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

by Milo James Fowler

  “I can stay and watch over the infants.” Victoria offers. “Where are they?”

  I don’t trust her, Margo’s thought enters my mind.

  “If what she says is true, then there are a whole lot of other lives at stake,” I reply, preferring that Margo use her words.

  “The future of the world,” Victoria says, and somehow it doesn’t sound melodramatic. “You have to leave. Now.”

  “Most of them are on foot,” Tucker tells me. “They took the other Hummer—the one I drove you out of Eden in, way back when. But they couldn’t have gotten too far.”

  “A couple dozen of them are as fast as I am.”

  Tucker sniffs “Sure, there’s that.”

  “I will drive to the coast.” Margo moves out into the sunlight, drawing her hood over her head to shield her features. “Enough lives have been lost today. But if anything happens to the young ones, I will hold you personally responsible.”

  Victoria smiles coolly. “As would any mother.”

  I rest my hand on Margo’s shoulder. “If it’s too dangerous, you turn right back around. That thing’s bulletproof, but I doubt it’ll stop what the Argonaus is spitting out.”

  “I won’t be able to take all of them with me.” There aren’t enough seats in the vehicle.

  “The pregnant women, then.” I bite my lip. I hate the idea of leaving anybody behind. “They’re the ones…carrying the future.”

  Margo meets my gaze and nods. “Tomorrow’s children.”

  I feel a hand grip my arm, and I turn to find Tucker grinning at me.

  “Howdy,” he says, completely visible—a sandy-haired, rugged-looking man with the build of a laborer.

  “Where did he go?” Victoria sounds mystified by my disappearance.

  “That’s how it works,” Tucker explains. “If you can see me, nobody else can see you.” He rubs at his nose. “So how’re we gonna do this, Milton? Want me to ride piggyback?”

  “Please don’t.”

  Without any gesture of farewell, Margo descends the ridge outside. Tucker slips his arms around my abdomen, prepared to hold on for his life.

  “Take the passage on the left there, third alcove you come to,” Tucker calls back to Victoria. “The little ones were sleeping last time I checked. If the lights are blinking, they’re all good.”

  She nods warily, looking at the direction of his voice without anything to fix her gaze upon. “Go quickly, flying man. Do whatever you can to stop him.” She pauses. “Kill him, if you must. Cain is no son of Gaia if he plans to murder the innocent.”

  I’m about to echo what Margo said, that there’s already been enough killing today. But I have a bad feeling there will be plenty more before the day is through.

  22 Tucker

  18 Months After All-Clear

  I never would’ve thought I’d be scared of heights. Like every other engineer from Sector 30, I had my share of high-profile assignments early in my career, back before D-Day. One in particular, I’ll never forget: an exhaust manifold on the exterior of a fifty-story skyscraper. The fool designers had planted it right on the edge of the roof. There were some strong winds that day, and the whole inspection procedure had been dicey from the start.

  But nothing in my experience compares to this—hurtling through the air at breakneck speeds, tightening my white-knuckled hold on Milton with every jerky twist and turn. The last time I looked, we were well over a hundred meters above the ground. I clamped my eyes shut and have yet to open them since.

  “You see ’em?” I holler, my feet dangling uselessly behind me.

  “Only their dust,” Milton shouts back. “One group’s up ahead. They’ve got the Hummer, but most are on foot. Cain and Luther’s people, all together. Another group is farther east.”

  “You want to stop?”

  “The slower bunch isn’t our concern. We have to stop the ones that’ll reach Eden first.”

  “Think you can overtake ’em?”

  “We’ll see.” The wind rips past us, as if Milton has kicked his speed into high gear.

  I squeeze my eyes tight and nod. But then another thought springs into my head: what if Milton flies straight to Eden, and he and I somehow manage to commandeer the nursery, barricade ourselves inside there or something? Or better yet, lock Willard and his men in their quarters, then head down to the radio room and send that whole lot of remote-controlled mutos straight at Cain’s advancing troops?

  “This Cain guy, he must really have a death wish,” I offer.

  Milton doesn’t respond. Probably takes a lot of focus to fly like a superhero.

  I sniff, wishing I could scratch my nose. But that would mean letting go of Milton with one hand, and I’m not about to do that until both my feet are planted on solid ground.

  “I mean, he’s got to know that by killing all those babies, the UW’s just going to retaliate in a big way, right? From what I’ve heard, the United World government is putting all its eggs in one basket with those kids.”

  “How do you mean?” Milton rolls a few degrees to the right, adjusting his trajectory.

  “They gave up on the cloning project—at least, that’s what Margo heard.”

  “Clones?”

  “Yeah.” I can’t help chuckling awkwardly. “Guess they realized that’s no way to go. Unless they figure out a way for the clones to reproduce themselves naturally, they’d just be making copies of copies in a couple generations. Talk about weakening the ol’ gene pool, right?”

  “They should’ve thought of that before they nuked the hell out of us.”

  “No doubt. But I don’t think they knew what the side effects would be. They just wanted all the terrorists’ germ-bombs destroyed.” They took care of those, all right—incinerating any living thing the government hadn’t already rounded up and sent down into a bunker.

  “There they are.” Milton sounds…nervous?

  I crack an eye open against the rushing wind and peek below. Milton has every right to be worried. One flying man and one invisible man against that crew? There’s got to be over two dozen of them, each zipping across the ground nearly as fast as Milton’s flying over it. Kicking up a thick cloud of dust in their wake, Cain’s speedy warriors race east, cloaks flailing behind them, blades gleaming in the sun.

  Time for me to share my idea: “Hey, how about we forget this bunch and go straight to Eden instead? You know, head ’em off? Maybe talk some reason into Willard and—”

  “That guy’s nuts. You really think he’d listen to us?”

  “We could take over Eden. Lock up Willard and his cronies and defend the nursery against those bloodthirsty savages down there. Keep ’em from getting inside.”

  Milton’s quiet. Will he adjust his trajectory to intercept Cain’s warriors? Or is he actually considering my idea?

  He surges forward through the air. “Sounds like a plan, Mr. Tucker. A crazy plan, but it just might work.”

  “Call me Tucker. My dad was Mr. Tucker.”

  What sounds like a laugh erupts from Milton—the first sign of any personality I’ve seen to date. The guy seems like one of those tortured souls you always read about in old works of literature, like he’s trying to get out from under his past’s dark shadow.

  “Long as they haven’t sealed ’em up, I should have a few ways for us to get inside,” I shout.

  Willard didn’t take kindly to my surprise visits back in the day. I’d located multiple entry points into Eden from the surface streets in the city above. Most of them involved manhole covers and underground sewage pipes, which was why Willard sometimes smelled me before I made my presence known.

  “Never thought I’d be happy to see them,” Milton says.

  We’ve slowed to a standstill in the middle of the air. Milton can do that?

  “Who? Where?” I risk a quick peek.

  “There.” Milton points back toward Cain’s warriors, far below. “Hard to make out with all the dust they’re stirring up.”

  A dizzyin
g surge of vertigo overcomes me for a moment, and I have some difficulty focusing. But once I’m able to, I see the battle lines clearly drawn. On the west side are Cain’s warriors, moving with flashes of light as the sun strikes their unsheathed blades in violent arcs. On the east side are two vehicles, jeeps by the looks of them, wheeling about in wild figure-eights with heavy weapons fire blasting willy-nilly.

  “Mutos?”

  Milton nods. “They should keep Cain’s bunch busy.”

  “You don’t think…” I adjust my grip on Milton’s torso. “Another bunch of mutos might’ve gone after the slower-moving group?”

  Milton shifts direction. “We should go back.”

  “Risky. One of those trigger-happy sons of bitches wings you, and those babies in Eden can kiss their rescue goodbye.”

  “You think we should keep moving.”

  I pause. “I think you should let Luther’s spirits do their thing. If it’s true what he says about them, then maybe they’ll intervene in a pillar of dust or something. You know, blind the mutos in their tracks.”

  That elicits a half-hearted chuckle from the flying man. “After seeing those shells landing on the beach, the daemons don’t seem half as intimidating as they used to.”

  “Compared to something that can blow you into a thousand pieces? Yeah. A freak that wants to eat your face off isn’t really a big deal!”

  “With these daemons slowing down Cain’s fastest warriors, we’ll have plenty of time to take over Eden and prepare for their arrival...” He shakes his head. “But I can’t leave Luther to face those things alone.”

  “He’s not alone. Have you seen Cain’s people? They’re like post-apocalyptic gladiators. If there’s anybody who can keep your friends alive, it’s them. Feel sorry for the mutos. They’ve scoped out the wrong prey this time.”

  Milton seems reluctant to turn east and resume our flight. “If I find Sergeant Bishop and have him radio his ship, then those people on the coast—”

  “The babies are all that matter right now. If they’re lost, then all of this’ll be for nothing. Willard and his bunch just want to use ’em to buy their way off this dead continent. Cain’s people want to kill ’em all to screw over the UW. You and me? We want ’em to live. Ain’t that right?”

  “We’re the heroes,” Milton says flatly. His expressionless goggles look west, back the way we’ve flown. “I just...don’t know if this is the right thing to do.”

  He seems lost, like a weather vane with no wind to blow him in the right direction.

  “Don’t those spirits talk to you?” I don’t necessarily believe the spirits of the earth are what Luther’s people believe them to be—ghosts of every animal blown up on D-Day—but I know there’s something supernatural at work on this continent. And it stands to reason Milton would be the closest to whatever spiritual entity it is, what with him being able to fly like a bird and all. “Can’t you ask them what they think you should do?”

  “Doesn’t work that way. They show up when they have something to tell me.”

  I nod, adjusting my hold on him. It’s more than a little uncanny hanging here in midair; I’ll never get used to it, not in a million years. “When did they show up last?”

  Milton turns to gaze east, toward Eden, still out of sight from this distance. We have hundreds of kilometers left to cross before we’ll reach the city ruins and the skyscraper skeletons jutting upward from the ashen sand. “An hour ago, maybe longer.”

  “What did they say?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Sounds more like he doesn’t want to know. “They spoke to you and you alone, and you can’t remember what they said?”

  “We don’t need them. We can fend for ourselves.”

  “Unlike those babies.”

  Milton’s grip on me tightens, and he propels himself onward with a sudden burst of speed, plowing through the rushing air like a missile. It seems like we’re going faster than before, but maybe it’s just the contrast between hovering in midair and rocketing through it.

  He’s made up his mind.

  “If those daemons hurt anybody but Cain’s people, I’m holding you personally responsible,” Milton shouts.

  Join the club. Daiyna would appreciate having Milton on her side in the Eden-hating faction.

  Within minutes, the twisted, charred metal spires of the city ruins appear in the distance like long, crooked fingers clawing at the sky. Below, a few levels under the ash-smothered streets, lies the subterranean refuge of Willard’s Eden Guard. Won’t they be surprised to find ol’ Tucker and his super-friend knocking at their door?

  “You got inside once before, from what I recall,” I shout over the rushing wind.

  “Through the sewage tunnels, yeah. I was hoping you knew a better way.”

  “Head south once you reach the towers. There’s a network of underground waterways, separate from the sewers. They were used to channel groundwater to the surface before D-Day.”

  As we approach the city ruins with their crumbling buildings and heaps of dusty rubble, I notice hundreds of dark, indistinguishable forms roaming the abandoned streets below.

  “We’ve got company.” Milton doesn’t sound too happy about it.

  When I left Eden, Willard and the Eden Guard were doubling their efforts with the mutos, collaring a fresh dozen every day. It helped that a large number of them called the ruins above Eden their home. With plenty of collared dogs already wired and remote-controlled, it was a simple matter for Perch or Jamison—Willard’s right and left-hand man, respectively—to send a dog or two out to collect new recruits.

  Now, staring into the distance at so many creatures wandering out in the open, I have to wonder if there are any wild mutos left in the city.

  Willard has a flesh-eating army at his disposal. I don’t have a gun on me, and neither does Milton. We’ll just have to trust my ability to keep us invisible and Milton’s ability to get us out of a tight squeeze faster than the speed of sound.

  “How many, would you say?”

  Milton shakes his head. “Too many.”

  He brings us in lower, swooping over one of the buildings that’s still somewhat intact—a three-story brick apartment house. He points at the flat stretch of concrete roof, scorched and strewn with debris. I nod, assuming he means we’re going in for a landing.

  Touching down like a loon across the tranquil surface of a lake, Milton’s boots skid once or twice as he fights for balance. He holds onto me with one arm while swinging the other as a counterweight. Good thing we’re still invisible, or the mutos below would’ve noticed us right off. As it is, the slow-moving horde in the street tilt back their heads and stare goggle-eyed at nothing in particular. Sure looks like they heard something.

  Milton gestures to keep silent as he pries my death grip off him, keeping a firm hold of my shoulder with one hand as he does so. We’ve got to stay in contact in order for him to remain invisible. The last thing either of us wants is to be noticed right now.

  The mutos below wear the telltale signs they’re members of Willard’s dog pound: shock collars adorn their scabby throats. The steel bands are cinched snugly at the base of each muto’s neck, and a red pinpoint of light blinks to show it’s active, transmitting video of everything it faces via a micro-camera.

  I nudge Milton and point down a southbound side street. We’ll have to climb to the ground, then navigate our way through throngs of mutos without being noticed. As long as we move among the freaks without bumping into any of them, we’ll be fine.

  All those muto feet have stirred the dust along the ground in well-trod sections of the city. The trouble will come when we cross a less popular stretch of terrain. If Jamison or Perch, monitoring the muto-cams, happens to notice our tracks leading into the underground waterways, then Milton and I will lose the element of surprise.

  And considering how matters stand at present, that’s our only advantage.

  Milton nods, ready to follow me over the side of the b
uilding and down the rusted iron ladder along disintegrating brick. If I were a praying man, I might’ve said some words before placing my boot on the first rung and letting it take my full weight. I try not to imagine the ladder breaking off the wall and sending me and Milton plummeting onto a bunch of hungry mutos below.

  I make my descent with one hand on Milton’s ankle above me, keeping him invisible. Rung after rung without a word, we reach the street. Holding my breath, and with Milton’s hand on my shoulder, I head through the mass of twitching bodies more dead than alive, staggering with no clear direction in sight. Milton follows close behind. Both of us are invisible to the creatures, but knowing that doesn’t make it any less horrifying: the way these rotten-smelling freaks stare right at us as we pass, their lidless yellow eyes oozing a foul fluid that seems to be their lifeblood. I’m thankful for the head covering I wear; it cuts down on some of the stench reaching my nostrils.

  I pause to point down an alley blocked by a trio of mutos swaying on their feet like drug addicts higher than cloud nine. Milton nods, his goggles tracking the freaks closest to us. Even though they can’t see us, they can smell well enough. Lingering in one place for more than a second or two isn’t a good idea.

  Milton could have saved us a lot of trouble by flying directly to the entry point. Too bad it’s not an option. The way he moves in fast-forward stirs up a whole lot of dust that would be visible on the muto-cams. Better to take it slow in enemy territory. And besides, I don’t know for sure this first stop will be our ticket to Eden. If the manhole covers are sealed, we’ll have to take an entirely different route—one Milton won’t like at all.

  He’ll remember it: the underground parking structure where he and his friends first ran into Willard’s crew.

  We reach the manhole and crouch beside it, keeping an eye on the mutos nearby, only five meters away. They don’t seem to notice any invisible trespassers; they just stare off into space. Starving, most likely. Willard likes to keep them hungry, says it makes them easier to control. Truth is, it makes them even more vicious than they are in their wild state.