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

by Milo James Fowler

  She shrugs a shoulder. "So what?"

  I lean toward her. "You plunder Eden, and you'll be going home this week."

  I watch my reflection in her black face shield. My eyes are unreadable behind the goggles, but my tone is confident. And why shouldn't it be?

  She nods slowly to herself. "Why the hell should I believe you?"

  "Because we were already headed there. Ask them." I nod toward the three surviving bikers.

  "That's right. We're going to Eden! The Promised Land. Milk and honey!" they talk over each other again.

  The driver regards them for a moment, not knowing what to make of the strange-looking trio, before pointing at Cain. "You claim this badly burned fellow blew up Stack." She shakes her head at me. "How did you all end up together?"

  "The same way we're going to end up with you, heading to Eden." I give her a nod. "Some situations call for strange bedfellows."

  She walks away to confer with her associates. I can't hear a word any of them are saying in their huddle, but they each have a habit of turning and staring at us. I don't mind, as long as their assault rifles look the other way.

  "You can't be serious about this," Shechara insists in a low tone. "Daiyna, you can't give yourself up to Perch."

  "Don't think she plans to, Small Fry," Samson rumbles as quietly as he's able. "This has all the earmarks of another attempt at revenge."

  I shake my head, wishing they would just shut up and trust me. "The raiders will take care of Perch. Or our three amigos will." I nod toward the cannibals. "Once I tell them Edenite meat is on the menu."

  "Daiyna!" Shechara is not pleased.

  "Kidding." Maybe just a little.

  After their lengthy powwow, the raiders encircle us while the driver paces. "We lost one of our own today, but we took out a dozen of yours. Obviously you're looking for a way to save your necks…" She tilts her head to one side, facing me. "But I see no reason not to investigate Eden. We've scavenged all we can from the storage pockets in the city ruins. There's not much left there. High time for us to see what's available down below." She nods, and the other raiders do the same. "We have another truck on the way. Should be here by 0100. You might want to get some rest." She leans toward me. "You'll need it once we hand you over to Eden."

  She and her cohorts laugh it up, seeming to think that's pretty funny. I consider telling the Wastelanders that raider flesh is back on the menu. But I don't want to get them killed in the process. Not yet, anyway.

  "She's finally admitting it to herself!" Mother Lairen crows, clapping her hands. "No more denial. One of the first steps toward recovery."

  Rehana ignores her, and so do I.

  Shechara, Samson, and I sit on the ground in the jeep's shade and lean back against the vehicle. We let Cain continue to roast where he sits. Nobody seems to care much about his welfare, and that suits me just fine. The raiders break up into pairs and watch us in two-hour shifts. Wearing all that black, they must have one hell of a cooling system installed in those suits. None of them look uncomfortable. They remind me of…shiny beetles…

  Not sure how long I nodded off for, but the sleep was deep and dream-free. Shechara nudges me in the cool darkness as headlights shine toward us. The raiders get us on our feet and keep us huddled together while they load their spoils into the fresh tractor-trailer with all its tires intact. After they finish wheeling the last of the Wastelanders' dirt bikes into the shipping container, they shove us toward the same vicinity to be locked in the dark while we make the drive inland.

  But we won't be alone. Three of the raiders join us with their face shields' night vision activated, glowing a dull green against their flinty features.

  As the doors slam shut behind us and the lock-bars slide into place, I take a deep breath and hope this was the right move.

  13 Bishop

  2 Years After All-Clear

  When we return to the Homeplace, Milton is standing outside the collapsed cave entrance covered in dust and blood smears. Beside him is the young woman Victoria holding her five-month-old son close, both dirty and disheveled. Three others are close by: Taylor, one of Luther's sentries; Burke, an elderly man from the coast, cradling another baby. They stare vacantly, in shock. The babies wail.

  They're the only survivors. The missile killed everyone else we left behind.

  We don't know who fired it. Could have been the Integrity or the mutants. A United World warship might target a group of infected survivors harboring a deserter. But why would the mutants do it? Their only aim in life is to capture and devour fresh meat. They don't destroy things without a reason. When they shot down my chopper six months ago, they closed in for the kill once we hit the ground. But here, as smoke billows out of the Homeplace, none of the creatures are to be seen.

  One at a time, Milton flies the survivors down to meet us at the base of the cliff where we've parked the two jeeps. He swoops in low, then jets upward to retrieve the next. Margo approaches Victoria, and the two of them share a telepathic conversation. Have they already searched the rubble with their minds to make sure Milton didn't miss anyone? I have a feeling Luther will want to bury the dead and recite his scriptures over them; but looking up at the cave, I can't help thinking the whole thing could collapse in on itself at any moment.

  We need to leave this place immediately and regroup. Find shelter elsewhere, someplace with food and supplies. Everything Luther's people have stockpiled in those caves is lost now. We can't go back for it and risk losing anyone else.

  If Luther asks for my advice, that's what I'll tell him. Or I might jump the gun and suggest it anyway. But I'm not in charge here. I have to remember that. They took me in, and I'm grateful for it. I can't overstep—as much as I want to find whoever did this and make them pay dearly.

  "Anyone else?" Luther takes Milton aside.

  He shakes his head. His sorrowful expression is hidden behind the head coverings and goggles protecting him from the morning sun. But his broken posture speaks volumes.

  "So many…" Luther trails off, gazing upward as if he can see our dead deep inside the mountain. "We can't leave them in there. We must bury them."

  "It isn't safe," Milton argues gently, squeezing his shoulder. "Luther, I barely got out myself, and that's with my speed—ducking and dodging. We probably shouldn't even be standing here. The whole cliff is unstable."

  Something I didn't consider. At Luther's nod, I gesture for Samson and Shechara to put their jeeps into reverse. I climb onto the back of Samson's vehicle and beckon for the others to join us. They start shambling in our direction, glancing back intermittently, unable to ignore the smoking tomb.

  Once we're a hundred meters out, we stop.

  "The storerooms are lost." Margo is at my side before I realize she's there, her somber monotone unaffected by the recent tragedy. "We can't remain here."

  I nod. If the mutants pick this moment to attack, we'll be easily surrounded, pinned against the cliff. "Any hostiles on approach?"

  She pauses as if she's listening intently to something. Then she shakes her head. "I don't sense anyone nearby."

  Regardless, I keep my head on a swivel, one hand on the rifle slung over my shoulder. "We'll need to find higher ground, a defensible position. Set up camp, then send out scavenging parties for food and supplies."

  "The spot where we camped last night should suffice."

  With no other options at present, I approach Luther. He can't shake his gaze from the collapsed cave entrance above.

  "We have to get these people to safety," I tell him. Fifteen of us now.

  At first it doesn't seem like he heard me, but then he nods absently. "Lead them, Sergeant. I'll be along shortly."

  I look at Samson standing nearby. The big cyborg nods. "I'll keep an eye on him," he rumbles.

  Margo and I each take the wheel of a jeep, and the others climb aboard, standing on the running boards and gripping the roll bars. Milton doesn't need a ride, and the babies don't take up much space, so we have
enough seats for everyone else in the two vehicles. I save a pair for Luther and Samson and signal Milton to head out. He'll fly over the path ahead to make sure we're still alone, as Margo seems to think. I gesture for her to start driving.

  "We just can't seem to catch a break," says the older fellow Justus, seated beside me. "The way we keep losing people... If I didn't know better, I'd say we're cursed."

  "You don't think we are?" I glance over my shoulder to find Luther and Samson heading our way, both with their heads downcast.

  "I don't believe in curses. Or blessings, for that matter. We make our own fate." Justus chuckles with no humor in his tone. "For better or worse."

  "So you don't believe in Gaia. Or the spirits of the earth."

  He curses under his breath. "I believe in what I can see, Sarge."

  I've given up correcting them when they address me by rank. "Wish I could unsee some things."

  "That's right, they say you've seen 'em." Justus faces me now, appraising me. "Those spirits. You and Milton are special that way. They reveal themselves to you."

  "Not special." I nod to Luther as he climbs into his seat, followed by the cyborg. "Cursed."

  Justus grunts.

  Six months. That's how long I've been breathing this air—ever since my helmet was damaged. But unlike so many of Luther's people, I haven't exhibited any bizarre talents. I can't fly or move with supersonic speed like Milton; I can't read minds like Margo and Victoria. But every now and then, the spirits talk to me, and that's weird enough. I'm glad I haven't changed otherwise.

  Luther pats me on the back, and I start up the jeep, following the tracks left by Margo. Her vehicle is visible in the distance, a couple hundred meters away. It's only ten klicks to the hilltop where we'll regroup and decide our next move.

  "We'll find out who did it." I nod, glancing up into the rearview at Luther and Samson in the backseat. "Then we'll give them a taste of their own medicine."

  "Vengeance is the Creator's," Luther murmurs, yet I hear him clearly. "Our priority is finding a safe place to live, stockpiling enough water, provisions, and ammunition. The hilltop is only a temporary campsite. We need to find permanent lodging."

  "What about the daemons?" Samson crosses his mechanical arms. "Safe places are few and far between with them roaming about."

  Luther nods. "We can't hunt them down until we have a base of operations. We can't put those two babies in danger. They are the next generation, the future."

  "Cain's spawn," Samson mutters in disgust.

  "No, brother." Luther reprimands the cyborg. "It doesn't matter who their father was. Blood and DNA are merely biological fuel. The soul decides the person, and the soul is a gift from the Creator alone. Cain had nothing to do with it. They will grow up among us and be their own people."

  Samson nods once. "I stand corrected." Then he clears his throat. "Speaking of offspring and whatnot, there's something I've been meaning to ask you about."

  I glance at Justus, wondering if he's eavesdropping on the conversation behind us like I am. The old-timer's chin is on his chest, his head jostling with the jeep's movement across the uneven terrain. Sound asleep.

  "Shechara and me…" the cyborg continues in a low tone. "We've talked about it, and we'd...like to get married."

  I stop myself from laughing out loud. After what's just happened—the loss of life as well as our defendable Homeplace—this is on Samson's mind? What's the point of a wedding in the Wastes?

  "Sooner rather than later," Samson says, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "And we'd like you to officiate. You're the closest thing we've got to a priest, after all."

  "It would be an honor." Luther nods. "Are you sure you're ready to be a husband?"

  "Our lives could be snuffed out without warning. Like that." He snaps his metal fingers with a clink. "The way I see it, I'd rather spend whatever time I have left with someone I care about, and who cares about me. I don't want to die alone."

  "So you've asked her?" There's an edge of humor in Luther's tone.

  "Of course!"

  "And...she capitulated?"

  "Not sure what you mean by that, but she said yes."

  "I am so happy for you, brother." Luther claps him on the back. "When were you thinking?"

  "After we set up camp."

  There's a pause before both men chuckle quietly. Followed by a rueful silence. Survivor's guilt rearing its ugly head.

  But we have to move on. We have to survive. And if that means Samson and Shechara marrying each other, I guess I'm all for it.

  "Congratulations," I offer. "You two work well together, from what I've seen. Marriage is a partnership…" I trail off, thinking about my Emma. About the lie my superiors told her, that her life partner was killed in action, that he died a hero.

  "You will see your wife again, Sergeant."

  Luther's able to read minds now?

  "You complement each other, is what I meant." I focus on driving.

  "Opposites attract, they say." Samson grunts. "We do have a lot in common: Prosthetics. Survival instinct. Ten kids."

  "Do you talk about the children much?" Luther sounds wistful.

  "We'd like to meet them someday. Introduce ourselves." Samson pauses. "You think they've got 'em living with adoptive families over in Eurasia? Or locked in a government lab, under observation?"

  "I've wondered about that myself. I pray for them every night. Your children as well as mine. Daiyna's and mine…" Luther's turn to trail off now.

  "After we get rid of the daemons, what do you say we go look for her?" Samson suggests. "She shouldn't be out there by herself. Nobody should."

  Luther exhales. "I pray for her as well. That the Creator will soften her heart. That she will return to us. But the truth is, if she wanted to see us, she's had months to come back." He pauses. "If she's still alive."

  "Maybe Margo or Victoria could reach out with their brains or whatever. See if they can locate her?"

  "Perhaps." Luther grips the roll bar and stands up as we reach the base of the hill that provided our vantage point last night. The mutants' remains lie right where we left them, rotting in the sun.

  Margo and her passengers are already carrying their weapons up toward the boulders above. Her jeep is parked facing out. I line up mine next to it and nudge Justus with my elbow.

  "Rise and shine."

  He snorts and jerks his head upward. "Alright. Here we go."

  My passengers climb out, but I pause before joining them. Strangely enough, I can hear every conversation going on around me. And it doesn't matter how far away they happen to be. To my ears, they sound like they're right next to me: Shechara and Margo as they reach the summit and start to set up camp, Victoria and Burke, each carrying a baby. Samson and Luther, discussing the upcoming nuptials. Justus and the others—Ethan, Connor, Taylor, and Deven in a slow-moving group. No matter how far away from me they are, no matter how loud or how quiet they are, I can hear them all.

  "What do you hear?" Spirit-Emma appears beside me.

  "They're worried," I murmur, sorting through the voices as they take turns expressing concerns, hopes, suggestions, opinions. Somehow, I'm not overwhelmed; I can focus on each conversation simultaneously. "Did you do this to me?"

  Six months I've been breathing this air. Finally I've got my own bizarre ability to show for it.

  The spirit smiles through the face of my wife. "We had to decide on the best gift to give you. You're a natural leader. You know how to give orders." She shrugs slightly. "But it's equally important to listen."

  "Touché," I mutter.

  She rests a hand on my arm, her eyes serious. "You need to listen now."

  I frown at her and tilt my head toward the others as they reach the hilltop. I'm the only one left standing below.

  "Press past their voices. Listen, James."

  I close my eyes and focus on any sounds coming from beyond our position.

  "Is it Milton?" How laser-focused is my newfound ability
? Can I pinpoint the sound of him hurtling through the sky?

  Then I hear it: a humming sound, like a swarm of bees in the distance. Growing louder as it heads our way.

  "What…?"

  "They noticed the missile blast. Usually, such a thing would frighten them off. But in this case, with food being so scarce since they picked the Shipyard clean, something in their degraded brains has told them there is fresh meat for the taking. At the Homeplace."

  My stomach sinks. "The mutants."

  "All of them." She nods. "This will be your chance to finally rid the land of those who remain. But you must listen, and act wisely."

  We don't have to hunt them down. They're coming to us. But we're not ready. We don't have the ammunition to take on—

  "How many?" My voice is hoarse.

  "Close to a hundred."

  So our estimates were correct. Good for us—but little consolation right now. We're gravely outnumbered. We can't hit them from our vantage point above. We'd make ourselves an easy target for any RPG. Last night, there was only one rocket launcher to contend with; when Shechara noticed the jeep full of mutants carrying it, we took them out. There were only three vehicles, and it still took a concerted effort to eliminate that threat.

  There could be as many as twenty-five jeeps this time.

  "Milton—"

  "He's back." The spirit turns toward the hill as Milton descends from the blistering sky and lands near the others with a cloud of dust. "Trust the Creator, James. And fight for your life. We'll help you any way we can." She vanishes with a smile and a wink.

  They're going to intervene? Well then. Maybe our situation isn't as dire as it looks.

  I can't help remembering what happened to those mutants after they shot my chopper out of the sky. My helmet HUD was on the fritz; I couldn't see a thing. But I felt the whirlwind, and I heard those creatures scream as they were thrashed to death. By the spirits, I've come to believe.

  I grab my rifle and charge up the hillside, listening in as Milton reports to Luther: "Daemons—twenty klicks out, coming in from every direction. They're hungry, have been for a while now. That missile blast really got their attention."