Godzilla: The Official Movie Novelization

SEVEN

The trip took longer than Ford liked. It was late afternoon by the time they drew near an eerily deserted coastline. Miles of sagging perimeter fence extended into the choppy waters of a forgotten inlet. Posted signs, many of them showing obvious signs of age and weathering, warned repeatedly of fatal radiation levels. The official notices were in Japanese, but triangular metal signs also bore the international symbol for radiation: an ominous black trefoil against a yellow background. Ford recognized the view from some of the photos back at his father’s apartment. They had reached the perimeter of the quarantine zone. Somewhere beyond those fences were the contaminated remains of his childhood.

It didn’t feel like much of a homecoming.

A gruff smuggler, who had declined to volunteer his name, piloted a small skiff toward the fence. An outboard motor chugged quietly as it propelled the boat through the water. Ford contemplated the daunting warning signs even as Joe rescued their radiation suits from his duffel bag. Apparently he had purchased them on-line—” from a reputable dealer,” Joe had insisted.

Ford shook his head in disbelief. He was starting to wonder which of them was most crazy.

The skiff motored toward a stretch of fence that had sagged beneath the surface of the water, allowing the boat to pass over it unobstructed. The ruins of the abandoned city rose in the distance, visible in the early morning sunlight. No lights shone from the deserted skyline. Seagulls, braving the lingering radiation, perched along wooden pylons like avian sentinels. Ford wondered how secure the “Q-Zone” was if gulls could fly in and out — and a possibly deranged engineer and his idiot son could sneak ashore so easily.

The two men changed into the radiation suits. Ford would have preferred the armored bomb suit he wore on duty; the stiff green radiation suit struck him as worryingly flimsy by comparison. A dosimeter badge was affixed to his sleeve, but this did little to reassure him. Lord knows a suit like this had not saved his mom so many years ago.

The skiff pulled up to a rotting dock that was missing several timbers. Ford and Joe stepped cautiously onto the dock. The muffled tinkle of broken wind chimes, coming from a nearby shack, penetrated Ford’s bulky helmet. He guessed a breeze was blowing, although he couldn’t feel it through the suit’s heavy layers. The used helmet had a musty smell to it.

Joe leaned over to hand the smuggler a wad of yen. The man accepted the currency and, wasting no time, immediately turned the skiff around and put off for less perilous waters. Second thoughts assailed Ford as he watched the boat cruise away, leaving them behind. He resisted a sudden urge to call the boat back until it finally vanished from view. Ford and Joe traded looks through the transparent masks of their helmets.

They were committed now. In theory, the boat would not return until it received their call.

It was a long hike up from the coast, made slower by the heavy suits, which forced them to pause for breaks every half-mile or so. Ford was decades younger than his father, and accustomed to working in full body armor, but even he was exhausted and covered in sweat by the time they arrived at the outskirts of the city. The sun had begun to sink toward the horizon.

One hour, in and out, my ass, Ford thought.

Janjira was nothing like he remembered. Evacuated fifteen years ago, and cut off from the outside world ever since, the once-bustling community had become a ghost town overnight. Abandoned cars and trucks rusted in the empty streets. Weeds sprouted from the pavement, while moss and vines shrouded entire buildings. Mannequins sporting fashions from the late 90s kept silent vigil from shop windows. Newsstands displayed headlines that were over a decade out of date; apparently there was some concern about Y2K. A theater marquee advertised The Blair Witch Project.

Ford spied no evidence of vandalism or looting. Everything had been left exactly how it had been the day the reactor melted down, so that only time and decay had overrun the city. Ford found himself hoping they wouldn’t have to pass by his old school. His memories of Miss Okada’s classroom were fraught enough. He didn’t need to see it in ruins.

He figured they had the deserted streets to themselves, until a pack of wild dogs startled the men by padding around a corner. The canines looked mangy and malnourished, their coats dirty and matted, but they seemed to be surviving the Zone’s deadly radiation levels. Ford’s brow furrowed in confusion as he pulled his dad into a nearby alley to avoid crossing paths with the pack. Minutes passed before Ford’s heart stopped racing.

They took a detour around the dogs, then paused to catch their breaths. Ford tried to orient himself, but the rusty street signs, all in Japanese, were of little help. He didn’t recognize this neighborhood at all. No surprise, he thought, given that he’d been only nine years old the last time he’d lived in this city. He hoped his father’s memories were more reliable.

“Okay, which way?” He glanced around for Joe, who seemed to have wandered off. “Dad?”

A freeway overpass crossed the road before them. Joe paused in the shadow of the concrete supports and extracted a Geiger counter from his pack. Activating the device, he checked the gauge.

Nothing.

Joe smirked behind his faceplate. He tapped the gauge just to make sure it wasn’t stuck, but needle still didn’t budge. Next he consulted the radiation badge on his forearm. Sure enough, it was still green. Just as he’d expected.

He reached for his helmet.

Ford watched in horror as his father whipped off his protective helmet. Before he could do anything to stop him, Joe tossed the headpiece aside and sucked in a deep breath of the supposedly contaminated air.

“Dad!” he cried out. “What are you doing?”

A horrible thought flashed through Ford’s mind. Had Joe come all this way just to kill himself near where Mom had died?

But Joe didn’t look particularly suicidal. Instead a look of vindication transfigured his gaunt, careworn face. He pointed triumphantly at the telltale green radiation badge on his arm.

“It’s clean, Ford! I knew it!” Joe darted forward and showed Ford the readings on his Geiger counter. This was the most excited that Ford had seen his father in years. “The radiation in this place should be lethal… but there’s nothing. It’s gone. Something’s absorbing it.”

Ford didn’t understand. Everything he’d read or heard about the Q-Zone was that it was supposed to be completely uninhabitable.

He inspected his own green radiation badge and remembered those dogs running through street. He had no idea what could “absorb” all that radiation, but he didn’t hear any ominous clacking coming from the Geiger counter. Surely, the counter and the radiation badges couldn’t be broken?

He warily unzipped his own helmet. He took off the protective mask and held his breath for a long moment before inhaling. He waited for airborne particles to sear his lungs.

Elle is going to kill me for this, he thought ruefully, if the radiation doesn’t get me first.

“Trust me,” Joe said. “It’s completely safe.”

He certainly sounded confident enough. Ford folded up his helmet and tucked it into his belt, just to be safe. He had to admit it felt good to get the helmet off. A welcome breeze cooled his face.

Joe inspected the street signs. He nodded in recognition.

“It’s just left on the next street,” he promised.

“The one before or after the rabid pack of dogs?”

Ford was surprised, but probably shouldn’t have been, to discover that his father had held onto the keys to their old house all these years. Rusty hinges squeaked in protest as they entered their former home for the first time in fifteen years. It was dark inside. Vines and bushes had grown over the windows, as though reclaiming the home for nature. Dust, hopefully of the non-radioactive variety, coated the tops of tables and shelves. Cobwebs hung across open doorways. Ford brushed them aside as they worked their way through the murky house. His eyes struggled to adjust to the gloom.

Flashlight beams provided glimpses of long-faded memories. Trophies, souvenirs, a ceramic “lucky cat” figurine, and other knickknacks rested on a shelf, next to a photo of a young Joe Brody in a Navy uniform. A moldy box of breakfast cereal rotted atop the kitchen table. Report cards and art projects were magnetized to the refrigerator, whose contents had long since passed their expiration dates. Dirty dishes had waited in the sink for far too long.

Ford’s throat tightened. A rush of emotion overwhelmed him and for a few moments all he could to do was stand frozen amidst the deteriorating wreckage of his past, remembering happier days and how abruptly they all had ended. The last time he’d set foot in this house, his mom had still been alive. He glanced at his father, concerned that the poignant surroundings might be too much for him, but Joe Brody was a man on a mission. He headed straight for his old office without pausing to look around. If this place brought back painful memories for Joe, you wouldn’t know it from his determined stride.

Fine, Ford thought. Probably just as well.

Nostalgia drew him irresistibly toward his old room. The flashlight beam fell on scattered relics from his boyhood. He smiled wryly at the dusty collection of toys strewn across the floor. One particular toy soldier caught his eye: a miniature Navy man, just like he’d promised Sam.

Maybe this trip wouldn’t be a total wild goose chase after all.

He swept the beam across the room. A glass case reflected the light and he spied his old terrarium, which he hadn’t thought about in forever. Curiosity, and a flicker of an ancient memory, compelled him to investigate further. Shining the light into the terrarium, he was pleased to see that a dried and crumbling cocoon was split down the middle. As nearly as he could tell, the cocoon was empty, as though its former occupant had finally hatched after all, meltdown or no meltdown.

“Huh,” he muttered. How about that?

Joe knew what he wanted and he knew where to find them. Old memories and associations lay in wait all around him, poised to strike, but he kept them firmly at bay. Now was no time to wallow in grief and self-pity. He had a job to do — and possibly a disaster to avert.

The beam from his flashlight tracked across his desk, even as he searched his memory for exactly where he’d left certain items fifteen years ago. He remembered pacing irritably across the room, arguing with Takashi on the phone. The light exposed a primitive cordless phone from 1999 and a well-gnawed pencil beside it. C’mon, c’mon, he thought impatiently. Where the hell are you?

Just when he was about to curse in frustration, the targets of his search turned up: fifteen dusty zip disks scattered across the floor near the desk. He realized belatedly that they must have been knocked off the desk by one of the convulsive tremors or blasts from that morning. And that wasn’t all. Lying near the fallen disks were the printouts of that distinctive waveform pattern. His eyes traced the pattern, which had haunted his imagination ever since the meltdown. It was just as he remembered it: small peaks at first, then higher and higher, closer and closer together, until…

Don’t think about that now, he thought. Just get what you came for, while there’s still a chance to make people listen.

He gathered up the disks and printouts, carefully blowing off the dust as he stowed them securely in his pack. Once that was done, he did another sweep of the office just to be certain that he hadn’t missed anything. As nearly as he could tell, he had retrieved everything important, except—

An old family portrait, resting atop the desk, stopped him cold. He was held captive by the photo — of Joe, Sandra, and little Ford. Of his family as they once were: happy, loving, untouched by tragedy and estrangement. Before the catastrophe that blew his world apart.

For a moment, the rescued data was forgotten. He lifted the portrait from the desk, gazing at it intently. His hands shook and his eyes threatened to mist over. Lifting his gaze from the portrait, he noticed something bright and shiny over the doorway. Sunset, filtering through the vegetation obscuring the window, was reflected off a homemade banner strung across the arch:

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DAD!”

Joe stared numbly at the banner, instantly transported back in time. “He made you a sign, you know,” Sandra had said that morning. It all came back to him now. Ford’s overlooked banner. The surprise party that never happened.

All the emotions he had been fending off snuck up on him, ambushing him. His elation over finally recovering the disks gave way to a profound welling of regret. Sobered, but still determined to expose the truth, he tore his gaze away from the damning banner and stuffed the family portrait into the bag with the disks and printouts.

It was time to go.

He was sealing up the bag when, unexpectedly, the house came to life. Bells, buzzers, shrieks, and applause suddenly blared from the living room as the TV set turned itself on, breaking the silence with the hysterical din of some hyper-manic Japanese game show. At the same time, the desk lamp in the office crackled and sputtered only a few inches from Joe’s face, causing his heart to skip a beat. His dusty old computer booted up noisily.

What the hell?

Outside the office, the hallway lights were flickering, too. Unnerved by activity, Joe hoisted the duffel bag and went to investigate. Was it just a coincidence that this was happening now, around the same time that the cryptic signals had resumed? Joe didn’t believe it.

What if it was already too late… again?

He peered out the office door and made eye contact with Ford, who had just stuck his head out of his old bedroom. The two men looked at each other in confusion.

“Did you…?” Ford asked.

Joe shook his head. “No. I have no idea…”

A quick inspection confirmed the truth. Everything electrical in the house had powered up, from the lights and TV to the lucky cat figurine bobbing its paw. The aroma of scented oil from a miniature waterfall drifted from the bathroom, competing with the stale atmosphere of the house. Ceiling fans began to spin, shedding years of accumulated cobwebs. A light bulb popped.

The inane clamor from the TV grated on Joe’s nerves, making it hard to think. He moved to switch off the set, but had taken only a few steps when, without warning, the pictures on the wall started rattling. The ceramic cat vibrated off the bookcase and crashed to the floor, shattering into pieces. Just like Joe’s coffee cup at the plant fifteen years ago.

For a heart-stopping moment, he thought the tremors had returned already, but then he recognized the thundering whoomp-whoomp-whoomp of a helicopter flying low over the house. The chopper’s passage shook the rafters and the two men as well. They stared up at the ceiling in surprise, then back at each other. Neither of them knew why a ‘copter would be buzzing a house in the middle of the Q-Zone. It made no sense. This entire area was supposed to be a no-fly zone.

Then again, it was supposed to be a radioactive wasteland, too.

Joe decided that he and Ford were pressing their luck by sticking around. After his previous arrest, his old address might be the first house the authorities would search. They needed to get back to the docks with their prizes. In theory, Koruki, the pilot of the skiff, would be waiting for his signal to pick them up. Joe had promised the second half of his payment on their safe return to Tokyo.

But first: Joe took one last look around at the house where his family had once been so happy, where and Sandra had been together.

He suspected he would never set foot in it again.

The fading daylight did not make the return trip through the deserted city any less eerie. Lights flickered in the lifeless storefronts, while snatches of muzak or TV broadcasts escaped open doors and windows. Neon signs cast long, colored shadows on the weed-infested sidewalks. A clock tower started counting off the minutes again, for the first time in who knew how long. Ford didn’t like it. He preferred his ghost towns to be a little less animated, especially when he didn’t have a clue as to what was turning the lights back on.

I knew this was a bad idea, he thought.

Another helicopter buzzed by overhead, and the two men ducked beneath the tattered awning of a vacant sidewalk café to avoid being spotted. Ford tracked the chopper’s progress. It was flying northeast toward the horizon, where he now spotted what appeared to be a large metal structure in the distance. Glowing lights illuminated a towering assemblage of new scaffolding and facilities — right where the nuclear power plant used to be.

He looked to his father in confusion. “Are they rebuilding the plant?”

Joe stared at the distant complex intently, too transfixed by the sight to reply. You could practically see the gears turning behind his eyes as the former engineer tried to absorb this unexpected new development. And yet, Ford observed, his father didn’t appear to be too surprised to find something happening at the old site, just as he’d theorized earlier. For the first time in years, Ford actually felt like Joe Brody had a better grip on what was going than he did.

How weird was that?

He opened his mouth again, to ask his dad to explain, only to be interrupted by the unmistakable sound of an assault rifle being racked. Ford’s mouth went dry.

The men turned around to find a pair of uniformed Japanese soldiers standing behind them, their Howa assault rifles aimed at the trespassers. Neither soldier was wearing a radiation suit, just ordinary camo gear. They shouted at the Americans in a torrent of angry Japanese. Ford couldn’t make out what they were saying, but raised his hands in the air.

“What are they saying?” he whispered to Joe.

Belligerent expressions conveyed a lack of hospitality. More choppers thundered past overhead, heading for the mysterious new facility.

“We’re screwed,” Joe said.