Apocalypse Frontier (Apocalypse Squad Book 1)

by A. J. Allan

  Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  Epilogue

  Author's Note

  Copyright

  Dedication

  To both my grandfathers, who fought in the true hell of World War II and defended freedom and respect for all, and all my cousins who are serving or have served.

  Prologue

  Corporal Buck Andrews, with thousands of clips unloaded, hundreds of friends dead, several haunting memories, a few personal scars, and one single task, laughed as the face of Death bared its bloody fangs and made its final stand on Fiora.

  He laughed. Because what else could a man do when facing creatures capable of decapitating a man with a single blow? Or capable of destroying an entire city with advanced weaponry? Or capable of torturing him for fun in his dying moments?

  He laughed. Only through laughter could Andrews keep his sanity in the heat of this gruesome assault on the neagala, the first alien enemy humanity had ever encountered. And boy had they ever proved to be an enemy from hell. The average neagala grew to eight feet tall, bore soul-penetrating yellow eyes, bone-piercing fangs, and weaponry that rivaled all of the galactic armory humanity had brought to the TRAPPIST-1 system. Andrews imagined panthers from Earth had gone bipedal, gained the intelligence of man, and retained the viciousness of a hungry cat in the jungle.

  But mostly, he laughed because he feared the neagala. He feared their capabilities. He feared that this, the supposed final assault to annihilate the species and allow humans to live in peace on Fiora, would mark not just the end of the neagala but also all life on Fiora. He already knew all too well what the enemy could do.

  “Bring it!” Andrews yelled as the neagala at the entrance of the enemy’s last base raced toward him.

  The neagala bounded forward, zig-zagging at about a hundred feet out. Andrews’ HUD tried to track the enemy’s movements and predict its next motion, but ever the Luddite and simple warrior, Andrews ignored it. He relied instead on intuition developed through years of combat and training without depending on technology that could break at any moment.

  He saw it.

  The neagala tucking its hind legs under it instead of leaving them stretched out. That move signaled that the creature would pounce on him instead of darting to the side. The HUD would never pick up on something so subtle, and many soldiers had paid the price. At best, they suffered broken ribs. At worst, they faced a painful death in which the creature’s claws would dig into their stomachs, ripping guts and intestines out, leaving them to bleed out on a foreign land, dozens of light-years away from the comforts of home cooking and spouses.

  Andrews fired his M-34, unleashing a torrent of bullets into the creature just as it left the ground. The bullets’ momentum prevented the monster from reaching him, and it crashed to the ground dead about five feet in front.

  “Fucking cat shit!” Andrews roared.

  “Move, move, move!” his squad leader, Staff Sergeant Jack Nichols, shouted. “Clear the entrance!”

  The orders from his commander, the man he’d served under since the day war had started, shook him out of his hatred. Andrews had a mission, and the mission required that he move past his disgust toward the dead enemy at his feet.

  He and the rest of Apocalypse Squad made their way into the compound. More neagala awaited them. More death. More bullets. More claws that tore through human skin like a chainsaw through warm cheese. More fighting. More hell. More war.

  The compound, compared to what Andrews and the rest of Apocalypse Squad had expected to come across, was not an especially difficult building to infiltrate. It had no windows, eliminating the concern about snipers or surprise attacks. The neagala might still jump from the roofs to crush the soldiers, but years of war had taught humans the enemy’s patterns and prepared them accordingly. Instead of defending the rear and flanks on a two-dimensional plane, they now more than ever had to factor the third dimension, but once inside, it became a 2-D battle once more.

  A man screamed about fifteen feet to Andrews’ right. When Andrews found cover, he glanced back and saw the man gurgling, blood spewing from his neck. For half a second, Andrews felt the agony of loss in his heart. Private Kumar, a man waiting for his wife back home, a man who had plans to handle software support for Mass Media, the global VR company that kept 90 percent of humanity in a virtual world at all times, would not see a future beyond the next ten seconds.

  But Andrews pushed that pain away. He could grieve later. The neagala would not grant any human a chance for any emotion. Only silence, a defeated enemy, and rum on the rocks would grant him that opportunity.

  An air strike came in. An S-4, a newly designed space bomber, landed a perfectly-placed bomb on the rooftop of the complex, wiping out many an enemy who had planned to drop in behind the soldiers. As soon as the dust cleared, the soldiers moved in, advancing down two levels and toward the last remaining neagala on the planet.

  One tried to surprise Apocalypse Squad as the troops entered. It managed to seriously injure Marco Towns, a private from Texas, but a well-placed shot from Andrews killed the cat and Towns, though in severe pain, could continue.

  They came to a heavily fortified door, almost certainly the resting spot of the neagala leader, Rufasa. Andrews looked to Reanna Bat-Ari, a tougher-than-nails woman from Israel and the go-to bombs expert, to plant some pliable C-4 on the door. Once she had placed the weapon, the men backed up, always on the alert, always watchful for incoming neagala. There was only one entrance that they saw, but the speed with which the cats moved made it all but impossible to assume any entrance was ever completely guarded.

  The C-4 went off moments later. Andrews and two other members of the squad laid down cover fire, taking out anything that planned on using the noise and smoke from the bomb to surprise the humans. A few loud yips came from within.

  “Clear!” Staff Sergeant Nichols yelled.

  The men moved in and found a single neagala standing inside. This one bore gray markings around its face in addition to the black, thick coating all neagala sported. It stood on its hind legs with pride, even as one leg shook. It stared at the humans with a strange mixture of hatred and sadness.

  “Identify yourself!” Nichols shouted.

  “You know who I am,” the creature said in surprisingly perfect English. Though the animals had developed an understanding of English, almost none of them spoke it. Most spoke in a language that sounded more like growls and tongue-clicks than human speech. “I am Rufasa. And, by the work that you have done, I am the last of my kind.”

  “You’re coming with us,” Nichols growled, approachi
ng the enemy slowly, even as the enemy bore no weapons and showed no signs of the quick-strike capability that distinguished its species.

  The creature laughed. It did not sound like a maniacal laugh, or the kind of laugh that Andrews had all of… less than five minutes ago? It sounded resigned.

  “I’m not going with you. I am not going to allow you to parade me around Earth to show humanity’s conquest of lands it does not need. No. I know your history. I know the nature of your kind. I will die here along with my children. I will make sure our race dies with pride.”

  “You don’t get a say in this, Rufasa,” the commander said, his voice disdainful. Even though Andrews could not see the neagala as anything more than wretched, vile monsters, he could at least respect the principle behind Rufasa, if not the one executing it.

  “So typical of you, human, to assume you will get your way because it is what you expect,” he said, followed by a deep cough. “You will today. When I die here, you will have annihilated our species. Fiora is yours. But…”

  Rufasa seemed to intentionally leave the word hanging.

  “But what?” Nichols said, and though he kept his voice steady, Andrews noticed the distinct lack of intensity from before.

  “Anyone who takes what is not theirs and who murders in the name of conquest must eventually answer to the gods,” Rufasa said. “And these are not your gods. These gods are merciless and unforgiving in establishing the galactic order.”

  “If I wanted a preaching about religion, Rufasa, I’d let Jehovah’s Witnesses in to my home. Soldiers! Take him!”

  Three guards, including Bat-Ari and Towns, moved in on him. Rufasa sighed and began to drop to his knee.

  Only because Andrews had learned never to trust a single movement of the enemy did he survive the next moment. He glanced down at the ground where Rufasa would drop. The stone looked enough out of place that Andrews knew what was about to happen.

  “Move out!”

  He grabbed his commander and dropped back, but it all happened so fast no one else had a chance to heed his words. A bomb exploded when Rufasa’s knee hit the ground, immediately incinerating the bodies of Towns, Bat-Ari, and one other soldier, DeAndre Rodick. Other soldiers in Apocalypse Squad suffered blows to the head from bomb debris and died before they hit the ground.

  Andrews and Nichols flew through the air. Andrews was lucky enough that he went past the open door, rolling on the ground upon impact, defusing the worst of the blow. Nichols’ face smacked into a jagged edge on the door, ending his life on the spot.

  Andrews rose slowly, the cackle of fire and the smell of smoke obnoxiously powerful. He was the only one to survive. No one else so much as groaned.

  The war was over. The neagala had fallen.

  But it had come at a dear price. The loss of his girlfriend was what started the war in the first place. It’s what convinced him to join the United Galactic Military rather than live life in the virtual luxury of Mass Media, as a body in a biopod living off of the pleasures of virtual reality. The loss of his friends had kept the war going, ensuring that peace would not come until one race had fallen. And now, the loss of his squad had ended the war.

  For the first time since he began fighting, Corporal Andrews allowed the emotions of the moment to sweep him up in tears. Nothing he could do would bring his friends and his girlfriend back. No amounts of parades, magazine covers, medals, and promotions could make up for the horrors and hell that had descended upon his life for the last five years.

  He would be called a hero. But he’d learned quickly that war had no heroes. Only the dead and the survivors.

  1

  They stood at the edge of the lake, peering at the gorgeous white snow-capped mountains that looked to be a mere half-hour hike away. They admired the light blue sky, as cloudless and clear as an Earth sky had been for many years. They crossed their arms, stood straight—after years in the military, they did not remember how to slouch—and smiled at the calm, still waters of Lake Yellowstone.

  They were Privates Matthew “Mav” Lopez, Jenna “Lifts” Irons, and Steve “Silencer” Jordan of Apocalypse Squad, two best friends since childhood and a boyfriend, admiring the planet that their predecessors had saved five years to the day tomorrow. One had joined because of family. One had joined because it stirred the soul in a way no other path in life could. And one had joined for fear of winding up in a false existence—an existence inside a giant warehouse on the outskirts of a once largely populated city.

  After the introduction of Mass Media in the year 2090 as a way to deal with over consumption of resources, every human under the age of 65 had three options. They could enter into a vast warehouse, connect to a bio-pod, and live out the remainder of their lives in virtual reality. They could serve in the United Galactic Military. Or they could buy their freedom.

  The immediate result was rioting in the streets, destruction of wealthy areas like Beverly Hills and London. But over time, the UGM corralled, kidnapped, or killed those who opposed the order. Within five years, 90 percent of humanity had entered into a BP and become one with VR. The remaining 10 percent either served in the military or bought their way to freedom, choosing either to stay on Earth and enjoy the surplus of free space or to travel through the galaxy via wormholes to far away planets—sometimes both.

  Of course, on their first trip, to the TRAPPIST-1 system, war had broken out. But no one besides the military ever saw war. The rich saw war as another problem to outsource and ignore. If war reached the ships of the 1 percent or the plains of Africa or Asia, the military had failed. The plus side was that the military no longer needed public support, because there was no public to offer or withdraw support. But it also meant that for soldiers like Lopez, Irons, and Jordan, all they had was each other. Marrying someone outside the military became the exception, not the norm, and squads and platoons were made not just on the basis of skill, but personal history together.

  None of this was even the worst part of the world Lopez lived in.

  But on this day, as quite possibly the only humans within the confines of Yellowstone National Park, Lopez would not worry about that. He would not wonder when, if ever, he would get to stop being a fobbit and actually see combat. He wouldn’t worry about keeping up appearances with Irons. He wouldn’t wonder if his lieutenant squad leader actually liked him or not.

  For now, with just a little over 24 hours to go on his leave, he would enjoy his home planet before shipping back out to the drudgery and darkness of space.

  “I’ll bet you boys I could swim across this lake and back before either of you,” Irons said with an elbow to both.

  Jordan merely grunted as a sly smile came across his face. Lopez turned, wearing a mocking expression of shock, and shook his head in an exaggerated gesture.

  “Lifts, you couldn’t beat me in a lake if you had no drag and I carried the Churchill around my ankles.”

  “Is that so, Mav?” she shot back, turning and coming close to his face. “How confident are you in that?”

  “As confident as I am in everything.”

  Irons rolled her eyes. She looked to Jordan for help, but he just watched, never one to speak unless absolutely necessary. Irons turned back to Lopez, her arms still crossed, her mind racing for something worth gambling on.

  “Next time they put me on latrine duty, you have to take my place.”

  Lopez just laughed.

  “So the day after the ball, basically,” Lopez said. Irons was not amused, but even she could not deny how her smart mouth got her into trouble more often than it made her look witty. “And what do you do if I beat you?”

  “I’ll get you my uncle’s finest scotch and cook you steak.”

  “Really,” Lopez said, trying not to let his excitement show. Irons cooked a steak better than any artificial chef could, somehow providing that lovely Australian touch that made her steak the most delectable item in the galaxy. The scotch barely even mattered. “That’s fucking ballsy, Irons. You thi
nk your uncle is gonna let you have his scotch?”

  “Who said anything about asking permission?”

  “Irons…” Lopez said, placing his right hand on his head, though he was smiling at the same time. “Fine. But. If your uncle catches you and we all suffer for it, I get permission to do an hour of offensives during CQC.”

  “Deal,” Irons said, holding her hand out and shaking his hand. They both gripped as tightly as they could, refusing to let go until someone blinked and pulled back. It was a game they had played since Irons had immigrated to California with her parents to be closer to extended family. It was a game that, if they had kept score, likely would have an even number of wins and losses.

  Today, though, perhaps knowing they wouldn’t get the chance to play this game again for quite some time, they pushed past their normal level. Their hands turned red. Their breathing intensified. Lopez sought nothing more than to break Irons’ hand, and Irons wanted to prove she hadn’t earned her call sign just because of the time she got stuck in an elevator on the UGM Churchill. Lopez and Irons became so entangled with each other they wouldn’t have noticed if the neagala had sprung back to life or if Jordan had just decided to leave them.

  But finally, with a slight twist, Lopez got Irons to buckle.

  “Fucking shit!” she said, leading to laughter from Lopez and even Jordan. “You little bastard. Fine. I’m still gonna kick your ass in the lake.”

  “I don’t even care after that,” Lopez said through gasps, a statement that he quickly decided was a lie. Why let Irons have a shot at redemption when he could push her down further? “So, let’s be clear. If I win, you get me scotch and a steak. I want T-bone.”

  “Of course, it’s gotta be the biggest, done.”

  “And if somehow we invent teleportation like in Star Trek and you beat me, then the next time you get latrine duty, I have to take your place.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Silencer, you good with being the judge?”

  “Aye,” he said, his first words in hours.

  “Good. Then—”

  But Irons didn’t wait to hear anything else Lopez said. She tore her clothes off as she ran, stripping down to her underwear, and jumped in the lake.