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

by Milo James Fowler

  I glance at the muto. “He’s looking…hungry.”

  Jamison curses under his breath, followed by what sounds like a short scuffle on his side of things, and ending with a string of curses from Perch and a short burst of electricity shot through the mutant’s collar. It stiffens and jerks away from me, returning its bulbous-eyed gaze to the terrain before us.

  “Jackass nodded off,” Jamison mutters, followed by another string of foul obscenities from Perch.

  “You sound tired yourself,” I tell him. “You should get some rest.”

  “Don’t worry about me. You’re the one out there…with that muto. I’m not going anywhere until you meet up with the UW crew.”

  “You’d better not be drinking anything.”

  He chuckles softly. “Coffee, lots of it. But I’m wearing a jumpsuit like yours to avoid restroom breaks.” It was designed to recycle urine into the cooling element.

  “The wonders of modern engineering.”

  I reach the peak of the hill and nose the Hummer over to the other side, approaching a short plateau. A valley of ash meets my gaze, the same unaltered moonscape stretching on for endless kilometers in every direction.

  “Still no sign of them.” I lean forward, scanning from left to right.

  “You won’t reach their position until after dark, I’m afraid. You’ve got another hundred kilometers to go.”

  I glance into the rearview mirror at the pile of relay rods in the back of the vehicle. Less than fifty remain. “I’ll stop here and plant another relay. This is the highest geographical feature in my line of sight. Might provide better reception from here on out.”

  “Don’t want to lose your head, after all,” Perch cuts in, commandeering Jamison’s microphone.

  “Good idea,” Jamison says after another scuffle between them. “How many rods do you have left—exactly?”

  “I’ll take a look.” I ease the vehicle forward another meter and set the parking brake. “Stay,” I tell the mutant. This time, it doesn’t turn at the sound of my voice. I shove open my door and step out, stretching my arms and back in the waning light of day as my boots crunch across the gravel.

  “You should have thirty, at least,” Jamison reminds me.

  I reach for the rear hatch and tug it open, surveying the pile. “We’re good.”

  Gunshots echo from the valley below. I reel at the sound, my heart pounding.

  “What was that?” Jamison demands, alarmed.

  “Shots fired.” I slam the rear door and dash back to my seat. “Is this thing bulletproof?”

  “Everything but the tires.”

  “Good to know.” I pull my door shut and stare out through the tinted windshield at the valley floor. Two solar-powered jeeps, each carrying a full complement of gun-toting mutants, kick up plumes of dust in their wake. “You’re seeing this?”

  “Yeah.” Silence.

  “Would’ve been nice of you to send some weapons along.”

  “That damn muto is your weapon,” Perch says, back on the line.

  “Those things get close, you open its door, and we’ll take care of matters from this end,” Jamison says.

  “A remote-controlled killing machine?”

  “Something like that.” Jamison sounds wearier than ever.

  “They’ve spotted me.” Dread sinks down into my stomach. My hands grip the steering wheel. “I could try to outrun them. Their solar batteries won’t last long into the night.”

  “Lead them straight to the UW team, you mean? I don’t think so.” Perch curses. “Besides, we didn’t pack enough fuel for you to go burning it up in some high-speed chase.”

  Jamison takes the comm. “That’s a last resort, Margo. First we’ll see how much damage the dog can do.”

  “He’s outnumbered—eight to one.” I watch as the jeeps tear up the hillside, straight for me. Have they already encountered the UW crew? Pried them out of their hazard suits and feasted on their insides?

  “Leave that to us,” Jamison says. “You stay put and hope they’re not smart enough to blow out your tires.”

  “Then you’ll be in a real pickle.” Perch chuckles.

  The jeeps advance at full speed, gravel flying up behind them, two mutos seated in the front of each vehicle and two standing in the back, holding onto the roll bar and aiming their assault rifles single-handedly at the Hummer. They squeeze off a volley of shots that rake across the hood, sparking as the rounds are deflected by the vehicle’s armored plating.

  I cringe as bullets plow into the windshield. How much abuse can the reinforced glass take before it caves in?

  I glance at the muto beside me. It stares at the scene outside with what looks like keen interest. Does it recognize these mutants as others of its kind? They look so different to me, so well-fed in contrast to my emaciated travel companion.

  “How close are they now?”

  I frown at Jamison’s question. Isn’t he seeing everything I’m seeing? “Twenty meters and closing.” I flinch at another barrage of weapons fire.

  “Release the hound!” Perch roars.

  “He’s unarmed. They’ll tear him to pieces.” Do I hear concern for this hideous, foul-smelling creature in my voice?

  “Just wait,” Jamison says. “Unlock the door, and we’ll take things from there.”

  I watch the mutant as it grunts quietly to itself. The jeeps outside skid to a halt a few meters in front of the Hummer, and a cloud of dust sweeps over us. I bite my lip and hesitate just a second before hitting the passenger side’s door lock on my armrest. The dog’s collar flares red, and the mutant jerks to attention, turning toward the door. It swings open automatically and then closes behind him, locking into place.

  Outside, the wild mutos have already disembarked from their vehicles, grunting and snorting at one another, their heads jerking spastically. Automatic rifles at the ready, they stare with oozing yellow eyes fixed on my windshield—almost as if they can see straight through the black tinting.

  Maybe they can, I realize with a sick chill.

  Eight of them approach, muscular in build, their skin charred and blistered where it has been exposed to the sun. Where it is covered, they wear some sort of hide stitched together as clothing, a leather unlike anything I’ve seen before.

  “Human flesh,” Perch says as though he’s the one reading my thoughts. “Quite the fashion statement, don’t you think?”

  “Focus,” Jamison says.

  I sink lower in my seat. My hands remain on the steering wheel, and my right boot hovers over the gas pedal. I will run them down if I have to, if the collared dog proves to be no match for these superior specimens.

  Moving jerkily, like an automaton from half a century ago, the collared muto staggers toward the mutant pack. They surround him, for the moment losing all interest in the vehicle where I hold my breath and watch.

  The wild mutos sniff at the dog, poke him with the muzzles of their assault rifles, nudge him back and forth between them. For his part, the collared muto allows their curious groping without so much as a twitch, holding himself erect and not turning his head to stare back at them. I notice his eyes, pulsating in a frenzy. Is he frightened?

  One from the pack prods the shock collar with its gnarled, clawed fingers, grunting with interest.

  “Get ready,” Jamison says, but I don’t know if he means me or Perch.

  The wild mutos close in, reaching for the collar’s blinking lights, clawing at each other to get their hands on the device. They fall on one another, onto the dog, reaching violently and elbowing their way closer.

  “Now,” Jamison says.

  “Hell yeah.” Perch chuckles.

  I don’t know what to expect. Will the collared mutant suddenly go berserk in some sort of remote-controlled killing spree, ripping these unsuspecting creatures limb from limb in a fountain-spray of blood before they can get off a single shot?

  Apparently not.

  One moment, the mutos are all over the dog, pawing at his
blinking collar like it’s something more valuable than gold. The next instant, the dog is rigid, head thrown back and arms extended, clawing the air and shrieking a guttural roar as a burst of high voltage issues forth from the collar, passing from his body to anything in contact with him. The other mutants close by are instantly as paralyzed as he is, jerking upright and screaming as the current blasts through them. Only two on the perimeter of the throng remain unaffected. Thrown back by the initial shock, they hit the ground and shake their heads sharply, growling at one another in confusion, slow to return to their feet.

  I keep my eye on them. “Six neutralized. Two remain unharmed,” I report. I bite my lip as the two unaffected mutos turn their full attention on the Hummer.

  Silence on the comm. Disconcerting, to say the least.

  “There should be a flare gun in the glove box,” Jamison offers. “You could use it—”

  “Just run them over,” Perch says. “I’m giving the rest of ’em all the juice I’ve got. Heads should start exploding any second now.”

  Lovely. I reach for the compartment below the dashboard on the passenger’s side. There is an operations manual with the large UW Motors logo on the cover. Beneath it, a flare gun sits unloaded with no cartridges nearby.

  “Try the rear hatch,” Jamison says, watching my efforts through the camera in my collar.

  With a curse, I check the parking brake to be sure it’s set, then crawl onto the backseat and over it, reaching for the utility compartment next to the relay rods. Meanwhile, the dog and its six paralyzed friends continue to strain spastically against the electrical current coursing through them, and the two other mutos stagger toward the Hummer with harsh barking noises between them, sounding more excited the closer they come.

  The hatch on the compartment pops open at my touch. Inside I find an adjustable wrench, a multitool, spares for the roof’s supplemental solar panels...but no flares.

  “Try the other side,” Jamison says, referring to the compartment above the opposite wheel well.

  I slide along the rear seat and extend my arm toward the hatch just as a volley of rounds rake along the vehicle’s side. I fall back, flinching at the close-range thuds.

  “What the hell are you afraid of?” Perch scoffs. “No way they’ll pierce that armor.”

  It isn’t the armor that concerns me as I note small fractures along the side windows. Blowing out a quick breath, I dive forward, over the backseat, and pop the second utility compartment. Among what looks like tire-changing equipment, I locate one unused flare cartridge.

  Better than nothing. I slide it into the empty gun and snap the muzzle into ready position.

  Outside, the collared dog’s head bursts with a sickening pop and a splash of blood and cranial matter. The body remains standing, remote-controlled by Perch, as the voltage continues to hold the other six mutos in its agonizing grip.

  “Take out one of them,” Jamison says, referring to the pair at my window.

  “Unless you can get ’em to line up for you,” Perch says.

  A stupid remark. The flare will burrow into one target and set it aflame, allowing the other one to blow out my tires and leave me stranded here. It’s what I fear most.

  That, and having my own head explode.

  “What are you waiting for?” Jamison sounds stressed, even though he’s safe and sound far away from here. What does he have to be worried about?

  The two mutos pound the ends of their assault rifles against the Hummer. The reinforced glass repels their blows with hollow-sounding bumps.

  “Roll down that window and let ’em have it!” Perch urges. “Go for a headshot.” He chuckles eagerly. It’s all fun and games to him.

  “You should have sent me with a real weapon,” I mutter.

  “We did,” Perch counters, probably meaning the expired dog.

  “A lot of good he’ll be now.”

  “Just wait and see. We’ve got it under control.”

  I doubt that. By all indications, they’re flying by the seats of their pants, strategizing moment to moment with no clear plan of action.

  Unlike me. I know better than to think I can stay here much longer. There is no telling how long the dog’s collar will keep the other mutos incapacitated, and it’s only a matter of time before the pair assaulting this vehicle manages to get inside.

  I have one flare.

  And plenty of relay rods.

  Sucking down a quick breath, I crawl into the rear cargo hold and kick the hatch release. Immediately, the two mutos stagger around toward the back as the door opens. The first one gets a flare in the face, recoiling and shrieking as it sparks and sizzles. He drops his weapon and claws at the blossoming flare, falling back on his partner, forcing him aside and giving me the split second I need to grab one of the relays and lunge out of the vehicle with the rod poised like a javelin.

  The muto with the rifle shoves his writhing pal to the ground and squeezes off a few rounds that ping off the back of the vehicle and pierce the faux-leather interior. I duck at the same time, hurling the rod as hard as I can. The sharp end, designed to be planted deep into the hard-packed earth, impales the muto’s midsection, doubling him over with a hoarse scream. He looks surprised more than anything else. But he doesn’t let go of his weapon, even as he staggers under the impact with one hand on the rod skewering his abdomen.

  I drop to the ground as the creature lets loose another volley of shots, badly aimed but wild enough to be dangerous. I retrieve the fallen assault rifle from the flare-faced muto and take quick aim, squeezing the trigger and holding it there until the magazine empties. I don’t realize my eyes are closed until the weapon clicks in my hands.

  Once my eyelids open, I see the relay rod quivering erect from the motionless muto, covered in its own blood, punctured by thirty-odd rounds.

  Perch curses in appreciation of my handiwork.

  The other muto also lies still, its face a smoldering mass of scorched flesh. Despite my medical training, I feel a sudden urge to vomit, which I do my best to restrain. Even so, bile burns my throat.

  Gritting my teeth, I step toward the skewered muto’s corpse and enter the rod’s planting code. After a moment’s verification, the relay rod sinks completely into the ground, straight through the creature’s bullet-ridden body.

  I pick up its loaded rifle and then climb up into the Hummer without a glance back. As my insides threaten to rebel, the rear hatch automatically shuts behind me, locking me inside where, for the moment, I’m safe.

  “Good work, Margo.” Jamison sounds relieved. And impressed.

  I don’t reply. Setting the weapon on the empty passenger seat, I climb behind the wheel and gun the engine, veering sharply around the headless high-voltage square dance that has lost none of its fervor.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Perch demands. “Don’t you leave that dog—”

  “It’s no good to me now. I’m staying on mission. Keep those other mutos occupied as long as you can.”

  “He’s just pissed that you’re leaving his camera behind,” Jamison mutters. “Ignore him.”

  “I plan to,” I agree—and instantly regret doing so. A sudden shock nearly sends me into convulsions.

  “What the hell?” Jamison shouts on the comm.

  “Damn bitch should learn her place!” Perch counters.

  I swallow, struggling to stay in the moment. The vehicle skids lengthwise down the embankment as I fight the wheel for control.

  Jamison adds a few choice words for emphasis. “Margo, I’m sorry. That won’t happen again.”

  It had better not. The next time, I might end up flipping the vehicle.

  “Are you all right?” Jamison sounds concerned.

  The Hummer jostles me as it hits the valley floor, but I hold on, in complete control now as a level stretch of terrain opens before me. “Fine.”

  I glance at the passenger seat and the weapon it holds.

  I could end it all right now with a bullet to the
brainpan. Refuse to be Willard’s remote-controlled limo driver. How long does he plan to keep me alive, anyway? Until the infants are delivered to the UW?

  Over my dead body.

  They belong with their rightful parents. Tucker has found Luther and his people, I’m sure of it. So it’s only a matter of time before they mobilize and move on Eden to reclaim what belongs to them.

  But will they? I haven’t considered that possibility.

  If only I could pry off this damned collar, I would know exactly where the little male and female ended up. I could communicate with them, tell them I’m on my way.

  Instead, I follow the course set for me by Jamison, always here in spirit when I briefly lose my way. “Three degrees west by southwest,” he says.

  I correct the steering wheel and settle back in the seat for a long drive, shoving my thoughts far from my mind. Night falls abruptly, and the Hummer’s high beams knife through the dark. I stare unblinking at the whitewashed terrain before me, instead seeing the host of incubation chambers housed deep in Eden’s concrete sublevels. Dozens of them with no hope of survival if not for my medical expertise. None of the men in Eden have a clue how to care for them. I am their only hope, and Willard knows it.

  So much for pushing my thoughts aside.

  For the moment, I table the idea of blowing my own head off, robbing Perch of the satisfaction of pressing the button himself. I set my mind on autopilot as the ambient temperature drops significantly and the internal environmental system starts filling the vehicle with warm air. I focus on not focusing on anything at all. Jamison will guide me true. I am just their remote-controlled chauffeur, after all. No mental strain required.

  “You’ll need to pick up the pace, Margo,” Jamison says at length, his voice clipped.

  I have no idea how much time has passed. It can’t have been long; I haven’t planted the next relay rod yet. “Trouble?”

  “You could say that. The UW team is under attack.”

  11 Bishop

  18 months after All-Clear

  The tracks beside Morley’s discarded hazard suit make no sense. Morley’s boot prints simply end—as do those of the two hostiles that took him.