Read Online 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 - Free Book Online Page B
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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was rising from the sea and the fog. The island looked to have strange curving towers near the center, and rough rocky shores at the edges. Finally, his eyes sought out what he was looking for—the lighthouse. It was on the end of the island, on a high rocky promontory, but its lifesaving light was absent, and its white paint made little difference in the thick fluffy coating of whitish gray that filled the air. The spire could barely be seen in all the mist.
Shinobi’s father was a lighthouse keeper in the region, being paid by the governments of both Japan and Russia to ride whatever available ships were in the area, and to frequently visit and maintain the ramshackle lighthouses on the islands scattered around Hokkaido and the giant lobster-claw tips of Sakhalin, around the Gulf of Patience. Shinobi had travelled with his father to Rebun Island and Rishiri Island. He had even gone on one memorable camping trip with his father to the abandoned Russian island of Moneron, northwest of the Soya Straight. He had listened attentively to his father’s few descriptions of his work on the lights. Shinobi was meant to t ake over his father’s work someday, first apprenticing in two years’ time, when he turned fifteen. He had studied hard in school, and paid special attention to the nautical maps in the library and around the house. He knew the names of every jagged rocky islet in the area, but he had never heard of Kurohaka Island.
True, his attention of late had not been on maps or studying. Instead he had been seeing things, and hoping he wasn’t losing his sanity. But he had kept that information hidden from his father.
“Kurohaka?” he asked.
His father nodded grimly. “A dark place, but still part of the job. Let’s go in.”
Shinobi followed his father back to the ship’s forecastle, wondering at the name of the island. Kurohaka. Black tomb . He wondered if sailors had named it that because it was such a rocky shoreline. Many times islands were given fearsome names to warn sailors off the reefs. But the name might actually stem from a true tomb.
He wondered who was buried there.
Or, considering what he had been seeing lately— what might be buried there.
~
The freighter had lowered them in a small speedboat with winches from the high sides of the rusting gunwales. Once in the choppy water, they had made quick time to the dark island, and his father expertly navigated them past some treacherous headlands and into a tiny sheltered lagoon. Any boat larger than their speedboat would not have made it into the small inlet. They pulled the boat up to a concrete pier that jutted an absurd four feet into the water from the wet rocky land. The lagoon looked to Shinobi to be a popped volcanic bubble more than a sandy beach. The shoreline was all dark rock, but at least here it was smooth.
Shinobi helped his father tie up the small boat to the two rusted metal cleats sunk into the concrete pier’s rough surface and carry their gear ashore. When he turned to the gray sea, he could watch the freighter moving away into the distance. A different boat would swing by in two days to collect them.
“How can this island be here, Father?”
Jiro Yashida hefted his pack and began walking up the rocks, toward the interior of the island. He spoke over his shoulder to his son in short bursts. “You know the maps. Think of the shapes. A long chain of islands connects Hokkaido to Russia’s Kamchatka peninsula. And Wakkanai points at the western tip of Sakhalin. Is it really so surprising to you that an island lies midway between Hokkaido and the eastern tip of Sakhalin?”
Shinobi considered his father’s logic, and found that geologically, the location of the island made perfect sense. “No. I understand, but the island does not appear on the maps.”
“Many don’t,” was all his father said.
They turned left and followed a coastal trail up along the rocks, twisting and turning through switchbacks, until the base of
Shinobi’s father was a lighthouse keeper in the region, being paid by the governments of both Japan and Russia to ride whatever available ships were in the area, and to frequently visit and maintain the ramshackle lighthouses on the islands scattered around Hokkaido and the giant lobster-claw tips of Sakhalin, around the Gulf of Patience. Shinobi had travelled with his father to Rebun Island and Rishiri Island. He had even gone on one memorable camping trip with his father to the abandoned Russian island of Moneron, northwest of the Soya Straight. He had listened attentively to his father’s few descriptions of his work on the lights. Shinobi was meant to t ake over his father’s work someday, first apprenticing in two years’ time, when he turned fifteen. He had studied hard in school, and paid special attention to the nautical maps in the library and around the house. He knew the names of every jagged rocky islet in the area, but he had never heard of Kurohaka Island.
True, his attention of late had not been on maps or studying. Instead he had been seeing things, and hoping he wasn’t losing his sanity. But he had kept that information hidden from his father.
“Kurohaka?” he asked.
His father nodded grimly. “A dark place, but still part of the job. Let’s go in.”
Shinobi followed his father back to the ship’s forecastle, wondering at the name of the island. Kurohaka. Black tomb . He wondered if sailors had named it that because it was such a rocky shoreline. Many times islands were given fearsome names to warn sailors off the reefs. But the name might actually stem from a true tomb.
He wondered who was buried there.
Or, considering what he had been seeing lately— what might be buried there.
~
The freighter had lowered them in a small speedboat with winches from the high sides of the rusting gunwales. Once in the choppy water, they had made quick time to the dark island, and his father expertly navigated them past some treacherous headlands and into a tiny sheltered lagoon. Any boat larger than their speedboat would not have made it into the small inlet. They pulled the boat up to a concrete pier that jutted an absurd four feet into the water from the wet rocky land. The lagoon looked to Shinobi to be a popped volcanic bubble more than a sandy beach. The shoreline was all dark rock, but at least here it was smooth.
Shinobi helped his father tie up the small boat to the two rusted metal cleats sunk into the concrete pier’s rough surface and carry their gear ashore. When he turned to the gray sea, he could watch the freighter moving away into the distance. A different boat would swing by in two days to collect them.
“How can this island be here, Father?”
Jiro Yashida hefted his pack and began walking up the rocks, toward the interior of the island. He spoke over his shoulder to his son in short bursts. “You know the maps. Think of the shapes. A long chain of islands connects Hokkaido to Russia’s Kamchatka peninsula. And Wakkanai points at the western tip of Sakhalin. Is it really so surprising to you that an island lies midway between Hokkaido and the eastern tip of Sakhalin?”
Shinobi considered his father’s logic, and found that geologically, the location of the island made perfect sense. “No. I understand, but the island does not appear on the maps.”
“Many don’t,” was all his father said.
They turned left and followed a coastal trail up along the rocks, twisting and turning through switchbacks, until the base of
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