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

by Milo James Fowler

  I mime the need for a crowbar, something to pry the cover upward. Milton runs the fingers of his free hand around the rim. It doesn’t appear to have been soldered into place. I was hoping this one would be overlooked if Willard decided to seal off the access points into Eden. This corner of the city is outside the area I normally frequent, finding all manner of goods for the Eden Guard. The poor side of town back in the day, where the government housed Sector 30’s laborers.

  Keeping one hand on me, Milton looks around for anything we could use as a pry bar. Nothing but debris in sight—until I spot a length of exposed rebar sticking out of some rubble. I nudge Milton and point at it with a shrug. Milton nods. It’ll have to work.

  But it’s half a meter away from the muto closest to us.

  Milton reaches for the rebar and shoves down on it, moving it a centimeter at most. He heaves it the opposite direction, bringing it back to its original position. He waits to see if the muto took notice. It’s still staring up at the sky, pondering the sun.

  Milton bursts into super-speed, his arm moving in a blur of motion and the rebar right along with it. I’ve never seen anything like this—except maybe in a cartoon when I was a kid. Then with a metallic squeal and a crunch from the surrounding concrete, Milton has the meter-long piece of rebar free.

  The muto snorts and reels around to face us, its eyes twitching in their sockets as its exposed nasal cavity expands and retracts in spasms. With a grunt, the other mutos join it, staggering straight toward us. Milton grips the length of iron like a weapon, but I tug him back toward the manhole cover, and we set about trying to pry it up out of the street as fast as we can.

  The mutos incline their heads and snort at each other. They heard something they couldn’t see, and now they’re determined to sniff it out. If anyone in the Eden control station is watching their screens, they’ll be more than a little interested right about now. The way the freaks’ collars are facing, they’ll get a clear view of the manhole cover as it slides aside.

  Miming a cameraman, I point at the mutos and gesture pushing them away. Milton seems to understand. He points at a chunk of concrete the size of a man’s head, sitting next to me. He shrugs, and I have to agree. It’s as good an idea as any.

  Gritting my teeth at the weight of it, I heave the chunk like a shot put, past the two freaks by a good couple meters. It lands with a crumbling clatter, skidding across the dusty asphalt. Immediately, the mutos’ attention whips toward it, their collar-mounted cameras pivoting right along with them.

  Problem solved.

  We seize the moment, gripping the makeshift crowbar hand over hand and putting our backs into it. The cover is wedged in there pretty tight, proof I haven’t used this access point into Eden nearly as often as the others.

  The mutos grunt, seeming to curse in their own garbled, phlegm-coated language. They’ve reached the piece of concrete and are kicking at it now with their tattered boots.

  Milton and I heave the iron cover upward and slide it aside as quietly as we can, but the metallic rumble isn’t lost on the freaks. Their heads twist to look back. Milton gives the rebar a lateral toss that sends it hurtling end over end, straight at them. It strikes one in the side of its deformed head, and the muto goes over backward, collapsing onto its buddy with plenty of gargled shrieking—pain and rage in equal measure.

  “After you,” I whisper.

  Milton drops down the hole and clings to the ladder, releasing his hold on me as soon as he’s swallowed up by the street. Glancing at the two mutos, I step down the ladder after him and slide the cover over our entry point, pressing upward with all my strength until it settles into place. Closing us in.

  “Can’t see a damned thing,” Milton mutters, his voice carrying down the tunnel before us. “Guess we go that way.”

  I nod, then realize Milton can’t see the gesture now that we aren’t joined at the hip anymore. “That’s right. There shouldn’t be any sort of drop-off for a hundred meters or so. By then, our eyes will have acclimated somewhat.”

  I pause to look around and blink against the dark. As far as I know, there are no night vision cameras mounted down here.

  “That trick with the rebar was really something.” I keep my voice low as we slosh through ankle-deep water. From the smell, this is no sewer. So far, so good.

  Milton almost chuckles. “Can’t believe I nailed that one in the head.”

  “Yeah.” I sniff. “But I meant before, how you got it out of the rubble.”

  What else is he able to do with his superhuman speed? From what I recalled of my training in Sector 30, once a thing starts moving at the speed of light, Einstein’s relativity principles come into play. Maybe even time travel’s possible. That sure as hell would be something. To be able to change the past? To keep the world from destroying itself in the first place? It boggles the mind. But then again, could one man really make much of a difference?

  Milton’s outstretched hand meets my chest dead-center.

  Focus, Tucker. Crazy thoughts, anyway. Like when I used to think this planet wasn’t even Earth anymore. Or that our struggle for survival was part of some sadistic government experiment.

  “Looks like we’ve found that drop-off you mentioned,” Milton says. “Any suggestions?”

  “Remember those water slides they had when we were kids?”

  Milton shakes his head. “We didn’t get much rec time in the trade sectors.”

  “Right.” One of the advantages of growing up with engineers: they were always more than happy to supply imaginative diversions for the kiddies in the neighborhood. Roller coasters, water slides, you name it. “What I’m saying is, we’ll need to take a leap of faith here.”

  Milton peers over the edge. “Or I could float us down to the bottom.”

  “Yeah. Or that.”

  Milton steps out into open space, hovering over a drop that could be anywhere between thirty to fifty meters. He beckons. “All right. Hang on.”

  Here we go again. Gritting my teeth, I lunge into Milton’s arms. We do indeed float, just as Milton said we would, and seconds later, we land in cold, knee-deep water smelling like it hasn’t moved anywhere in decades.

  “Where’s the source?”

  “Groundwater reservoirs.” I let go of him and regain my balance. “Eden used to be a big fat one, back before Willard pumped out all the water into channels like this. Nobody on the surface has known about it since before D-Day.”

  “Straight ahead?”

  “Onward and downward. We’ve got a few more drops ahead of us.”

  Each time we reach one, Milton floats us down into ever-deepening waters until we come to an airlock built of solid steel and plasticon. No access point for a key or scanner, and no viewport to see what lies on the other side.

  “Dead end.” Milton curses, the murky water up to his chest.

  I put a hand on his shoulder. “This’ll be a hoot. Trust me.” I place my other hand on the round airlock door, and immediately it vanishes, giving us a clear view of the dry interior on the other side. There’s a well-lit corridor where a single soldier stands dozing in blue fatigues, arms crossed over his automatic rifle. He stirs, then jolts to attention at the dull clang of my fist against the hatch. “Hey in there!”

  “What the hell are you doing?” Milton whispers.

  I just wink. “Hey, is that you, Ayers? Open up, for crying out loud!”

  With every contact between my fist and the hatch, the components of the door dematerialize, and the sentry’s eyes grow wider. He clutches his rifle at the ready.

  “Who goes there?” His voice trembles. Then he scowls. “Is that you, Tucker?”

  “Guilty as charged.” I chuckle.

  “Quit fooling around!”

  “How ‘bout you open up? I’m soaked out here.”

  Ayers steps forward cautiously as I hold the palm of my hand against the airlock, giving the sentry a clear view of the chest-high water lapping against its seemingly nonexistent surface
.

  “What the hell are you doing, Tucker? Captain Willard sent the dogs out looking for you.” Ayers lowers his voice. “He says you’re a traitor, man. You and that woman, Margo.”

  “I’ve got information for him. Would a traitor return with news that’ll benefit the Eden Guard?”

  Ayers steps back, reaching for the radio clipped to his shoulder.

  “Don’t do that,” I warn. “You call it in, and I’m out of here. You’ll be sitting ducks when the UW arrives.”

  Milton gives me an incredulous look. What about the element of surprise?

  “Captain Willard is working with the UW—”

  “Not anymore,” I counter. “Things have gone sideways. They’re on the warpath now. But I’d better give him the particulars. Take me to the captain, and I’ll make sure we all get out of this alive.”

  Ayers’ hand hasn’t left the radio. “You’ve got a lotta nerve, thinkin’ you can give me orders, Tucker. The hell with you.” He switches on the radio. “Base command, come in.”

  “What is it, Ayers?” The voice on the other end is Jamison’s, and he sounds beat.

  “That bastard Tucker’s decided to show his face—so to speak.”

  “Tucker?” Now Jamison’s wide awake.

  Milton pulls away, shaking his head fiercely, but I hold onto him. “Trust me,” I whisper.

  “Stay right where you are,” Jamison orders. “I’m on my way.”

  Ayers frowns. “Shouldn’t Captain Willard know about this?”

  “The captain’s in the middle of a serious talk with the Chancellor. Not to be disturbed. Hang tight, I’ll be right down.”

  Frown intact, Ayers releases his radio. I let go of the hatch, allowing it to re-materialize.

  I hope we’ve made the right choice by coming here. I knew better than to think an entry point into Eden wouldn’t be guarded—even though I didn’t tell Milton about it. But this is the access hatch closest to Jamison’s station, and if there’s anybody in Eden worthy of an iota of trust, it’s him.

  Even so, a sliver of doubt digs itself into my mind. This is our only shot, and it all depends on Willard’s left-hand man.

  23 Bishop

  18 Months After All-Clear

  I wanted to radio Mutegi on the Argonaus as soon as I heard the low concussions in the west, but with the arrival of Cain and his warriors and the subsequent round-up, followed by this forced march into the Wastes, there wasn’t time to reach Margo’s vehicle—to see if Doc’s helmet was salvageable. Functional would’ve been good enough.

  Granger. Sinclair. Harris. My blood boils at the memory of them shot through the head and left to rot in the sun. At the first opportunity, I plan to repay Cain with three shots of my own. Two in the chest, one in the head.

  My fists clench automatically.

  Focus. I can’t allow myself to do anything that will jeopardize my trip home. That’s the priority here. Has been all along.

  Sweating through every pore now, I struggle to keep up with Luther’s people, herded eastward on foot by well-armed warriors while Cain and Luther ride in an armored Hummer at the front of the pack. Beside me, Samson the cyborg clanks along as fast as he can, prodded forward by impatient warriors bringing up the rear.

  Technically speaking, I’m still on mission, heading straight to Eden. I alone will have to see this through without a fully functional suit, breathing through a supplemental apparatus that could give out any minute, and with no way to contact the Argonaus.

  After the beach-shelling concludes, amphibious assault teams will roll out. They’ll take control of the shore while choppers provide cover for advancing ground squads. But it will be a while before my backup arrives. And when it does, I’ll have to explain the situation as best I can: The factions—Luther’s group, Cain’s people, and Willard’s engineers. How the current march on Eden may hinder the UW’s plans to obtain the fetuses Willard promised us. Whether or not the unborn children are in fact contaminated. Only Harris would have been able to tell for sure.

  Looking at the people around me, I have to wonder how things will play out. No one here besides me wants the UW to get those children. Genetically, they belong to Luther and his group; what they want is obvious. But it’s unclear what Cain has in mind.

  Having studied tribal warlords of ages past, I know a power struggle for land dominance when I see one. If Cain ever considered Luther’s enclave to be a threat, he doesn’t seem to anymore. They’re unarmed, shepherded along like domesticated animals. Or slaves. All that remains to be conquered is Arthur Willard’s underground refuge. Did Cain forsake his own settlement on the coast in hopes of turning Willard’s group out of Eden? Does Cain plan for his people and Luther’s to live there together? Unlikely, since Luther’s tribe was forced to lay down arms.

  They’ll be fodder once any shooting starts.

  Cries of alarm erupt from up ahead, at the front of the pack. Shouts include the word goblyn—something from those bedtime stories I’ve read countless times to Mara and Emmanuel. Cain’s warriors surge forward, leaving Luther’s people unguarded in their wake.

  I nudge the cyborg. “Let’s make a run for it.”

  Thanks to him, my external audio is working again. A little glitchy, but better than nothing. Samson was able to connect one of the tools on his robo-hand with a port on my collar, run a diagnostic on that small screen along the inside of his mechatronic forearm, and then monitor the repairs to my helmet as they were happening. Couldn’t fix the HUD, but I’ll take what I can get.

  Samson grunts, heaving himself forward with no alteration in his momentum. “Be my guest, Sarge.” He whips his steel right hand upward, and a long blade flips into position where two fingers were a moment ago. “I like having Cain’s bunch act as a buffer between us and the daemons.”

  He watches the warriors with their weapons at the ready, peering into the rising dust ahead. They don’t slow their advance. The goblyns or daemons will be met head-on.

  “You don’t think they’ll make it past those warriors?”

  Samson doesn’t bother to face me mid-stride. “I think Cain’s about to lose more than a few of his people. Bon appétit, mutant freaks.”

  A cacophony of weapons fire explodes, directed into the dense cloud of billowing sand and ash engulfing us all. I’ve yet to see a single mutant, but there is something familiar about the dust that swirls around me—a presence I’ve felt before in this strange land.

  Voices shout in fear and battle-hardened rage. Soon I can barely see my own gloved hand in front of my face shield. Blindly, I halt and turn around, reaching for anyone nearby. My fingers clasp onto nothing but air.

  Rifle shots report from a distance, followed by screams of agony twenty paces ahead. Cain’s warriors raise a war cry, and their return fire roars in a mighty barrage. I drop awkwardly to one knee and cover my cracked helmet with both arms.

  Maybe it’s the heat from the sun or the heat of the moment, but I’m overwhelmed with anger, a fury that burns deep in my gut and radiates outward. I’ve never felt so powerless, at the mercy of forces beyond my control—unarmed, alone, handicapped by a suit designed to keep me alive on this godforsaken continent. I have a mission to complete, but that’s not going to happen if these freakish creatures have their way.

  I want to destroy them all, turn a heat ray on them and watch them melt into the sand.

  A heat ray? Right. I’m seriously losing it.

  Then I blink at the figure approaching from out of the billowing dust. She seems to float toward me, garbed in a sheer white gown that trails behind her—like a Greek goddess from millennia ago.

  My wife.

  “You again,” I mutter.

  “You are not safe here.”

  “None of us are. Take a look around.”

  “You are needed in Eden, Sergeant.”

  “Damned straight. But it doesn’t look like I’ll be getting there anytime soon.”

  The vision of my wife smiles as only she can. My a
bdomen tightens at the familiar sight, knowing it’s not her but illogically yearning for it to be. My eyes sting all of a sudden.

  “We will take you.”

  “We?”

  Spirits of the earth, Luther calls them. As if that makes any kind of sense. This continent is one tripped-out freak show. Maybe I’ve been infected, after all. That would explain these weird visions.

  “It is you that Arthur Willard expects to meet. Not Milton and Tucker, who are—”

  “Wait a minute. Milton’s headed there now? To Eden?”

  “He believes he is acting in the best interest of his people, but he may instead jeopardize the lives he is trying to protect. Willard will not listen to them. But he will listen to you.”

  I wince at another burst of weapons fire. Another volley of screams. Cain’s warriors are not going down without a fight.

  “How the hell do you plan to get me there? And what about these people? Don’t you think they could use a little help?”

  Her shoulders lift and fall. “We have provided cover for their retreat. Instead, they choose to remain here and fight.”

  “Luther’s people were taken against their will—”

  “You do not know them very well—the fire that burns in each of their hearts. Some wish to rescue the infants from Eden. Some wish to have their gifts removed by Eden’s engineers. And some wish to destroy Eden and all that it stands for. But every one of them desires to see this journey to its end. None will turn from the path they have chosen.”

  I turn away from her—it—to peer into the wall of dust. I see movement, but no figures I recognize. The truth is, I don’t owe these people anything. They’re not my team. I have a mission to complete, and whatever gets me there fastest is the way to go.

  “Fine. Let’s move.” Reaching Willard and arranging the release of those infants is all that matters. With Mutegi providing back-up, I can afford to be optimistic. “Are you going to give me wings or something?”

  “We will carry you through the air.”

  “You can do that?”