Spirits of the Earth: The Complete Series: (A Post-Apocalyptic Series Box Set: Books 1-3)

by Milo James Fowler

  “So let’s say Hawthorne goes for it—this cloning option. What then?” Jamison frowns. “She wouldn’t abandon us, now that she knows we’re down here.”

  “She says they can’t wait anymore.” Willard’s eyes are glassy, staring vacantly at the carpet. “Sounds like things are not going well in paradise.”

  “The UW natives getting restless?” Perch quips.

  Willard shrugs. He doesn’t care about Eurasian problems. He has enough of his own. “I only know what she tells me. But it sounds like they’ve got their share of trouble across the ocean in that bubble-world of theirs.”

  Another string of obscenities erupts from Perch. “Bunch of crybabies, if you ask me.”

  “Nobody did,” Jamison mutters.

  Perch wrinkles his face and starts wailing. “Oh, we can’t have children! We’re gonna die out as a species!” He scoffs. “Screw ’em. We’ll raise the tubers ourselves, have a whole generation of Edenites born here within these walls. And in a few decades, they’ll be the dominant species. You just watch. They’ll wipe out the UW’s cloned clones and take over the world!”

  I note Willard’s reticent smile, the distant look in his eyes. He doesn’t want to live here anymore. Ever since he learned of the United World’s existence, this is all he’s wanted: to be welcomed back into the land of the living. Even as he led the others into this subterranean Promised Land over a year ago, he always hoped for more. He might not have been aware of it himself at the time, but I’ve become familiar with his deepest desires as my telepathic ability has developed.

  Eden was never meant to be a permanent solution.

  “We’re the only uninfected survivors from the North American Sectors. She can’t abandon us.” Jamison sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. “She couldn’t do that.”

  “She doesn’t owe us anything,” Willard says. “Not yet, anyway.” He locks his eyes on me. “How long till we can start pulling those tubers out of their incubation units?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “That’s all we need. Show Chancellor Hawthorne what we’ve got, right here and now. No clinical trials needed.” He pauses. “With clones, there would have to be tests, right? To make sure they’re a viable option. But with the tubers, we already know they’re growing, and they’re healthy. We’ve got exactly what we promised her.” He stares hard at me, like he thinks he can read my thoughts.

  I nod with some reservation. “But we don’t know yet if they carry the same abnormal genetic properties as their parents.”

  “A sand freak gene?” Perch seems intrigued for the first time in the conversation. “Cuz that would sure solve a whole lot of problems.” He mimes a pair of scissors with his fingers. “Snip-snip, right? Just cut it out of ’em. Try it out on you first, maybe. You and Tucker.” He grins.

  I direct my response to Willard. “We tried that with Luther and the others. Remember how that went?”

  Willard averts his gaze. “Yeah. I remember.”

  “There was no way to identify any sort of genetic marker—”

  “But the tubers have never been topside. That’s the key.” Willard gestures at me in a dismissive manner. “Both you and Tucker were out on the surface, breathing in that demon dust up there. But not us.” He nods toward Perch and Jamison. “And not those tubers.”

  “Can we stop calling them that?” Jamison says. “They’re humans, soon to be newborn babies.”

  “Born?” Perch raises an eyebrow. “Do we have some kind of artificial birth canal I don’t know about? Something we’re gonna hook up to those units when it’s time for the tubers to pop?”

  Willard seems oblivious to their banter. He faces me. “We’ve got no reason to believe these infants will show any signs of mutation, not as long as we keep them down here with us. Doesn’t matter diddly-squat who their parents were—like you said, there are no genetic markers.”

  I nod slowly. “But there is so much we don’t know yet.”

  “Once they start walking, moving around on their own,” Jamison adds, his back turned to Perch, “then we’ll be able to tell.”

  “Whether they’ll grow up to be mutant freaks? Hell, by then we’ll all be enjoying the good life in Eurasia. Evening martinis on the Mediterranean, watching the palm trees sway in the artificial breeze.” Willard claps his hands together. In his mind, everything is settled. “We’ll give the UW those tubers and let them sort things out.”

  Jamison narrows his eyes. “You’re saying you don’t care if these babies turn out to be sand freaks.” He glances at me. “No offense.”

  I don’t respond. I haven’t been merely human for a long time now.

  “You don’t care about the next generation on this planet.” Jamison’s voice pitches with incredulity. “Whatever happened to Eden being the last bastion for all-natural humankind—the way God made us? I thought that’s what we stood for!”

  You thought wrong.

  I watch them, these men who will decide the fate of the little ones. Perch, the cynic. Jamison, the optimist. Willard, the survivalist. That’s all it has ever been about for him: living to see another day. Nothing has changed. But Jamison is just realizing the truth.

  “We’re not the last bastion. We never were.” Willard shakes his head and curses under his breath. “Haven’t you been paying attention? While we were struggling to survive underground after All-Clear, they were still out there—the UW, Eurasia—pretending we didn’t even exist. And if we hadn’t stumbled across that shortwave radio, I’m damned sure they would have kept right on pretending.” He curses again, tightening his hands into fists. “I won’t be ignored by them anymore.”

  “So, anything goes. Paying for our passage to Eurasia with innocent lives. Whatever it takes, right?”

  Willard grins, but there is no humor in his eyes. “You’re welcome to stay here, Jamison. I’m not forcing any of you to come along with me.” He chuckles. “But I sure as hell ain’t sticking around, and that’s a fact.”

  “That makes two of us.” Perch rises, groaning with the effort. “My bags are already packed, Captain.”

  “What will you tell her?” I watch Willard closely.

  “The Chancellor?” He shrugs with a wink. “How about, Come and get ’em, lady.”

  Jamison looks stunned. “Before they’re even ready?”

  “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” Perch nods with approval.

  “You really think they’ll take you with them—after you’ve lied to them?” Jamison’s incredulous tone returns. “When they get down here, it’ll be obvious the chambers aren’t ready for transport.”

  Willard’s expression darkens. “We’re leaving this place. We’re going where we belong, to the land of the living. I’m gonna feel sunshine on my face again, even if I have to get us there myself.”

  “How? Commandeer their chopper?”

  “Whatever it takes. We’re going to Eurasia.”

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”

  “Grow a pair, Jamison,” Perch growls. “Don’t you want to be out in the world again? Find yourself some little hottie who ain’t an infected freak? No offense.” He smirks at me.

  I’m barely aware of his presence as my mind reels from the sudden turn of events. I won’t be able to get them out in time.

  “How long will it take?”

  Willard frowns at me. “What?”

  “Until the UW envoy arrives. How long do we have?”

  “Don’t know. Guess it depends on how prepared they are. If it was me, I’d have a team on one of those ships out there patrolling the coast, ready to go. Soon as they got the word, they’d pack themselves into a chopper and head inland, straight for our coordinates.”

  What sort of welcome does he have planned for them? I glance at Perch, entering his mind.

  “What kind of welcoming committee were you thinkin’?” Perch grins broadly as if the question is his own. “Sic some of the dogs on ’em?”

  Dogs—the collared mutants Willard uses
like an army of deformed automatons, wired to do his bidding.

  I do my best to quell the unsettled feeling within me. I rarely force my ability on these men; I can’t remember the last time I did. From the moment Willard removed my control collar and made me swear never to use my ESP (as he called it) against him, I knew it would be tempting to do so. But I promised myself I wouldn’t become the puppet master of Eden’s men who outnumbered me thirty to one. Not until the situation demanded it.

  “I should check on them.” I interrupt Willard’s laughter.

  He frowns at me. “Weren’t you just down there?”

  “I need to monitor their nutrient consumption. We may have to increase their intake if you’re planning to release them ahead of schedule. There may be a way to have them ready just in time.”

  He stares at me as if trying to decipher something coded behind my eyes. They’re vacant, I know. I’ve seen them in the mirror. But they haven’t always been this way. Does Willard remember how they used to spark in the throes of our relentless passion?

  “All right. Meet us at the radio room. You’ll want to be there when I give Chancellor Hawthorne her marching orders.”

  I nod with an awkward jerk and back away, rapping on the steel door as I approach it. One of the soldiers outside hauls it open, averting his eyes as soon as he sees me. I leave the apartment, but not before Perch mutters something to Willard.

  “Hell if I know what you see in that one. You’re crazy to even think of taking her with us.”

  Willard may change his mind, after all, and decide to leave me behind. But it doesn’t matter, either way. I won’t be going with them, even if they somehow manage to convince the UW team to take them off this quarantined continent.

  Clones. They must be at the end of their rope.

  For the geniuses of the United World scientific community to consider cloning as their only chance at procreation, it would mean they have reached the very end of all viable options. Human cloning has always been illegal. Violating the UW constitution is not a matter they would have taken lightly.

  Why are they giving up on the children of Eden?

  Do they fear us?

  They must. The fear of the unknown, that eons-old boogeyman from childhood who hides under beds and in dark closets. And even worse than the monster itself is the fear of becoming it, being transformed into the same kind of nightmarish creature.

  So they will leave us here. They won’t risk contamination to send a team for these children—not unless Willard is exceptionally eloquent in his persuasive tactics.

  And I know he can be.

  “Tucker,” I call as I enter the room, my voice exploding in the silence.

  “Yeah?” For once, the invisible man sounds startled.

  “I need your help.”

  He sniffs and shuffles his feet toward me. “Okay?”

  I can already feel the adrenaline accelerating my heart rate. For the first time in a very long time, I feel alive.

  “We need to take them away from here.” My hand rests on the chamber of the young male I watched earlier. Offspring of Shechara and Samson’s seed.

  “All of them?” At first, Tucker seems confused. But a moment later, he understands the situation completely—without a single word spoken between us, thanks to my gift. “I see. Just these two.” He sounds awestruck.

  “Yes.” I place my other hand on the chamber where a young female sleeps peacefully, the daughter of Daiyna and Luther.

  You two are the most special of them all. I can already perceive their shared ability.

  The female’s eyes blink open in the gelatinous artificial uterus. Where are we going? her mind asks.

  I smile. Home.

  4 Bishop

  18 months after All-Clear

  I taste stale ash and worry my suit has been compromised. My eyes dart, scouring the interior of my helmet for any cracks in the polymer. None that I can see. The heads-up display flashes OFFLINE in bold crimson letters along with showers of static, obstructing my view of the sandy landscape around me.

  A high-pitched whine hums in my ears. I can’t tell if it’s from the suit or inside my skull. I try to swallow and cough instead against the dryness in my throat. I lie on my back like some kind of pathetic creature unable to turn itself over while the sun scorches its underbelly.

  That scientist didn’t exaggerate about the heat inside a hazard suit. I’m being cooked alive.

  “Cool down,” I murmur, remembering the voice command.

  No response from the HUD.

  I curse and strain to rise. Useless. The suit won’t cooperate.

  Clenching my teeth, I focus all my strength into one arm, forcing it upward. I groan and will it to rise, straining against the weight of the suit. As my arm slowly levitates and then bends at the elbow, my fingers curl into a fist. Gloved knuckles tap against my helmet, and I knock once, twice.

  OFFLINE jitters on the display.

  My knuckles crunch into a pocket of broken polymer. That can’t be good. I spread my fingers and slide them across the helmet’s surface, probing as far as I can reach around the outer layer. The tips of my gloves discover three other fractures.

  Not good at all.

  Why am I holding my breath? It’s futile. The damage has been done. I drop my arm back to the hard-packed earth in disgust. It’s too early for despair.

  “Anybody there?” I shout.

  No response.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head sharply. The ringing in my ears remains undiminished. I’ve gotta get out of this thing. But it’s insane even to think it. Just because some ash has gotten into my helmet doesn’t mean the entire system has been compromised. The suit still provides protection, even as it pins me to the ground, exposing me as easy prey for whoever shot down the chopper.

  We were passing over the coast where rusted hulks of old sea vessels sat overturned, planted in the sand. No signs of life there—other than a security fence of some kind, topped with scrolls of barbed wire. Remnants from before D-Day, the scarecrow scientist told us. The pilot headed due east, straight into the interior of the continent. At the time, Granger, Sinclair, and the others were fully engrossed in their operations manuals, studying up on how everything worked. They didn’t see the clouds of dust on the surface below or the trio of black solar jeeps tearing across the sand on an intercept course.

  “Hostiles sighted—advise, Argonaus,” the pilot barked into his headset.

  “Our welcoming committee?” I strained against my suit for a better view.

  The UW scientist sat frozen and unresponsive. His bulbous eyes stared out from behind his face shield, and his thin lips parted as if to speak. But no words came.

  “Captain Mutegi is saying to turn back.” One hand on his earpiece, the co-pilot turned in his seat to face us.

  The scientist nodded quickly, mute. The jeeps beneath us halted.

  “Binocs,” I gave the voice command. My helmet’s HUD zoomed to focus on the first of the three jeeps. There were four men, two seated, two standing in the back behind the roll bar. But they didn’t look exactly...human. “What the—?”

  One of them lifted a Stinger missile launcher to his deformed shoulder and swung the business end up toward the chopper. Chaos ensued as the pilot attempted to evade the heat-seeking rocket. The scientist hit a manual release lever, and the clamps on my hazard suit unlocked as the hull beneath me gave way. I was jettisoned from the chopper—and just in time. As I spiraled end over end to the earth below, the missile found its mark above me, exploding like a massive wildflower in reds, oranges, and black smoke. The concussion that followed plowed into my midsection like a two-fisted blow to the ribs.

  “Captain—is that you?” Granger’s voice comes over the comm channel in my helmet. Boots shuffle across the sand nearby.

  “Give me a hand.” I reach out blindly, unsure the short engineer will be able to help me up.

  “What the hell happened?”

  “I can’t se
e a thing.”

  Granger takes hold of my arm and heaves, hoisting me into a seated position.

  “HUD on the fritz?”

  “Yeah. You?”

  “Naw. Guess I landed on my feet.” Granger sniffs. “You get a good look at ’em before?”

  “No.”

  Hostiles—that’s what the pilot called them. They hadn’t moved like men. More like humanoid animals, garbed in sun-scorched skins. But that’s impossible. The animal kingdom was obliterated years ago across the globe, on both land and sea.

  “Something you’re not telling me, Captain?”

  “You know as much as I do.” Determined to stand, I tip myself forward and land on my padded palms, drawing up my knees. “And it’s Sergeant.”

  “Either way, you’re in charge of this godforsaken expedition.”

  I nod. “Where are the others?”

  “Don’t know. Found you first.”

  “No sign of...hostiles?”

  “Not yet. Sure hope some firepower fell out of that chopper with us.”

  “Morley was in charge of the guns.” Our weapons-tech officer.

  Granger chuckles. “Then I suggest we find him next.”

  I grimace as I force the cumbersome suit to comply, arching my back and planting the soles of my boots in the sand. It takes some doing, but with a well-timed shove from Granger, I manage to stand.

  “Offline—that’s all this thing keeps saying.” I rap on my helmet again. “Any chance you could turn it off?”

  “The HUD? Not without opening up your suit. And I’m pretty sure you don’t want me to do that out here.” He pauses. “Looks like there’s a fracture in your helmet’s outer layer. Must have broken some of the optical transfer filaments—”

  “You’ll have to lead the way.” I close my eyes to shut out the flashing display, but the red glare pierces through my eyelids.

  “Where to, Captain?”

  “We’re out in the open, I take it?”

  “We’re sitting ducks, to use an antiquated phrase.”