Bronson shifted with the heat of the fires behind the bulkhead at his back and suddenly imagined the tank’s thermometer rising as it incubated those wrigglers. How big do these things get? He stood and braced himself as the Portland rolled another few inches. That’s the kicker… we don’t know.
Bronson shook off the ringing in his ears. The Iowa cornfields never seemed so far away, and if those things escaped to the warmer waters, neither him, the Portland’s crew nor those Japs would ever see home again. “You’ve got one fucking job, Corporal,” he whispered. Those things needed to be locked below – needed to go down with the ship – before he could take his chances out in the Pacific.
The ship’s 6-inchers had stopped firing, but the .50 caliber machine guns were working overtime, shuddering the walls around him. The tide of men scurrying from below was thinning. Bronson was easing down a stairwell when another Jap shell hit amidship, rocking him to the floor. He counted the decks as he descended, recognizing his old post below the waterline. The ship was listing badly now, and he imagined all that ocean pressing at the hull.
… one fucking job…
He reached for the latch. Let it be locked. No sooner had he grasped the latch, than Doctor Klein’s voice pleaded from the intercom.
“Let us out!”
Bronson frowned, tried the latch.
“Is anyone there?” Klein cried through the static, his accent suddenly heavy. “For the love of God, you must let us out!”
Bronson pressed the intercom’s Speak button, paused ready to say… what? Klein pounded on the hatch. It could only be opened from his side or with the security key, so something was wrong. Bronson lifted his finger and stepped away. The hatch was probably jammed – not a bad thing under the circumstances. Klein’s voice cried louder, his broken English slipping into a guttural German as he became more agitated then… the banging and the screaming stopped. Bronson stepped closer to listen. There came a metallic drumming, then a loud axe-like clang sounded on the other side and Bronson jumped back, raising his rifle. Did the hatch move? He watched the hairline gap press a fraction wider, then close again.
The hatch held.
“Good enough,” said Bronson and ran to the nearest exit, realizing he was running uphill now.
When he broke into the daylight, the most assaulting force to his senses was the silence. No guns, no sirens, no engine, just a groaning ship, her bow plunging into the foaming sea. Two tenders and a scattering of rigid life rafts were rowing away from the ship, a handful of stragglers jumping from the railing and swimming toward the rafts. Bronson watched the deck slipping into the water. He stepped away, climbed, looking for a discarded life jacket. He used the railing to help with the ascent. An open sponson marked Vests was empty. If he had to jump without one, so be it. He could dump the carbine, boots and webbing, take his chances, but chance remained in the gunsights of the Japs right now.
The gun’s thunder echoed across the surface. Its shell hit at the waterline, exploded in a fireball, and threw him off his feet. The concussion pressed at his eardrums, deck splinters tore at his uniform as he slid toward the oil-fired surface. His carbine’s sling slipped down his arm as he lunged out, grabbed the railing, his shoulders straining with the force. He cried out in pain, could feel the heat, chocking on black smoke, when the tearing roar of protesting steel vibrated through the ship.
The Portland was ripping in half under its own weight.
Bronson closed his eyes and held his breath as he rode the stern section down. It collapsed into the sea, drawing water into its exposed belly. He was showered with seawater, the fires hissing into submission as the ragged hulk settled with a sway on her keel. His eyes flickered open, saltwater stinging, the sinking bow a blur as it disappeared into the sucking sea before him. Bronson exhaled and allowed his taught muscles to relax. Then the sound. Familiar enough to tie his stomach in a knot. A metallic drumming, like a cluster of steel legs striking metal.
No…
It was the same sound he heard down in the cargo bay.
He used his rifle to stumble to his feet and ran to the hull’s jagged edge. Below, surging through the wreckage was a legion of Shintos, some eight feet tall, their pincer claws cutting their way forward as they spilled into the warm Sea of Japan. Bronson steadied himself, cocked his carbine, and took aim. The rifle cracked – he winced – the recoil marring his already damaged shoulder. The bullet ricocheted off one of the Shinto’s armored back plates. The creature stopped, braced itself with its claw against a steaming pipe, and stared up at him. The eyes were like glistening black pearls peering so deeply into Bronson’s own that he felt certain it recognized the fear there.
He backed away, could hear the hammering of its spidery legs climbing the tangled metal, saw its claw arch over the verge like an axe to pierce the timber deck and lift itself over the edge. Bronson blinked nervously, tripped and fell onto his back. The Shinto had grown even larger under the sun’s heat, standing ten feet tall on its hind four legs. Bronson raised his rifle, fired another round into its exposed belly plate, heard the ricochet ping a moment before the same bullet splintered the timber next to his head. The creature raised its claws, paused ready to impale him to the deck. Layers of shell parted at its snout to reveal a wet pit of serrated plates, an ear piercing shriek raining down on him.
Bronson screamed back.
As futile as it seemed, he frantically worked the bolt action rifle and emptied the clip, hoping to find a soft spot between the armor. He stopped, exhausted, the last depression of the trigger delivering an empty click. It was the sound of death. Bronson rolled his head toward the sea, spent – it was over. He would imagine the endless horizon was that of an Iowa cornfield and pray the end would be quick…
… but there were no Jap submarines in Iowa cornfields.
Bronson saw the deck gun flash with a boom as the Shinto’s claw arched down toward him. Just inches to spare, and the creature exploded, showering him in crabmeat and brine.
He lurched away with a burst of adrenalin, stood, legs shaking so bad they barely held him. Something shifted inside the ship with a metallic groan and the stern rolled a yard or so portside before settling again. He dropped his riffle and it slid over the edge into the sea. Bronson clutched the railing, watched as the sub’s crew scrambled to reload, aiming at the crippled Portland. They had meant to sink her, and Bronson with it. “Fuck it,” he whispered as he wiped crab residue from his face. He raised his face to the warm sun, closed his eyes, and waited.
He could hear the ocean seething, and waited…
… could feel the ship moving under him, and waited…
… could sense the shadow cast cold over him and… opened his eyes.
Rising like an island behind the sub was one of the creatures. It towered over the scene, seawater falling in rivers from its armored body. Standing on the sea floor, half its torso exposed, its black eyes surveyed the submarine before it. If those whitecoats ever wondered how big their babies could grow, the answer stood there before him. It was a colossus.