Zombie Galaxy- the Outbreak on Caldor Read online

  Zombie Galaxy: The Outbreak on Caldor

  Copyright © 2015 by Scott Reeves.

  All rights reserved.

  Cover image by Tithi Luadthong @shutterstock

  Also available in audio from the major audiobook retailers

  Books by Scott Reeves

  The Big City

  Demonspawn

  Billy Barnaby’s Twisted Christmas

  The Dream of an Ancient God

  The Last Legend

  Inferno: Go to Hell

  Scruffy Unleashed: A Novella

  Colony

  A Hijacked Life

  Flames of the Sun

  The Dawkins Delusion

  The Newer New Revelations

  The Miracle Brigade

  Tales of Science Fiction

  Tales of Fantasy

  The House at the Center of the Worlds

  The Chronicles of Varuk: Book One

  Soldiers of Infinity: a Novelette

  Welcome to Snowybrook Inn

  Liberal vs. Conservative: A Novella

  Zombie Galaxy: The Outbreak on Caldor

  Temporogravitism and Other Speculations of a Crackpot

  A Crackpot’s Notebook, Volume 1

  Death to Einstein!

  Graphic Novels:

  The Adventures of Captain Bob in Outer Space

  Billy Barnaby’s Twisted Christmas: The Graphic Novel

  YouTube channel:

  http://www.youtube.com/TheBigScaboo

  Twitter: @scottareeves

  FREE Star Trek short stories by Scott Reeves on Wattpad:

  Star Trek Voyager: Phantoms of the Mind

  Star Trek TOS: Warp Speed

  Star Trek TNG: Final Requiem

  Star Trek Voyager: Home

  Star Trek TNG: The Haunting of Orgala 512

  Star Trek TNG: Leap of Faith

  Star Trek Voyager: Intrepid Voyagers

  Chronology

  2032 AD

  Final Islamic Caliphate conquers Earth

  Rule of Anti-Christ

  2034 AD

  Second Coming of Christ

  First Apocalypse War

  2034 AD

  Caliphate defeated

  Start of Millennium

  Golden Age

  3102 AD

  End of Golden Age

  Christ overthrown

  Second Apocalypse War begins

  3109 AD

  War ends

  Galactic Age begins

  3407 AD

  Transmat invented

  3500 AD

  Star Union founded

  4000 AD

  Star Union initiates Galactic Calendar

  0912 GY

  Outbreak on Caldor

  Third Coming of Christ

  Christ returns to Earth

  0913 GY

  Great White Throne

  Christianity universal

  Eternity begins

  Prologue

  Blaine Hardwick

  January 12, 2032 AD

  Pre-Galactic Mars

  Doctor Blaine Hardwick cycled through the airlock of the inflatable habitat and stepped out onto the dusty surface of Mars. In the late-afternoon sun, the looming mass of the Face cast a long, cool shadow over the habitat.

  He loped toward the tunnel that the expedition had blasted into base of the enigmatic mesa. Just outside the tunnel, he met up with Sergeant Bolton, who was putting the finishing touches on the barricade that had hastily been thrown up this past day by the trio of soldiers stationed with the expedition. Up until now, three soldiers had seemed like three too many. Now, Blaine was worried that they wouldn’t be enough.

  “Think it’ll hold?” Blaine asked the hulking man. Even Bolton’s spacesuit seemed to be rippling with muscles. Blaine had been marveling at that for the six months the expedition had been digging around in the ruins. Both his own suit and that of the other scientists was flabby and wrinkled. Yet the suits were the same ones the soldiers wore. Why did the soldiers look so much better in theirs?

  Bolton shrugged. “We’ll do our best to keep them out.” He tapped a bank of wicked-looking machine guns that pointed away from the mesa, covering the Cydonian plain. “Of course, these babies can only hold them off well enough if they come at us from the ground. My hunch is they’ll hit us from orbit, without ever setting foot on the surface. That’s how they took out the eastern seaboard back home.”

  Blaine had not heard that. Or he may have, and the fact simply hadn’t registered in his preoccupation with the ruins. All that he really knew was that the United States had fallen, and they were on their own. The Earth was millions upon millions of miles away, a remote concern. The ruins were here. The ruins were Blaine’s priority.

  Blaine gave a laugh of false bravado, waving off Bolton’s concern. “They wouldn’t dare. They’re not fools. They know what these ruins represent. They don’t want to destroy them. No, Sergeant, they’ll come down here and try to take them from us, trying to do as little damage to the site as possible.”

  There was a hiss of static on the radio connection as Bolton said, “Sounds like a bet to me. Ten chocolate bars says you’re wrong and they nuke us from orbit.”

  Chocolate bars, an extremely precious commodity in the widely scattered Martian colonies, had become a de facto currency.

  “That’s not a fair bet. For you, that is. If you win, you’ll never be able to collect.”

  Bolton thrust his hand closer to Blaine, insistent. “Do we have a bet?”

  Although Blaine could barely see the sergeant through the reflective glare of his helmet, he imagined that the man was chewing on a stubby, unlit cigar, as usual. “Na. I couldn’t take your bars like that,” Blaine said.

  “Are you kidding?” Bolton said. “These are the same guys who destroyed those statues of the Buddha in Afghanistan. They don’t respect history. They’re going to wipe us out from orbit. So it’s a safe bet for me. Come on. Bet?” Bolton held out his hand.

  Blaine looked at the extended hand. “What the hell kind of defeatist attitude is that? Aren’t you supposed to be some sort of inspiration for your men?”

  “He’s got a point, Sarge,” said Corporal Thompson, emerging from the tunnel and taking up a position next to one of the machine guns. “You’re betting against our survival. I’m not feeling very inspired right now.”

  Bolton ignored the corporal. “Come on, Doc. Let’s shake on it.”

  Blaine gave in and shook the extended hand. “Very well, Sergeant. We have a bet. But for the record, I’m only accepting the bet for the benefit of young Corporal Thompson here. He needs to know that one of us, at least, has confidence in our chances in the impending confrontation. I shall provide the inspiration you so woefully deny him.”

  “Gee, thanks, Doctor Hardwick,” said Thompson.

  “That’s the problem with you, Doc,” Bolton called as Blaine headed into the tunnel. “I can never tell if you’re deadly serious or just being incredibly witty.”

  “Eyes on the sky, Sergeant,” Blaine said. “They should be here any time now.”

  He passed through the dimly illumined passage. The walls were rough and chalky, dry. Just as the light from the tunnel mouth was fading, a new light appeared ahead. He emerged into the huge, perfectly square cavern that extended the entirety of the length and breadth of the interior of the Face; an artificial cavern with walls that had been carved with laser-fine precision by some ancient and now-vanished race. The glossy marble floor was etched with Hebrew text—some ancient Hebrew scripture scrawled across nearly one square mile.

  Three weeks ago, a team of linguists had been about to launch from Cape Canaveral. But then thing
s had gone to hell back on Earth, and their rocket never made it off the launch pad. Now, it pained Blaine to realize that they might never know what the text said. They might never solve the puzzle of how something written in Hebrew could be part of an apparently alien ruin that they had dated at half a million years old.

  Blaine had gotten over his initial wonder at the place weeks ago, settling himself into his professional, objective mode. Or so he liked to delude himself.

  At the center of the cavern was an immense block of some cloudy, half-transparent material they had not yet been able to identify. The block was exactly sixty cubic feet.

  As Blaine entered the cavern, one of the grad students was standing before the block, gazing at the immense, monstrous thing embedded within it like a mosquito trapped in amber.

  Delia Delgado, it was. He couldn’t see her face through the back of her helmet, of course, but he knew it was her. In the same way that Bolton’s muscles rippled the sergeant’s spacesuit, Delia’s magnificent ass was recognizable even through her suit.

  She, of course, could not hear his booted feet scuffing across the floor to know that he had entered the chamber. But as soon as he entered, the radio transmissions from his helmet were no longer blocked by the walls of the cavern, so his breathing suddenly became audible to her on the common channel, joining the chorus of breaths and chatter from the other scientists scattered throughout the cavern.

  She turned to face him.

  “Doctor,” she said, pensively wringing her gloved hands. “We can’t let them have this place!”

  “We won’t,” he assured her. “Now, Delia, I’ve just received word from the survivors back home that the Caliphate ship left Earth two days ago. They should be here within a few hours. I’m going to insist that you load one of the buggies with enough supplies for yourself and flee to Baris. They’re Caliphate, but I’ve already spoken to them, and they’ve agreed to take you in. They won’t even make you take their damnable oath.” Yet, he silently added.

  “I’m not going anywhere, Doctor!” she said vehemently.

  “Delia, please! In all likelihood, we’re going to die here.” Now who was exhibiting the defeatist attitude? “Save yourself.”

  “Look, you sexist bastard,” she hissed. “What were you, born in the 1950’s? This place means just as much to me as it does to any of you freaking men, and I’m willing to die for it. So don’t you dare tell me to high tail it out of here again.”

  “Come on, you two, quit your bickering,” came the voice of Professor Max Galen over the radio. “You sound like an old married couple.”

  Seconds later, Galen came striding around the western corner of the huge block.

  “They’re going to be here even sooner than we anticipated,” Blaine told the senior-most member of the expedition.

  “I know,” Galen said. “I already heard you tell our beautiful young protégé.”

  Delia stalked away, grumbling, “I’m surrounded by chauvinists and horny old goats.”

  “Hey, which of us is which?” Blaine asked, watching the jiggle of her magnificent ass.

  “Fuck the both of you,” she said, giving them the finger as she disappeared into the tunnel mouth, apparently heading outside.

  “Anytime, anywhere,” Galen said. Fortunately for the aged professor, their transmissions were now blocked by the intervening walls of the Face, so she never heard his lecherous comment.

  Blaine gestured at the supplies stacked haphazardly in the far corner of the cavern. They were bringing everything in from the habitat, preparing for a siege. “Is it all in here now?” he asked.

  “As far as I know,” Galen said. “One of the undergrads is in charge of it, and I haven’t gotten around to asking him yet.”

  “For God’s sake,” Blaine said. “Do I have to do everything myself? I thought you were supposed to be in charge, old friend. Where is he?”

  Sergeant Ignatius Bolton

  January 12, 2032 AD

  Pre-Galactic Mars

  Meanwhile, from behind the barricade just outside the tunnel mouth, Sergeant Bolton watched as a lander settled to the ground beside the expedition’s habitat.

  “Son of a bitch was right,” Bolton muttered.

  “You don’t have ten chocolate bars, do you, Sarge?” asked Thompson.

  “Of course not,” said Bolton.

  Thompson clucked his teeth reproachfully.

  The lander was larger than the habitat, sleek and streamlined—a real beauty of a ship. Who would have thought the Muslims had been capable of such advanced feats of engineering? Who would have thought they’d been capable of a lot of the things they’d done over the last year? They had practically conquered the entire Earth, for Christ’s sake.

  When the dust whipped up by the lander’s engines had settled back to the Martian soil, a hatch in the belly of the ship popped open and swiveled to the ground, becoming a ramp leading up into the ship.

  Bolton raised his M16 as he saw shadowed movement within the dark maw at the top of the ramp.

  Then a tall, gaunt man strode down the ramp, swarthy, dark-haired, with a thick black beard. He wore a flowing white robe.

  The three soldiers behind the barricade gaped at the man as he strode across the Martian sand toward them. He wasn’t wearing a spacesuit!

  The man stopped halfway between the lander and the barricade and raised his arms, causing the sleeves of his robe to slide down to his shoulders, baring his hairy forearms. “Peace be upon you,” he said in English, his voice booming over the common channel of their radios.

  Bolton squinted through the scope of his rifle, examining the man. “You see any tech on him?”

  “No,” said Corporal Doons, the third of the trio of soldiers, who was manning the second machine gun.

  “Then how the hell is he talking to us?” muttered Bolton. “This is fucking impossible.”

  “Lower your weapons, please,” the man commanded.

  The man radiated presence. His robe, his entire person, seemed gloriously brilliant in the light of the Martian afternoon. Bolton felt a tug at something primal deep within him, and was sorely tempted to obey the command. But he resisted.

  Thomspon stepped back from his machine gun.

  “You fucking get back to your post, corporal!” Bolton shouted, without taking his eyes or his rifle off the distant figure.

  Thompson reluctantly returned to his gun.

  “I am Isa,” the man said. “Servant of the most glorious Muhammad ibn Hasn Al-Mahdi, peace be upon him. Confess your faith in us, and our light will shine upon you forever.”

  “Who the hell is that?” a female voice suddenly interjected.

  Bolton glanced behind him. Delia Delgado stood in the tunnel entrance. He could barely see her face behind the visor of her helmet. The reflected Martian landscape and the robed man were about all that was visible on the dark, curved glass.

  “Dammit!” Bolton said. “Delia, go back inside. Things are about to get ugly out here.”

  “My Lord!” Delia said, her voice suddenly filling with reverence.

  The man, Isa, stretched out a hand toward her. “Come, child.”

  And before Bolton could stop her, she slipped past the barricade and ran out to the man, threw herself to the ground at his feet.

  “My Lord Jesus!” she said, kissing his sandaled feet.

  “I am he,” said the man, touching her helmeted head and smiling briefly down at her. Then he looked back to the barricade. “Again I say, lower your weapons and come forth. Confess yourselves to Allah, and live forever in his Kaliphate.”

  Sweat broke out on Bolton’s brow. His finger tightened on the trigger of his M16.

  “So be it.” Isa gestured to Thompson. “You know me, son of man. Do my will.”

  Without hesitation, Thomspon swiveled his machine gun and peppered Bolton with a hundred holes in a single second. Then he turned his weapon on the shocked Corporal Doons, who had been stunned into inaction by Thompson’s unexpected be
trayal.

  Thompson stooped and picked the M16 up from Bolton’s shredded corpse. And as Isa patiently waited, he went into the Face and cleared the way.

  When the deed was done, Isa strode into the ancient cavern. He nodded to Thompson, who stood amidst a scattering of bloody corpses and scattered body parts, breathing heavily.

  Isa walked up and touched the immense cube at the center of the chamber. Its substance evaporated in a shower of steam. When the air cleared, a horned, multi-headed, squid-like creature with seven thick tentacles, fully fifty feet in length, lay revealed on the marble floor. Its rubbery grey skin glistened with condensation.

  Isa touched its hide. “Awaken!” he cried. And the creature which had been slumbering since ancient times stirred.

  And it was taken back to Earth, where all the people worshiped it, crying, “Who is like the Beast? Who can make war against him?”

  And after a time, as if in answer, the clouds opened up and Jesus Christ descended to the Earth in glory and wrath. The Caliphate was overthrown in the First Apocalypse War. The Mahdi and Isa were chained and cast aside until the Day of Judgment. The Beast and all those who had worshipped it were tossed into a miniature black hole at a research facility on Mercury.

  And Jesus Christ ruled from New Jerusalem. Death itself was defeated, and the Golden Age began.

  Donny

  March 28, 3102 AD

  Pre-Galactic Earth

  Donny maneuvered his hoverstick away from the enormous cylinder which clung halfway up the sheer side of New Jerusalem. The cylinder, one of forty-two which encircled the waist of the gargantuan cubic city, was an atmospheric processor. It had become gunked up with pigeon poop over the past several years, and he’d just spent three days cleaning it out. Yes, it was Good Friday, but he had obtained special dispensation to work on this most holy of days. The risk of the processor failing was too great.