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

by Milo James Fowler

  And while we have no idea where we are, we know we've traveled over two thousand kilometers to get here. No signs of survivors along the way, but plenty of familiar terrain we've come to tolerate over the past five years: desert wasteland with countless rocks, tons of ashen sand, numerous craters to avoid, and hard-packed earth as impenetrable as pavement.

  As the day winds down and Samson snores through his nap, Shechara takes her shift at the wheel. I stare into the distance with my elbow hanging out the open passenger window, thinking about what it must have been like for Milton all those months before he met us. Wandering alone. He hadn't run into any daemons yet, so he'd flirted with the idea of actually being the last living thing in the world.

  I can see why. It feels like the three of us are all that's left. Just us and our shipping container full of dwindling resources. Nobody around to try and take it from us. Nobody who wants to eat us. Only the monotonous groans of the truck and the creaking sway of the trailer caused by the uneven ground below. A dirt bike would go a hell of a lot faster, but we see no reason to abandon our hijacked haul until it becomes necessary. Even then, we'll carry as much as we can on our backs.

  It's not like we're passing through the land of plenty here. Any ruins we find are leveled, most of them little more than massive craters—as if the cities were targeted early on D-Day. The outlying structures were demolished by the nuclear blast winds. Apparently there were no bunkers full of survivors in the continent's interior, or we would have come across a few of them by now.

  Samson mentioned something about the UW Governors being caught by surprise. When the terrorists unleashed their bioweapons, the government had to act fast: rounding us up and taking us to the bunkers that were fully functional, while others still in the construction phase were abandoned. Then the bombs fell. And the rest is...our story.

  We spent the first couple days of this roadless trip trying to guess why the spirits would send us east. Or why Luther would have led what's left of our people there in the first place. Geographically, it would make sense that there's a greater UW presence on the east side of this quarantined continent. It's a direct route to the Mediterranean across the Atlantic, unlike that long, circuitous route via the Pacific. So that'll mean a lot more UW ships on the coast, as well as raiders filling up their trucks with scavenged goods. Assuming they're in the pillaging business on the Atlantic side of things.

  After so much silent desolation surrounding us, I've settled into a peaceful lethargy. The thought of dealing with the arrogant UW types we're bound to run into causes a knot of tension to squeeze my stomach. Part of me has wanted to turn back ever since we started. Seek the path of least resistance. But that's a joke. We're driving a stolen truck. The raiders would be out for blood if we turned around and headed west.

  We don't talk about it, but I wonder every now and then who survived the Eden battle—if anybody. The Edenites had the home-court advantage, but the raiders had body armor. It could have gone either way for Cain and the cannibals. Pretty safe bet no one who survived will be coming after us.

  What suicidal lunatics would drive into the interior?

  Days blur into one another as we take our shifts at the wheel. We eat and drink our rations, we feed the big rig, we take turns sleeping. Heading ever east with no idea where exactly we'll end up.

  Until about a week later. That's when the fuel runs out. We have a decision to make: siphon gas out of the dirt bikes to eek a few more kilometers from the truck—knowing it will need our water as well—or abandon the tractor-trailer and take the bikes themselves, load them up like horses from the ancient west and continue our journey at a faster clip.

  Being the three-person democracy we are, we put it to a vote. And as much as we've appreciated the truck shielding us from the elements, we decide unanimously to leave it behind.

  So after packing up all the food, hydro, weapons, ammo, and siphoned fuel that can be strapped onto three of the dirt bikes, we rev their grinding little motors and kick up plumes of dust in our wakes, taking off at double-speed in the same direction as before—thanks to the compass Samson carved out of the big rig's dashboard.

  The sight of a man his size riding a motorcycle is comical, enough to keep Shechara and me giggling for a while. He has to hunch over and pull his metal knees up like an adult trying to ride something meant for a child.

  The laughter feels...good. Like I'm exercising muscles that have almost atrophied. Once we recover from the hilarious sight of our friendly cyborg on wheels, I find that I can breathe easier. Deeper. My head feels clearer.

  But that could be due to lower blood alcohol levels. When we packed up the bikes, I didn't bother to take a bottle or few. Didn't top off my flask, either. It's still two-thirds full, and I haven't opened it for the past week. Not a single sip.

  Not even when the Willard-spirit shows up.

  "We say jump, and you don't even bother asking how high?" he sneers at me, floating beside my dirt bike. His scrawny arms are crossed like a malevolent genie's. "You'd do anything we ask, wouldn't you?"

  I shake my head. I've never spoken to this apparition, not since he started appearing to me three and a half years ago. I had nothing to say to him then, and I don't now. I wait for him to morph into Mother Lairen, which he usually does, sooner or later. Just requires a little patience. And time is one thing I have in abundance.

  "I'm proud of her," the Rehana-spirit says, floating on my other side. "You trust us, Daiyna. After all you've been through, all that we've put you through. You still listen."

  "I trust you," I murmur, not loud enough for Shechara or Samson to hear over the noise of the bikes. "You've always played straight with me. So how about you tell me where exactly we're going?"

  "Hold this heading, due east, and you'll get there." Rehana smiles. "Then you'll help us get where we need to be."

  Before I have a chance to ask what the hell that's supposed to mean, both spirit manifestations dissolve into the hot air from whence they came. Helpful as ever.

  Without the big rig, we can't take turns sleeping, so we make camp at nightfall and keep watch in shifts. Not that there's anything to keep watch for. Not yet, anyway. For the past three thousand kilometers, there hasn't been a single soul. But I'm sure that will change once we reach the coast.

  I didn't realize riding the bike would make me so saddle sore, and it doesn't get much better over the next few days. I notice Shechara standing on her bike as she rides, giving her rear end a rest, and I try that for a while. Should've thought of it sooner. Samson has locked his metal legs at an angle that keeps him hovering above the seat. I point it out to Shechara, and we start laughing at him all over again. He's too busy leading the charge to notice.

  Three and a half years ago, I tolerated him. Now? Maybe it's because he's Shechara's husband, but I've started thinking of him as family. The kind you actually feel some affection for.

  Damn. All the crust is melting off my heart like wax.

  Strange to think I've been self-medicating for so many years that I've lost track of the woman hiding inside. But really, I've been hiding my feelings longer than that. Ever since Mother Lairen and the other sisters turned against me following that first daemon attack, I've had to bury my emotions and fight to survive. What happened in Eden formed another rock-hard layer of survival instinct. Then when I killed Willard, part of me cracked, and I had to find something to fill in the gaps—to keep myself together. The whiskey did that for a while. But it also clouded my mind, made me think I didn't care. When deep down, the real me kept right on caring.

  Leaning on the left grip of my dirt bike, I reach under my tunic and retrieve the flask. I unscrew the cap one-handed and hold it under my head covering. Just a whiff of the stuff inside brings back a lot of memories, most of them blurry. More like a feeling: dark, comfortable, safe. But also sad. Pathetic.

  I cap the flask and toss it over my shoulder. I don't watch it go. I don't hear it hit the ground and bounce until it finds its final
resting place. It served its purpose. Time to move on.

  There's a lot of time to get lost in your own thoughts when you're riding through monotonous desert terrain. You've got to watch out for craters and rocks and patches of soft sand that will throw the bike off its game, but I can do that with half my brain. With the other half, I mull over what I'm going to say to Luther.

  I have a few options, and they're all terrible:

  Hey there, stranger. Miss me?

  Been a while. What're you up to these days?

  Hi, Luther. It's me, Daiyna. So...guess who fired that missile at the Homeplace?

  My thoughts drift back to a moment in the caves, when those of us from Sectors 50 and 51 were sleeping separately to avoid the possibility of bringing new life into this messed-up world. Luther and I had noticed a couple who seemed sweet on each other. We agreed it was wise, at least until we dealt with the daemon problem, not to allow procreation. But after seeing these two together… I may have given them night watch duties with a direct line of sight on each other. When Luther called me on it, I admitted nothing. But I couldn't help smiling.

  Another memory resurfaces: my reunion with Luther in Eden after his claws had been torn out of his hands, and my egg cells had been surgically removed. We embraced, and in that moment, I wanted to hold onto him forever. I cared for him deeply, more than any man I've ever known. And I still do. I can admit that now.

  Luther, I'm so sorry for leaving…

  Not because I could have changed how things went down. Cain still would have fired that missile at the Homeplace. Our people still would have died. But I would've been there. Maybe there would have been a wall between me and Luther after what I did to Willard and the bloodbath that followed. Maybe we could have worked past it. I'll never know. But I shouldn't have left him. That was selfish.

  I can't change anything by dwelling on the past. Just learn from the mistakes and move on. Make tomorrow better than yesterday. Something worth hoping for.

  A week of identical days and nights later, with only our dwindling rations and fuel revealing the passage of time, we spot the first sign of civilization. Shechara sees it first, of course. Samson and I squint and strain our eyes but can't see any of the details she can make out in the distance.

  We power down the dirt bikes and lay them on their sides at the bottom of a steep grade. Then we climb toward the edge of a plateau that drops away in a steep cliff. The land below stretches twenty klicks or more, straight to the ocean with no geographical formations along the way. Just the same vacant, cratered moonscape we've seen for the past five thousand kilometers.

  A mass of indistinguishable shapes line the shore, both on land and in the water. Trucks, ships, and UW raiders, Shechara tells us.

  "Half a dozen freighters holding their position out at sea, along with a couple warships," she says, keeping her voice low. For the same reason we shut off the bikes: just in case anybody's listening. "One of them is the Argonaus."

  "Bishop said they wouldn't let Captain Mutegi back into Eurasia because he knew too much." Samson lies prone, propped up on his elbows. He keeps his metal arms covered to avoid reflecting sunlight. "Makes sense they'd reassign him to the east coast, in case he had anything to do with Bishop going AWOL."

  Shechara shakes her head. "We don't know if he's still captain of the Argonaus."

  "True," Samson concedes. He glances at me. "Any new orders from your spirit-friends?"

  Nothing. Sometimes I miss the good old days, when they would speak to me directly without appearing as people from my past. They'd tell me what we had to do, where we had to go. No, on second thought, I'd rather be the one calling the shots.

  "We'll wait until nightfall. Leave the bikes here and approach on foot." I squeeze Shechara's arm. "You won't have to be our eyes."

  One thing we all have in common: the ability to see in the dark. The UW raiders with their HUD-enabled face shields have night vision as well, so it will put us on equal footing with the enemy. Their advantage will be sheer numbers. I've never seen so many of them all together.

  Over the past few years, it's usually been just a squad of raiders at a time, always with a tractor-trailer to hold everything they scavenged. One crew would show up, take what they wanted, and then leave. A few hours later, the next bunch would pick up where they left off. One city ruin after another. They've been a well-oiled operation ever since the daemon threat was neutralized.

  Does Luther blame himself for the depletion of our resources? I doubt he had any idea the UW would start pillaging once the daemons were gone.

  "What do they want with it all?" Shechara murmurs, staring without blinking into the distance. Watching the raiders load loot onto skiffs that tear across the rolling breakers toward the freighters. "Don't they have enough already?"

  "You know what they say about people who have everything." Samson curses under his breath. "They always want more."

  "Maybe life in Eurasia isn't as perfect as we'd like to imagine," I offer.

  Shechara nods. "Sergeant Bishop said there's a class system. That those in the central dome live like royalty, while the ones who work in the outer domes live more like laborers used to here in the Sectors."

  "Repeating the past," Samson mutters. "Hope it bites 'em in the ass."

  If what Bishop told them is true, then it shouldn't take long for discontent among the lower classes to boil over into open rebellion. But I have to assume the UW Governors learned something from our history. Twenty-five years ago, the North American Sectors provided everything the rest of the world needed in order to live like kings and queens. But after decades of being treated like commodities ourselves, a segment of our population retaliated. They called themselves patriots after reading ancient historical records of colonies in the northeast rebelling against a powerful Eurasian king and winning their independence.

  Pretty sure there weren't any bioweapons used in that rebellion.

  What did these terrorists expect to happen? Unleashing dangerous toxins was a sadistic move that hurt our own people in the process. Maybe they wanted the UW to see what it would be like to lose the workforce of North America. Regardless, the end result was not independence. The UW's retaliation was swift and severe.

  In order to live cooped-up inside self-sustaining biospheres, I assume the Eurasian Governors have to maintain some sort of tight-fisted fascist control. Relentless suppression of any potential opposition and forceful regimentation of society as a whole. A harsh rule of law with police on the streets at all times. Maybe in the air as well, watching every citizen's every move. No freedom whatsoever.

  The thought of it makes me appreciate what we have here. Sure, it's a lifeless wasteland, but at least we're free. There's a big grey sky stretching from one horizon to the other, boundless open space, and plenty of air to breathe. For now, anyway.

  We stare eastward. Samson and I take turns asking about the indistinct shapes in the distance, and Shechara describes them in detail. In addition to the raiders' trucks, the skiffs transporting scavenged items, and the freighters loading up the plunder, there are also makeshift buildings set back from the shore, large enough to be warehouses, as well as a series of tent-like structures that could be living quarters. Three earth-moving vehicles carry loads of dirt to one structure in particular, where it's offloaded by raiders who shovel the stuff into bags.

  "Hold on—" Samson can't believe what he's hearing. "They're stealing our dirt now?"

  Shechara shrugs. "I'm just telling you what I see."

  "Don't they think it's contaminated?" I wonder.

  I'm willing to bet they have their domed cities sealed off completely, with the ground covered by something human-made—either concrete or artificial turf. It makes no sense that they'd want our dirt for anything at all.

  Confused, we return to our bikes and wait out the day's scorching heat. The temperature always seems hotter when you're not driving or riding, creating your own breeze. But we handle it like the desert veterans we
are, and when night falls along with the temperature, we load the gear we need onto our backs—weapons, ammo, hydro, rations—and leave the rest behind, strapped to the dirt bikes.

  We keep our heads on a swivel as we approach the raiders' camp, aiming for the vicinity of the dirt-packing facility. According to Shechara, it's deserted right now. Guess you don't have to guard contaminated dirt when the whole continent is covered with the stuff.

  Crossing the kilometers in silence, Samson and I scan our surroundings through gifted eyes that light up the terrain in a ghostly blue glow. Shechara's mechanical pair keep track of any movement in the distance. The skiffs and trucks have been sitting motionless ever since the sun went down, and the raiders appear to be congregating in a couple of areas, carousing now that their shifts are over. No sentries are stationed anywhere in sight.

  Why have the spirits led us here? If we wanted to sneak up on raiders, we could have remained on the west coast. Our friends are nowhere to be seen.

  Samson does his best to keep his clanking parts quiet. Shechara and I walk heel to toe in our boots, avoiding any sole-scuffing. This time of night and this close to shore, the dust seems content to lie still, and we don't want to disturb its rest. Sticking to the shadows, we slide between one of the dump trucks and the tent next to it, listening for any sounds of raiders nearby.

  Laughter echoes from a tent in the distance where men and women too rowdy to turn in for the night drink and razz each other. Samson points at the wall of the dirt-packing tent beside us. I'd rather we stay put and get the lay of the land, but he holds up a metal index finger, signaling he'll be gone just a minute. Shechara frowns but doesn't say anything as he creeps toward the front of the tent and ducks his head. Once inside, he pokes the canvas in our direction. His way of letting us know he's all right.