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

by Milo James Fowler

  He needs his wives. And soon.

  "Just be careful not to shoot your head off in your sleep. Or mine, either."

  He chuckles quietly, but not quietly enough. Bodies stir around us. He notices and cringes, still grinning. His eyes wander to the other side of the cavern, enshrouded in shadows, where Daiyna has undoubtedly already fallen asleep.

  "I might have a chance with her, you know. Daiyna. She's warming up to me, I'm sure of it." He sighs a long gust of air. "We'll have strong children. Ten boys and girls. Ten of each. We'll have to talk about that." He closes his eyes, still stroking the rifle, his loud whisper becoming a low murmur. "I will bed her soon...Luther..."

  As he drifts off to sleep, I have to wonder if Daiyna is aware of his intentions. If not, I'm certain she soon will be.

  She made it perfectly clear from the start, when the men and women from our bunkers merged to share sleeping quarters, that there would be no recreational sexual activities among us. She's been responsible for keeping her side of the cavern on the straight and narrow path to celibacy, and I've done the same with my brothers. The stipulation has been that if any coupling takes place, we men would no longer be welcome here. We would have to find our own shelter elsewhere. With the daemons outside, that's been a strong enough motivator.

  No contraceptives were included in any of the medkits. Obviously, the scientists expected us to be fruitful and multiply. But with the constant threat of the daemons and the spirits who may wish us harm, we've agreed it would be wise to postpone our government-mandated purpose for the time being. There will be plenty of time later for procreation.

  So far to my knowledge, none of us has yet attempted to alter our arrangement, but it's only a matter of time before someone's sex drive overpowers his or her willpower. Then nature will take its course.

  Samson is my brother, my dear friend. He's a mighty warrior, and I trust him more than any other to lead us into battle against the daemons. But he's always had only one thing on his mind at all times, and I hope he can keep it in his pants long enough not to jeopardize our current situation. Our strength is in our unity, and we can't allow anything to divide us.

  Daiyna's smile passes through my mind as I close my eyes. She didn't seem irritated by the obvious attraction between Ali and Shechara. On the contrary, she seemed amused by it, perhaps intrigued. Strangely enough, I reacted in the same way. I should have expressed fear at the danger their pairing could bring. Instead I beheld her smile as a starving man would gaze upon a feast set for him alone. I couldn't bear to see it fade.

  During the rare moments I've caught her smiling, she's always been with her sisters. Never with me or our brothers. Our discussions have been more serious, more strategic and matter-of-fact. Tonight was the first time she—

  An explosive snort erupts from Samson as he begins his nightly sonata.

  "Roll over, my friend," I urge him quietly, as is our ritual.

  Mumbling, he turns onto his side, cuddling the high-powered rifle as a child would a teddy bear. His massive back expands and settles with each gust of breath.

  I close my eyes and feel myself instantly drift away again...finally, to sleep.

  Daiyna smiles at me again, but now she stands on a grassy meadow in the Preserve, her sheer white garments billowing in the breeze that catches her glossy raven-black hair and plays with it, casting it side to side. She looks directly at me, her eyes inviting me closer. Her radiance consumes my vision. All I can see are her eyes, her smile, her gently waving locks. Her lips move, and she whispers to me, but I can't hear her words. I move closer, and as I do...

  A single thought enters my mind: I don't want Samson to bed her.

  6 Daiyna

  Ten Months after All-Clear

  They merge as one, like many waters coming together as a rushing river, like the murmur of an enormous crowd, yet every word spoken is clear and distinct. The emotions conveyed range from playful and mischievous to anxious, sometimes angry, combining to form a multi-faceted voice that's rich and powerful yet quiet, unlike anything I've ever heard in my life.

  It startles me every time they speak.

  I don't know if anyone could truly understand what it's like. Luther seems open to the unseen world with his continual talk of the Creator, but that always sets me on edge. Mother Lairen believed in the Creator as well, and she ended up suffocating with most of my sisters. Cows, Rehana called them. But Mother Lairen and the others were possessed by evil spirits, like Milton is. This truth was revealed to me by the spirits who've changed us, gifting us with these incredible abilities.

  Possessed. According to Plato, a suicidal urge came over Milton weeks ago. Entirely at peace with the idea, he'd been ready to throw himself off a cliff before he was shot by the daemons—which, ironically, ended up saving his life. He collapsed onto the ledge, and Samson hauled him back into the caves.

  This morning, he lies comatose in our central cavern as we ride east at full-speed in the solar-powered jeep we took from the daemons. Our shoulders knock into each other, jostling over every bump along the rocky terrain. Samson drives, hunched low over the steering wheel to see through a clear patch in the dust-caked windshield. Apparently, when he wasn't building his muscles and practicing his award-winning charm down in the bunker, he studied weapons, warfare, and war machines. After a few false starts, he figured out how to get this vehicle running. Beside him sits Luther, holding Samson's rifle with one hand and gripping onto the dashboard for dear life with the other.

  They're both dressed as we all are now in the loose, sand-colored garments the women in our bunker wove while we were below. Our heads are wrapped in the same material while black goggles shield our eyes, and standard-issue gloves and boots protect our hands and feet. It didn't take long to convert the men to our style of dress. We made it clear they wouldn't be allowed within a kilometer of us smelling like urine. They received their new attire when they moved into the caves with us, and the jumpsuits were placed in storage. We may need them again someday, but I hope that day never arrives.

  In the back of the jeep stands Shechara, hanging onto the roll bar as she gazes ahead of us for any sight of the enemy. Gifted with the same far-sight as Sheylia, she's been a great help to us. I sit beside her and hold the other rifle ready, gripping the rail. Samson is a wild driver, and the way he chuckles every time we hit a bump makes me think he enjoys giving us a scare. I'm not afraid of being thrown from the jeep. I'm only concerned that if he damages this vehicle, we'll be stranded out here at the mercy of the daemons.

  And there will be no mercy.

  "Anything?" My muffled voice is loud enough for Shechara to hear.

  Her goggles turn to me briefly, then return to the east. She shakes her head. No sign of any hostiles yet, despite all the dust we're churning up.

  It's really insane, when I think about it: the four of us driving full-speed toward wherever the daemons come from, our only defense being two rifles, a knife, and the superhuman gifts we possess. We have no idea how many of them there are or what other weapons they might possess. Odds are we'll be killed and eaten—hopefully in that order.

  But we're not alone.

  "You don't know what we're up against, Luther. It's too soon to take our only vehicle and weapons to face these creatures. If they overtake you, we'll be right back where we started." Plato shook his head, seated cross-legged beside me. "It's rash."

  Luther regarded him with a steady gaze across the circle. He'd called this meeting early in the morning after I'd woken him.

  "I understand your concern, my friend. We'll be careful, believe me. But we won't be alone." He looked at me, his eyes bright with hope. "Daiyna has heard from the spirits."

  Plato dropped his gaze. I knew he wouldn't like what I had to say. Of them all, he was the least supportive of the belief that spirits of the earth existed. He had even more difficulty believing that they could communicate, and that they chose to do so with me alone.

  I cleared my throat, glancing at
Shechara beside me. She nodded, encouraging me to speak. "They'll go with us. We have nothing to fear." I faltered. "That's what they told me, anyway."

  "Nothing to fear?" Plato pointed across the cavern toward where Milton lay. "Didn't one of your spirits do that to him? How can we trust anything they say?"

  I looked him in the eye. "I don't know if we can."

  "We can." Luther sounded confident. "Daiyna is their vessel, and they've chosen to join us in our journey east. I say that bodes well."

  Plato cursed under his breath. "Where's the logic in that, Luther? Are you listening to yourself? None of this makes any sense, yet you're so willing to believe it!" He faced me. "They told you to rescue Milton, right? When that sandstorm was attacking him? Why would they do that, then make him try to kill himself later?"

  I had no answer. I could have argued semantics, that it might have been the good spirits who told me to rescue Milton and it was now an evil one inside him. But I wondered if there was really any distinction between the voice that spoke to me and the force that attacked Rehana, or the entity that chased Milton when I first came upon him. None of it made any sense.

  "You must believe, my friend." Luther's voice was calm and quiet, in contrast to Plato's angst. "We're living in a different world now, and there's much about it we don't fully understand. We must have faith—"

  "In what exactly, Luther? These spirits? This Creator you're always talking about? Where would you have us direct our faith?" Plato rose, leaving us without another word.

  There's no sign that the spirits are with us now. Tens of kilometers away from the safety of our caves, this sun-scorched earth reminds us how alone we are.

  Maybe we should have waited. We could have ambushed a few more of the daemons' hunting parties, taken more vehicles and weapons. Hunted the hunters in stronger numbers. But if we come upon a hundred of the daemons, armed, hungry, and waiting, it won't matter either way. Likewise if spirits of the earth decide to attack us with rocks and sand, it won't matter how prepared we are.

  I can only hope there are good spirits with us now, and that they'll protect us on this journey as they said they would.

  Maybe I shouldn't have woken Luther and told him. But he's made it clear he wants to know every time I hear the spirits' voice. He seems obsessed, always asking if I've heard anything. Maybe he wishes the spirits would speak to him as well. I'd gladly let him or anyone else take this ability from me. I don't know why I was chosen. Of us all, Luther is the most spiritual. He should be the spirits' vessel. I've never been one to care about the supernatural, and since D-Day, the idea of anything remotely spiritual has been the furthest thing from my mind.

  Samson takes us over the lip of a large crater, and we plunge headlong toward its bottom. He laughs out loud while the rest of us hold on with all our strength. I grit my teeth to keep from biting off my tongue. We're thrown back against our seats as he accelerates up the opposite side of the crater, and we sail through the air for a moment, clearing the rim and landing hard, skidding sideways on the chunky tires. Samson pounds the dashboard with his fist, obviously delighted with himself.

  Luther needs to reel him in. He's going to get us killed.

  "Let's avoid the craters as much as possible, shall we?" Luther's voice emerges clearly through his head covering. His claws have extended through the holes in his gloves, digging into the dashboard.

  "My bad." Samson's chuckle is as deep as thunder. "Just wanted to see how much power this thing's got!"

  "I believe we've tested its limits sufficiently."

  They make an odd pair: the well-built intellectual and the hairy Neanderthal. But they seem as close as blood brothers. Samson, despite being bigger and stronger, always defers to Luther.

  "Up there." Luther points ahead to a bluff on the left, his claws retracting. "That should provide a good vantage point."

  Samson nods, steering the jeep in that direction. He guns the engine as we top the rise, then slams on the brake once we reach the plateau, jerking us forward. We collect ourselves as the dust clears.

  "First stop, folks." Samson hauls himself out of the driver's seat as we exit the vehicle. "A whole lot of nothing!"

  Always in high spirits. So obnoxious.

  But he's right. There's nothing ahead of us that we haven't already left behind: more ashen sand, gravel and craters in the desolate earth. The same moonscape under the same unforgiving sun we've seen for kilometers, and no sign of our quarry.

  "You think they know we're coming?" I ask Luther.

  His goggles stare straight ahead as we move to the edge of the plateau, our boots shifting through dust on the cracked hardpan. "They would have no reason to make themselves scarce."

  "Unless word's spreading around mutant-ville that we're not your average variety of human. If so, we could finally be off the menu." Samson stands with arms folded across his broad chest, feet spread. "Or they could be planning an ambush. And that wouldn't be pretty."

  I shake my head. "It's open space out there. I don't think we need to be afraid of—"

  "Who said I was afraid?" Samson looms over me. His tone is as confident as ever, and I'm sure he's cocking an eyebrow under his head covering.

  "Do you see anything, Shechara?" Luther places his hand on her shoulder briefly, but she backs away from his touch.

  She scans the distance for a few moments, south to north. Then she shakes her head. "I don't see them."

  "Well, maybe these spirits of yours are helping us out, after all." Samson pats the middle of my back with his paw. "Scaring off the hunting parties so we can find Camp Daemon!"

  I turn away from him, doing my best to ignore his touch. If he tries it again, I'll have to hurt him. I'm not one of his brothers. He shouldn't be so comfortable with me.

  "Do we go on, then?" I ask Luther.

  "We have more than enough daylight." He catches himself. "For Samson and me."

  Shechara and I can see as well in complete darkness as we can in the light.

  "I don't want him driving in the dark. The ride is wild enough as it is."

  "Hey, I don't see anybody else volunteering," Samson rumbles. "But be my guest." He holds his hand out toward the driver's seat as we climb back into the vehicle. "No takers?"

  He chuckles and squeezes himself behind the wheel, starting up the engine. We veer backward, then jolt forward, down the same way we came up. I half-thought he would take us sailing off the plateau's edge.

  Shechara leans toward me as we resume our eastbound journey, the dust and gravel flying upward in our wake. "Where are they, Daiyna? Why can't I see them?"

  I slide my arm around her shoulders and pull her close. "You will. When they show themselves, you'll be the first to spot them."

  It's her gift. And her curse.

  She rises to her feet and grips the roll bar, her goggles fixed forward. When the spirits gave her the gifts of far-sight and night-vision, they gave her something else she never had before: self-confidence. She's so different from the quiet, invisible girl I knew in the bunker.

  You must save them.

  The spirits' voice surges within me, and I catch my breath.

  She will not see it coming.

  My head whips side to side. What's coming?

  "Stop the jeep!" I hit Samson's shoulder with my fist.

  "What?" He doesn't slow down.

  "What is it, Daiyna?" Shechara faces me.

  "Keep looking!" I point her forward. I punch Samson's shoulder again, the muscle rock-hard. "Stop the jeep!"

  "All right, all right," he grumbles, braking abruptly and throwing us forward in our seats. Shechara clings to the roll bar as the vehicle skids to a stop.

  "Daiyna..." Luther faces me. The dust we've stirred passes over us in a thick cloud, obscuring our view of anything else.

  An explosive concussion slams into the ground in front of the jeep, sending it upward and us right along with it. Deafened by the blast, I fall sprawling to the sand and cower in the rain of gravel an
d clumps of ash.

  Then the world is silent, save for an incessant ringing in my ears. Dust and smoke billow around me, and I taste them both through my head covering.

  A large hand grips my arm and pulls me to my feet, jerking me away from the jeep as another blast rocks the earth. The vehicle erupts in a fiery mass of twisted metal, jagged pieces flying in all directions. The hand on my arm throws me to the ground, and a massive body falls on top of me, crushing me into the sand. I scream, but I can't hear myself. The earth beneath me trembles as pieces of the jeep rain down like plummeting birds of prey.

  The body climbs off and pulls me into a run. I gasp for breath, recognizing Samson. He has my rifle in one hand and my arm in the other. Shards of metal from the jeep pierce his back and shoulders with blood spreading from each wound. He runs straight for a boulder ten meters away, one large enough to shield us both. I struggle to keep up. He drags me every time I falter, his grip forcing me to stay on my feet.

  Another explosion hits the ground behind us, and Samson pulls me close, taking us into a dive behind the boulder. I land hard, my arm nearly wrenched from its socket. No one hears my silent scream as dust from the blast passes over us. Samson aims the rifle toward the remains of the jeep, waiting for the dust to clear.

  Shechara? Luther? Where are they?

  You must save them.

  The dust isn't clearing. How would I find them? Are they even alive?

  We will shield you from their sight.

  Whose sight? Who attacked us? Daemons?

  They will not see you. But you must hurry. They are coming.

  If they reach Shechara and Luther before I do—

  I shout something to Samson, but I can't hear it, and neither can he. I move to rise, but his arm shoots out and knocks me back to the ground without interfering with his aim. I land on my backside, seething with fury. There's no time for this.

  I roll away from him and lunge upward, clearing the boulder with a single leap and touching down in a full sprint toward the jeep. The dust swirls past me, obscuring my vision. Apparently, my gifted eyes can't see through particulate matter.