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

by Milo James Fowler

  Before I can respond, Samson says, "He wasn't one of us. We just let him tag along."

  "And the woman?"

  Samson nods slowly, weighing his words. "She's our...sister."

  "Sister, you say? Well then. I reckon you'll want to find the magic man who disappeared with her as much as we do. The weirdest thing, the way they just went off-grid like that." He shrugs. "We'll find 'em, eventually. Even if we have to scare 'em with a few rounds shot here and there. So, how about some introductions? I'd be Captain Willard, and these fine young soldiers are my men, the very best of the Eden Guard." He holsters his weapon, his eyes never wavering from Shechara. "Now who would you be?"

  We say our names, but that's all.

  "Uh-huh." Willard eyes us one at a time. "Where do you hail from?"

  I tell him, and briefly I explain why we're looking for a vehicle, how ours was destroyed. There's no point in lying to him. Strange that I'd even consider it.

  "Sorry to hear that. Those mutos are a bad lot, all right. We've managed to keep them out of here, but they keep coming back and stealing our stuff. It's like they're drawn to these ruins for some reason. Linked to them somehow. Creepy, really."

  He gestures to the men at the other vehicle and calls out, "They couldn't have gotten far." He takes four of the soldiers with him to join in the hunt. The remaining three keep their weapons trained on us, their severe postures in stark contrast to their leader's nonchalant demeanor. "I really don't see the point in you all goin' back to your caves and whatnot. Sounds like suicide, really. Besides, the mutos will likely follow your trail here. And when they do, it sure would be nice if y'all would lend us a hand in Eden's defense."

  "Does that mean we get our weapons back?" Samson rumbles.

  Willard chuckles. "Now don't get ahead of yourself, big boy. I still don't know if I can trust you. Believe me, I'd like to. You're the only natural children of God we've met since All-Clear! But I can't take that to mean we're on the same side here, no matter how much I want to. We've learned to be careful over the past few months. It's kept us alive."

  I watch him closely. He's a talker, and I'm uncertain whether his words are crafted out of honesty or deception. "How might we gain your trust, Captain?"

  "All in good time, Luther my man. All in good time. I just want to get to know you a little better, for starters. You seem kinda tight-lipped."

  "Perhaps we'd be more at ease without your men aiming their weapons at us."

  Willard raises an eyebrow and nods slowly. "Maybe so." He taps his mask all of a sudden. "And maybe where the air's a little better, eh?" He steps away from the vehicle and gestures for us to get inside. "Go on. Hop in."

  "I'm not going anywhere." Samson snorts, crossing his arms.

  "Where will you take us?" I ask Willard.

  He chuckles and shakes his head. "C'mon now, it's not like we're going to eat you! What have you got to be afraid of?" With a petulant sigh, he turns to his men. "Lower your weapons, boys. You're making our new friends agitated." He glances at me and shrugs. "Don't tell me you like it down here."

  I turn to Samson and Shechara. I see in their eyes that they don't like our current situation any better than I do. But I also see their courage. They have faith in me to lead them.

  Will I lead them to their deaths? What do these soldiers want with us? Who are they, really? What's worth guarding in the rubble of this city?

  Shechara nods. With resignation, Samson does the same. I turn back to Willard.

  "Very well. We'll go with you."

  "Fantastic." Another broad smile stretches his gaunt face, but his eyes remain steely. He orders one of his men to take the driver's seat and another to ride shotgun. He then gestures for us to climb into the back seats. "After you."

  We do as we're told, sliding in side by side across the wide cushioned bench. Willard climbs in behind us, as do two of his men. The driver revs the engine, and the doors slowly swing shut on their own, locking automatically. Samson glances around the interior and mutters something about a hummer, whatever that means.

  The tires squeal against the concrete and we lurch forward, heading toward the ramp at the end of the garage. But instead of returning to the surface, we veer down to the level below, leaving Willard's other men spread out among the rows of abandoned vehicles. The lights mounted on their rifles sweep to and fro in search of Daiyna and Milton.

  I pray they're all right, someplace safe. I pray that Milton didn't hurt her, that she was somehow able to exorcise the spirit from him. I struggle to control the anxiety and adrenaline coursing through me, my hands clenched into fists, my claws piercing into my palms. I have to control myself. We don't know if Willard and his men have been gifted by the spirits. If not, then they may not react kindly to seeing our changes.

  Willard's first response at seeing someone vanish wasn't that it was a special ability, but that it was some kind of unknown technology—an invisibility cloak. And his talk of natural children of God has filled me with apprehension.

  We must not use our gifts in front of these men until we know for sure. Or unless they leave us no other choice.

  Outside the vehicle, there lies only darkness, but the path before us is washed white in the headlights' glare. The driver navigates our course at high speeds, careening through the lowest level of the garage around another gathering of abandoned vehicles. Then he floors the gas pedal as the opening to a large concrete tunnel presents itself in the far wall. I'm thrown back against my seat at the sudden acceleration. I glance at Samson, who appears to be appreciating the ride, his eyes kindled with interest. I'm sure he'd prefer being behind the wheel of this powerful vehicle.

  Behind us, Willard leans on the back of our seat, his head between Shechara's and my own. "So, Sectors 50 and 51, huh. Together at last?" He chuckles. "How's that going for you? Any buns in the oven yet?" He winks at Shechara, but she ignores him, her gaze still set straight ahead.

  I choose my words carefully. "The mutant threat has been our primary concern. We made our journey this far in hopes of locating their...origin."

  "Good luck with that." His smile fades. "We haven't been able to figure out where they hail from. Plenty of them out there, though, and that's a fact. Tracked 'em here, you say? The ones that blew up your jeep?"

  I nod. I already explained as much.

  "Well, you can forget all about them for the time being. They never venture where we're headed." Another chuckle. "I've got a feeling you're really gonna like Eden, Luther."

  "Do we have a choice?" Samson mutters.

  Willard grins, unaffected by my brother's grim demeanor. "I don't know what you're insinuating, but once you see where we're going, I truly doubt you'll want to go anywhere else. We've managed to make quite a life for ourselves. At the risk of sounding a bit conceited, I'd have to say it's the closest thing imaginable to the way life used to be." He clears his throat suddenly. "That's not to say cave-dwelling is without its charms..." He winks again, this time at me. "You'll be surprised by how many conveniences we've managed to resurrect."

  Should I trust him, believe what he says? As we hurtle through this tunnel with no room to spare on either side, I find that I can no longer sense the life force of the spirits. Where have they gone?

  "So, you were out there quite a while," Willard says.

  "How's that?"

  "Since All-Clear, you've been on the surface. Isn't that right?" His eyes bulge, unblinking, through his mask.

  I nod slowly, unable to discern the course of this conversation. "And you?"

  "Our bunker opened into these old tunnels. We think they were for diverting groundwater to subterranean reservoirs. We've never been out of the city, never needed to leave. Everything we could possibly want is right here." He catches himself. "Well, almost everything." He nods at Shechara.

  "Sector 31?" I try to distract him.

  Willard shrugs. "Probably. A trade sector would make sense, what with all the leftovers. But really, those old titles don't me
an much anymore, do they? Sector 50, Sector 51, Sector 31. Who the hell cares?" He pats his own uniform. "The Eden Guard is starting everything over from scratch, Luther. We've hit the reset button. We're forging a new life for ourselves, a new nation, making things the way they ought to be."

  There are no markings on his uniform for any sort of rank. The pale light reflected from the headlights is little help, bounced around the sides of the tunnel. A UW insignia could have been on Willard's shoulder at one point, but it's been ripped off.

  "How much longer until—"

  "Till we reach paradise?" he interrupts me with a grin. "Shouldn't be long now. Lieutenant Jamison up there, our trusty navigator, he knows these tunnels better than his own balls, and that's a fact. I'd be lost without him. He's got a mind like a steel trap, that one. Knows every crazy turn down here."

  The truth of the matter is easily inferred: It will take some doing for us to leave on our own, when we're eventually allowed to do so.

  My stomach sinks.

  The caves. If any of our brothers or sisters survived the attack and are still clinging to life, how will we reach them in time? And what about Daiyna? Is she all right? The spirits told her we had nothing to fear on this journey, but now that I cannot feel their presence, does it mean they no longer go with us? Have we been abandoned to our fate?

  Regardless, we've achieved our primary objective, as unlikely as that seems at the moment. We have succeeded in finding a vehicle that can take us back to the caves.

  We're in it.

  "Procreation," Willard muses. "How's that for a life purpose? Be fruitful and multiply. Get busy! Am I right?" He punches me in the arm lightly, but there's no mirth in his eyes. "How's it feel to be alive just because of your genes? Isn't that how you all were selected? The best and brightest?"

  I think back to the rigorous tests we underwent, locked in those rooms with computers and no windows. "It wasn't our choice. Many of us were taken against our will."

  Willard dismisses the fact with a wave of his hand. "What I'm getting at is how most of us were selected because of our skill sets. Abilities that would be necessary, y'know, in a brave new world. They knew we'd have to rebuild from ashes, pretty much. But you folks, you have nothing to do with any of that. Know what I mean? It didn't matter what skills or education you had. God made you the way you are, and because of that, you were chosen. All because of your genes."

  Once again, I feel the need to change the subject. "Have you met any other—?"

  "You'd be the first!" Another grin pulls his face taut. "Besides the mutos, you're the only other survivors we've met since All-Clear. So you'll be putting our hospitality to its very first test!"

  Samson starts to reply, but he thinks better of it and remains silent. I assume he was about to comment on the hospitality shown to us thus far.

  "There was no one else here when you entered the city?"

  Willard shakes his head, staring out through the windshield now. I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn't.

  "And...how many of you are there?" I watch him. He seems mesmerized by the white-washed concrete whipping by on all sides.

  His eyes twitch to meet mine. "You'll see. You're outnumbered, don't forget that." He winks, then drops his gaze. "What happened to your gloves?"

  I look down at my hands. I should have kept my fists clenched.

  "Been doing some climbing, huh?"

  I wiggle my fingers, each tip visible through the holes my claws made months ago. "In the caves—"

  He reaches forward and grabs my wrist, pulling it closer. "Are these blood stains?"

  "Yes." I nod and hold my breath.

  He stares at me, eye to eye. Then he glances back at my gloved hand. "I'll get you a new pair." He shakes his head and chuckles as he releases my wrist. "Luther, you folks are entering the land of plenty!"

  As if on cue, the tunnel ends, opening into an enormous subterranean dome lit as bright as day. Willard counts off the dimensions for us: fifty meters high, half a kilometer in diameter, more than five stories below ground. Steel structures elevated on solid supports around the perimeter are living quarters; they look like apartments. I lean forward to gaze up at the high arched ceiling and the lights mounted at intervals, evenly spaced. Everything here is so clean and new. It's as if we've entered another world.

  "Jamison, get the windows," Willard tells the driver, who hits a pad on his console. Instantly the dark-tinted windows slide down. Willard removes his mask and takes a deep breath. "Nothing quite like purified air. Better than nature intended, and that's a fact." He sighs. "Oh yeah. Delicious."

  I inhale, hesitantly at first, then deeply. He's right. The air is...pure. As fresh as it was at the lake house when I was a boy. Perhaps even fresher.

  "How?" is all I can manage.

  Willard chuckles heartily. "All in good time, buddy. For now, you just enjoy it."

  What's in the air we've been breathing outside? I shudder to think. The contrast is tangible.

  Samson reaches across Shechara to nudge me. "Look." He points off to our right as we drive past a transport vehicle lifting stacks of provisions on pallets, wrapped in plastic. "Is that food? Real food?"

  Willard eyes him with an upraised eyebrow. "What do you mean by real? If you're referring to a good meal instead of a flavorless protein pack, then yes indeed, we have real food. We also have running water. And electricity, obviously." He gestures toward the lights and smiles broadly at our expressions. "I told you, folks. It's paradise!"

  Unable to respond appropriately, I turn back to stare out the window at my side. There's so much movement in this place; every corner is alive with activity. Willard wasn't exaggerating: we are definitely outnumbered. I count at least fifty men moving about, conferring with one another, driving small electric vehicles carrying pallets of supplies, working with tools on large machines. Everyone wears the same blue camouflage uniforms, and everyone keeps busy. It reminds me of a bee hive made of concrete and steel, filled with soldiers. When we entered the city ruins above, I never could have imagined a place like this existed beneath its surface.

  "Right here's good, Jamison." As the driver slows to a stop and exits the vehicle, Willard nudges my shoulder and points above us at one of the apartments. "Home sweet home."

  "That's where you live?" I crane my neck to look up. The structure is suspended by steel supports from the side of the dome, seven or eight meters in the air. A ladder leads from the floor beside us to a wide catwalk above.

  "Nope. It's where you get to live. Eden's guest quarters." He slaps me on the back with a chuckle. "Let's go!"

  Samson fixes me with a wary look. Shechara bites her lip briefly as she stares outside. They wait for me to make the first move.

  "Very well." I step out of the vehicle as the door automatically swings open. The driver stands with his short-barreled rifle across his chest. He doesn't bear the hardened demeanor of a soldier. He seems ill at ease.

  "This way, folks." Willard gestures to the ladder and starts climbing up, leading the way with a quick familiarity.

  Samson glances at me and follows, pulling himself up easily. Shechara is next, and I follow. Two soldiers bring up the rear with assault rifles slung across their backs. Despite Willard's congeniality, the inescapable reality is we're their prisoners. They found us in their city. What they do with us next is anyone's guess.

  Captain Willard waits for us to reach him on the catwalk before he takes a ring of keys from his pocket and unlocks the solid steel door, sliding it aside.

  "Welcome, welcome," he sings, beckoning us to enter. "Hot showers await!"

  Samson stares him down at the doorway before taking a look inside. Shechara peers around his formidable frame. Her jaw drops slightly.

  "Like what you see?" Willard winks at her. A familiar tic by this point. "Go on in."

  "Do we have a choice?" Samson rumbles, his boots rooted to the catwalk.

  Willard's smile drops from his face.

  "A ho
t shower sounds fine to me," I attempt to diffuse the situation, squeezing past my brother as I step into the unit. I make it to the middle of the room before I stop, unable to believe that what I'm seeing is real.

  There are two large, chocolate-colored couches with plush pillows and thick, rust-toned carpet. There's a fireplace with flames flickering within a stone hearth. Recessed lighting glows from the ceiling, illuminating artwork circa two decades ago hanging framed on earth-toned walls. To the left is a bar and a small kitchen; to the right is a short hallway with doors to other rooms and other wonders. Straight ahead, beyond the hallway, is a bathroom.

  A hand grips my shoulder, and I turn to see Willard's gaunt grin. "What do you say?"

  I don't know what to say. "It's...wonderful. How—?"

  "Q and A time's later. For now, you just get settled in. Take a shower. Take two! No offense, but judging by the smell, you folks decided on going back to nature months ago." He beckons impatiently to Samson and Shechara who remain on the catwalk outside. "C'mon, you two. Look at what you're missing!" He chuckles benignly. "Get in here already!"

  Samson turns to glare at the two soldiers behind him. Did they just try to crowd him? Not a wise choice. He looks down at Shechara and raises an eyebrow. She nods reluctantly, and they move to join me.

  "Good, good. This way." Willard leads us down the hallway and points out the two adjoining rooms. "Two bedrooms, closets with clean clothes. Make use of anything you find." He turns toward the bathroom. "Just one shower, so try not to fight over it. Though I'm sure you could double up." He winks at Shechara and chuckles again.

  Samson clenches his fists. Shechara avoids Willard's gaze.

  "Thank you. We look forward to—" I begin.

  "Make yourselves at home, and I'll be back in an hour or so to check up on you." Willard clasps his hands behind his back and ducks his chin, heading toward the front door with quick, long strides. "Carry on!" he barks like a military commander.