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

by Milo James Fowler

  "How long?" My head swims again. I hold it with one hand, keeping the covers in place with the other. Where are my clothes?

  "An hour or so. The others—"

  "An hour?" I've been here that long?

  "I've been keeping an eye on you. Wasn't easy finding you. This place is a crazy maze."

  Does he mean he's been here for an hour? "How long have I been here?" The words barely escape my lips. I've never felt so exhausted.

  "Uh—you don't remember?"

  "Remember what?" My head aches now. Something isn't right.

  He hesitates. "They brought you in here—into this room—on a stretcher. Like you'd been in surgery…or something."

  "When?" My abdomen tightens.

  He bites his lip again. "Hard to keep track of the time without sunlight."

  Surgery. Why don't I remember it? They shot me, knocked me off that ladder, helped me to my feet. I must have blacked out. Then here. How much time passed in between?

  "The others are across the way, on the other side. I found them yesterday." He blows out a short sigh and shakes his head. "They're in pretty bad shape, but they're alive."

  The others. "Shechara? Luther and—"

  "Samson, yeah." He nods grimly. "They've...done stuff to them. Bad stuff."

  They who? Wait. I remember. Tucker told me about them. He called them naturals.

  "Can you walk?" He rises. "I didn't want to wake you, figured you could use the sleep after whatever they did..." His gaze drifts down the blankets. "But we should go. Before they come back."

  "Right." Of course. I can't stay here, wherever we are. We have to find the others, get back to the caves. That's why we came here in the first place.

  But what is this itching sensation along the middle of my belly? I reach down to scratch it...and find a rough row of stitches.

  My blood runs cold. I throw aside the covers.

  "Turning away now." Milton shuffles quickly.

  Whoever sewed me up did a good job. The two centimeters of black thread below my navel are tight and even. Why did I need this? I gingerly touch the smooth skin around the wound and press on it. Why did they cut me open? Did I injure myself when I fell from the ladder? But no...there are other scars here, smaller, only millimeters in length. One in my navel, too.

  "I'll find you some clothes." Milton leaves the bedroom. Closet doors slide with a thud outside.

  Why can't I remember what happened? Tucker said these naturals tried to cure others gifted by the spirits. Is that what they did to me? But why these stitched incisions? Why would they need to see inside me?

  Amnesia is infuriating.

  "These might work. Just guessing your size here—not that I saw anything." He drops some colorful women's apparel onto the foot of the bed. "I'll be out front. Let me know when you're ready." He leaves without a backward glance.

  I catch myself staring at the clothes. Floral patterns take me back to another life. It's been so long without color...

  But there's no time to lose. I slide off the side of the bed and sink into thick carpet. I close my eyes at the memory of home—my real home, long before All-Clear, before the bunker, before D-Day. My room, my dollhouse, the one we made from a blueprint we found on the web, my mother, my sister, my dog—

  Now the only family I have left is here, somewhere. I need to find them.

  I reach for the dress Milton found for me. Wasn't there anything more practical? Pulling it on, I step outside into a short hallway.

  A sudden spasm of pain rocks me. I clutch my stomach and lean against the wall. I grit my teeth to keep from crying out. Eventually the pain subsides, releasing its grip on my abdominal muscles. My fingers brush the stitches beneath the fabric of the dress.

  What did they do to me?

  Milton looks up as I enter the front room, a spacious area with couches and bookshelves and a fireplace. It's a living room, so much like the home I remember from long ago. What is this place?

  "It fits? Good."

  I glance down at the dress and pluck at it self-consciously. It leaves my shoulders and arms bare and ends just below my knees—legs exposed that haven't been shaved in who knows how long. Good thing the hair down there is so fine, barely noticeable. I hope.

  A strange thing to focus on right now.

  "Couldn't find anything else?" The pattern is full of red roses and purple lilacs. I remember them both from another world.

  "That's all there is in the closet—dresses, that sort of thing. Looks like somebody's already been through them. A few hangers are empty."

  I try to maintain what dignity I can muster. "No undergarments?"

  "Uh..."

  The front door rattles. Unlike the rest of this comfortable living space, it's solid steel and formidable, like something on a warehouse. Or a prison. Locked from the outside.

  Milton disappears at superspeed, passing me with a blast of air and a whisper, "I'm not here."

  He's left me. Again.

  The door slides to the side as two men enter. They both wear blue camouflage uniforms and black berets. Guns holstered at their sides. Soldiers?

  "Up so soon?" asks the one with a thin mustache. His beady eyes rove up and down the dress I'm wearing, and he grins with appreciation. "You look great, Daiyna."

  I step back reflexively. How does he know my name?

  "Lock the door on your way out," Mustache orders his partner.

  "Sir?"

  Mustache's eyes remain on my dress. "You heard me, Jamison."

  Jamison glances from him to me. Then he salutes awkwardly. "Yes sir." He steps out and hauls the door shut. The bolt reverberates as it's locked in place.

  "Now then." Mustache moves toward one of the couches and sits carefully, as though he doesn't want to wrinkle his uniform. He gestures toward the cushion beside him. "Won't you join me, Daiyna?"

  I watch him. I listen for Milton. Where's he hiding?

  "Please." The grin remains, stretching Mustache's gaunt face.

  I sit down on the cushion farthest from him, careful to keep my knees together. Strange how old habits return unbidden.

  "I'm sure you're feeling a bit out of sorts right now, Daiyna. One of the side effects of the drugs we gave you, I'm afraid. All of them necessary, of course. But you should be—"

  "Who are you?" I demand.

  He chuckles. "Believe it or not, we've already had this conversation. Two days ago." He waves a slight hand through the air. "Never mind. My name is Captain Arthur Willard, and you're currently in the tender loving care of the Eden Guard. We're doing our damnedest to make sure you're comfortable during your stay with us, and I hope we're succeeding." He winks.

  I keep anything worth reading out of my expression. "You're the naturals."

  His eyebrows lift. "Wow. No beating around the bush with you!" His gaze wanders down my dress again. "Well, if by that you mean we're all-natural children of God, then yes. We're guilty as charged."

  "Where are my friends?" My abdomen cramps up. I bite my lip.

  His grin fades. He raises his chin, sweeping the room with a steely gaze. Then he fixes me with a sidelong look. "I'm pretty sure one of them is in here."

  How does he know? My guard falters.

  Willard chuckles again and lifts a finger toward the ceiling. "Daiyna, Daiyna. We're always watching. We've got cameras in every room. Had 'em installed back when I suspected my old squeeze of being an ash freak. Boy, have they come in handy!" He leans toward me and rests his hand on my bare knee. "That one, she could move things with her mind and get inside your head. Telepathy, telekinesis. God-awful stuff." He squeezes my knee. I cringe inwardly. "But boy oh boy, was she good in the sack." He licks his lips. "Just like an animal."

  I grab hold of his wrist and jerk his hand into the air between us. "Don't touch me."

  I release him, and he leans back.

  "All right then. We can either do this the easy way—" He winks at my figure with appreciation. Then he sighs reluctantly and draws his ha
ndgun, pointing it at my face. "—or the hard way."

  A rush of air whips past, and Milton stands between me and Willard's gun. No, Milton now holds Willard's gun, aimed at the floor.

  "Howdy."

  Willard stares up at him, speechless.

  "You're the guy in charge down here. Right?"

  "Yes..." Willard finds his voice, his thin lips parted but no other words emerge.

  "Thought I've seen you around, telling people what to do." There's an easy confidence about Milton. He doesn't seem afraid at all. "I've been waiting to get you alone. So I can tell you what to do."

  Willard blinks, snatching the radio off his belt. He has it halfway to his mouth—but in a blur of speed, so fast he's almost invisible, Milton's other hand reaches out and tugs it away.

  "Nope. You're on your own now, Captain."

  Willard curses him, glancing at his gun and radio in Milton's hands. "They'll be here in no time. They're watching us as we speak! My men are well-trained, armed to the teeth—"

  "And s-l-o-w. I'll knock them out before they even know what hit them. Probably with their own guns." It's a statement of fact, not arrogance.

  "You won't make it out of here alive," Willard counters, licking his lips. "I don't care how fast you are. We'll loose the dogs on you."

  "Now I know you're bluffing." Milton grins. "There aren't any dogs, not anymore." He points the gun between Willard's dumbfounded eyes and cocks the hammer with his thumb. The resounding clink holds the moment. "Now I'm going to give you back this radio, and you're going to call one of your men. That brown-noser who was here before. Jamison. Got it?"

  Willard's eyes dart to the radio.

  "Nothing funny, or I blow off one of your ears. Okay?"

  Willard keeps his mouth shut as Milton hands him the radio. Then he mutters, "What do you expect me to say?"

  Milton glances at me. His eyes hold a sadness I haven't seen in them before. "Tell him to bring Luther over here."

  "Under what pretense?" Willard scoffs. "We keep them separated—"

  "I don't care. Tell him it's mating season and you want to watch." Milton cringes at me apologetically. Then to Willard, "He won't question it, probably knows you're a little kinky."

  Willard curses him, fuming, gripping the radio with white knuckles.

  "Make the call." Milton presses the gun muzzle hard into Willard's left ear.

  The radio clicks on with static.

  "Jamison..." Willard clears his throat, seething.

  "Sir?"

  "Bring Luther over here."

  A pregnant pause. "Sir?"

  "You heard me. On the double." Willard leans sideways to wink at me. "Daiyna's feeling extra frisky today."

  Milton snatches the radio and shuts it off, tossing it onto the couch.

  "Now what?" Willard smirks. "Torture? Death?"

  "Soon," Milton mutters.

  "What did you do to me?" I rise, fists clenched.

  "When?" He winks again, suggestively.

  I punch him in the face, sending him over onto his side.

  Willard grins with blood in his teeth. "You mutant freaks!" He laughs as he sits up, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "Where do you think you'll go? How will you survive? There's no place on this earth for the likes of you."

  "Answer her." Milton's tone is cold.

  Willard sniffs and feels his nose with bloodied fingers. "I think you broke it," he mutters. Then he fixes his eyes on me. "We harvested your eggs. You were quite the fertile specimen, and that's a fact. Took some doing, but we managed to get them all. And now we have what we need to start up Eden's first generation of test-tubers!"

  The room spins as I drop back onto the couch. My hand slides toward the stitches under my dress. The cramping pain blossoms again. I grit my teeth to keep from making a sound.

  "How about you, soldier?" Willard's eyes drift down Milton's filthy jumpsuit. "Got any seed in there to donate to the cause?"

  "Not even if I could."

  "Sterile too, huh? Yeah." Willard stares at nothing in particular. "Ain't it a bitch."

  Their voices fade as reality hits me hard. I look down at the roses and lilacs, dizzying in their random pattern, swirling wildly without purpose. Like me. What they took... How is it possible?

  A void has opened deep inside me, one that won't be filled again.

  Rehana would laugh. Now you'll never be their cow, she'd say. You never wanted to be—or did you?

  I don't know. Luther and I agreed that our brothers and sisters should wait until later, when we reach the Preserve. Then, when the daemons can no longer find us, when we're safe, we'll finally fulfill our purpose and repopulate this new earth.

  But now? What will Luther think?

  Why do I care?

  The lock rattles. The door slides open to reveal not only Luther—wearing only a pair of white undershorts—but at least twenty armed soldiers packed close around them, weapons trained on Milton and me.

  "Just give the word, Captain," growls one with a protruding jaw, his weapon aimed at Luther's head.

  Luther... Our eyes meet as I stand. My lips part. He smiles with relief. I want to run to him, throw my arms around him and weep into his chest. His arms hang limply, palms tilted toward me. He doesn't look away, not for a second. Neither do I.

  "You want to tell them, or you want me to?" Milton glances at Willard.

  "Of course." He turns on the couch to face his men. "Thanks for coming, boys, but the situation here is under control. Just send Luther inside and shut the door. Everything's fine." He wipes at a fresh trail of blood issuing from his nose. "We're good."

  The stocky soldier looks skeptical. "Doesn't look good, Captain. Give the word, and we'll blow these freaks to hell."

  "You heard me, Perch," Willard says.

  With obvious reluctance, they shove Luther inside and heave the door shut, locking it behind him. I run to him, and he meets me after my second step, pulling me into his strong arms and holding me tight. I throw my arms around his neck and press my face against his cheek. It's rough with stubble and wet with tears. Mine? His?

  "You're all right," he gasps, squeezing me.

  "Yes...And you—"

  He draws back, cupping my face in his hands. "Your eyes—your eyes…" He smiles, looking from my right eye to my left. Then he hugs me close. "Thank God!"

  I tremble in his arms, my lungs shuddering as I allow the tears to fall. I cling to him, even as pain throbs in my hollow abdomen. It doesn't matter now. Not right now. Nothing else does.

  He kisses my forehead, and a warm sensation floods through me. My heart pounds, my breath catches. I look into his eyes as he touches my face. I take his strong hand and kiss it. Tentative? Maybe. I smile at his smile.

  Then I see his fingers.

  "Luther?"

  I take his hand in mine and cradle it like a wounded bird. Each finger has been mutilated, bruised and bloodied. Where the nails—his claws—should be…they're mangled beyond recognition. He lifts my chin gently with his other hand. I meet his gaze.

  "I'm fine, Daiyna." He kisses my cheek tenderly.

  I want to kiss him.

  "Nothing like two mutos in love," Willard remarks with a vulgar curse.

  I want to kill him.

  "What should I do with this one?" Milton asks.

  Luther half-turns, his arm around me, keeping me close to his side. His jaw muscle twitches as he regards Willard with a steely gaze. "What I want you to do is not necessarily what should be done."

  "Oh, have at it, Luther." Willard chuckles, rising to his feet. "She's already busted up my nose. There's plenty of me left to go around. What do you want? C'mon, let me have it. Bust my balls, really give it to me. You know you want to!"

  I can tell Luther's tempted. But he doesn't give in. "Sit down."

  Willard almost replies, but he sees something in Luther's eyes that makes him keep his mouth shut. Muttering a curse, he slumps onto the couch and stares at the carpet.

  "W
e need him—for now," Luther says. "His men listen to him. We'll need them to follow his orders if we're to make it out of here alive."

  Milton nods. "So…stage two?"

  Willard can't contain himself. He laughs out loud. "Stage Two?" he mocks. "What? You've got some kind of operation all planned out?"

  Milton and Luther nod.

  Willard's grin freezes on his face, then fades. He stares hard at Milton. "How long have you been down here?"

  Milton shrugs. "Long enough."

  "Agreed." Luther squeezes me once more and breaks away, moving back toward the hallway with familiarity. The closet doors slam side to side, and he returns with a few items of men's clothing. He hands me a pair of jeans—coarse and blue. "If you'd like."

  I definitely would. I pull them on under my dress.

  "When would you like me to start?" Milton stretches his back as though he's warming up for a track meet.

  Luther buttons his jeans and tugs on a form-fitting black short-sleeve. His toned arm muscles ripple. "Whenever you'd like. Let us know if we're in the way."

  "Shouldn't be a problem." Milton swings the handgun mid-stretch to point at Willard's face. "Have your men open the door now."

  "Sure you want that? They've got you outnumbered twenty to one."

  "I hope they're all out there chomping at the bit." He retrieves the radio and clicks it on with another static hiss, handing it to Willard. "Tell them to come on in."

  "Stage Two, huh?" Willard smirks, shaking his head. "Boy, are you in for some real trouble. And too stupid even to know it. Death's at the door, you damn freak." He barks into the radio, "Jamison, Perch: get the hell in here! Code red!"

  As soon as the door's unlocked and shoved open, a horde of Willard's troops charges in, heeding his shrill command to fire at will. Bullets pock the ceiling and the far wall and shatter one of the framed paintings. I hit the floor and cry out. It feels like something has torn inside my abdomen. Luther falls beside me, shielding me with his body. Would he sacrifice himself like this if he knew I could no longer fulfill my purpose?

  The air in the room rushes wildly like a mini-tornado's roving around. I spot just a blur here and there as Milton slows down long enough to drop one of the unconscious soldiers against the wall. Willard stares, wide-eyed, as his men are piled on top of each other like sandbags, unarmed, dead to the world. The stack rises, spilling across the couch and against Willard himself, pinning him where he sits. The bodies come too fast for him to avoid the onslaught.