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

by Milo James Fowler

  First off, this might have been some kind of cave the mutos called home sweet home. But that couldn’t be. For one thing, Whirlwind Man wouldn’t have rescued me from the mutant freaks only to give me right back to them. And for another, those yellow bug-eyes of theirs can see perfectly well in the dark, so they wouldn’t have any use for these glowsticks posted along the walls.

  The second possibility: this was a UW encampment. The UW team Willard was expecting could have met with some difficulty once they’d set foot on this continent, and they might have decided to hole-up in here while they waited for backup. But that didn’t make sense either, because Whirlwind Man wasn’t wearing a UW uniform.

  So it had to be door number three. This was Luther’s Homeplace those sentries had mentioned before carrying off the two incubation pods. One of them must have let it slip that they’d left me to die—maybe the guy who dropped the 9mm—and Luther sent one of his best and brightest sand freaks to go after me and bring me back as fast as he could. Then they laid me out and lathered me up, and I’ve been lying here ever since, dozing on and off in this peaceful, cool, quiet cave.

  A coffin of earth and rock from which I might rise from the dead, if I’m so lucky.

  Am I sure this is Luther’s Homeplace? Of course not. But if I was a betting man, and if there was anything of value to wager—maybe a few hydropacks—I’d be willing to bet it’s Luther who took me in. His people always seemed like a good lot.

  Except for those sentries. I’ll have to ask Luther about that bunch, when the time’s right.

  Maybe it has something to do with Daiyna. She might have ordered them to shoot me on sight and leave me out there.

  I can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt at the memory of double-crossing her the way I did. In the city ruins above Eden, I promised I was leading her to her friends. But in point of fact, I was just trying to get on Willard’s good side, so he’d let poor ol’ Tucker back into Eden’s fold as a bona fide member of the team instead of a retriever—the only one of Willard’s men allowed topside.

  Once upon a time, I took in a few lungfuls of air on the surface. I found myself locked out of the bunker due to some awful snafu and had to fend for myself. The best thing about being stranded in a trade sector: plenty of everything I’d ever need, right there for the taking. Buried under piles of rubble, but that was to be expected after an apocalypse of nuclear and biochemical proportions.

  Thanks to the UW military mixing massive amounts of atomic energy with nerve-altering bioweapons, and thanks to the residue somehow surviving in the dust of the earth, I was changed into an invisible man. And when I finally found a way into Eden through the city’s abandoned sewer system, I soon realized that none of my old pals were able to see me.

  So, of course, I had to have a little fun with them—after I got over the shock of the whole thing.

  I became the Ghost of Eden, haunting Willard on a regular basis until my shenanigans were found out. That’s when they collared me with one of Perch’s latest inventions: a remote-controller wired for video transmission and able to give quite the shock-load whenever you disobeyed Perch’s orders.

  Perch. Now there’s one gent who personifies the term bad apple. I’ve got no clue what happened in the man’s past to make him the way he is, but he’s rotten all the way to his core.

  Like that sentry who shot me. Daiyna’s idea of vengeance? Is she in charge of the sentries? Did she warn them about an invisible man—one who can’t be trusted, no matter what?

  I glance down at my slick skin, seeming to glow in the dark. Probably serves me right. How many wounds are healing underneath the salve? Enough to even the score between me and Daiyna? A man can hope.

  Heavy clunking sounds head toward me through the darkness. I strain my head forward but can barely lift it.

  “Good. You’re awake,” a deep voice rumbles, reaching the side of my cot. “Now maybe we can get some answers out of you.”

  I recognize the voice along with the steel arms and legs of the massive man looming over me. “I remember you.” I fight to swallow what feels like a wad of sandpaper lodged in my throat.

  The big man’s broad, bearded face drops closer to me and grins. “I’m not an easy one to forget.”

  I cough, rasping, “You’re Samson—Luther’s—”

  “Cyborg. Right.” He rises, returning to the shadows. “That’s me.”

  I would have said friend. “How did I—?”

  “There are plenty of questions going around right now, believe me. Enough to sink a battleship. Namely, what the hell were you doing with a couple of babies? And where’d they even come from?”

  “Are they all right?”

  “They’re fine. Lucky for you, our numbers have increased a bit since the last time our paths crossed. We happened to pick up a couple folks with medical training along the way. Here.” He fishes a hydropack from the satchel he wears slung across his chest and tears it open with a rough tug. One of his metal hands lifts the back of my head while the other squeezes some of the H2O substitute past my parched lips. “Take it easy. Last thing we need is that invisible belly of yours exploding.”

  I blink to indicate I understand the warning and down half the pack before coming up for air. “Thanks. Much better now.” I can already feel the fluid healing the insides of my throat the same way the salve is working to fix my outsides.

  Samson keeps the hydropack nearby, withdrawing his hand from my head as his gaze wanders across my wounds. Oddly enough, he seems to be looking right at me.

  “Are you able to—I mean—” I sniff awkwardly. “Can you see me?”

  “Afraid so,” Samson mutters without pause. “Those daemons sure gave you the business. Don’t know how the hell you lived long enough for Milton to find you.”

  That’s who it was—the Whirlwind Man. I remember Milton and his incredible speed. There was even talk that he could fly like a superhero or something. “So I’m not invisible anymore?” Do I dare to hope?

  “Sorry, pal. That hasn’t changed.” Samson blows out a sigh. “Seems like the spirits have their own way of doing things. They gave me superhuman strength, but your people decided to hack off my arms and legs. These robo-limbs are something else, don’t get me wrong, but they’re nothing like the set I had before.” He pauses. “Here’s the thing, though: the spirits weren’t thrilled with what happened, so they blessed me with this night-vision ability—I don’t know what else to call it. So yeah, I can see you just fine where our medics smeared your injuries with healing gel. It gives off a heat signature I can pick up, clear as day.” He chuckles, low thunder deep in his chest.

  Blessed? What the hell is he talking about?

  “You’ve been checking up on me, I take it.”

  Samson shrugs large shoulders of flesh and bone. “Luther’s orders. He’s had me guarding you from the moment you arrived. You don’t need me to tell you: Eden and its people aren’t the most popular among our ranks.”

  “Daiyna...” My voice trails off. I don’t know what more to say.

  Samson frowns in the light of the glowsticks. “Yeah.” He clears his throat, half-turning away. “Luther will want to know you’re awake. So you just stay put for now. I’ll be back.”

  I nod—glad my neck decides to cooperate. Maybe the rest of my muscles will soon follow suit. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

  Samson clunks away on his robot legs. He’s much better at walking than he was the last time I saw him in Eden, wobbly and nearly tipping over with every step.

  I close my eyes. Of course these people would hate Eden. Anyone hurt by Perch and Willard in their sadistic experiments is bound to hold a grudge. But will their tune change once they realize whose children are in those incubation pods? Their own kids—Luther and Daiyna, Samson and that other girl, the one whose eyes were taken out. Sure, they weren’t given a whole lot of say in the matter, but those two babies are theirs.

  Not to mention the whole batch back in Eden.

  If
she still harbors ill feelings toward me, Daiyna won’t believe a word I say. I betrayed her trust once upon a time, and she didn’t strike me as the forgiving kind. Can I blame her? At the time, I’d been looking out for myself for so long, it hadn’t even crossed my mind to be concerned about somebody else.

  Yet here I am, risking my life for a couple of unborns floating around in tanks. Why have I made this journey? To save humankind? From what I’ve heard second or third-hand from Margo, that’s pretty much the shape of things.

  Over twenty years ago, when the United World government put down the Sector Rebellion, they used high-yield nuclear weapons that changed the face of the entire North American continent. The rebels had already done their part by releasing all manner of illegal biochemical and neurochemical weapons. Apparently, the twain should have never met.

  The aftermath? All you’ve got to do is look around this godforsaken continent. Not a single living thing in sight. Those of us still alive only survived because of the bunkers the UW prepared for the best and brightest or those with the best genes—the engineers, the trade workers, the medical experts, the breeders.

  The UW crushed the rebellion, but at what cost?

  According to Margo (via Willard, via the Chancellor of the UW herself—a woman named Persephone-something), while the bunkers held their precious human cargo secure for decades, things on the surface deteriorated rapidly. The desolation of North America somehow spread through weather systems, killing all life on the surface of the earth. Eurasia, a domed city on the banks of the Mediterranean Sea, became the last bastion for humankind to escape the toxic air, ash, and nuclear winter. Millions stormed the gates for protection but were turned back. Eurasia hadn’t been built to sustain more than three million citizens and was already straining at the seams.

  Those inside the glass walls watched while millions on the outside froze to death. But all was not well for the Eurasians. Thousands inside the dome became ill, having ingested biotoxins unawares, and sicknesses the likes of which they’d never seen before spread among the populace like wildfire. Thousands died in the first month. Then tens of thousands. The population was decimated. The dead were ejected from the dome into the sea with the rest of the city’s waste. Citizens avoided Eurasia’s transparent walls, unable to bear the horrors lying outside.

  Years passed. The nuclear winter eventually ended, and ash cleared from the atmosphere. The sun came out to shine upon a scarred, lifeless world. And the remaining citizens of the United World found themselves just as barren, unable to conceive their next generation. A lingering effect of some toxin released by the rebels? Nobody knew for sure.

  Their only hope of survival as a species: the breeders from the North American Sectors, huddled deep in their bunkers with no contact from the outside world—or what remained of it. The bunker doors would open automatically at All-Clear, set twenty years after D-Day. Destruction Day, I’ve heard it called—a little on-the-nose.

  But the UW grew impatient.

  Tests confirmed the air was fine, so they sent in swarms of recovery teams early, troops that landed on the continent en masse to check each bunker and see if there was some way they could rig the steel doors to open sooner than scheduled. The male and female breeders were the priority; their bunkers were separate, and they had to be brought together as soon as possible. They had to get busy if humankind was going to have a chance at being fruitful and repopulating this wasted earth.

  The rest is history. All of it is, I guess.

  The UW had no idea what they were sending their troops into. Hundreds and hundreds of them turned into the mutant freaks that still roam around in their government-issued jeeps with their government-issued weapons and seemingly inexhaustible supply of government-issued ammunition. Months passed, and the UW made contact with good ol’ Captain Willard of the Eden Guard via that shortwave radio I found in the ruins above Eden. Willard clued-in the Eurasians that their so-called saviors, the breeders from Sectors 50 and 51, weren’t exactly human anymore. They’d become freaks of nature with abnormal abilities—definitely not the all-natural children of God the UW was hoping would spawn the next generation of humankind.

  But all was not lost, Willard assured them. And so began his plan to harvest eggs and sperm from his captive sand freaks—Luther and company. In a controlled environment beneath the surface, free of any contaminants from the outside air, he would join them together, ushering in a new generation on this broken planet. Or Margo would, actually. She was the brains behind the whole operation.

  All very humanitarian, right? Wrong. This was Captain Arthur Willard, after all. He taught me firsthand what it means to look out for numero uno when he locked me outside the bunker and left me to die.

  Willard was always paranoid about the air on the surface, convinced there had to be something unnatural in the dust. Everybody else in the bunker was skeptical until a few of the scouts came back and turned into fanged, clawed freaks. They would have torn him limb from limb if he hadn’t put them down like the rabid animals they were.

  Sand freaks. Mutants. The same kind of folks who now have me in their cave. Not monsters like the flesh-eating mutos outside, but just as un-human. And I’m one of them.

  Back to the question that took me down memory lane in the first place: why did I risk everything to come all the way out here? Easy answer: more than anything else in my sorry excuse for a life, I want to spite Arthur Willard. Finding the folks who hate that bastard as much as I do, getting them riled up about their young, maybe inspiring them to return to Eden and give Willard his comeuppance—well, that sounds like the best revenge to me.

  Besides, us freaks gotta stick together.

  I know better than to think Margo or I will be included in Eden’s direct flight to Eurasia. Of course Perch and Willard will leave us behind to rot—and to take care of the collared mutos. Can’t forget about them.

  “Be sure to feed the dogs now, Tucker,” Willard will say. “They can get mighty ornery when they’re hungry!”

  “You still awake?” Samson’s voice returns with the sound of his mechanical legs.

  “If I wasn’t, I would be now.” I sniff, arching my head forward.

  “They’re on their way—Luther and Daiyna,” Samson says. “Might want to brace yourself.”

  I don’t know what to make of that. I try to push against the cot with my arms, but they’re still too numb to respond. “Got a blanket or something? I’m feeling a bit exposed here.”

  “Can’t give you anything to wear yet. It’ll mess up the healing salve.”

  Right. Wouldn’t want that. “How’s...that girl with the eyes?”

  “Shechara’s keeping watch over the babies. I’m looking forward to hearing all about them, by the way.” He crosses his arms and shakes his massive head in either wonder or consternation.

  Hushed tones echo along the earthen chamber with sure-footed strides and the soft rustle of clothing. I haven’t heard much of Luther’s voice before, but I recognize Daiyna’s right away. No chance I’d ever forget it.

  “How is our patient faring?” Luther steps into the green glow and surveys the cot before him, his eyes unfocused. He looks older than the last time I saw him. More grey, more wrinkles. The past months have been rough on him, by all appearances. But he still exudes an inner strength to match his stolid bearing.

  “Speak up, man,” Samson mutters.

  I clear my throat and sniff—a self-conscious tick I couldn’t quit if I tried. “Hey. Thanks for taking me in like this. I would’ve been a goner out there.”

  “I’m glad Milton found you in time.” Luther glances over his shoulder toward Daiyna, who remains in the shadows. “You’ve made quite a long journey, and on foot no less.” He frowns slightly, focusing his gaze on the pillow where my head lies. Maybe he can see the depression in the fabric. “How did you know where to find us, Tucker?”

  I nod to myself, remembering the dust devil that barreled toward me down the middle of that street, the v
oice of my mother’s as clear as if she was standing right behind me, whispering into my ear. Like having her dear, departed spirit talk to me from beyond the grave.

  “Does Willard know where we are?” Luther persists.

  “No.” I shake my head. “No idea. And Margo’s gonna keep it that way. I’m sure ol’ Perch will give her hell for it, but she’s gone through twelve rounds with him before. Besides, all she knows is that I went west. No exact coordinates or anything.” I release a weak chuckle. “Hell, I was surprised when I ran into your sentries out there. Thought I had a lot farther to go, truth be told.”

  Luther’s frown deepens. “Yes. About them...” He pauses, and the silence is heavy. “I cannot tell you how sorry I am for what they did to you.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe we’re even now.” I peer into the shadows, hoping to catch a better glimpse of Daiyna. “I probably had it coming.”

  A quiet curse erupts from the darkness behind Luther, but he continues, uninterrupted, “And those…canisters you were carrying—”

  “Right.” I suddenly feel overwhelmed by how much I have to tell them.

  “They’re ours.” Daiyna steps into the light, and she’s a vision of beauty. No longer the bald, stubble-headed woman she was before. Now thick, dark hair drapes her face like velvet curtains. Thanks to the healing salve on my invisible skin, she’s able to see me with her night-vision, and she stares me down. There’s a hard look in her eyes, daring me to contradict her. “Created in Eden. From what they took out of us.”

  I sniff. Nod. “Yeah.”

  Samson curses under his breath. Luther closes his eyes for a moment. The news doesn’t seem to come as a complete shock. More like an anticipated fear-become-reality.

  “So what do you expect us to do with them?” Daiyna demands.

  13 Margo

  18 months after All-Clear

  I cower in my seat, curled into a fetal position, covering my head as an unrelenting barrage of bullets plows into the Hummer from all sides. The hostiles have the vehicle surrounded, and there seems to be no end to their ammunition. They’re not mutos, that much is clear. They move with the superhuman speed and agility of Luther’s friend Milton. Large men, well-built, their jaws set with a grim determination.