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here?”
    “Tillamook State Forest,” Collins says in her best ‘chill out’ voice.
    “In Oregon,” Joliet says, doubling the effect of Collins’s statement. “It has nothing to do with us.”
    “You heard the report,” Hawkins says. “A turtle with eight legs and a tail.”
    The description is instantly familiar. Hawkins’s BFSs. The Big Fucking Spiders. We have a detailed account of what happened to him and Joliet during their stay at what they call ‘Island 731,’ where a surviving group of World War II Japanese scientists called Unit 731—responsible for some of the worst atrocities and human experimentation ever performed—continued their research under the supervision of a clandestine group within DARPA. Lilly, and her monstrous mother, who was actually named ‘Kaiju,’ were a direct result of that genetic research, which also created a variety of monstrous chimera, the worst of which were the BFSs. Part spider, part turtle, part who-knows-what, the creatures had eight legs, were protected by a turtle’s shell and had prehensile tails with scorpion-like stingers at the end. They were able to reproduce rapidly, by injecting their spawn into the guts of their victims. The young would tear free, fully grown and able to breed, within a minute. They were a nightmare scenario, as deadly as a Kaiju, but spread out. Impossible to stop.
    “And it has everything to do with us,” Hawkins continues. “They’re not going to find us here, but we can find them there.” He turns to me, eyes blazing.
    These are the people who committed some of the worst crimes against humanity, and they weren’t World War II scientists. They were modern-day, American scientists working for the government. In the past year, while subtly seeking them out, we’ve found nothing. They’re buried deeper than I can look without being noticed. But now...
    “I made you a promise,” I tell Hawkins. “Looks like it’s time to deliver.”

 
     
    4
     
    “Tell me, how do you feel?”
    Sean Johnson’s eyes fluttered open. Hazy white filled his view. “What? W—where am I?”
    “You’re safe. How do you feel?”
    “Cold.”
    “Understandable.” To Johnson, who felt like he might fall back asleep, the man’s voice sounded colder than the chill wracking his entire body. He had never felt such pervasive coldness, down to the marrow.
    “I can’t feel my body,” Johnson said. “Did something happen?”
    “Something? Yes. But your back is fine, if that’s what you were thinking.”
    A ghost-like apparition slid across Johnson’s view, white on white. Just a subtle shift in the light ahead. “I’m having trouble seeing.”
    “It’s from the cold. Nothing to worry about.”
    “Why am I cold?”
    “You’re safe,” the man said. “Are you experiencing any pain? Anything at all?”
    “I t-told you,” Johnson said, teeth chattering, “I can’t feel anything.”
    “Good. That’s good.”
    Johnson’s exasperation grew. He couldn’t feel. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t really see. “W-why is it good?”
    “Still nothing?” the man asked again. “Nothing at all?”
    “No, I—” But then he could feel something. It wasn’t pain. It was...like lifted weight. He felt lighter...and a steadily increasing sense of tiredness. “Is something happening?”
    A sigh. “Mr. Johnson, I’m normally remiss to discuss the particulars of what I do with my...patients. But given your situation, I feel that full disclosure poses no risk. Do you understand?”
    “No. No I d-don’t. What’s happening? Where am I?”
    “You’re back at DARPA,” the man said.
    “In Virginia?”
    “Oh, no. Not remotely. We are still on the West Coast. But that’s hardly the most interesting line of questioning. You’re no doubt feeling something now? ”
    Johnson tried to look down, but found himself unable. “I can’t move my head.”
    “You’re restrained.”
    “Why?”
    “It’s better for you.”
    “Why? What’s happening to