Greg Cox - Godzilla - The Official Movie Novelization

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.