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

by Milo James Fowler

  This is nothing like riding that massive dust devil on the way to Eden. This is piercing the sky faster than a jet. I close my eyes and grit my teeth, waiting for it to be over.

  Then, just as suddenly as it began, my flight ends. Milton touches down on an outcropping of rock near the cave mouth of the Homeplace. Down below, Luther's people are working in pairs to carry the dead to their final resting places: a row of fresh graves dug along the foothills. Granger, Sinclair, and Harris are not among the bodies. They'll either be returned to Eurasia or incinerated to avoid contaminating the Domes. Their families deserve better.

  Margo's Hummer is parked down there like it never left. It looks as beat up as I feel, inside and out.

  "Thanks," I tell Milton as we let go of each other. I give him a solid pat on the back. "Let's not do that again."

  He laughs. "I'll let Luther know you're here," he says as he turns toward the cave.

  Good to see you again, Sergeant.

  Margo steps out of the shadows as they envelop Milton.

  "Miss me?" I approach her.

  "I'm sorry...for your loss," she says. If she's read my mind, and I assume she has, then she already knows the situation with my family.

  "Guess I'm one of you now. We get to wait and see if I sprout any horns."

  She almost smiles, beckoning me inside. "Let's find you something more comfortable to wear."

  I follow her into the cave where glowsticks are mounted along the earthen walls at regular intervals. We pass a small group of pregnant young women and a cluster of elderly people who talk quietly among themselves.

  Cain's only survivors, Margo explains telepathically. Milton and I brought them from the coast.

  Somehow, they managed to escape the shelling unharmed. That's a miracle. We enter a spacious cavern with rocks arranged in rows like seats in an indoor amphitheater.

  "Any sign of Cain?"

  She shakes her head. "You saw what happened to him and his warriors."

  I did. They were toast. But he was riding inside that other Hummer—

  You intended to kill him. She's not judging. Just projecting a fact into my mind.

  I nod. But I suppose being roasted alive was as good a way as any for him to go out. Justice, after killing my team the way he did. "So now what?"

  "Now?" She glances over her shoulder at me. "We live. Those who remain. We set aside our differences and survive."

  "Eden would be a good place to do that." I gesture at the rock walls surrounding us. "Not that these caves are without their charm. But those women about to give birth would be a whole lot more comfortable with electricity, air conditioning, and running water. Not to mention the rest of us."

  Us. She holds my gaze. "We already put it to a vote. Luther sided with the majority: thirty-five to ten. We avoid further bloodshed by leaving Eden alone."

  "How'd you vote?"

  You already know.

  I suppose I do. She said she'd never go back there. "But with Willard dead—"

  "It was because of his murder that Perch so easily regained control of the Eden Guard and turned them against Luther and his people."

  "Yeah, I heard Perch was in charge." Eden traded one lunatic leader for another.

  We've reached what looks like a communal alcove where goods and supplies are stored. Among the hydropacks and standard rations are a couple stacks of loose-fitting, sand-colored clothing.

  "I'll leave you to it," she says. "Feel free to take whatever you need. You may place your suit on that shelf. I'm sure we'll find a use for it." She turns away.

  I'm glad you're here, Sergeant. She disappears down the earthen corridor.

  I don't know what to say to that. I would rather be home with my family. But since that's not an option, I guess I'll be glad, too. Or something close to it. This beats wandering through the Wastes, at any rate.

  I stare at the clothing, unsure where to begin. First things first: I peel myself out of the protective suit and fold it up. Then I pull off my bodysuit, leaving only my briefs in place—just in case one of the locals stumbles upon me. Not sure how body-shy these people are, but I don't plan on offending anybody my first day.

  Breaking open one of the hydropacks, I take a long swig and pour the rest over my face and chest, smearing around the H2O substitute in an attempt at quasi-cleanliness. Then I pull on a baggy, one-size-fits-all pair of trousers and matching tunic, keeping my own boots. I look almost ready to fit in.

  "Sergeant." Luther finds me just as I step out into the corridor. He takes my hand in a firm shake.

  "Just James." I shrug. "No longer a UW Marine."

  "James." His piercing blue eyes burn with intensity. He looks more alive than he did the last time I saw him. Energized. "I heard about your situation."

  "Yeah…" There's nothing I can do about it. Part of me wants to move beyond it. Then I feel guilty, as if I've betrayed my family just by thinking that.

  "We are not giving up on our children. Whether it takes us five years or ten, even twenty—we will find them." He grips my shoulder and nods, holding my gaze. Something stirs within me in the face of his confidence. Could it be hope? "That includes your wife, your daughter, and your son. You will see them again, James. I give you my word on that."

  7 Daiyna

  5 Years After All-Clear

  By all appearances, Stack itself isn't a raging inferno. Just a big rig with loads of supplies piled outside its open cargo container. Wrecked, in flames. Judging from the twisted remains of the truck, a missile strike would be my best guess.

  The locals are working with shovels, tossing sand onto the fire in an attempt to smother it. Looks like a solid community effort. Part of me likes the idea of taking a seat right here on this hillside, pulling out my flask and enjoying the show. But those flames look warm, and my teeth are chattering inside this stupid helmet. So I keep walking.

  Until a couple well-meaning sentries block my path.

  "Going someplace?" one of them asks, seeming to think she's real sneaky popping out from behind that boulder.

  I don't tell her I saw her heat signature from fifty meters back. And I didn't even need to activate whatever tech is in this helmet. I'm just special that way. Gifted.

  "Trade." I keep my rifle propped back against my shoulder.

  "What you got?" The firelight casts her in a cocky silhouette, one hand on her hip where a sidearm's holstered. The other holds a sawed-off shotgun aimed at my chest.

  "Eden special." Slowly, I set down my rifle and satchel. Then I take off the helmet and place it on top. "Protective suit. I'll take a 12-volt auto battery in trade, if you've got one. If not, whiskey and a bed for the night will suffice."

  The other sentry lets out a low whistle at the sight of me. Not because he thinks I'm easy on the eyes. "It's her," he murmurs.

  "You've got some cojones coming back here," says the she-sentry, drawing her sidearm and pointing the business end at me. Because two guns are better than one when you're dealing with a loose cannon. "Planning another drunken brawl?"

  "Don't want any trouble this time. By the looks of things, you've got plenty already." I nod toward the fire.

  "Interesting timing," says the he-sentry. "You showing up like this, just minutes after that missile hit."

  "Nothing to do with me. My jeep died, twenty klicks south. Ran into some bounty hunters from Eden—"

  "What's your head worth now, Daiyna?" she asks, taking a step toward me.

  "Twenty hydropacks, I heard," he answers for me, closing in as well. "Almost worth it, don't you think?"

  It wouldn't be much trouble to take them down. Her first, then him. Disarm them, shove their faces into the dust. They might get off a lucky shot or two, missing me entirely as I leap through the air, twisting to land between them, throwing my elbow into her face, my knee into his groin. But with my wounded shoulder, I'd be at a distinct disadvantage. And they'd have help in a matter of seconds. The missile strike has caused all the sentries to hold a tight perimet
er. We're within spitting distance of the nearest Stack container.

  "Daiyna?"

  Time stops at the sound of that sweet, familiar voice. My sister's voice.

  Shechara…

  Like a scene from a dream, she jogs toward us from beyond the fire, her long hair around her shoulders swaying like thick curtains, half her face illuminated. If her mechatronic eyes could glisten with tears, they would be. She's smiling at me as she approaches.

  And I'm staring at her with hot tears drizzling down my cheeks. It's been so long without her.

  "She's with us," a thunderous voice booms as a large figure lumbers after Shechara. His metal arms and legs clank, reflecting the flames.

  The sentries take a step back, lowering their weapons a few degrees. Shechara passes them as if they're not even there and pulls me into a tight embrace.

  "Daiyna, it's really you!" She squeezes me, drops back half a step to cup my face in her hands and look into my eyes, then hugs me again and doesn't let go.

  She's so warm, so real. I put my arms around her tentatively, afraid she might shatter or disappear, and I'll be left alone again. I can't believe this is happening. I've tried so hard to stay away from them, to keep out from underfoot. To avoid people. These people, in particular.

  Because I love them too much to ever hurt them again.

  "It's good to see you, Daiyna," Samson rumbles, and he sounds like he means it. "Been a long time."

  "You vouch for her?" says the she-sentry, obviously disappointed.

  He nods, keeping his gaze locked with mine over Shechara's head. His eyes shine, but he doesn't smile.

  "She does anything to upset the balance, it'll be your head, cyborg." The sentries back off, glaring at me as they retreat.

  Good riddance. Go find somebody else to annoy.

  "Daiyna, where have you been?" Shechara half-whispers, her lips next to my ear.

  "Around." I shrug and hold her close, stroking her hair. I've never seen it this long, so thick and healthy.

  "I've missed you so much! We all have. It hasn't been the same, not since…" She trails off. "That doesn't matter. You're here now, and I'm never letting you go!" She laughs, squeezing me again.

  "Might want to let her catch a breath, Small Fry," Samson suggests with the makings of a grin. He reaches out with his mechatronic hand like he wants to touch my arm, but he scratches at his nose instead and turns to look past the fire. "We should see about renting a room here."

  "Not sure we'll be welcome now, Strongman." Shechara keeps her arms around me, her head resting on my shoulder like it doesn't plan on leaving anytime soon. Okay by me.

  "So you don't live here." I can't stop stroking her hair, and I hope she doesn't ask to see mine. Keeping it short with a fairly sharp knife has made it look a little ragged around the edges.

  "Nope," she says, "just passing through. We were hoping to trade, maybe spend the night in an actual bed…"

  "Not lookin' promising," Samson observes as Stack's mayor heads our way, appearing more dour than usual and flanked by those same two self-important sentries.

  I face Shechara, my eyebrows lifting as I nod toward the fire. "That was you?" Not like her to make such a big splash. But if she's been hanging around Samson, his ways might be rubbing off on her. They make an odd couple, that's for sure.

  "There were two trackers," she explains. "A sentry found one and waved us through. By the time they located the second one…" She shakes her head at the destruction.

  "So you hijacked a raider rig?" I can't help smiling.

  She nods. Samson clears his throat.

  "First time," she says.

  "Probably our last," he adds.

  Now that I look closer, I see that more than just the tractor-trailer was obliterated, the remains sinking into a fresh crater. There was also a crane attached to the cargo container, and it's ruined. As is a jeep parked behind the trailer. Judging from the stern look on Mayor Tullson's face, he plans on making somebody pay for the damages.

  "I see you're acquainted." Tullson stuffs his age-spotted hands into the pockets of his overcoat and scowls at the three of us. He looks the same as he did the last time I passed through Stack: long greasy hair combed back, hawk nose, eyes that squint day or night, clean-shaven pale skin. Heard once that he was a university professor back before the end of things. I pity his students. "Hard to believe you've caused more of a ruckus than she did the last time she graced us with her presence." He jerks his head toward me. "Do you have more drunk and disorderly conduct in store for us?"

  I lean forward and mime being hard of hearing. He's about to repeat himself when Samson steps in.

  "Honest mistake," he offers, his voice like low thunder. "Ask Barrett. He'll tell you."

  "I've spoken with him. Scanner malfunction." Tullson nods slowly. "Be that as it may. We've done well to keep Stack off the UW's radar over the years. We don't interfere with their scavenging runs, and they don't bother us. But now that's changed. They have never fired on us before—"

  "Why destroy it?" All eyes turn on me. I must have blurted that out loud. "I assume the truck was carrying plenty of provisions. Fuel, foodstuffs, supplies. The sort of haul those raiders really go for."

  "That's what it looked like." Samson nods.

  "Why blow it up? Why not send a couple squads to retrieve it?"

  Tullson humors me with a smirk. "To make a point: do not hijack their trucks. Ever." He looks at each of us again. "We're lucky no one was killed. But we're out a crane, and you lost your jeep, if I'm not mistaken."

  Samson and Shechara nod gravely.

  "So you have nothing left to trade—"

  "Here." I nudge my satchel toward him with my boot. "Take it. The rifle too, and the suit. That should help even the score."

  Tullson laughs. "You've killed too many of your brain cells, Daiyna, if you think this will make up for a crane!"

  "A down payment then." What am I doing? I didn't bring hellfire raining down on Stack. None of this concerns me. All I need is a battery. Then I'm out of here.

  "Take back what you said. Tell him you're drunk, not thinking straight. Say the satchel is a trade, and all you want is a battery." Arthur Willard is suddenly standing right there in front of me, giving me advice. I stiffen with revulsion at the sight of him.

  "Daiyna?" Shechara notices my reaction. I look at her instead.

  I haven't seen her in so long. Years, probably. And Samson—no idea why it's just the two of them out here, robbing the UW like post-apocalyptic bandits. Not sure why they're traveling together or so familiar with each other. What did she call him earlier? Strongman?

  I tried to forget them, telling myself they were better off without me. Maybe so. I don't know. There's one thing I'm sure of: I'm not better off without them.

  "A room then. For the night," I try a different tack, nudging the satchel again. "Will that about cover it?"

  One of Tullson's eyes is squinted up more than the other, almost to the point of no return. "Here's what we'll do. You'll get your room. But tomorrow we'll discuss how you're going to pay for that crane and smooth things over with the raiders." He nods, liking the sound of his own voice. Typical professor-turned-politician. "Don't even think about running. I'll have sentries posted outside your door on rotating shifts."

  He looks Samson up and down with a startling lack of respect for his mechanical parts. Maybe he's never seen the cyborg in action, tearing through a horde of daemons. Because there aren't any daemons, not anymore. Thanks to Samson and Luther.

  "We appreciate your hospitality." Samson crosses his metal arms and offers a tight-lipped smile.

  Tullson orders the she-sentry to lead the way to our room and the he-sentry to pick up my satchel overflowing with bartered items. I'm tempted to take back the rifle; what's in the bag, in addition to the Edenite's suit, should be enough to cover room and board in Stack for an entire week. But a little voice inside my head tells me to stay cool.

  You don't want to put th
em in danger, Rehana tells me, spirit-mind to flesh-mind.

  They've done a good job of putting themselves in it, I counter.

  See what happens when you leave them alone? Rehana winks at me. They need you. They always have. And you need them.

  Shechara's got her arm looped around mine as we follow the sentry. Samson is close on our heels, clanking along like a faithful robot. I keep one hand nonchalantly over the grip of the 9mm tucked into my belt. The flask is there too, hidden beneath my tunic. I have a feeling I might be needing one before the other, but I'm glad to have both.

  We don't talk until we're alone—or alone as we can be in a shipping container that's been partitioned into four tiny rooms. Three floor-to-ceiling makeshift walls are opaque plastiglass; the fourth is the steel wall of the container itself. A single solar-powered light bulb dangles from a pull-chain, splashing a pair of bunk beds, a toilet, and a sink with its sickly light. Scant privacy from the other rooms, but no privacy among the three of us.

  "Enjoy your stay," the sentry sneers, slamming the door behind us. She doesn't lock it from the outside, and her boots don't go anywhere.

  Lucky her. She gets the first rotation of guard duty. No wonder she's so pleasant.

  Samson eyes the bunks. There's no way he'll fit in either one, and he knows it.

  "I'll take the floor," he offers, like he's being chivalrous or something. Grunting and grimacing, he bends his mechanical legs awkwardly and positions his feet against the door. Smart. He'll make a good doorstop. He stretches out onto his back, his metal arms down at his sides, and his eyes closed. "Wake me up if you plan on escaping."

  Shechara kneels down beside his oversized head like a princess from a fairy tale, caring for a wounded ogre. She smooths back his tousled hair and rests her hand on his brow. He smiles up at her, and she smiles back, neither of them saying anything. Then she leans forward and kisses him. On the lips. He sighs contentedly, and before she reaches her bottom bunk, he's already snoring.