don’t scare me none.”

“How about you, Greg?” the reported asked, grinning widely.

The older brother considered a moment, then he grinned widely also. “Scared it was going to poop on us!” he exclaimed.

Everyone, the reporter included, laughed delightedly.

Tina, having seen enough, pushed noisily away from the table and went to relieve her aching bladder.

FORT TUSCARORA - MASSACHUSETTS - BASE HOSPITAL

Dr. Edward Moore and Aaron Vaught raced along the corridor and into the Intensive Care Wing of the base hospital. Aaron was ashen-faced, distracted-looking, his clothes and his countenance equally rumpled.

Ed Moore said cautiously, “I don’t want you to be too surprised when you see him, Aaron. He’s changed a lot.”

Aaron winced. “Changed how?”

“We’ve brought in specialists from John-Hopkins,” Moore side-stepped, “we’re doing all that we can, but--” He stopped short at a doorway, took Aaron by the arm. “Be prepared. His appearance will be a shock to you.” Then he entered the room, leaving Aaron to follow in behind him. Aaron moved inside with obvious trepidation.

“How’s it going?” Ed Moore inquired softly of a technician sitting before a glowing monitor. Aaron came up behind the two and saw what was depicted on the screen was a real-time, full-body x-ray scan of his friend. His beating heart was a shadowy, rhythmic blur.

“We’ve seen more change even since you left,” the technician informed him. On-screen, a sudden shifting of an internal organ occurred where no motion could be expected. The technician grimaced. “See that there? That’s what’s left of his damned liver. All the large intestine is gone, along with the exocrine tissue of the pancreas. The material was used here, in restructuring the chest cavity.” He indicated a spidery dark structure in Marty’s chest. “Body functions necessary to immediate survival aren’t affected. Everything else seems to be fair game.”

“That’s impossible,” Ed replied, obviously shaken.

“Apparently not. The infection is re-scripting his DNA as it goes along ... and as it changes, he changes.”

“Changes into what?” Aaron croaked.

The technician shrugged.

Aaron approached the bed, wearing a not-very-convincing smile. Once he was close enough to make out the face of his friend, he gasped. Marty had no face--or at least, no eyes. Where they had once been was a now featureless expanse of pallid skin from hairline to mouth--if the hole in Marty’s face could still be called that.

“My God,” he said in a strangled voice. “What is happening to him?” Not only were Marty’s eyes missing, but his skull had become grossly elongated, his jaw had all but disappeared, and where his ears had once been, two raggedly formed openings the diameter of a pencil now existed. Worse, Marty’s clavicle and shoulders seemed to have lifted, as though forming a protective collar around his neck. To Aaron he now looked hideously reminiscent of space aliens from an old STAR TREK episode.

“M-Marty?” he stuttered.

The creature in the bed stirred. “Who’s there?” it said. The voice was decidedly non-Marty sounding, groggy, weak.

Aaron swallowed loudly. “It’s me, Marty. Aaron.”

The creature raised its head. “Aaron? Really? Is everything all right?”

Aaron wanted to laugh out loud. A hysterical, wild bray of laughter. Instead, he made himself sound in control, upbeat. “We got him, Marty. Gojira.”

Marty sounded alarmed. “Is he dead?”

“No,” Aaron assured him. “He’s sick, but alive.”

Marty relaxed. “Like me,” he sighed.

“No buddy, not like you. You’re getting better. We got the best doctors on the East Coast waiting on you hand and foot. You’re costing the tax-payer a boatload of dough.”

Marty laughed weakly. At the sight of his transformed teeth, gums and bloated, slug-like tongue, Aaron looked away. He forced himself to look back. “Can you tell me anything about what’s going on?” he inquired.

Marty shook his head. “If it’s changing me for a purpose, it hasn’t let me know yet.” He shifted uncomfortably as bones in his ribcage realigned themselves beneath his taut, yellowish skin. “I’ve been having dreams though, about Gojira.”

“Yeah? Tell me about them.”

Instead, Marty began to ramble. “I keep wondering ... why now? Why show up now? What set the womb off? The interference ... What is he trying to do?” He lifted, his eyeless face searching for Aaron. “You have to find that out. Right now, while there’s still time.”

Aaron took his friend’s hand and gripped it. “I’m going nowhere, pal. You need me right here.”

Marty shook his head desperately. “No. Please. I can feel what it’s doing to me inside. It’s not something you can undo. Before it’s too late, you must find out, keep looking.” Breathing deeply, he said, “Remember Emperor Kuei Ko?”

Aaron frowned, trying to remember--his brain cells felt stuffed with molasses. “I do. But why?”

“Find out. Keep looking.” And with that, Marty’s features relaxed and the hand in Aaron’s grip turned flaccid. Gingerly, he set it down. Then Ed Moore was beside him and gently pulled him away from the bed, guiding him to the door. “Time to go, Buddy. Get some sleep.”

Aaron nodded dully, gazing at the strange new shape of his friend. Without a word he left the room and shuffled down the corridor toward his own room, fighting back tears and long overdue sleep. But sleep would have to wait, as would the tears; he had a job to do, and the job wouldn’t wait.

In the main building, Jill Llewellyn strode briskly down the corridor to the holding tank facility. An Air Force engineer attempted to keep up, alternately pushing his glasses up to the bridge of his nose and trying to find something important on his clipboard.

“I’m sorry about the tail,” he said cryptically.

Jill looked at him in irritation. “The tail?”

The engineer nodded emphatically, again loosening the hold of his glasses, which slid to the tip of his nose. He pushed them back. “You see, the information I had said the creature was two hundred and fifty feet tall. They didn’t tell me about a tail. So, there was no way for me to know--”

“Know what?” Jill interrupted

“Well, that it wouldn’t fit--”

They reached the end of the corridor and turned right and Jill abruptly halted. Before her, immense in scale and incongruously sticking out through a recently created hole in the corridor wall was Gojira’s tail. Workers had strung yellow ‘POLICE LINE - DO NOT CROSS’ tape across the corridor. Looking outside, she could see the length of the tail running across the whole parking lot, strapped down every twenty-five feet with heavy braided steel cable.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said.

“Sorry, Doctor. We did our best.”

Pushing through the doors into the holding tank, Jill beheld the rest of the enormous beast, lying on its side, mostly submerged in the tank. Its breathing was stentorian and labored. Through the glass wall to her right, Jill could see technicians scurrying about the control room, monitoring the great lizard’s vital signs. One of the technicians leaned forward and announced into a microphone mounted to the top of her monitor: “Power up the generators!”

Jill looked up. Several huge grids of crisscrossing copper wire, supported from the ceiling structure on intricate filigrees of steel cabling, began to slowly lower over the recumbent form of the creature. Beneath her feet Jill felt the vibration of the huge generators rumbling to life. Electricity crackled and popped throughout the gridwork of cables, making the hairs on Jill’s skin tingle and stir. She knew a lethal jolt of 60,000 volts coursed through each of the heavy copper wires: enough to kill any creature, presumably even Gojira--though Jill had her doubts. After the drubbing taken by the US Navy, she wondered if anything short of a nuclear-tipped warhead would stop this beast. But she didn’t want to find out.