by Paul Bishop
I regarded the pistol whimsically. “What exactly am I supposed to be a doctor of?”
He shrugged. “Whatever you wish.” He grinned. “A Doctor of Fecalogy, perhaps? You’ve always been good at dealing in bull.”
A note from the Editor
The Biodome Stories
The following stories are taken from ZooTube, the cyber-home of a plethora of movies, tv-series, games, and tales inspired by the Zoo. All are entirely fictional and bear only a partial resemblance to the legendary jungle that has spawned a huge commercial industry almost overnight. As such, they are not considered a part of Zoo canon or even a part of the official Zooniverse.
We have, however, included them for your reading pleasure because we know people are utterly enthralled by this vast and still largely unexplored jungle wonderland. Like all the other ‘myths and legends’ promulgated on ZooTube, they have enormous entertainment value.
But enter at your own risk… It’s a fact that even a tiny taste of the true Zoo is enough to pull you in and keep you going in for more. Once the Zoo has taken hold, it simply doesn’t let go.
If these stories have piqued your interest (read fascination) for the real Zooniverse, we have great news. It can be explored alongside the intrepid and courageous characters who face what it has to offer head-on in the following series: Apocalypse Paused, Birth Of Heavy Metal, Soldiers of Fame And Fortune, Team Savages, and The Bohica Chronicles.
The Hybrid
A Story From The Biodome by
Michael A Black
The Hybrid
The dreams came almost every night now—vivid, intense, and brightly colored.
Colors swirled, all kinds of colors that assailed the senses, a green hell interspersed with bright swathes of red, orange, yellow, blue, and purple. Sunlight filtered down through the thick canopy of rows of massive twelve-foot-high toadstools. A luminescent glow seeped from the various creatures in the darkness. Tenacious, looped tendrils as sharp as razor blades hung from trees with stiletto-like upward-pointing leaves like deadly punji sticks on the ground.
It was like nowhere else on earth. The intoxicating and overpowering aroma of sweet fragrance mixed with a bitter astringency as thick as a fog. Circling swarms of locusts the size of dogs hovered in the air. A myriad of other insects nagged incessantly, ubiquitous and constant, with their unremitting chirping. The only real respite came in the sudden silence that foreshadowed an imminent danger about to spring. It could be the insidious slither of the carnivorous vines in search of human prey like predatory incubi. A mismatched menagerie of beasts, some with four eyes and horns sprouting from panther-like skulls, might be punctuated by the intermittent roars of the larger, dinosaur-sized creatures. The jungle represented evolution gone wild with danger everywhere—an ersatz Garden of Eden where none of the rules applied.
Natural selection at its worst.
No, not natural selection. Unnatural selection.
Always, the dreams ended the same way. He was in there among the predatory effulgence, clad in his battle armor and holding his rifle, acutely aware that something would happen but totally unable to escape. Something was out there and it was hunting him. The images of the dead—Murphy and Raulk—loomed in front of him and their faces twisted from a look of mirth and merriment to one of sheer terror. In the next moment, they dissolved as an undefined lumbering darkness swallowed them both. Their cries for help extended into an indistinguishable range as their bodies disappeared under a torrent of viscous, flesh-dissolving fluids. He would raise his rifle as the massive anomalous threat advanced but the trigger wouldn’t move, no matter how much pressure he exerted.
Pull...harder... Pull...
As always, his efforts were futile.
The undefined blackness was upon him.
That was how Lassiter awoke, night after night. It had been more than three, he realized. He was without prospects, almost totally out of money, and had no way out. In desperation, he’d even sold the last of his body armor and equipment to pay the rent on his cheap eight-by-twelve room, which was more of a cubicle than a temporary residence. Still, it felt as permanent as a coffin.
He snatched a rag from the nightstand, wiped the residual sweat from his face, and glanced at his watch.
A quarter after midnight.
Vaguely, he wondered what time it was back in the world and specifically, in Chicago. Probably early afternoon of the previous day. What he wouldn’t give to be able to go back in time to before his first trip into the Biodome. More than anything, he wanted to go back to before the adrenaline rush of seeing it for the first time and being lured in by the mysterious sounds which were as seductive as a siren’s wail.
If only it were that easy.
Lassiter retrieved his camouflaged shirt from its place on the back of the chair next to the bed and smelled the armpits of the garment. It was musty but passable. Besides, social amenities were the last thing of importance where he planned to go.
He pulled his pants and boots on, stood, and slipped the shirt on. The last of his currency was still in his pocket and he removed it with a grimace. It was close to crunch time, and he had nothing left to sell, not even his expertise.
Lately, none of the merc teams had gone inside. Even the big game hunters intent on a huge tusked monster were rumored to be staying away. Of course, they’d mostly bribed their way in on the Chinese side, so it was impossible to tell if there were still teams of them that still ventured in. Rumor had it the bottom had unexpectedly dropped out of the Pita market due to a recent worldwide glut of the special miracle petals. Not that he cared. He was ready to leave, go home, and face whatever dim prospects awaited him there. To do that he’d need funds, unfortunately, and the only way he could get them would be to go back in. It was like being caught in an endless loop.
The question of what to do next continued to linger. It was, as Winston Churchill once said, a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.
The answer was METRO where drinks were waiting.
Lassiter locked the door of his room behind him although there really was little point because there was nothing of value left to steal. However, not all predators were inside the three concentric containment walls of the Biodome. There were many men as down on their luck as he was—men who’d slit your throat in the hopes of finding a few pennies inside your gullet.
Outside, the heat swept over him, even though it was the witching hour.
There in the Sahara, they stupidly called it a dry heat, which implied no humidity. That was true, at least until you went inside. The interior of the Biodome defied logic.
The wind stirred and drove tiny granules into his face. He squinted and wished he’d had the foresight to have not sold his safety goggles.
Sand, wind, and more sand—that was all this damn place was. But not inside the walls. In there, it was a vibrant jungle in the middle of the largest desert in the world. It was beyond crazy. The ironic juxtaposition seemed impossible at first, but that was before his five trips inside—five too many. He didn’t intend to make another one, but how the hell would he get out of there? The riddle wrapped in a mystery inside of an enigma reasserted itself once more.
The street was deserted except for the roving groups of Legionaries who patrolled in tricked-out Humvees. Perhaps that was an option—joining the French Foreign Legion. He stopped the thought cold. The goal was to get out of this godforsaken place, not spend more time there in indentured servitude.
A few of the buildings had lighted windows but for the most part, the street of the dilapidated little community was dark. It was little more than a shantytown. The buildings originally thrown together to house and service an army of invading mercenaries were quickly filled with the usual assortment of leeches and hangers-on in the form of equipment stores, pawnshops, money lenders, and currency exchanges. There were a couple of banks to store saved wages which would probably never be withdrawn, plus restaurants, bars, and the inevitable assortment of pimps,
prostitutes, and gambling dens. As the months and years dragged on, the shantytown began to undergo some slow metamorphoses. Some of the more established buildings took on a more fortified look. The banks even had safety deposit boxes. But an aura of cheapness and transience was still pervasive. Nothing was permanent or built to last. It was all a big pit stop, and that seemed to include the huge, two-story building that loomed in front of him now.
METRO, the slightly off-kilter sign on the front of the building advertised.
It wasn’t the only bar in the French section, but it was unanimously rated the best with good whiskey, nice girls, and conversation if you wanted it. And if you wanted solitude, as Lassiter did now, it was available too. It offered something for everyone.
He pulled the door open and entered. The place was full. Like some long-ago Las Vegas club, it never closed and the occupants simply came and went in an endless flow. Various groups of men sat at the assorted tables arm wrestling, talking, laughing, and drinking. A few more gobbled peanuts from bowls or ate hastily prepared meals from the less than clean kitchen in the rear.
Mercs, he thought, all waiting for the next chance to step inside the walls and hopefully come out alive and a little richer.
The long mahogany bar was polished to a fine shimmer. The mirrored wall behind it held a variety of bottles of all shapes and sizes that contained some of the best booze in the entire area. The second level of rooms was offset behind a decorative banister where the pretty ladies of the night plied their trade. He knew he didn’t have enough to seek any comfort or pleasure there.
At best, he was limited to one drink, unless AJ, the bartender and proprietor, felt magnanimous enough to extend him credit. The chances of that were as likely as making a pet out of one of those four-eyed panthers with the antlers.
The man studied him as he walked up to the bar. Without asking, the bartender removed a bottle from the rack in front of the mirror and set a glass on the counter. He squirted the silver nozzle of a hose from behind the bar into the glass and uncapped the bottle of amber liquid.
“The usual?” AJ asked.
Lassiter nodded, fumbled in his pocket, and set two coins beside the glass.
“Do you want me to leave the bottle?” the barman asked as the whiskey mixed with the water. His face was expressionless, framed by its coarse mane of gray hair and beard.
“Not unless it’s free,” he said.
The space around AJ’s dark eyes crinkled slightly. “When pigs aviate.” He picked the bottle up and replaced it on the shelf. “There were some guys in here earlier looking for you,” he added.
This piqued Lassiter’s interest slightly. Maybe work was coming his way. More likely, it was someone with an ax to grind. Making enemies was an unavoidable everyday occurrence in this place, the inevitable outcome of too much testosterone and too little tolerance. Virtually everyone had a chip on their shoulder and was always ready to dare someone to knock it off.
“Did they say what they wanted?”
AJ shook his head. “One of them was a big brute and sounded like a Brit maybe. He was with a skinny white guy and a bald black guy.”
The limited description rang no bells for him but it raised the hackles on the back of his neck. He knew no Brits, nor had he had any run-ins with any of them. Of course, in this place, the enemy of your friend was your enemy as well. It was easy enough to tread on the wrong set of toes and not even be aware of it.
He decided it would be prudent to have his one drink and keep his eyes open on his way home.
Home—a strange way to describe his stifling cubical. And if it was someone intent on delivering a beating, he wouldn’t be hard to find if you greased the right palms.
Lassiter looked at the distorted mirror image of his reflection between the lines of bottles behind the bar and grimaced at the old soldier he’d become. Was this his life? Getting out of bed at midnight because he was afraid of sleep. Going down to the local pub to spend the last of his money on a bourbon and branch water, only to end up worrying about whom he had offended enough to put someone on his tail looking for retribution.
It was pitiful, but the facts remained.
He was stranded there, almost out of money, short on nerve, and with no way out. The question echoed in his mind. How the hell could he get out? Sooner or later, he’d have to find something or take another trip inside. And deep down he knew, one way or the other, it would be his last.
The first swallow of the bourbon went down hot and burning. Liquid fire seared his esophagus and burned his stomach. It was perfect.
The front door opened, and three men came in. They were all good-sized, but the one in the middle was a giant—six-seven and at least three hundred pounds. He didn’t look fat. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up over massive upper arms the size of a normal man’s legs. The other two—one black with a shaved head and the other a slender white guy with a scraggly goatee—looked fit as well.
Mercenaries.
A big brute, AJ had said. The size looked right and the way the three of them stopped and conferred in muffled conversation convinced him these were the mercs who’d asked about him. The big man broke away from the other two and sauntered to the bar. He slid up to Lassiter’s left side and eased a haunch onto the stool there.
“G’day, mate,” the big man said. His accent was noticeable.
Not English, Lassiter thought. Australian.
He didn’t reply because he wasn’t looking for new friends or new enemies, no matter where they came from. And his bourbon glass remained half full, unlike the glass his life was in.
The newcomer leaned closer.
“The name’s Milton. John Milton.”
Lassiter’s lips twitched as lines of poetry from his long-ago college literature class unrolled in his mind. He spoke. “Then with what trivial weapon came to hand, the jaw of a dead ass, his sword of bone, a thousand foreskins fell.”
“Foreskins?” the big Aussie said with a laugh. “What gives, mate?”
“It’s a line from a poem by your namesake. Samson Agonistes.”
Milton had an expectant expression on his face. “I don’t think I caught your name.”
He brought the glass to his mouth, took a slow sip, and lowered it. “That’s because I didn’t throw it.”
The man smirked. “I heard you Americans were taciturn so I didn’t expect a smart-ass scholar.”
“I studied to be an English professor before I went into the Army.”
A huge hand clapped his shoulder. “What do you say we step outside and grab a couple of fags?”
He looked at him askance. Milton raised an eyebrow and snorted a quick laugh as he withdrew a pack of cigarettes from the upper pocket of his shirt. “That’s Aussie slang for cigarettes.” He held the pack toward him and he shook his head.
“I don’t smoke.”
His companion heaved a theatrical sigh and shook his head. “Not one of your vices, eh? I heard that too. Very well, mate.” He straightened and his large head nodded fractionally.
The two other men who’d entered with him came over.
“These are my associates, Armand and Pierre.”
The black man’s heavy lips parted in a smile to reveal a row of even white teeth. He’d moved so close, he could smell his pungent body odor. Milton’s grin grew wider and he said something in what sounded like French. Armand nodded.
Lassiter started to push away from the bar but felt the uncomfortable hardness of a gun barrel in his right side. He stiffened.
“Armand’s from Algeria,” the Aussie said. “Pierre’s from Marseilles. We were all Legionaries together.”
“And may I introduce my little friend,” the black man said. “He is Italian. Pietro Beretta.”
“What do you want?” he asked.
Milton shrugged. “Like I said, let’s step outside, all four of us. We have a business proposition for you.”
“What kind of business?”
Armand leaned closer, th
e pungency of his odor more redolent now as he spoke in heavily accented English. “Mon ami, I grow tired of dis game. My hand does, also. So, do as my big friend says, or I will blow a hole in your side—wit much regret on my part.”
He took a deep breath and swirled the rest of the bourbon in his glass. He looked down the long bar toward AJ, but he was serving another customer. Not that there was any hope of him interceding. The course was clear. He knew he was on his own, for the moment at least, so he drained the remainder of the whiskey and stood.
“Let’s go,” he said.
As they turned, Armand rotated slightly, his right hand still inside the pocket of his shirt. Milton was on Lassiter’s right, and Pierre walked slightly in front of him.
A big mistake, he thought as he looked up at the second level, basically a row of rooms behind a fancy railing.
“I’ll be damned,” he said and raised his right hand to point. “Look at her.”
As the others looked instinctively, his clenched fist delivered a hammer blow to the right side of Armand’s face, centered on the temple. The Algerian stumbled and began to bring his right hand out of the pocket. Lassiter’s left hand fastened on the other man’s arm and yanked down as he stepped back, then rammed the bald head against the bar. The black man dropped and Lassiter whirled and delivered a solid hook into Milton’s gut. He put his body into the blow, exactly like he’d been taught in the countless hours he’d spent in the MMA gyms. It felt like he’d collided with a bag of powdered cement mix.
The big Aussie grunted and sagged. Obviously, he’d not anticipated the punch.
Lassiter pivoted and caught Pierre in mid-charge. A hard right-cross landed on the tip of the Frenchman’s jaw and he went down like a clothesline unraveling. Armand was on all fours now so he brought his right leg up into a hard kick. The Algerian gasped as the air left his lungs. Vomit exploded from his mouth and he fell forward onto the repugnant puddle, gasping for breath. With a hasty step aside, he turned and drove another right to Milton’s oversized jaw.
