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

by Milo James Fowler

  “Hey, how’d you beat us here?” Granger says.

  “Short cut.” The scientist shrugs affably. He wears a white jumpsuit with a transparent face shield now, having somehow found time to change. “Gather your team, Sergeant Bishop, and follow me.”

  I blink away the white spots from my glimpse of the sun. My gaze wanders toward the rolling sea, grey ocean water stretching infinitely on all sides. Easy to imagine the breeze on my skin. I can almost feel it, fished from deep memory.

  I step out of the lift and glance back. The others are tough to tell apart with their black bubble helmets, except for Granger and Sinclair, whose respective size differences make them easy to identify. They take a moment to collect themselves and then march after me, ducking slightly once in range of the chopper’s rotors. A makeshift ramp has been set up to aid us in climbing aboard. No chance we’d be able to, otherwise.

  The scientist jogs up the ramp and finds a seat inside. He quickly buckles himself in.

  “He’s coming with us?” Granger sounds disappointed, like a kid hoping to avoid being chaperoned.

  “Briefing us en route.” I heave myself onto the ramp. “I doubt he’ll stick around after the drop.”

  “How ‘bout we drop him instead and head home?”

  “They might have something to say about that.” I nod toward the row of well-armed soldiers with opaque face shields already seated inside. They wear jumpsuits over bulky body armor, but no hazard protection. Their purpose is clear: to ensure that my team makes the drop. Not to join us.

  Granger falls silent.

  The chopper lifts off once all five of us are locked into place with magnetic clamps fastened to our unwieldy suits, holding them upright and immobile. Sitting is not an option. The tinting on our helmets dissolves just enough for me to catch Sinclair’s eye. I give her a wink. She stares me down, unimpressed. The woman has a real attitude. I like that.

  “Test, test,” chirps the scientist through our comms. “Can everyone hear all right? Let me know if you can hear me with a thumbs up. Hello? Everyone?”

  We nod or mutter in the affirmative. Granger feigns technical difficulties with his helmet, but decides to give up the gag when nobody but me notices. Their attention remains elsewhere. The murky ocean depths pass swiftly below, and every meter takes us closer to the North American Wastes. It has a way of dampening the spirit and the sense of humor: the impending unknown.

  “Good, good,” the scientist bobs his head, again reminding me of an extinct angular waterfowl. Can’t remember the species. “All right then. We’re on our way. Your suits check out, your O2 reserves are stocked. We’ll be in constant communication while you’re over there. Remember, you run into any unexpected difficulties, you radio. Don’t delay. That’s what we’re here for.” He grins. “We’re your backup.”

  Encouraging. I avoid Granger’s sardonic gaze while Harris clears his throat.

  “Yes, Doctor?” The scientist raises both eyebrows.

  “Where will you be, exactly?”

  “Back on board the Argonaus. We don’t have enough fuel for the chopper to remain above your location. Once we make your drop, we’ll return to the ship, refuel, and await your call.”

  “Ten minutes, then,” Harris says.

  The scientist frowns slightly. “How’s that?”

  “That’s how long we’ll be stranded, once we radio you. Ten minutes.”

  “I see what you mean. Unfortunately, the Argonaus cannot position itself closer to shore. UW mandate and all—government red tape, I’m afraid. And yes, it will take us ten minutes to reach your position.”

  “Where is that exactly?” Morley speaks up. He glances at the other members of our team. “Am I the only one who’s got no idea where it is we’re goin’?”

  The scientist holds up his hands and closes his eyes for a moment. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves.” He licks his lips and fixes his bulbous eyes on me. “I thought you would have told them something by now, Sergeant.”

  Passing the buck. “Under orders.” I can play the game as well as anybody. “They’re supposed to hear it straight from you,” I lie.

  I’ll be hearing it for the first time as well. Right here, right now. But of course I can’t admit that in front of my team. I have to at least look like I know what I’m doing.

  “Very well, then.” The scientist straightens his posture and sweeps the five helmeted heads before him with his gaze. For a moment, it doesn’t look like he knows where to begin. “The D-Day bunkers across what remains of the United Sectors were programmed to open on a designated date: All-Clear. We sent our search and rescue teams in early to survey the situation.” He nods, fully aware this is common knowledge.

  “Right. And they never came back,” Granger says.

  “Hundreds of ’em,” Morley echoes.

  “Two hundred seventy. Thirty squads, to be exact. We lost all radio contact within an hour of their landing. They were fully equipped with solar jeeps, supplies, weapons, and hydration suits, tasked to check on each of the bunkers and aid the survivors in their reentry and rebuilding. Salvage as much as they could.” He pauses. “Twenty years after the bombs dropped, we assumed there would be nothing left on the surface.”

  We did a real number on them. I was only a kid at the time, but I remember well enough. How could anybody forget such a war? The Sector Patriots, or whatever they called themselves. Terrorists. Cowards. The biological weapons they released resulted in global catastrophe. For the planet and its people.

  I blink, fighting to return to the moment—even as my thoughts drift back to my kids. Mara and Emmanuel, two of the last children born in Eurasia.

  “I’m sure we’ll never forget their final radio contact.” The scientist nods with reverence.

  It was all over the Link at the time: a squad leader screaming his guts out, sounding like he was being flayed alive. Choppers were sent en masse, but they couldn’t get close. The dust storms were too massive, on a scale of the Saharan variety. They wouldn’t quit—not until the choppers backed off. Uncanny, to say the least. Remote drones flew in next, and the footage they captured was even more horrific, also broadcast throughout the Eurasian domes.

  “May we dispense with the nostalgia? I believe our memories remain completely intact,” Sinclair says. “The issue is our current mission. We’ll be landing in a matter of minutes. I, for one, would appreciate knowing what our orders are.”

  “Right on,” Morley mutters.

  The scientist clears his throat. “Very well. I guess it’s all a matter of record—”

  “And rehashing it doesn’t do a whole lot for the ol’ morale,” Granger adds. “Every tour of duty’s a one-way trip, like as not, but how about we accentuate the positive here? Last thing I want to be thinkin’ about is all those boys and girls getting their skin ripped off by some freaky sandstorms.” He shivers in his suit.

  The scientist smiles, and it looks almost genuine. “Lucky for you, I do have some good news.” He claps his gloved hands and rubs them together, glancing at each of us and seeming to expect an eager reaction. So we stare back at him until his grin falters. “Now, this is top-secret information here—”

  “You don’t have to tell us twice.” Nobody on board is a security threat. The UW has made sure we won’t be, has taken certain precautions. Mara and Emmanuel.

  I dry-swallow and focus my attention on the rivets along the steel floor.

  “Let’s hope not.” The scientist forges ahead. “A few months ago, we established contact with a group of survivors within the Forbidden Zone. Sector 31, to be exact—a trade sector, back before the war.” He watches us, pleased now to have our undivided attention. “They have managed to keep themselves free from contamination by remaining beneath the surface since All-Clear. We have learned much about their current situation over the past months, and we believe the time has finally arrived for us to make contact. In the flesh.” He leans forward. “That, my friends, is why you are here. You are the fir
st UW team to meet the only survivors from the North American Sectors!”

  Morley and Harris cast glances at me. I do my best to maintain a stoic expression—as much like Sinclair’s as I can muster.

  Granger clears his throat. “Am I the only one who thinks that’s a load of bullcrap? Only half the story, if that?” He chuckles awkwardly. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure we’re honored and all, but take a look at us. An engineer, a science officer, a weapons tech, a doctor, and—” He gestures at me. “Fearless Leader here. We’re not exactly poster-ready ambassadors.”

  “Granted.” The scientist nods. He doesn’t smile, which is nice for a change. “But that’s all I’m authorized to tell you right now. The particulars of your mission will appear on your heads-up displays once you’ve reached the drop site.”

  Morley forces an arm upward and raps on his helmet. “These things are equipped with HUD’s?”

  “State of the art, with night vision and thermographic scanning capabilities. No matter where you are, you’ll be able to see where you’re going.” He glances outside. “Go ahead and try them out, if you can maneuver yourselves adequately. Practice using them long-range.”

  I’m the only one facing the open side of the chopper. I squint my eyes, straining to see beyond the whitecaps of the ocean below. The shore will soon be in sight, but it’s still too far to make out any particulars.

  “Voice commands,” the scientist says. “What optical device do you normally use for long distances?”

  “Binocs,” I mutter.

  Instantly, the HUD blinks on my transparent face shield, and my field of vision zooms toward the coast. My head lolls backward involuntarily at the sudden change in perspective.

  “Cool, huh?” The scientist giggles, returning to obnoxious mode.

  I mumble something in the affirmative. Very cool. I can see it all: the beach grey with ash, polluted by all manner of debris. The foul breakers rolling in with foam an unmistakable toxic yellow tint. Overturned ships lying scattered all along the shore like the massive bones of a disturbed nautical graveyard. No signs of life anywhere.

  “How do you shut it off?”

  “Just say the word.”

  “Off.” The HUD vanishes. I return my gaze to the pronounced rivets along the floor.

  “Does this thing have x-ray vision?” Granger faces Sinclair.

  “What would be the point?” she counters. Then she notices his gaze, level with her chest. “Grow up.”

  “Afraid not,” the scientist says. “No x-ray. But it’ll see you through.” He’s the only one to find that pun humorous. “Keep an eye on the temperature gauge—it’ll be on the bottom left of your HUD. Those suits can get up to thirty degrees warmer than the ambient temperature. Not a problem at night, but right now—during the heat of the day? It’ll get pretty toasty in there. So when you see the gauge dip into the red zone, just give the voice command: cool down. The suit will take care of the rest.”

  Granger frowns. “Is there some kind of owner’s manual we should be reading?”

  The scientist laughs out loud. “Actually, if you say manual, it’ll pop right up. Some in-flight reading material for you, how’s that?”

  Harris and Morley take his tip and start skimming over the text on their face shields. Granger is quick to follow suit, followed by Sinclair with another bored sigh. I refrain from activating the HUD manual. In my mind, I can still see the overturned ships, the obliterated shoreline, completely devoid of life. So much for the North American Sectors. The idea that anything other than death will be found on this continent is difficult to accept. Yet here I am, flying straight into a wasteland with one purpose in mind: first contact.

  “Something wrong, Sergeant?” The scientist leans toward me. “Is there a glitch with your operations manual?”

  I look at him, look through him. Something in my blank expression makes him sit back in his seat and keep to himself, fidgeting a little.

  “I’ll figure it out as I go,” I tell him.

  Like I always do.

  2 Cain

  13 months after All-Clear

  A rusty, slow-revolving ceiling fan dangles from the deck above with a single spotted lightbulb. The sickly glow illuminates the top of a crate—a makeshift poker table. We sit in a tight circle around it, three men to my left, two to my right, using whatever is available for chairs. Smaller crates work for them, but not for the biggest one in their midst, the one with the hand to beat: me.

  I have a sturdy folding chair all my own.

  One by one, this motley bunch—sun-damaged, scarred, thickly muscled and glistening with sweat—folds, tossing down their tattered cards in disgust. I chew my cigar with relish in the hazy smoke and watch them, keeping my face an expressionless mask. A single opponent remains, and I stare hard at this one, the youngest at the table, reading him, sensing his heart rate quicken. Is he bluffing? Or merely excited at the prospect of holding a winning hand for once?

  The stack of hydropacks in the middle of the crate is more than enough to last a body two weeks, maybe three. In the Old World, they might have been bars of solid gold.

  “Think you can beat me, Lemuel?” I ask, my voice deep and husky.

  Lemuel licks his lips. Now that is an obvious tell. He is uncertain. He perspires as we all do; it is always hot as hell this time of day. But his thermal energy output is twice that of anyone else at the table. My eyes miss nothing.

  “You’re going to lose, one of these days,” Lemuel says. He fights to keep his features slack, his eyes free of emotion. A futile effort.

  I chuckle, and the sound reverberates deep in my broad chest. “Not today, Lemuel. Make up your mind. Call or fold.”

  “Piss or get off the pot,” snickers one of the others.

  Lemuel glares at him.

  The iron door clangs open, and with it blasts a flood of blinding white from outside. I look away while the men groan, wincing like rodents unaccustomed to sunlight. They hold up their hands to shield their eyes and curse. A dark figure enters, waddling with great effort.

  “What is it, woman?” I demand with a scowl as the door slams shut.

  She approaches my side without hesitation, far along in her pregnancy. Her protruding abdomen stretches her stained tank top.

  “He’s back. And he’s got that cyborg with him.”

  “Gaia-dammit.” I pound my fist on the crate, jostling the hydropacks. “I said we weren’t to be disturbed!”

  “Keep your voice down.” She rests a hand on my bare shoulder, slick with sweat. “You’ll wake the others.”

  I allow myself to seethe for a moment, nostrils flared. “You embarrass me in front of my chieftains,” I warn her.

  She shrugs, winking at Lemuel—who averts his eyes. “They already know who wears the pants in this family.”

  I grab her, and she nearly cries out at my strength and roughness. But I grin amiably as I set her down on my lap and hold her there like a child.

  “Gentlemen, say hello to Lady Victoria.” I playfully pinch her cheek, and she slaps my hand away. “My fourth wife. Obviously the youngest, as she has yet to learn her proper place.”

  The chieftains stir and nod, grunting about it being a pleasure to see her today. But they don’t seem to know where to direct their eyes.

  “Your fourth,” Lemuel echoes. “How do you make time for so many women?” Now that he sits at a man’s table, he seems to think he has the right to ask any impertinent question that pops into his head. “Are they on a rotating schedule or something?”

  “Mind your idiot tongue!” The wizened old-timer at his side throws a hard punch into Lemuel’s shoulder. The youth winces.

  “A good guess, but no.” I caress Victoria’s giant melon that holds my child. “They come when I summon them. For now, they are where they belong: deep in the bowels of this ship, safe and sound. Just as ripe as my dear Victoria. I will be the father of four robust lads and lasses by this time next month.” I pinch her again. She squirm
s, struggling to rise.

  “Luther and the cyborg wait for you outside,” she says. My hands drop from her, allowing her to stand. “They are patient men, but—”

  “They are infidels. Gaia should drown them in sand and deliver us from their bothersome meddling. I would kill them myself, if only they were not human.”

  The chieftains watch me silently. One clears his throat, but none speak. They know better.

  “Who are they? These visitors?” Lemuel asks. He grimaces as the old-timer punches him a second time.

  “You’re a guest here! You don’t get to question Lord Cain—”

  “It’s all right, Justus. Lemuel sits at this table now. And rightly so.” I narrow my gaze at the youth. Victoria stands by, watching the scene unfold with unguarded curiosity. “How many goblyn heads have you spiked along the wall, Lemuel?” I stroke my wide, stubble-covered chin.

  “Thirty-four,” Lemuel says without hesitation, proud of it.

  “Thirty-four?” I nod, pursing my lips. “Not bad. Not bad at all.” I direct my gaze to Justus. “You see? Because of this young man, there are now thirty-four fewer of those flesh-eaters out there on the loose. I’d say he’s more than earned his place among us. Don’t you agree?”

  Not one to question authority, the old-timer bows slightly. “Of course, Lord Cain. As you say. Always.”

  “Regarding your question...” My eyes return to Lemuel. “These men, these desert nomads from the east, they are followers of a lesser god. They have no home, no land, nothing but what they carry with them. They have not carved out a place for themselves in this world, as we have here in the Shipyard.”

  “They seek our assistance, then,” Lemuel says.

  “Don’t interrupt!” Justus lets fly with another punch.

  “You would think so,” I continue. “But that is not why they are here. They do not wish to join us.” I pause. “They want us to join them.”

  Subdued laughter erupts among the chieftains, but it is quickly snuffed out by a stern glance from Lady Victoria. A reminder that the others are sleeping during the heat of the day, when the sun is at its strongest and most dangerous. It is time for rest in the shelter of this ship and the others like it, toppled along the seashore.