There you must go.
My nerves stand at attention. "Why? What will we find?" All we need is a vehicle to get out of here. If we come back, we do so in greater numbers—and with Milton, who can outrun anything.
What do you fear?
Honestly? "That place down there." An image passes through my mind of frenzied ants covering a disturbed hill. "It's probably crawling with daemons."
The spirits' voice is silent.
Heavy breathing and grunting breaks the silence behind me. I whirl around, rifle ready.
"Stand down, soldier." Samson hangs a few meters below me, his brawny arms elbow-deep in the side of the crater. Behind him is a track of holes he's punched along the way up. He chuckles, pulling one arm free from the shifting gravel and slamming it in half a meter above his head. Then he heaves himself upward by it. The spirits have indeed gifted him with strength.
"Anything?" he manages.
I nod. I can't find any words to say.
"Keeping low?" He punches in his other arm and hauls himself up to the rim, throwing over his forearm to brace himself. "They haven't spotted you."
"No." I swallow. On one knee, I turn back toward the valley. "Not yet."
He pulls himself forward onto his hands and knees, head down as he catches his breath a moment. Then he looks up.
He curses. "So that's where they live? Nice digs." He takes his rifle from his shoulder and slides forward onto his belly, the scope flat against his goggle lens. "There they are." His finger curls around the trigger.
Is he going to shoot them? "Wait—"
"For them to catch sight of us?" He curses again, taking careful aim. "Not a chance."
"You won't be able to hit all four of them. They'll run ahead and warn the others." What is he thinking? We're all alone out here. We can't afford to take risks like this.
"Have a little faith." He squeezes the trigger.
I jerk my rifle scope up to my goggles in time to see the daemon on the far left crumple to the ground and lie still. The other three stop to look at him. One of them nudges the fallen daemon's back with his rifle. They seem strangely unaffected by the loss of their comrade.
Then they turn and look our way.
My stomach drops. Through the scope, it's like they're looking right at us. The one with the large pipe on his shoulder drops to one knee and fires without a moment's hesitation. Why didn't Samson shoot him first?
"Get down!" Samson roars, clamping onto my arm as he dives headfirst down the side of the crater.
A short cry escapes me, and the sky between my boots is all I see until a blast rocks the earth and a hail of sand and gravel fills my vision, pelting me from head to foot. I raise my free arm to shield my face and cry out again, this time in pain. Samson shouts something, but I can barely hear him. We slide to an abrupt halt, and I swing outward then fall back, my arm still in his grip, nearly wrenched from its socket. I look up. Samson has planted his arm into the side of the crater, and we're anchored by it for the time being. I glance down between my dangling boots and see another thirty meters to the crater's bottom.
The staccato popping of gunfire reaches my ears. Two shadowy figures stand at what remains of the crater's rim above us. The shadows jerk at the sound of each shot.
Samson shouts again. I wish he would let go of me. I don't need his help.
The gunfire subsides, and the shadows move, becoming larger as they approach. The sun glints in their goggles. It's Shechara and Luther, closer to our position than I would have thought. The blast took out a large piece of the crater's rim. They hold out their gloved hands, Luther with the holes torn in the fingertips. Relief swells within me.
Did they take down the remaining three daemons? If so, we're no longer in danger of being discovered. Or have we announced our arrival?
Samson lifts me up over his head, and I clasp Luther's forearm as he pulls me up. Ears still ringing from the blast, I find my footing and turn to Shechara.
"Did you get them?" I shout.
She nods, turning me with a hand on my shoulder as she points. The bodies of the daemons lie where they've fallen, dark forms on the dusty valley floor. I look beyond them, and there's no movement in the dilapidated city sprawl, no indication we've been spotted. Either they didn't hear the rocket blast and rifle fire, or they're waiting patiently for us—wherever they're camped.
Samson heaves himself upward without much help from Luther and bellows, "So what do you think? City of the living dead?"
Luther turns toward the valley and nods. "It would seem to warrant a closer inspection."
"We get a jeep, and we go back." I'm more adamant than ever.
Luther nods slowly. "Of course."
Samson starts down the grade toward the valley. "Let's roll. Looks like we've got some more firepower waiting for us."
The fallen daemons' weapons—the rocket launcher, in particular—lure him onward. As we follow him down, I can't help but notice that we look a little worse for wear. Our garments are dirty, soot-stained, torn and ragged. Bloody in spots, threadbare in others. For the most part, they still shield us from the sun's rays, but we'll need to exchange them for fresh clothing when we return to the caves.
"Milton said he passed through city ruins like this. Wreckage from D-Day. He was able to scavenge supplies and find relief from the sun. But this is the first I've seen for myself." Luther faces me as we walk. "You?"
I shake my head. My ears are starting to work right again. "We went straight to the caves as soon as we were out of the bunker. Sightseeing was never much on our minds."
"For us either. Everything was very clear-cut then: build shelters, find our wives—"
"Wives? Is that what you called them?"
"You." He pauses to clear his throat. "Your sector, that is."
"We had another name for them."
"Oh?"
"Cows."
"Not mating partners?" His tone is playful.
"Reproductive companions," I recall from the bunker database.
"That's right," he laughs. "I remember the film."
"They made you watch it, too?" What am I thinking? Or course they would have.
"I'm sure ours was more tailored to the male psyche. Regardless, we thought wives was a better term to use, considering the connotations."
"And those would be?" When he says we, he usually means himself, with Plato's input. Why would they use such an archaic word as wife?
The only sound is that of our boots across the gravel. Samson has pulled ahead, but Shechara remains beside me.
"Wife connotes a bond more meaningful than a mere procreation partner. Of course, rebuilding our species is the greatest purpose we must shoulder in the years to come, but we're sure to have other challenges along the way. And to meet them effectively, I knew the men would need wives. Companions for life." He holds up his empty hands. "It's how the Creator first intended us to live. He said it wasn't good for us to be alone." He pauses. "A better word than cows, at any rate."
My lips curve into a smile beneath my head covering. But it fades as I remember Rehana. "The daemons were the first men we met outside the bunker. The thought of being reproductive companions lost its appeal rather quickly. But one of us was calling our other sisters cows long before that. She didn't like the idea that bearing children was our only purpose in life. She rebelled against our leader, and many of us followed her example." My voice falters.
"What became of her?"
My eyes sting, and I swallow. "The cows killed her. But they didn't really know what they were doing."
They were possessed. Like Milton.
Ahead of us, Samson stoops to retrieve the rocket launcher from one of the dead daemons. Shechara jogs to join him.
Luther lowers his voice. "Have you heard anything?"
My mind is cluttered with images of Rehana and Mother Lairen, and I feel hollow inside as these memories resurface, thoughts and feelings I've fought so hard to bury. Isn't it obvious to him I'm not thin
king about the spirits right now? I thought he was more intuitive.
But what did I expect? When he lowered his voice, did I hope for him to offer me some kind of consolation? Did I want him to touch me? That was my mistake.
"No." My tone is flat. "Nothing."
I move ahead to join Shechara. Deftly, she removes the ammunition from the three daemons' rifles while Samson turns the launcher end to end, acquainting himself with it. Luther's goggles are fixed on the city before us.
"What's this?" Shechara holds a miniature version of one of the rifles—a handgun.
Samson glances up. "Smith and Wesson nine millimeter semi-automatic." He returns his attention to the rocket launcher and chuckles with delight, rising to his feet as he hefts his new war toy to his shoulder. "This'll be a fun one. Can't wait to try it out."
"Let's hope you won't need to." Luther shakes his head. "Strange to see a city like this. An entire sprawl, laid to waste."
"Home to our friendly neighborhood cannibals?" Samson turns to Shechara. "See any more of them, Small Fry?"
Her goggles slowly pan the ruins from left to right. She wants to be absolutely sure before she says anything.
There you must go, the spirits said. Why? What will we find? You have nothing to fear. Does that mean we won't come across any daemons in there? Or will the spirits fight for us?
We've had some close calls so far, but we're alive and relatively uninjured. Maybe I was wrong to doubt them. But it frustrates me when they're silent like this, when I want them to speak to me, offer assurances, and they don't. I want them to lead us, but at the same time, I want them to leave me the hell alone.
Part of me is glad when their voice isn't surging through me. I can feel like myself again. Yet I also feel utterly alone.
"There's no movement, none that I can see." Shechara gives Samson the handgun. "You can have this one. It's too small for me." She steps past him, the rifle slung over her shoulder.
Samson takes the gun but hesitates before jamming it into his belt. He doesn't seem to know how to take her remark. "Okay?"
Leaving the corpses behind, we follow Shechara across the valley floor. Somewhere beneath all the sand and ash under our feet there must be concrete and asphalt, multiple InterSector lanes that once brought people by the thousands in and out of this great city. The green signs with white letters posted on strong steel supports must lie buried as well. If I let my mind wander, I can almost hear the rushing vehicles traveling at speeds near two hundred kilometers per hour. The rush hours when traffic ground nearly to a halt and drivers insisted on changing lanes, always thinking the one they were in was the slowest. The daily accidents when drivers racing home would suddenly slow down and look for carnage, causing more traffic congestion behind them, then speeding up if the accident wasn't serious. So morbid.
If they could only see their city now, I'm sure they would stop and stare—with good reason.
The wreckage looms larger with every step we take toward it. In the silence, interrupted only by the rhythmic pattern of our footsteps, I sense an eerie calm, one that reminds me of the bunker when we first entered. As if this city has known we would be coming, and it's expecting us.
There you must go, the spirits told me. You have nothing to fear. I wish I could find courage in those words.
"Does-uh...anybody remember what this place was called?" Samson has his rifle in one hand and the launcher balanced on his shoulder with the other. His gaze swings side to side, watching the two burnt-out buildings that will flank us as we enter the city.
Luther seems distracted. "What sector would this be?"
We traveled east by jeep, then north on foot. "Thirty, maybe?" I take my rifle down from my shoulder.
Luther nods. His claws extend through his gloves. "Yes, perhaps... But the maps had it farther north." His goggles are fixed on the building to our right as though he's seen something stirring. He holds his rifle ready. Then he turns back and joins our triangular formation behind Shechara. "It could be thirty-one. A trade sector would still have many useful things for us."
Samson scoffs, but it sounds half-hearted. "If the daemons haven't taken it all. You know, that might explain their UW gear. Wasn't this where all of it was manufactured?" He curses softly. "Now entering hell. Visitors welcome."
Our boots cross into the shadow cast by the tilting remains of a skyscraper.
"They always come from the east," Luther says.
"What?" I glance at him, then return my gaze to the buildings on either side, tangled steel supports with charred clumps of concrete clinging to them.
"The daemons," he says absently. "When they attack, they come from the east...every time."
"So what're you saying, Luther?" Samson half-turns as if he saw something move. He shakes his head and keeps walking. "You don't think they're camped out here after all?"
"They never come from this direction."
The big man chuckles. "I hope you're right. That would mean we have nothing—"
"Nothing to fear." Luther faces me. "As the spirits told you, Daiyna."
I don't say anything.
Shechara stops beside the concrete sublevel of a blown-out structure. She peers down inside, then turns and beckons us to follow. Shelter from the sun. We could use a few minutes' rest. To drink some hydro, grab a bite or two from our protein packs. One of us will have to keep watch, but we can alternate.
Shechara drops in first, followed by Samson. Luther gestures for me to go next, but I shake my head and let him go before me. Samson sighs loudly and smack his lips, already drawing from his hydropack in the shadows below. I hesitate before joining them.
I turn and look back, out of the ruins, past the four daemon bodies baking in the sun. Beyond the crumpled rim of the crater where the rocket blast blackened the sand, beyond the charred remains of our disabled jeep, a cloud of dust rises up from the earth, a single plume headed this way.
He is coming.
The spirits' voice catches me off guard and I stumble forward, nearly dropping my rifle.
"Who?" I strain to see. "Shechara..." I whisper, unable to find my voice.
"Daiyna?" Luther steps behind me. "What is it?"
My boots shuffle away from the sublevel, one step, then two, toward the approaching dust cloud. Faster than any vehicle could possibly move.
He is coming.
Dust and ash streak upward across the valley floor in his wake, and before I know it, he stands in front of me in his filthy urine suit, his face shield dull and cracked.
"Milton?" I fall back from him, my heart skipping a beat as the dust passes over us and settles.
"They're dead." Milton's voice emerges unlabored. He stands at ease, arms hanging limply at his sides. "They're all dead."
Part III
Possession
7 Milton
Ten Months after All-Clear
Wake up.
My eyes open as a jolt of energy courses through my body. I jerk upright to find myself sitting on a mattress inside a dark cavern. Voices shouting, people running like there's some kind of emergency. Gunshots and echoing screams punctuate my confusion.
"Milton, you're awake!" An older man with stooped shoulders grabs my arm. "Get up, quick!"
Rip is his name. He wanted to tie me up earlier, when that weird spitter blinded me.
"What's happening?" My voice is husky, like I haven't spoken in a while. I move to rise, but pain shoots through my chest, and I look down to see I'm bandaged. My head swims, and the rock floor shifts beneath my feet. I land back on the mattress with a groan.
"You've got to pull yourself together, man. We've gotta get you out of here!" He throws one of my arms over his bony shoulders and steadies me on my feet. "The daemons are—"
An explosion cuts him short. The entire cave trembles as dirt showers us.
"They're armed to the teeth!" He pulls me forward.
I struggle to put one foot in front of the other at first, but then I start getting the hang of i
t. We head out under an earthen arch into another cave, this one filled with natural light pouring in from the mouth at the other end. Silhouettes move side to side there, jerking awkwardly, fighting against one another. Gunshots explode. Shadowy figures fall and writhe. Screams echo from all directions, some shrill, others guttural like they're from wild animals. But that can't be. There aren't any animals anymore. I should know. I was out there long enough—
Rip pulls me into the fray.
"Is this the only way out?" Why's he taking me this way if we're under attack?
"We need you outside," he grunts under my weight.
I pull back. "What do you mean?"
A strong hand grabs my shoulder. "Milton." It's that weird spitter: Plato. "You're awake!"
How long was I asleep? "What's going on?"
Plato leads me toward the mouth of the cave, and I try to resist, but it just looks like my feet aren't cooperating.
"They came without warning, dozens of them. We're outnumbered and outgunned. We need you." He turns and the light falls on his face, splattered in blood. Some of it looks like his own. "We need your help. Your speed, Milton. Disarm as many of them as you can, and bring us their weapons."
A scream, wild and hoarse, tears through the din. Plato barely seems to notice.
"They've scaled the cliff. We can't hold them back much longer. If they get inside, it'll be a massacre."
Why can't we escape farther into the mountains, back to the west side where they found me? "What about the passages that lead—?"
"Caved in," Rip cuts me off. "All at once, like it was planned. Right when the daemons showed up. Some of the ladies are sayin' it happened to them before, that evil spirits caused it."
Spirits? Right. Those. Like I believe in spooks. Regardless, we're trapped here.
No. They are. They're not going to make it without the weapons they need to even the score. They're all going to die.
Spirits of the Earth: The Complete Series: (A Post-Apocalyptic Series Box Set: Books 1-3) Page 15
