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

by Milo James Fowler

  "All right." I pause. "But tell me more about these naturals."

  The boots shuffle, making tracks toward me, before they stop beside the other two daemons. Their fallen weapons—short-barreled rifles with large clips—vanish. "Ain't safe up here now." His boot prints approach me. Cold steel bumps against my arm. He appears briefly, like a flickering image in a failing holo-emitter. "Take it. Looks like an Uzi—submachine gun, automatic. Plenty of ammo."

  I fumble with the weapon as it appears in my gloved hands, then I shoulder it by the thick strap. I tuck the nine millimeter into my belt, beneath my outer garment. He sniffs and tells me to follow, his tracks heading off to the left, down a side street. As we come around the corner of a dilapidated structure, we leave the cover of its shade and step out into the brilliant morning light. The sun hangs in the sky just above the horizon now, at the end of the street. We head straight for it.

  Behind Tucker's tracks in the dust, a dark form hovers across the ground: long and awkward, exaggerating each of his otherwise invisible movements.

  "Your-uh..." My voice breaks the rhythm of our boots. "Your shadow's showing."

  He chuckles. "Yeah. Weird, huh? Can't really figure that out. I try to stick to what shade I can find during the day. Keeps the mutos from getting interested."

  "Should we—?"

  "We're here."

  His tracks stop in the middle of the street, a section that seems to have avoided whatever catastrophe tore up the rest. The shadow of his hand wipes at a layer of ash on the ground, clearing what looks like a circular hatch. Raised lettering set deep in the steel reads: SECTOR 31—15TH STREET.

  "They thought of everything," I mutter, making an attempt at levity. If he's right, that we're on some other planet and all of this is a re-creation of our world, then the attention to detail here is incredible.

  "They?" His shadow turns toward me. His hand stops wiping.

  "The scientists." I falter. "The ones experimenting on us."

  His shadow turns away as he resumes clearing the hatch cover. He mutters "mind reader" to himself, agitated again, cursing under his breath. "Give me a hand here."

  His shadowy fingers grapple with the hatch, but it's no use. Even with my help, it won't budge. He curses and lets go, muttering some more. His shadow turns away, disappearing into the sublevel of a ruin behind us. After some clattering around in there, he returns with a long, slender shadow in his hand.

  "Been a while," he explains, whatever that means. There's a heavy metallic thud as he drops whatever tool he found onto the hatch. Then his shadow uses it to pry upward. It creaks, metal on metal. A gap forms between the cover and the rim around it. "A little help," he grunts.

  We manage to lift the heavy cover and slide it aside, letting it drop with a puff of dust. Just inside the hole, steel rungs of a ladder lead down into the dark—which my eyes transform into a hazy blue.

  "After you." The shadow of his arm sweeps toward the ladder. "Unless you've got a glowstick I can borrow."

  "What's down there?"

  His shadow shrugs. "You'll see better than me. I have to feel my way along, usually." He sniffs. "Some kind of tunnel—probably for water or sewage back in the day."

  If I go first, what's to keep him from dropping the cover into place and sealing me inside? "How close are those naturals you mentioned?"

  "This shaft goes for a ways before it connects to the network they use. We won't see them for a while. But we'd better get a move on." His shadow glances back. Did he hear something?

  "What'll keep the daemons from following us?"

  "They won't. Too scared." He sniffs. "The naturals...do stuff to 'em."

  "You're going to tell me everything you know about these naturals."

  "Yes ma'am," he says gravely.

  I hold the rifle against my side and step into the ring. The rungs of the ladder whip past me as I fall, the drop at least ten meters. The concrete of the tunnel floor below is dry as I land on all fours. Slowly, I stand. The curved concrete above is less than a meter from my head as I step away from the ladder and take off my goggles, leaving them to dangle around my neck.

  The tunnel goes on in both directions as far as I can see. Silent. The smell... I can't quite place it. Not entirely pleasant, but tolerable. The air is stale. It hasn't been disturbed recently.

  "You've got some skills, I'll grant you that." Tucker's voice echoes as he steps down a rung at a time, completely invisible again. "Wouldn't mind being able to do that myself."

  After seeing so much dust and sand on the surface, this smooth, clean concrete seems out of place, sitting down here all this time, abandoned. Forgetting Tucker's half-witted theories, I think back to what Sector 31 must have been like in its prime. As a trade sector, it would have been the center of all design and manufacturing. From food to clothing to vehicles, even the weapons we carry, everything was manufactured here. I turn the Uzi over and glance at the stock. The UW insignia is right where I expected it.

  I guess it makes sense, if this is where the daemons strike out from and where they return to sleep and gather supplies. Home sweet home. But why the cannibalism? Didn't Tucker say there's food here—real food? If so, I've yet to see it. Could be another one of his delusions.

  Tucker's boots land on the tunnel floor behind me.

  "Which way?" I don't bother looking back at him. I won't see anything.

  "Straight ahead. We've got maybe a kilometer or more until we reach the junction shaft down."

  "Plenty of time for you to talk."

  I wait for him to mutter, "Yeah, right," and begin his tale before I take another step forward. I probably won't believe half of it, and only half of what's left will be true, but it's better than nothing. I have to know what we're up against. "You mind?" He puts his hand on my shoulder. "I'm blinder than a bat down here."

  I don't resist his touch. He begins his story.

  The way he tells it, these naturals have never been out on the surface. By somehow managing to stay underground since All-Clear, they've avoided contact with the ash—which their leader believes to be infectious, causing anyone who breathes it to become contaminated and turn into a mutant freak with bizarre abilities. Maybe not so far from the truth. Anyone they suspect of being infected is tested, then summarily executed.

  For the first month or so after All-Clear, their numbers dwindled drastically as every day some among them—usually women—were found to manifest some type of mutation. Eventually, everyone who'd set foot on the surface was eliminated. Those who remained, close to fifty men, set about creating a subterranean paradise in one of the old groundwater storage domes, deep beneath the city. They call it Eden.

  But that's where Tucker's story breaks down. He says they have purified air, running water, real food, even apartments where they enjoy all the conveniences we had prior to D-Day. They have everything they could ever want, he says—except women. And they're more than willing to share their bounty with any all-natural children of God who come their way.

  "What will they do to my friends?"

  "Are they like you and me?"

  "They have…special abilities." Gifts, Mother Lairen called them. I never thought they'd be cause for a death sentence.

  "He'll try to cure 'em first," Tucker says. "That's what he calls it. Always ends up killing 'em, though. He's an engineer, not a healer. He can build things, take 'em apart, then fix 'em and make 'em better than ever. That's his gift. A structural engineer. But it's not the same with folks. And besides," he adds with a sniff. "I think he wants 'em all dead."

  I clench my jaw and try to keep my voice even. "Don't they fight back?" Luther's claws, Samson's strength—they would not be subdued easily.

  "I'm sure they try. I know I would. But he's got all his men working together like some kind of military organization. They even call 'im captain now, like it's official."

  "What's his name?" I grate out. I close my hand on the rifle.

  "Arthur Willard. A real bastard, that on
e. Left me to die, once." He chuckles. An odd moment to find humor. "But I've been able to get back at 'im plenty. He thinks I'm haunting him for what he did to me. I show up when he least expects it and whisper things into his ear. Scares the crap out of him, let me tell you!"

  "He has no idea you're alive?"

  "Nope. Oddly enough, the lights down there don't make my shadow stand out like the sun does. I'm pretty sure he thinks it's my ghost coming after 'im. Payback's a bitch!"

  "Ever thought of killing him?"

  "I'm no killer," he answers sharply.

  Our boots echo against the concrete all around us.

  "What does he do to—" The daemons. "—those creatures outside?"

  His hand on my shoulder tightens and relaxes. Agitated again. "The mutos? He runs tests on 'em, tries to figure out why they don't show any other mutations—besides the obvious deformities. No special abilities or anything like that. He doesn't understand it. But he doesn't have to, not in order to use 'em like he does."

  I wait, but he doesn't go on. "Use them how?"

  He mutters to himself and curses, sniffing. "Like slaves, wired to fetch. Remote-controlled to get what he wants from the surface. So he never has to leave Eden."

  I hope I'm hearing only the paranoid ravings of an invisible madman, that just a fraction of what he's saying is true. But even that much would be disturbing.

  It's entirely possible we'll find the engineers from Sector 30 down here. With their varied skills, I'm sure they could have survived well enough for months beneath the surface of a trade sector with plenty to scavenge. But the rest—all this talk of executions and tests and programmed daemons. It's insane. It can't be true.

  A dozen meters ahead, the tunnel dead-ends with another ladder leading down. My pace slows.

  "What do you see?" His breath gusts past my ear as he strains to peer ahead.

  "Another ladder—"

  "Take off your boots. Quick." He releases my shoulder and scuffles across the concrete, unbuckling his pair. "We're getting close. Leave 'em here," he whispers. "So they don't hear us."

  How close are we for it to matter? But I do as he says. He grasps my shoulder, and we proceed to the ladder. It stretches for what could be a hundred meters, straight down. At the bottom, the concrete is illuminated in a small patch of light.

  "Might not want to jump this time," he mutters.

  "What's down there?"

  "Old access tunnel, big enough to drive a truck through. They use it for storage on this side." He chuckles. "I get some of my best stuff down there. Usually a couple guards posted. Armed."

  "You go first." They won't see him, and by the time I reach him, he can lend me a hand and share his invisibility. He mutters to himself at first, sounding like he'll protest. But then he squeezes past me and starts down the ladder as quietly as possible. I follow, one rung at a time. Slow going. I can't remember the last time I used a ladder instead of leaping. Back in the caves, Mother Lairen had us construct ramparts and catwalks with ladders for the sisters not gifted with agility. I helped in the construction, using pipework and other materials we'd gleaned from the bunker. But I never climbed them. There was no need.

  I glance down between my stocking feet, straight through Tucker. Have I jumped this far before? I doubt it, but I'm sure I could do it. I'd use the ladder to slow my descent if it turned out to be too long a drop for my knees to cushion the fall.

  Not an option now. He's in the way.

  Rung by tedious rung, we approach the bottom where the patch of light gradually enlarges. We don't speak. If our boots on this ladder would be heard, so would our voices.

  Soon I'll find out how much of Tucker's stories are true and how much are the result of his solitude in the ruins above. I can't imagine what that must have been like for him. Scavenging, avoiding the daemons, avoiding his own kind—if what he said about these naturals is true. Completely alone.

  I haven't felt that way for months now. The voice of the spirits—startling me every time it's emerged in my mind—has kept me from ever feeling alone. Something else was always there, always with me.

  Was I possessed? Just as Milton was possessed by an evil one, could I have been possessed by one of the others?

  My muscles shudder. Is that what keeps gnawing at the back of my mind—that something isn't right with me? Is the spirit gone? Why would the spirits possess me and then abandon me? It makes no sense.

  I blink my eyes and focus on the ladder. Maybe Tucker isn't the only one who's gone off the deep end.

  The spirits said there was nothing to fear. If they haven't spoken to me lately, so what? They haven't spoken to Luther, and yet he believes without question. I need to dig down deep and find that kind of faith. Seriously, if I believe only when I hear, that isn't faith at all.

  I believe in you. My voice echoes in my head as if I'm alone in an empty room. I know you're there, watching over us.

  It sounds like a prayer. To the spirits? The Creator? I don't know. But I hope it brings me closer to wherever Luther and the others are.

  Tucker's hand grips my ankle and I stop, glancing down to find his silhouette backlit by the light below. The ladder vibrates with the hum of large machinery filling the air. The air... It's so fresh. I inhale deeply. What have we been breathing on the surface all this time?

  Tucker gives my ankle a tug and lets go, resuming his descent and his invisibility. Close behind, I reach the last rung hidden within this shaft. The remaining rungs lie exposed for at least five meters before they reach the floor below.

  I wait and listen. Has Tucker already touched down on the concrete floor? Is he taking out the guards? I can't hear anything. No scuffle, no bodies slumping to the ground. Maybe there's no one here. If so, then he should come back and lend me a hand, make me invisible so we can look for Shechara and the others.

  What's taking him so long? I clench my jaw and grip the short rifle in one hand, bracing myself. Time to jump out into the open.

  Before I can let go and drop, loud voices echo and boots pound across the concrete. I see their shadows before I see them. They encircle the ladder below with weapons drawn. Without warning, they fire.

  What feels like a thousand volts of electricity shoots through me, igniting every nerve in my body. A guttural scream explodes from my lungs as I fall through the air to land hard on my back, convulsing uncontrollably, my arms and legs flailing, my head jerking spastically. I'm out of control.

  My body's in agony, unable to function—yet my mind's strangely detached. I can't see anything beyond blinding flashes of white, but I hear everything: the laughter from men with guns, the monotonous drone of machinery nearby, the measured approach of another set of boots.

  Tucker's voice:

  "Well, I did like you asked, Captain. I got one of 'em. And this one, she can see in the dark." Muttering, half to himself. Agitated again. "So what do you say? Can I?" Sniffs. "Can I come back now?"

  11 Luther

  Ten Months after All-Clear

  The daemons have returned. They must have followed our tracks. They slaughtered and feasted upon our brothers and sisters in the caves, and now they are here to finish us off.

  "It's the mutos. They're back," Willard said. What else could it mean?

  Our footfalls pound, ringing across the steel catwalk as we leave the apartment and jog after Willard. His men close in tightly from the rear. One glance at Samson tells me all I need to know: he plans to use this sudden diversion to aid in our escape. I glance at Shechara and see fear in her eyes. I'm sure they mirror my own.

  Willard barks an order as he takes the ladder down quickly, demanding a situation report.

  Amid the commotion below, one of his men turns and looks up. "They've breached the east tunnel, Captain!"

  A jeep blows past us with three armed soldiers checking their rifles.

  Willard's boots hit the concrete floor, and he beckons us to follow. "Pick up the pace, folks. You won't wanna miss this!"

  I st
art down the ladder and try to keep my breath steady. I focus on each rung in my grip. My claws have retracted, but I don't know how long they'll remain that way with so much tension in the air. I glance up as Shechara follows me, her bare feet less than a meter from my hands. Her blue jeans hug the curves of her hips and thighs. Another jeep squeals past us. The concrete is cold and slick as the soles of my feet make contact.

  "Perch!" Willard shouts to one of his men on the catwalk—the one foolishly attempting to stare down Samson as he climbs onto the ladder. "Get these people some proper uniforms ASAP." He claps me on the back once I'm within reach. "You ready to fight for humankind, Luther?" He grins broadly and winks. "Hey, did you shave? You're lookin' good." He turns away to confer with his troops.

  Everyone is in motion around us, but it's far from chaotic. They all seem to know exactly where to go, what to do, and how to go about it. The voice on the loudspeaker must have something to do with the well-ordered chaos. The scene has every aspect to it of a military drill, one that's been practiced repeatedly. Regardless of whether these men were truly soldiers prior to D-Day, they now play the part well. How many times have they needed to scramble to arms? How often have the daemons attempted to invade this underground sanctuary?

  Shechara steps beside me, followed by Samson. Willard's men slide down the ladder by its vertical supports. The one named Perch, a stocky man with a protruding jaw, takes off running to follow his captain's orders.

  "Get our guns while you're at it!" Samson shouts after him. "They expect us to fight with them, they'd better give us back what's ours," he mutters to me, folding his brawny arms and glaring straight ahead.

  He has no intention to join this fight. I would ask what he has in mind instead, but the remaining two soldiers stand close by. They no longer train their weapons on us, but it still seems we're their prisoners.

  "What do you see?" I ask Shechara quietly.

  "Everything," she whispers.

  "Is that where we came in?" I gesture briefly and scratch behind my ear.