Praise for
INVASIVE SPECIES
“Joseph Wallace’s Invasive Species cost me a perfectly good night’s sleep. This thief of a story, like its majizi, overwhelms and parasitizes quickly in its complete zombification of the host’s Self. This swift summoning hurtles the reader into the long dreaming days, the last terrifying madness confronted at your own mortal peril, and the inevitability of death. What more could an infected host ask of a story? I hope Wallace carries a screenplay of Invasive Species in his hip pocket; he’s going to need it.”
—Bill Ransom, author of Jaguar and coauthor (with Frank Herbert) of The Jesus Incident
“Wallace’s unsettling, mind-bending apocalyptic novel chillingly dives into what happens when the balance of the world is disrupted and an invasive species grabs the reins. Terrifying and, yes, poetic, this is a novel that gets under your skin with an ‘it could happen here’ kind of chilling grace.”
—Caroline Leavitt, New York Times bestselling author of Pictures of You and Is This Tomorrow
DIAMOND RUBY
“A very special book. The comparisons to A Tree Grows in Brooklyn are not made lightly: Joseph Wallace deserves that accolade and many more. Ruby is a wonderful, memorable character and Wallace’s prose is a perfect match for her.”
—Laura Lippman, New York Times bestselling author of Life Sentences and What the Dead Know
“The exciting tale of a forgotten piece of baseball’s heritage, a girl who could throw with the best of them. A real page-turner, based closely on a true story.”
—Kevin Baker, author of Strivers Row
“Diamond Ruby is a gem! Moving, fascinating, and ultimately exhilarating. I loved it!”
—S. J. Rozan, Edgar-winning author of The Shanghai Moon
“Lively and entertaining . . . includes all sorts of colorful characters and fascinating social history . . . the story of an unassuming, courageous young woman who uses the national pastime to become a pioneering heroine in a man’s world.”
—The Washington Post
INVASIVE SPECIES
JOSEPH WALLACE
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
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A Penguin Random House Company
INVASIVE SPECIES
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2013 by Joseph Wallace.
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
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For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-63596-4
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley premium edition / December 2013
Cover photos by Shutterstock/Getty Images.
Cover design by George Long.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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In memory of Dad, who shared his love of nature with me, and Mom, who put up with the consequences.
And to my brothers, Jonathan and Richard, my comrades in turning over countless mossy stones and rotten logs to see what wriggled and slithered beneath.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
When do you start writing a novel?
For me, that’s a complicated question. My novels usually begin with a combination treasure hunt/rummage sale: I am always accumulating offbeat facts, long-lost stories, and memorable details, usually with absolutely no idea when—or if—I’ll be able to use them in a book. Then one day, out of the blue, a story comes together in my mind, and I’m able to say, “Now, that’s why I kept those knickknacks around!”
I remember the most important inspiration for Invasive Species. It was a riveting essay whose title and author escape me (maybe one of you out there can help), detailing the author’s move from the familiar northeast to a Texas farm filled with snakes and lizards and other wildlife unlike any he’d ever seen before.
The vignette I remember most vividly involved a wasp: a two-inch-long tarantula hawk, named for the spiders it would paralyze to feed its young.
The author was lying on a deck chair, watching the enormous wasp drag its paralyzed prey toward its lair. Three times, the author poked at the wasp with a stick, wanting to see if the tarantula, left alone, would revive.
The first two times, the wasp rose in the air and circled around before returning to its prey. The third time, however, it made a beeline straight to a spot three inches in front of the author’s face. Lying back in his chair, he was helpless. If the hawk had wanted to unleash its excruciating sting or bite, he couldn’t have stopped it.
Instead the wasp just hovered there, staring into his eyes. The message was clear: I’m giving you another chance. You do that one more time, though, and you’re dead meat.
Then it flew back to resume its task. And the author, his heart pounding, left it alone.
Interspecies communication between two apex predators at its clearest: a smart, agile, venomous predator telling a human what was what, and the helpless human understanding—and heeding—the warning.
That was where Invasive Species began.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
You can’t develop a long-remembered vignette into a novel without a ton of help. As always, my deepest gratitude goes to my wife, Sharon AvRutick, for many years now my first and most trusted reader. You would not believe how messy my books are before she sees them for the first time.
My children, Shana and Jacob, put up with my tendency to describe over dinner various fascinating, oft-disgusting things about bugs. Then again, they’re used to me by now.
I’m grateful to my fellow members of the Marmaduke Writing Factory for gathering, renting the basement floor of a local historic house, and giving me access to the windowless conference room (“The Cave”) where this novel was written. It’s the best “writers’ retreat” I’ve ever attended.
When you spend most of your time alone in a cave, though, you come to crave human company. Thank goodness for the existence of the Black Cow Coffee Company in Pleasantville and its manager and baristas, including Linton, Emily, Michelle, Danielle, Jianna, Mike, Natalie, Emma, Austin, and Steven. I’m grateful to all of them for putting up with me after my solitary stints writing about the end of the world.
Thanks also to my high school writing students, who always inspire me: Cary, Becca, Violet, and Benji. Special gratitude to Emmalisa Stangarone, who began the year as my writing student and (while also finding time to sing, act, study, and apply to college) ended it as my research assistant. You’ll see the results of her investigations into various topics—ranging from terrifying emerging diseases to bizarre ca
rgo cults—in my forthcoming follow-up to Invasive Species, currently called The Slavemakers.
You can see Emmalisa herself in the book trailer for Invasive Species, which can be found at josephwallace.com.
What would I do in these uncertain times without Deborah Schneider, my literary agent? For years now, she’s been my sherpa through an ever-shifting publishing environment, putting up with my moods and the fact that I don’t ever seem to write the same kind of book twice. My lifetime dream was to publish a novel; if not for Deborah, I doubt it would ever have happened.
I’m so glad that Invasive Species landed with Berkley. It’s been a pleasure to work with my editor, Natalee Rosenstein, her assistant, Robin Barletta, and the rest of the team. Every journey to publication should be like this one.
If you’re interested in learning more about me and Invasive Species, check my website (josephwallace.com), my writing group’s blog (marmadukewritingfactory.com), and my YouTube channel. You can also follow me on Twitter @Joe_Wallace and find me on Facebook at facebook.com/joewallacewriter. Hope to see you!
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Epilogue
ONE
Casamance Region, Senegal, West Africa
THE SINGLE-PROP BUSH plane sliced through the base of a towering cumulus cloud and emerged into the brilliant tropical sunshine. Sitting in the shotgun seat, Trey Gilliard took in the explosion of colors: golden light turning the base of the clouds silver, a sky of the deepest purplish blue, and below, the vast, rumpled green expanse of rain forest.
Malcolm Granger’s voice came over Trey’s headset. “Looks like broccoli.”
Trey had heard this before. They’d sat side by side in this two-seater Piper PA-18 many times over the years, Malcolm fighting through wind shear and thunderstorms and clear-air turbulence and air currents that could slam you into the ground like a fist, all to help Trey find what he’d come to see.
“I effing hate broccoli,” Malcolm said.
Trey had heard this, too.
“Lower,” he said.
He saw Malcolm frown and glance over, his mirrored shades catching the sunlight. But Trey knew he wouldn’t have to ask twice. This was what it was like, being Trey’s pilot. You did what he said or you flew with him once, kissed the ground when you landed, and never let him near your airplane again.
Malcolm was one of the few pilots who’d come back. In fact, if Trey called, he’d cancel whatever else he had on his schedule and haul this little Piper—or one of the other bush planes he owned—over to whatever forest, desert, or mountainside Trey had staked out.
“What’s the fun in life,” Malcolm told anyone who asked, “if you don’t try to end it every once in a while?”
The sound of the engine changed, grew rougher, as the plane slowed and dipped toward the forest canopy. From above, the carpet of leaves seemed as soft as a huge bedspread, but this was a fiction. Guide your plane into it, and you’d find out soon enough exactly how soft it was.
People in Trey’s line of work—and there were a few—had found out. He didn’t need to learn it for himself.
Still . . .
“Lower,” he said.
Trey was his own boss. He chose when to work, where to work, what he wanted to do.
He knew how lucky he was to be able to live this way, since no one in their right mind would hire him full-time. There were only a few people left on earth who, like Malcolm, could put up with him.
Over the years, though, a few organizations had figured out a way to use what he offered: an aggressive intelligence untethered to common sense; a willingness to take whatever chances were necessary to achieve his goals; and the ability, above all, to plunge into the wilderness, see everything there was to see, and report back on what he’d found.
Turn the wheel of Trey’s personality just one or two degrees, and he might have ended up a mercenary, a soldier for hire. He’d met enough of them on his travels and could see the similarities—foremost, a disdain for staying in one place, for following the rules, and for most of humanity.
The difference was small, but crucial: Mercenaries liked to kill, and Trey didn’t.
Instead he preferred to save. To preserve. Which was why he was here now, in this remote region of Senegal, just beyond the line where the savanna ended and the rain forest began.
To see what was here. To see what was worth saving.
The organization paying his bills this time was called the International Conservation Trust. ICT. When they could tolerate working with him, they’d send him to some remote region and gladly forget about him for a while.
He’d disappear into the wilderness, and when he emerged weeks later, gaunt, dirty, sometimes ridden with parasites or feverish from disease, he’d report on what he’d found. What birds were new to science. What endangered mammals were making their last stand. What bizarre eyeless salamanders writhed through pitch-black caves. What plants, whose blooms or seeds might give birth to medicines that could cure cancer, clambered for the light in untracked swamps.
In an age of massive destruction, Trey told them where they should spend their precious resources.
Then off he’d head to another wilderness.
Staying sane, barely, only because he could spend most of his time where no one else would go.
“What do you see?” he asked.
He heard Malcolm laugh. They were fifty feet, no more, above the canopy. The plane bucked and slewed in the warm currents rising from the breathing leaves.
“Trees, Thomas,” Malcolm said. “One fuckin’ tree after another.”
Malcolm was the only person who called Trey “Thomas.” Though it was his name: Thomas Hunter Gilliard III.
Trey.
Malcolm pointed with his chin. Trey nodded. He’d seen it, too: a small troop of colobus monkeys, their thick fur red and black against the green. Six of them perched in the canopy’s branches, looking up at the plane roaring past them.
Before Trey would disappear into the forest, he and Malcolm would undertake this kind of survey from the air. I
CT called them Emergency Assessments, and what they did was allow Trey to identify the least damaged areas. Only then would he return on foot and begin to inventory what was there.
He and Malcolm had been flying a grid here in the Casamance forests for five days. So far Trey had been disappointed. The forests seemed tainted to him, impure. Sure, there were giant kapok trees, monkeys, beautiful birds, an abundance of butterflies down there. But also fresh clearings made by human hands, smoldering fires, and other signs that the forest was being plundered for wood or cleared for farms and pastures.
Maybe he’d come too late. He should have been here five years ago.
He lifted his gaze and felt himself grow still inside. “The hell is that?”
Even over the headset, Malcolm heard the change in Trey’s tone. Following the direction of his gaze, he turned the plane to the west. The sound of his low whistle reached Trey’s ears.
Perhaps two miles ahead of them, a large expanse of forest was dying. Bare trees looked like contorted skeletons, their branches pointing to the sky like accusing bony fingers. The leaves that remained were yellowing, sickly. As Trey watched, a gust of wind whirled some of them into a dust devil, leaving another bare branch behind.
“Ugly,” Malcolm said.
Trey was silent.
“I’ll take us north and back east,” Malcolm said.
“No.” Trey took a breath. “Maintain course.”
“But—”
Trey knew. The dying forest lay beyond the boundaries agreed to by ICT and the Senegalese government. It was outside the grid. Trey and Malcolm didn’t have permission to fly over.
“Maintain course,” Trey said again.
Malcolm kept the Piper flying west. The dying patch of forest, miles in extent, drew closer.
Trey leaned forward, his gaze unwavering. Trying to see, to understand. Was there any kind of industry here? Had some oil pipeline burst, some mining-operation tailings lake overflowed?
Trey couldn’t understand how. He could detect no roads leading from the edge of the inhabited land, five miles to the north, to this stricken forest.
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