Kaiju Rising: Age of Monsters by James Swallow, David Annandale, James Lovegrove, Larry Correia, Peter Clines, C.L Werner, Timothy W. Long, J.C. Koch, Natania Barron
Authors: James Swallow, David Annandale, James Lovegrove, Larry Correia, Peter Clines, C.L Werner, Timothy W. Long, J.C. Koch, Natania Barron
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hillside. As Shinobi scampered down behind him, he looked again to the sky but there was no sign of another storm. Still, they would get inside the lighthouse to sleep for the night long before darkness fell over the necropolis.
As Shinobi reached the level ground at the base of the hill, he paused and tilted his head. Jiro could see that his son was working out how to phrase his question. He waited on the boy.
“Why are there so many bones here? Why this island? And why is Kurohaka Island not on any of the maps?”
“This is where he took the ones he defeated.”
Shinobi’s eyes widened.
Jiro nodded. “Kashikoi defeated many threats against Japan, and when he killed another giant beast like the ouroboros, he would bring it here. Remember, some of the corpses here are actually monsters that were dying and came here voluntarily. Some of the bones are from creatures that died and were transported here by teens with the sight.”
Jiro started walking for the lighthouse. “My father tended the light that would keep most sailors away from this island, and he received a government check from both Japan and Russia to tend to the outlying islands as well. I took the job from him, just as you will one day take the job from me.”
Jiro noticed Shinobi’s absence after another handful of steps and turned to look back at where Shinobi remained rooted to the ground, at the foot of the steep hillside.
The boy had a perplexed look on his face, until he finally asked his burning question.
“What happened to Kashikoi?”
Jiro looked at the boy, then raised his eyes to the immense hill behind him. Then he lowered his eyes back to the child and raised one eyebrow.
Color drained from the child’s face as realization sank in. The boy turned to stare at the side of the hill, upon which they had been perched all afternoon. The hill which was not a hill. Jiro chuckled and turned toward the lighthouse.
“We tend the light, and we protect the protector. Come now, Shino. It will be dark soon.”
Occupied
Natania Barron
Maker:
Julian moves through the narrow sewers and drainage pipes without hesitation. More a mole than a woman, she navigates with perfect precision, her thick boots trudging through every kind of detritus provided by the city. She is immune to the bloated rats, the stench, the slimy mold crawling up the side of the glistening brick. It’s only the things out of place—the sound of a small gator slipping into a stream, or an unanticipated moan—that would stop her. And nothing does for quite some time.
Then, just as she is about to take the final twist toward her own alcove, near Berfa the Engine, she stops cold. Something glows. Not the light of a lantern or candle, not even the odd luminescence of the mushrooms that sometimes grow in the depths. It is something blue and cold and frosty.
Creature:
We have been asleep for so long; so long that all is dust. Our tongues. Our eyes. Our bodies. Our shrunken phalluses. These sick and sad reminders that we had bodies, once. That we felt the power of blood, felt the coursing of the Holy Spirit within us. Tasted and rutted and blazed. We were passion and power and knowledge. Too much knowledge.
A thousand thousand years, and we have suffered in the miasma of loss and excommunication and forgotten our names. Once, we were feared, favored, loved. Now, we only whisper to ourselves, with no knowledge of our names or our purposes. One among us was a healer; another a poet; another still a guardian and warrior of a kind rarely seen. We were astronomers and visionaries and, for no reason other than our lust for life, we were cast aside. Forgotten.
We have lived without hope. What power made up our bodies has been dispersed so far and wide that we have given into the monotony. The pain. Suffering gave way to anger and back again to suffering, and it has gone on so long that we had forgotten that once, before we had been reduced to such nothing, we had
As Shinobi reached the level ground at the base of the hill, he paused and tilted his head. Jiro could see that his son was working out how to phrase his question. He waited on the boy.
“Why are there so many bones here? Why this island? And why is Kurohaka Island not on any of the maps?”
“This is where he took the ones he defeated.”
Shinobi’s eyes widened.
Jiro nodded. “Kashikoi defeated many threats against Japan, and when he killed another giant beast like the ouroboros, he would bring it here. Remember, some of the corpses here are actually monsters that were dying and came here voluntarily. Some of the bones are from creatures that died and were transported here by teens with the sight.”
Jiro started walking for the lighthouse. “My father tended the light that would keep most sailors away from this island, and he received a government check from both Japan and Russia to tend to the outlying islands as well. I took the job from him, just as you will one day take the job from me.”
Jiro noticed Shinobi’s absence after another handful of steps and turned to look back at where Shinobi remained rooted to the ground, at the foot of the steep hillside.
The boy had a perplexed look on his face, until he finally asked his burning question.
“What happened to Kashikoi?”
Jiro looked at the boy, then raised his eyes to the immense hill behind him. Then he lowered his eyes back to the child and raised one eyebrow.
Color drained from the child’s face as realization sank in. The boy turned to stare at the side of the hill, upon which they had been perched all afternoon. The hill which was not a hill. Jiro chuckled and turned toward the lighthouse.
“We tend the light, and we protect the protector. Come now, Shino. It will be dark soon.”
Occupied
Natania Barron
Maker:
Julian moves through the narrow sewers and drainage pipes without hesitation. More a mole than a woman, she navigates with perfect precision, her thick boots trudging through every kind of detritus provided by the city. She is immune to the bloated rats, the stench, the slimy mold crawling up the side of the glistening brick. It’s only the things out of place—the sound of a small gator slipping into a stream, or an unanticipated moan—that would stop her. And nothing does for quite some time.
Then, just as she is about to take the final twist toward her own alcove, near Berfa the Engine, she stops cold. Something glows. Not the light of a lantern or candle, not even the odd luminescence of the mushrooms that sometimes grow in the depths. It is something blue and cold and frosty.
Creature:
We have been asleep for so long; so long that all is dust. Our tongues. Our eyes. Our bodies. Our shrunken phalluses. These sick and sad reminders that we had bodies, once. That we felt the power of blood, felt the coursing of the Holy Spirit within us. Tasted and rutted and blazed. We were passion and power and knowledge. Too much knowledge.
A thousand thousand years, and we have suffered in the miasma of loss and excommunication and forgotten our names. Once, we were feared, favored, loved. Now, we only whisper to ourselves, with no knowledge of our names or our purposes. One among us was a healer; another a poet; another still a guardian and warrior of a kind rarely seen. We were astronomers and visionaries and, for no reason other than our lust for life, we were cast aside. Forgotten.
We have lived without hope. What power made up our bodies has been dispersed so far and wide that we have given into the monotony. The pain. Suffering gave way to anger and back again to suffering, and it has gone on so long that we had forgotten that once, before we had been reduced to such nothing, we had
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