Hostile Genus: An Epic Military Sci-Fi Series (Invasive Species Book 2) Ben Stevens (best contemporary novels txt) 📖

“No! Please!”

Ratt froze, his mind and body suddenly possessed by the ghost of slaughters past. He had heard those same two words screamed by a woman before. It was the last two things his mother had uttered on this Earth before being gunned down by soldiers from the Human Republic. In the silence between that plea for mercy and the next scream, Ratt relived the terror and trauma of watching his family die at the hands of men who’d thought it their right to rule over others, to squash independence in order to consolidate natural resources and establish a new, fair order, a government that would do what it must for the greater good. War was war, they said, and rape and murder and “collateral damage” was bound to happen. Deal with it, kid. You should be grateful that we’re here to protect you from the Drops, from Strange, from Beasties, from Drop-trash. Your parents were terrorists. Ad nauseum.

“Enough!” Ratt exclaimed, probably louder than he should have. All thoughts of self-preservation were banished by those words, and upon hearing the third scream, Ratt snapped out of his possessed reverie and bolted down the stairs recklessly. The way quickly became dark, but he dared not slow his descent. He was, however, forced to pull his goggles up onto his forehead so he could see a tad better. Like a blind man, he put one hand out in front of him, probing the black before him, the other hand flat against the wall for stability as he spiraled down the steps in a run, praying not to roll an ankle or trip, should he land wrong, as he skipped several steps with each run-jump down.

Just as the last vestiges of the light above and behind him faded fully, forcing him to slow his run to a walk, light from ahead and farther down began to creep into the edges of the shadows. Another full turn down the long, winding staircase and solid enough torchlight had returned.

The next scream was louder, and more sounds echoed down here—growling, snapping, wicked laughter. Even knowing he was unarmed, Ratt did not slow his run or make any attempt at stealth. He was mad, driven by the memory of his dying mother.

Tears began to blur his vision, making polychromatic snowflakes out of the torchlight when he, at last, came to the final step and beheld a large chamber. He blinked hard, pushing the teardrops away, then took in the scene.

The room itself was vast; it seemed to take up the entire footprint of the palace above it. Were he not distracted by what he saw, Ratt would have surmised that this was the basement or dungeon. The room had an arena-like quality to it: a large, ovoid lower-part of open space surrounded by a high wall and landing, complete with seating that was broken up here and there with structural support walls and pylons obviously holding up the enormous palace above them.

The air was damp and musty, fitting for an underground crypt or ossuary, and a cold draft blew through it, the origin of which eluded Ratt’s quick assessment. The stairs that he’d taken down ended on the upper landing that wrapped around the lower arena space. It was onto this landing that Ratt stepped and saw just a short distance beneath him a woman clutching a bundle of rags. Her hair was messy, and she looked as though she had just woken up from a long and restless sleep.

Despite the coolness of the room, her forehead was covered in a collage of sweat drops. Her face was as pale as cream and her eyes as wide and round as saucers. Her clothes were as ragged as her hair, and dirty.

She clutched the bundle of rags tightly to her bosom as if her very life depended on it, yet she slowly removed one trembling hand from the bundle and pointed left of Ratt. Her mouth opened to speak, but only the cool, damp breeze moaned its woeful song.

He felt it before he could see it—that sensation that had been a hallmark of the ancient cinema that Ratt loved so much. A common line from some of his favorite movies popped into his mind. They are right behind me, aren’t they?

Ratt’s armored wall of adrenaline-fueled vigor faltered and his senses crept back in, bringing with them familiar friends such as self-preservation and caution. He gently closed his eyes and exhaled as if to mime “Fuck me” and made to spring into action, but it was too late.

A clammy hand gripped the back of his neck, as cold as the gusts that issued from the unknown depths of the dungeon and rippled across his face. He could feel a thumbnail, as stout as the stone beneath his feet and as sharp as the regret he felt for rushing in, push into his neck flesh and puncture skin. It hurt, and the strength in this hand reminded him of Lucy’s raw power. Ratt knew there would be no overpowering the owner of this stern grip. He relaxed, his legs turning to water.

“Well, well, look, Sofia, more meat to play with,” a low male voice dripped into Ratt’s ears. It spoke in Spanish; a language that Ratt knew and expected. The vise-like hand on the back of his neck turned him around as easily as if he were one of the burros he had seen on the streets above, fitted with bridle and reins.

“Is that true, meat? Did you come down here to play with us?” A woman stood before him, next to the man who held him fast. The woman smiled mischievously, revealing a set of gold-clad teeth and fangs. She wore an outfit that was paradoxically made of high-quality materials but designed to look like the lower-class gangsters of Earth’s past. “Hmmm,” she purred. “Are you a bruja? Why do your eyes look like that?”

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