Calm Before The Storm (Apocalypse Paused Book 6)

by Michael Todd

  Calm Before The Storm

  Apocalypse Paused™ Book 6

  Michael Todd

  Michael Anderle

  Calm Before The Storm (this book) is a work of fiction.

  All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Sometimes both.

  Copyright © 2019 Michael Todd, and Michael Anderle

  Cover copyright © LMBPN Publishing

  A Michael Anderle Production

  LMBPN Publishing supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact support@lmbpn.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  LMBPN Publishing

  PMB 196, 2540 South Maryland Pkwy

  Las Vegas, NV 89109

  First US edition, February 2019

  The Zoo Universe (and what happens within / characters / situations / worlds) are Copyright (c) 2018-19 by Michael Anderle and LMBPN Publishing.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Author Notes - Michael Anderle

  Connect with Michael Todd

  Other Zoo Books

  Books written as Michael Anderle

  Calm Before The Storm Team

  JIT Readers

  Kelly O’Donnell

  John Ashmore

  Jeff Eaton

  Peter Manis

  Micky Cocker

  Paul Westman

  Editor

  The Skyhunter Editing Team

  Dedication

  To Family, Friends and

  Those Who Love

  to Read.

  May We All Enjoy Grace

  to Live the Life We Are

  Called.

  Prologue

  Deep within the dark womb of the realm that had given her life, the queen waited. Things had improved. She and her children and their beautiful, beloved homeland had all suffered greatly at the hands of the parasites, the destroyer-species. There had been losses and setbacks, failures and disappointments. But, ultimately, she would have the victory. Her side would still win.

  In the mud between a pair of twisted roots, a few larvae—about the size of her foot—twitched and wriggled. They were so young, so vibrant and full of life, and would grow up big and strong. And, she was now confident, they would grow up in a world that was suitable for them. A world that was entirely green.

  It was dark and shady there. The eyes through which she saw were still the eyes she’d had in her previous life. It was regrettable, but the jungle could not give her everything. At least, not yet. Soon, she would be one with the forest, and through it, she too, would grow and thrive and prosper.

  Her ears still worked well, however. She heard the writhing larvae more than she saw them. There were other sounds, too, all around her.

  The odd buzz of things on six legs with two pairs of wings that hopped about in their insectile way and flapped their wings from time to time. The creatures were ready to swarm in a great feeding frenzy to destroy and sweep away the things the parasites had made. They would form the vanguard of the coming crusade of new and verdant life.

  She listened and identified those with eight legs and one tail, armored warriors who would resist the enemy’s attacks and gather supplies of much-needed biomass to feed and strengthen them all.

  Interspersed with these sounds were those of the creatures with four legs and one tail—two types of them, actually. These furry animals were fast and powerful, hunters and reavers that would pick off the stragglers.

  Beyond these animal noises, the muted chorus of the vegetation added harmony. Some plants moved and savaged with their powerful jaws while others spat painful death. Another creeping species neutralized the lumbering iron beasts, while others simply grew to spread life and lushness everywhere.

  And under and over and between all these other sounds was the voice of the Zoo itself—the faint breathing, the pulse of its unified mind and will, the biological imperative stronger than any the destroyer-species could muster. Their time was up. Their age was at an end.

  Something tingled at the back of the queen’s neck, and a wave of euphoria washed through her to fill her with pleasure and satisfaction as she imagined an Earth that was wild and free and verdant again. A planet where all life was welcome, rather than so much of it wiped out or enslaved by a single, arrogant, upstart race that had covered the face of the world with their greed and filth.

  She had been one of them, once, and the memory—dim though it was—now filled her with shame and confusion. In her old life, she had been a healer, but her respect for life had been too narrow. She had really cared only for the other parasites whom she, in her ignorance, regarded as her brethren. Her beliefs had evolved and her consciousness had expanded. Her mind had changed along with her body. For the better, she was quite certain.

  In the dirt, the larvae continued their innocent dance. Soon—very soon—they would grow into pupae and then into adults to join their comrades in battle. The time when they had to hide there, waiting silently, was almost over. The time when they would rise was nigh. She and her children would ascend and claim what was theirs.

  The queen of the forest did not move, but she felt the movements of all those living things that were bound to her and which obeyed her imperatives while she cared for them and their bright, bright future.

  Names and faces flashed briefly before her mind’s eye. One she had called “Father,” and one she had called “Mother.” She recalled “Wallace” and “Chris.” And others, but all faded almost as soon as she remembered them. They were part of a past life and a passing age. For the good of the planet, they and all others like them had to die.

  “Soon, little ones,” she said softly and heard her own voice echo like a multitude of whispers wafted on the jungle breeze. “Soon.”

  Chapter One

  “Quiet,” Sergeant Erik Wallace muttered as he patrolled. “It’s so damn quiet. Again.” It was odd. Until the last three weeks or so, it had never been particularly peaceful there. He’d been continuously busy ever since he’d arrived in North Africa—so busy he was lucky to still be alive.

  Darkness had fallen a little over an hour ago. Back home in the US of A, they would have been deep into autumn by now, at least in most of the country. The days would be shorter and a little chilly and the nights would be cold. There in the southern Sahara and well within the tropics, however, there was only the slightest variation in the seasons at all. The length of the day fluctuated very little from one season to another, as did the temperatures. Days were still blazingly hot—barely less than in the summer. Nights were cool but not frigid, which was typical of the desert from what he’d heard.

  What wasn’t typical was the thick, dark, vibr
antly green jungle beyond Wall One, barely ten miles or so from this base. It sprouted directly from the lifeless sand and spawned its own strange plants, its own deadly creatures, and even its own rivers, landforms, and weather.

  But lately, it had been bizarrely at peace.

  He passed a sentry, a young private. The man slouched and looked half asleep. “Keep your guard up, Private,” the sergeant ordered as he strode past. “You never know when those things might attack next. If a locust swarm gets past you because you nodded off…”

  “Sorry, sir.” He immediately snapped to attention.

  Wallace nodded and moved on. He caught the young private staring out of the corner of his eye at his suit as he passed.

  At least he still had a suit. After the injury to his spine and legs months before during one of his early missions into the Zoo, he had been fitted with a prototype exoskeleton. This covered most of his lower body and part of his torso. A headpiece controlled everything and allowed him to do things like radio his superiors and broadcast his voice through a built-in megaphone. The suit also enabled him to move faster, jump higher, hit harder, and aim straighter. He was virtually superhuman when he wore it.

  Three weeks earlier, though, a mercenary team had infiltrated the Zoo. After killing Wallace’s entire unit, they deactivated his suit and stripped it off. He’d been forced to fight back while still half-crippled and the suit was assumed lost.

  Later, it had been located. The mercs had stashed it on a small mesa within the jungle, presumably with the intention to retrieve it on their way out but they’d never had the chance. Of course, it had needed some repairs, but Audrey “Jimmy” James, the base’s best mechanic and Wallace’s friend, had obliged.

  The sergeant finished his inspection of the perimeter of the American base situated near Wall Two. While still under construction, this wall was the critical line of defense against the ever-encroaching jungle and vigilance could mean survival. The Zoo was a creative enemy and could, at any time, find a way to undermine their efforts to hold it at bay. Satisfied that all was as it should be, he strode indoors, and his exoskeleton hummed faintly in time with his mechanical gait.

  He entered via the door that led to the Research Division. The whitecoats had all basically wrapped up for the night, although a young intern-esque guy still hung around and talked to Dr. Marla Kessler, their head scientist. Wallace did not particularly like her. Nevertheless, she had been their current expert on the Zoo and its creatures ever since Chris Lin had left.

  “Dr. Kessler,” he said and walked toward her.

  She looked at him, her face set in one of her two expressions—the Irritated Frown—which she used whenever she was forced to condescend to someone who wasted her time. Her other expression was the Nasty Smirk, which she used when she had her way or while she tested weapons on Zoo creatures. Her dark hair was wound tightly in a beehive. “What?” she asked.

  “The Zoo has been abnormally quiet lately,” Wallace stated. “Do you have any insights as to what the reason might be? Ever since the mission against that merc team a few weeks back, our forays into the Zoo have gone off without a hitch. There haven’t been any attacks against Wall One. We haven’t seen many of the usual creatures around, and there hasn’t even been any new plant life spawned that we can see. It’s a good thing, yeah, but definitely strange.”

  “Well,” she sighed, “it’s probably simply slowing down. Organisms that reproduce very quickly tend to have short lifespans. They’re dependent on rapid spread for their species to prevail. We’ve successfully contained it, so it’s likely that has slowed it down. It’s run its course and now, it’s dying off. Finally.” She turned to the wide-eyed intern, a clear message that the conversation was over and that she wasn’t willing to answer further ignorant questions.

  Wallace nodded and walked away. Kessler was an enormously unpleasant individual, but she was fairly knowledgeable and her assessment made him feel slightly better. Maybe they really were winning. Maybe all the deaths hadn’t been for nothing and this alien incursion into their world would fail and Earth would be safe.

  Then again, the Zoo had lulled and deceived them before.

  At the end of the day, however, it wasn’t his job to know the inner workings of the alien jungle. His job was to keep everyone safe. And at that, lately, he had succeeded.

  As news of the Zoo’s existence—and its implications and importance—had spread around the world, more and more civilian personnel and foreign troops had arrived at Wall Two to get involved with the management, processes, and observation of the place. Because things had been secure and peaceful and calm, more and more of those same new personnel had gone on to Wall One, right at the edge of the Zoo, to set up temporary bases and camps. Increasingly, the old-guard soldiers had begun to feel almost unwelcome and unneeded.

  Wallace left the research area and proceeded down the white plasteel halls, their lights now halfway-dimmed, and scanned everything along the way for any signs of trouble—anything that might require his attention. He passed a few other sentries and a few scientists, bureaucrats, and service workers. He saw nothing important.

  After a moment, though, he heard something that appeared to be a disturbance from the mess hall. It definitely sounded like a fight.

  “Those idiots,” he muttered under his breath and picked up the pace to move at a trot in that direction. His suit whirred more loudly with the increased effort. The troops had been restless lately. They didn’t have enough to keep them occupied but the testosterone had continued to flow freely.

  As Wallace pushed through the doors into the dining area, he immediately realized that something else had flowed a little too freely, too.

  “You’re a fucking bitch-ass faggot-face motherfucker!” said one of the two big bruisers who faced one another surrounded by a small ring of onlookers. He swayed a little, and his voice was slurred.

  “Yeah, well, I know you are, but what am I?” the other, smaller one replied. He sounded equally inebriated and confirmed this when he giggled stupidly.

  “Hey!” Wallace shouted and made his way toward them. The spectators saw his approach and made “oh crap” faces as they backed away or parted for him.

  Unfortunately, however, the two antagonists ignored him. They were totally focused on one another, and one of them was about to strike. It was merely a question of which one. With his teeth gritted in irritation, Wallace prepared to bodily haul the smaller one—who was still almost as big as he was—aside if need be. Who the hell had smuggled alcohol in there? Someone was in deep shit.

  The smaller man’s hand suddenly lashed out and smacked the enormous man on the jaw. He giggled again. His adversary’s eyes bulged.

  Shit.

  “Knock it off!” Wallace snarled and his suit whirred as he interposed himself between them. His intervention came barely in time to intercept the large man’s punch. The sergeant pivoted quickly and turned the man’s momentum against him in a simple Judo move. The Titan stumbled into his own swing, tripped over his feet, and collapsed to his knees. One of his elbows and his hip knocked into Wallace’s side and back with a fair amount of force in the process.

  “Hey!” the smaller guy yelled, rank apparently forgotten in his drunkenness. “I was supposed to be the one to kick his ass, dickhead!” His hand lashed out again.

  The sergeant’s hand was faster. The man suddenly crumpled on the ground, his wrist probably broken, and bawled in pain and shock.

  Dammit. He hadn’t intended to injure one of his own men, but a private trying to punch an NCO was absolutely not to be tolerated. Also, he didn’t particularly want to have his nose broken again. It had barely begun to heal.

  “You goddamn morons,” he berated in a hard tone. “Who the hell said you could drink on duty? Huh? It sure as shit wasn’t me. One of you dipshits,” he said to the small crowd of observers, “get a medic in here immediately and take this guy to the infirmary. And you,” he said to the gargantuan PFC who struggled to scram
ble to his feet, “go to bed immediately and prepare for punishment detail tomorrow. Just because things have been quiet around here lately doesn’t mean we can slack off and act like goddamn teenagers using the cafeteria sporks to measure whose dick is bigger. We’re literally guarding the Earth against a fucking alien invasion here. Do not forget that again.” He glared around the hall and made sure everyone saw him and heard him. They all did judging by the almost deathly silence that met his reprimand.

  Wallace helped the guy whose wrist he’d snapped onto his feet, and he waited for the medic to arrive once three nervous-looking men had scampered off to find one. He glanced at the injured man’s name tag, which read Parker. He shook his head.

  Stupid little fights like this broke out constantly, although this was the first time that alcohol had been involved. It was a bad sign. He didn’t drink, in general, but he wouldn’t have minded a shot of whiskey right about then.

  After a moment, Corporal Glassner, a friend of Wallace’s and probably the best medic they had, arrived and took a look at the sobbing private’s wrist.

  “Yup, it’s broken,” he said, and his tall figure stooped as he examined it. “He’ll be out of commission for a few weeks. How the hell did this happen?”

  “Self-defense,” the sergeant grumbled and tried not to blush with shame. He’d only meant to neutralize the attack, not break the man’s wrist. They didn’t exactly need a soldier incapacitated for weeks, even if he had started a fight by being an arrogant asshole who had completely lost all discipline.