Alien Species Intervention: Books 1-3: An Alien Apocalyptic Saga (Species Intervention #6609) Read online

  ALIEN SPECIES INTERVENTION

  Book 1—BABY

  Book 2—ECHO

  Book 3—ARMAGEDDON COMETH

  J.K. Accinni

  EK Publishing

  Lakewood Ranch, FL

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either 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.

  ALIEN SPECIES INTERVENTION Books 1 - 3

  J.K. Accinni

  An EK Publishing book published in arrangement with the author, Lakewood Ranch, FL.

  Copyright © 2013 J.K. Accinni

  Editing by LionheART Publishing House

  All rights reserved.

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form without permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

  Cover Design by Cecelia Morgan

  Books by J.K. Accinni:

  Baby (Species Intervention #6609, Book 1)

  Echo (Species Intervention #6609, Book 2)

  Armageddon Cometh (Species Intervention #6609, Book 3)

  Hive (Species Intervention #6609 Book 4)

  Evil Among Us (Species Intervention #6609, Book 5)

  The One (Species Intervention #6609, Book 6)

  Dedication

  I would like to thank my mom, Jane, for her unflagging support. She never once thought to even question my capabilities. I owe so much to my one true love, Wil, whose honest clear sweetness and support gave me something to live up to, and I would like to thank Fate.

  I would like to thank the phenomenally talented artists who granted me the rights to their work for my covers, Adam Taylor, England, United Kingdom—Baby; Larissa Elise Bergsma, Netherlands—Echo; Jonas Jedicke, Berlin, Germany—Armageddon Cometh and The One; Terry Rogers, Gainesville, Florida—Hive.

  And lastly, I want to acknowledge my four legged children, Barney, Toby, Molly, Teddy and Echo, and all of my children who are waiting for me over the Rainbow Bridge. They are what bring all the richness and laughter into my life.

  NOTE TO READERS: This is a work of fiction and as such, controversial points of view may be written to enhance the reader’s experience. The author's goal has been to make the reader think critically and the views expressed do not necessarily reflect those of the author. The author would like, however, to help readers realize what detrimental effects we have created for our wildlife.

  Readers, in an effort to make this work as appropriate as possible for the time period in which it takes place, the author has used more formal grammar and not used contractions as readily as we use them today.

  Contents

  Books by J.K. Accinni

  Dedication

  Book 1—Baby

  Book 2—Echo

  Book 3—Armageddon Cometh

  Sneak Peak Book 4—Hive

  Author’s Page

  ALIEN SPECIES INTERVENTION

  BOOK 1

  BABY

  J.K. Accinni

  Chapter 1

  1929

  It came to young Netty in her sleep. The first probing finger, an aura glinting under the sleeping eyelids of her brain, unnoticed. She lay under shabby blankets in the primitive bed of her murdered mama, in the tiny remote cabin of a loving childhood. Now, her debilitated physical condition crippled her to the point of numbness. She tossed in her sleep, disturbed by the pain of the injuries that continued to bedevil her, taking unwanted turns with the unseen alien presence which explored her unguarded mind.

  The night passed too quickly, as it always does when overwork and fear become your only companions. Rising early, intending to continue the repairs she doggedly hoped to complete, she found herself ignoring the fireplace that begged a spark.

  Drawn to the broken door of the cabin, she stared into the quiet woods at the far side of the field, affected by an unfathomable magnetic pull. Nothing moved; familiar maples and oaks were frozen in their leafy majesty. The eerie stillness unaccountably frightened her. She felt goose bumps lift the hairs on her plump work-worn arms. Against her will, she stepped out onto the narrow stoop and down the few steps to head across the fallow field.

  Netty trudged around the wild blackberry thickets until she came upon the hint of a faint path; all that remained of the well-worn trail she’d traveled incessantly as a child. The nebulous pathway led her directly through the foreboding woods until she reached a familiar cleft in a rocky outcrop. Looking down at her damaged feet, she saw her open sores blossoming with blood and pus, her inability to stop the infection worrisome. Why oh why should I make this needless and excruciating foray into the damp morning fog? I cannot spare the time and, God knows, I plainly do not have the strength.

  Only two weeks had passed since she’d made her unexpected escape from the humiliation and abuse she regularly tolerated from the sick bastard she’d married. Was this sudden and strange compulsion to take to the woods a punishment for running away from him? Or did the spirits of the devil invade her in her sleep? Visions of her abusive husband carting her off to the insane asylum at Graystone near their mansion in Norristown convinced her she must continue on. Hoping to discover the meaning of the annoying compulsion that drove her against her will and wisdom, she trudged onward.

  Needing a break from the exhausting trek, she rested her feeble body, swiping her thinning, ratty brown hair off her forehead. She contemplated the progress made on her tiny two-room cabin in the last two weeks.

  She swallowed, trying vainly to choke back a bitter sob. It had taken a mighty big bucket of blood, pain and trampled illusions to get to this point, but she thought she might now be safe from Robert.

  She wondered how a pathetic wretch such as herself had mustered the nerve to leave him despite his powerful ability to intimidate and bend her to his will.

  To reassure herself, she touched the small round object pinned to her undergarments underneath her bodice. Strange how the purloined object could give her a quick shot of comfort. She unapologetically brushed a sudden flush of shame aside. She’d taken the little treasure in a futile and petty attempt at revenge. A sour laugh slipped out, alongside the knowledge that nothing in her sadly wasted life could compensate her for the newly discovered and premeditated betrayal by her older husband. Her head still echoed with the hateful revelations made by him a mere fifteen days ago.

  Steeling herself as she rested, she tried again to concentrate on the progress made at the cabin in the last few days. Was it only two weeks since she’d first arrived back on Lily Pond Road? Why call it a road? she thought ruefully. Should it not be called Lily Pond Rut Field, as progress has clearly failed to reach this far from town, even after all this time?

  The journey had almost defeated her. Her feet bled from numerous injuries incurred on her long trek from the big city back to Sussex County. Her house slippers hadn’t been her first choice for the trek, but her husband’s unexpected return as she’d searched his precious library had left her no choice. Abundantly sure she could no longer bear more of his scorn, violence and mocking laughter, she ran. And she ran. And she ran, until her
hobbled condition forced her to collapse upon Lily Pond Road. The very road that told her the beloved home of her childhood could be found around the next bend.

  As she’d approached the dilapidated cabin, she’d noticed the roof had sagged. Could she figure out how to repair it on her own? She could surely try. Well, maybe not, she thought, quickly becoming discouraged as she took in the ravaged fence, broken windows and crushed mailbox, her family name still faintly legible.

  A wave of despair and loneliness had hit her hard. Her lovely mama and poor papa were gone. Papa to the flu when she’d turned fifteen and her mama murdered, shortly after her very own storybook wedding on her seventeenth birthday. She bitterly remembered the halfhearted search for the culprit. Sheriff Hudson had eventually decided it had been the work of one of the gypsies that frequently passed through the countryside, begging for handouts.

  She well understood that the peasantry mattered little to the social and economic fabric of the town. They wielded no influence and were of little consequence. The sheriff had actually told her that something like this was bound to happen with her pretty mama living all the way out in the boondocks with no man of her own to keep an eye on her. Even the surprisingly cooperative intervention of her new and prominent lawyer-husband had had remarkably little effect on the investigation, such as it had been. Impotence had silenced her as the investigation had quickly and quietly concluded.

  Two weeks ago, she’d discovered that Mr. Woods, Papa’s boss and Mama’s longtime childhood friend had died. A special friend to her since she’d been a toddler, she remembered his actions at her wedding with love. He’d pulled her aside, telling her how beautiful she’d always be to him as he slipped a small but plump purse into her hands. He’d whispered to her to keep it to herself, saying every bride needed a little something for herself in case of emergency. Not that she’d actually have an emergency, good heavens no, look who she’d just married.

  Yeah, look who I had just married. The bile in her throat rose as she thought of him. Robert Doyle, the only son of a large and prosperous Irish family in town. His five older sisters were known far and wide for the thoroughbred horses they raised for the races in Saratoga. They sported expensive wardrobes, lavish parties and haughty demands. How had a fancy man like him even discovered her? Oh yes, Robert, she thought bitterly. So handsome, so formal, so rich . . . He’d surely had his choice of all the young, educated, fancy town ladies. Why had he picked her, Jeannette Elizabeth Smith?

  As Netty picked burrs off her papa’s moth-eaten trousers, which she’d found shoved beneath her parents’ old bed in the cabin, her memory drifted back to happier times.

  She could almost feel the wetness on her arm as she remembered the frequency of annoying raindrops that had leaked down on her head in the simple mission-style classroom of her schoolhouse. It had sat a full five dusty and hilly miles from her home. She’d never been anything but an average student, daydreaming her way through class until she could return home to check on the latest batch of rescued bunnies, or the baby bird knocked out of its nest by greedy nest mates. She’d attended school until her thirteenth birthday; old enough to start pulling her weight around the farm fulltime. Her education had stopped there, although she’d continued to read the storybooks her mother had provided from her own precious stores. Her heart warmed as she remembered the education derived from the magic of stories painted by so many ingenious authors.

  Although her papa had said she was smart and awfully pretty, she’d been passed over time and again by the eligible young men in Sussex County. And by some not so eligible. She’d often been judged too young, too poor. When Robert had started courting, she’d found herself non-responsive, unfamiliar with the mysterious intricacies of flirtation. The fact that he’d been forty years old to her sixteen naturally intimidated her.

  Her mama had rapidly convinced her to make an effort with her appearance when she’d realized his attentions merited serious consideration. All reservations about Netty’s tender age flew out the window. Gone, her papa’s hand-me-down trousers. In their stead, she wore the lovely new dresses her mama had stitched, spending hours working late into the night as she herself lay curled up on her straw mat next to the toasty fieldstone hearth of the blackened kitchen fireplace.

  She’d gently stroked the silky fur of her favorite doggies, tiny Nip and one-eyed Molly, as her mama worked the unfamiliar fabrics that had been provided by Mr. Woods. Her mama and Mr. Woods had been intent on making sure Netty didn’t let this very sudden opportunity slip by, both convinced it might be her only chance to get off the farm; a fortuitous rescue from the ignoble plight of spinsterhood. God knew if another chance would come along with Netty’s perpetual habit of spending every free moment in the woods or wrapped up in her latest creature rescue.

  *

  Mrs. Smith had longed for her baby girl to avoid many of her own early mistakes, which had led to their current circumstances. Mr. Smith had been a good, God-fearing man, but Mrs. Smith had wanted Netty to have the wonder of true love, just as she herself had once experienced. She especially wanted her away from the farm; a wistful hope for an easier life of comfort and security. Every mother in the county plotted to secure the best suitors for their daughters, and Mr. Woods had vouched for Robert himself. After all, Robert’s favorable legal wrangling with Mr. Woods’ extensive farm holdings had kept him lucratively employed for years.

  Netty had felt quite content on the farm with her parents. Mr. Woods often stopped by to consult Papa on farm business. He never failed to bring special treats for all of them: sweets for her, bolts of good, strong sack cloth for Mama, books for them both and horrible-smelling tobacco for Papa. She remembered with delight her mama’s blushes and rare girlish giggles as Mr. Woods surprised her with the occasional store-bought piece of finery, not understanding her papa’s silence, long after Mr. Woods had departed.

  Far behind the tiny cabin stood a well-constructed outbuilding previously used to store winter firewood, seeds for the next year’s plantings and the trellises for her mother’s bean crop. After much lobbying to Mr. Woods as a child, she’d finally persuaded him to agree, amid much laughter and hearty encouragement, to her turning it into her very own animal hospital. For it was Mr. Woods who’d owned the shed, along with the surrounding two thousand acres, as well as the little cabin Netty and her mama lived in. Netty thought Mr. Woods was probably her best friend.

  So, it had been with the jubilant blessings of her parents and Mr. Woods that Netty had accepted Robert Doyle’s proposal of marriage, although she’d waited in vain for the elusive feelings described by her mama as true love.

  *

  Netty forced her thoughts to return to her present dilemma. She’d spent every minute since arriving at the cabin moving gingerly on her damaged feet: cleaning cobwebs, shooing away harmless black snakes and field mice, stocking in some meager supplies and linens, collecting firewood to buffer her from the biting cold evenings and attempting to repair the dilapidated furnishings remaining in the cabin.

  Upon reflection, she now understood why Mr. Woods had failed to rent the cabin after her mother’s death. Robert had wasted no time in taunting her with the secret he’d hidden from her since Mr. Woods’ sad passing. Too late, it was now perfectly clear why he’d married her.

  Netty tried to stand, wanting to get off the cold damp ground of the woods. Struggling, she doubled over with nausea as cramps painfully contracted her abdomen from the memory of the events that had forced her to flee her marital home in Norristown.

  Her escape had come on the heels of the expected appointment of Robert as the new county magistrate. How nice for him, she thought bitterly. She wondered how he’d explain her conspicuous absence at his induction and the subsequent ball he’d planned at Sunnydale, their ten-thousand-square-foot Renaissance Revival mansion. Thinking about his lavish spending, she no longer wondered where the money came from. His country lawyer fees couldn’t possibly cover the household expenses, not with the h
ouse staff, the office staff and Robert’s outrageous lifestyle. A lifestyle he’d hidden from her during their courtship. Not that she cared. As long as she didn’t have to participate in his social affairs, she’d been able to remain safely out of sight and mind.

  She’d also developed an aversion to the smell of the harsh spirits imbibed to excess by Robert and his cronies during their constant late night meetings in the carriage house behind the mansion. Meetings that had inevitably turned into drunken brawls, often drawing the attention of local law enforcement; who would then do what? Well . . . join in, of course; so much for enforcing the law. Did the police ever bother to wonder where the prohibited alcohol had come from?

  The thought unexpectedly reminded her that she was down to the last few silver coins Mr. Woods had pressed into her hands at her wedding. Yes, she’d encountered many rainy days in her marriage, but none as nasty or desperate as this. Relief briefly flooded her mind, amazed by her unexpected wisdom when she’d heeded his wise advice, retaining the coins until she was truly desperate. And yet the cabin needed so much more to become fully habitable. She felt pressured to make every coin stretch three times as far.

  Late yesterday afternoon her feet had given out, forcing her to rest as they refused to heal from her self-destructive trek from Norristown. As she soaked her feet, reclining against the unforgiving headboard of her parents’ primitive bed, the harsh, roughly-planed wood dug into her plump shoulders and she imagined rainbow colors in the periphery of her vision. An aura, gone in a flash, it left behind an unmistakable urge to visit the woods. She fought the compulsion, recognizing the time and effort involved. Her exhaustion begged her not to go. Clearly, a visit must wait. Chores, dinner and desperately needed sleep came before a break or jaunt into the wood.