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

by Milo James Fowler

  When it becomes clear their rounds won’t be able to puncture the vehicle’s exterior, one of the men shouts for his comrades to aim for the tires.

  I curse, fists clenched as the vehicle rocks wildly, then hits the ground on its underbelly.

  “What was that?” Jamison’s voice demands from my collar.

  “They shot out the tires.” I’m stuck out here. “We’re not going anywhere.”

  There won’t be a way to transport the UW personnel back to Eden now. Willard is going to have to wait for the next envoy. By the looks of this crew—two wounded severely and another low on oxygen—they don’t have long to live. Why haven’t these hostiles killed them already?

  “Are you in immediate danger?” Jamison sounds concerned.

  “Don’t even think of sending our last Hummer,” I warn.

  “Hadn’t crossed our minds,” Perch sneers, commandeering the line. “I’m thinking we’ll use you as an old-fashioned suicide bomber. That collar you’re wearing packs a real wallop. Are those hostiles still within five meters of the vehicle?”

  Jamison curses. “Margo, that’s not going to happen.”

  I bite my lip. The cacophony outside is deafening, like fireworks going off at close range. They’re determined to break through the armored hull, no matter how long it takes.

  “How many of them would you be able to immobilize?” I ask.

  “Immobilize nothing. They’ll be blown to pieces.” Perch chuckles. “And so will you.”

  “Stay the hell off my line,” Jamison says gruffly. “Margo, Perch has no control over your collar. I’m not letting anything happen to you.”

  I appreciate the sentiment, but Perch has Jamison beat by at least a hundred pounds of fat and muscle. If the beast so desires, he could easily overpower the well-meaning Jamison at any moment. He already has once before, sending a jolt of electricity through my system that felt strong enough to stop my heart.

  “Sit tight, and we’ll try to get back in touch with Captain Mutegi. If he gets approval to send in a chopper, I’ll make sure you’re on it.”

  These hostiles would blow a helicopter out of the sky. I part my lips to tell him as much when a sudden gust of gale-force wind kicks up outside, colliding with the Hummer and skidding it sideways across the hard-packed earth.

  I risk a glance out the window and can only stare.

  What appears to be a hurricane of dust and sand whips around the vehicle, keeping me in its calm center. Screaming, the hostiles are forcibly disarmed by the power of the wind and thrown to the ground. A few struggle to their feet only to be knocked down again, grimacing in the sandstorm and shouting at one another over the roar. I cannot make out their words, but it’s clear they are terrified.

  Have they experienced this bizarre, unnatural phenomenon before?

  One of their leaders, a man who carries blades strapped across his leather-clad chest, gives a signal, and the men vanish, running faster than humanly possible. One moment they’re crouching low, digging their fingers into the cracked earth and holding on for their lives. The next moment, they’re gone in blurs of speed, leaving their weapons scattered across the ground.

  That’s when the strangest thing happens: from out of the whirlwind steps the figure of a man. As the dust settles, he says something to the UW personnel rising cautiously to their feet. Then he turns to face my vehicle, and I recognize him instantly.

  There is only one among us who can move that fast, able to create quite the dust devil and make the hostiles look like slugs in comparison.

  By all appearances, Milton has gotten faster over the past months.

  “What is it? What do you see?” Jamison’s voice demands as silence descends on the scene. Only my eyes peek out the side window. I’ll have to sit upright for the camera on my collar to give him a full view.

  “I don’t know.” I don’t move.

  “Give us a better angle.”

  Milton approaches. He removes his dust-caked goggles and unwraps the sandcloth from his face. Behind him, the UW people struggle to their feet, two of them bleeding—one from his arm, the other from her leg wound. They collect as many fallen weapons as they can carry.

  “Up a little higher,” Jamison says.

  The windows are tinted black. Milton can’t see me.

  “They’re all gone...” I murmur.

  “What?” Perch is back on comms. “How the hell—?”

  “Some kind of freak sandstorm. It came without warning, drove off the hostiles.” I bite my lip for a moment. “But the UW crew appears to be fine, more or less. Two are injured.”

  “What are you waiting for? Haul your ass out there and start administering some first aid. Mutegi won’t be happy if he hears you let his people bleed out.”

  A knock pounds against my window, knuckles rapping twice. Then Milton’s voice: “Hey-uh, open up.”

  “Go ahead, Margo,” Jamison says on the comm. “Get everybody inside the Hummer, and wait it out. You’ll be safe in there while we send for help.”

  “Hello?” Milton knocks again.

  What will Perch and Jamison do when they see him? Blow my collar then and there, just to eliminate him? They can’t be that stupid. The UW personnel are well within the kill zone now, staggering toward my dilapidated vehicle in their heavy hazard suits. But the men of Eden hate Milton with a vengeance. He made them all look like fools when he escaped all those months ago, moving so fast they were frozen in their boots, powerless to stop him as he disarmed them, knocked them out, and piled them on top of each other like rag dolls. Perch in particular would do anything to wipe Milton off the face of the earth, once and for all.

  And if he were to find out that Milton has actually become faster—

  “C’mon, open up. We’ve got wounded out here,” Milton says.

  “That could be their team leader, Margo. His name is—” Jamison pauses, probably to consult his notes. Of course he wouldn’t recognize Milton’s voice. “Sergeant James Bishop, United World marines. A good soldier with a clean record. A family man, looks like. I know you’ve been through a lot, and I know you’re afraid, but this man is not dangerous.”

  “Open the damn door!” Perch bellows in the background.

  I curse him silently and reach for the manual release lever. With a whir, the internal mechanism unlocks the door, and it drifts upward. Milton ducks under, extending his hand to me. Fortunately for him, he isn’t more than a dark silhouette against moonlight in the collar-cam’s eye. But it’s clear he wears no hazard suit.

  “Who the hell—?” Perch demands.

  “Hey!” Milton grins at me. “I remember you.”

  I try swallowing the lump clogging my throat and reach cautiously for his outstretched hand. He notices my collar, and his smile fades.

  “They’ve got you wearing one of those again?” He frowns.

  “Margo, who is this man?” Jamison says in alarm.

  “I’ll tell you who he is!” Perch lapses into obscenities. “He’s one of those sand freaks—the fast one!”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell Milton. My muscles tense, waiting for the inevitable blast that will blow us all away in bloody pieces.

  Will we feel anything? Or will it happen too fast?

  He shrugs. Then, in a flash, he grabs my collar and breaks it off my neck. Throwing it to the ground, he crushes it beneath the sole of his boot. All in the span of a split-second.

  “Better now?” His boyish grin returns.

  I stare at him with my hand gingerly touching my throat. It feels naked, exposed. “You’ve gotten stronger, as well,” is all I can think to say.

  “I guess.” He regards the broken steel band for a moment, watching the red pinpoint of light fade out as the signal with Eden is lost. “You’ve got a medkit in there, I hope.”

  “Yes—of course.” I pop open the passenger dashboard compartment and retrieve two plastic white boxes with red crosses on them.

  “Looks like a couple of these people are hurt prett
y bad.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” I climb out of the vehicle.

  “I don’t know how much you’ll be able to help, dressed the way they are.” He gestures at their bulky suits and helmets.

  “They fear our air.” I walk past him.

  He follows me as I approach the first member of the UW team, a well-built man with grey stubble along his jawline and a clear face shield on his helmet. Unlike the others, there are no lights from a functioning heads-up display. The man’s unguarded wonder is plain to see as he stares first at Milton, then me. He nudges the short, stocky member of his team, the one with a wounded arm, who speaks up.

  “You’re from Eden?” he says.

  “She is.” Milton points. “I’m not.”

  “You…” The man clears his throat, but no words emerge.

  “I can fly.” Milton shrugs. “Weird, right?”

  The man nods, but nothing registers in his eyes. His mind has no frame of reference to make sense of recent events. A dust storm drove away a score of heavily armed hostiles, and Milton—wearing no protective suit or breathing apparatus—descended from the whirlwind, stepping out of it as one would have a carriage to the cobblestone streets of 19th century London. It is too incredible to be believed, even though he saw it with his own eyes.

  “The air—you’re able to breathe it…just fine?” An older man in another hazard suit approaches me. “You see this, Sergeant? It’s remarkable!”

  “Which one of you is in charge here?” I don’t wait for an answer, moving between the men as they turn to face me. I make straight for the injured woman, unsure what good I will be able to do. She and the short fellow were both cut with a blade of some sort. Apparently, there are vulnerable spots in their armored suits. The designers hadn’t expected them to go up against sword-wielding desert warriors.

  The man with the malfunctioning HUD pats his chest plate, but it’s the short one who speaks for him again, “This is Sergeant James Bishop, ma’am. United World Marines. His helmet’s on the fritz, so I’m acting as translator. Name’s Granger.”

  “Margo.” I look Bishop over. How much oxygen remains in his suit? He’s doing a good job at hiding it, but he is frightened, as any man would be in a similar situation. I don’t have to be a telepath to notice. But his fear has nothing to do with his O2 levels or the armed hostiles who are sure to return in greater numbers. He’s terrified of one thing only: not being allowed to return home.

  “We were hoping Eden would send more than—”

  “One woman?” I glance back at Granger as I kneel beside the woman on the ground. She’s lost plenty of blood, but there is no way her femoral artery was pierced at this angle.

  “I’m sure they could’ve spared a few more personnel.”

  “Not on the surface.” I shake my head. “The men of Eden refuse to breathe the air. Something you have in common.”

  Bishop’s worried gaze focuses on his crewmate’s suit at the site of the puncture.

  “This suit no longer serves any purpose—other than impeding the care she needs.” I make eye contact with the tall woman and keep my tone matter-of-fact. She stares unblinking from behind her face shield. “If you would like me to save your life, it will have to come off.”

  The woman appears to have frozen. When she eventually speaks, her voice is a choked whisper. “Will it be a life worth saving?”

  Granger takes a knee beside her. “Hey now. It won’t be all bad. I’m in the same boat you are, remember. Hell, we might get some cool mutant superpowers or something. Did you get a load of this guy?” He nods toward Milton.

  “Or we’ll end up like those creatures we found,” the woman retorts.

  Milton clears his throat. “Don’t worry about that. You guys are under the spirits’ protection. Just let Margo do her thing, and you’ll be fine. I promise.”

  “Spirits?” The older man steps toward Milton with keen interest. “Did I hear you correctly, young man?”

  “Yeah—the spirits of the earth.” Milton nods as if it’s common knowledge. “You know, from all the animals that were blown up on D-Day.”

  The old man blinks, lips parted for words that never make an appearance. He half-turns toward Sergeant Bishop, but his eyes are still fixed on Milton like he’s some sort of science experiment gone awry. “You hear that, Sergeant? Not even a quarter century has passed…and already a primitive religious structure has sprung forth among the survivors. How incredible!”

  Bishop dismisses him to assist the wounded. He watches as the older man shuffles off, muttering to himself, before he turns his attention fully on Milton.

  “If you’re not from Eden, then what are you doing out here?” Granger asks.

  “That’s a long story, and we don’t have a lot of time. Like I said, Cain’s boys frighten easily—they’re a real superstitious bunch—but they’ll be back.” Milton beckons to Bishop as he surveys the Hummer’s tires. “How about you lend me a hand, and we’ll get this thing back in order? Those bastards sure did give it the works.”

  Bishop nods and approaches the vehicle.

  Milton kicks at what remains of the right rear tire. “Grew up in a trade sector, so I know my way around the parts of almost anything. Putting them all together, though? That’s beyond my job description.” He drops to one knee and runs his gloved hand across the flabby tread, sliding toward the hub. “With InstaGoo, anything’s possible!” He half-grins at the sergeant. “Trade sector humor,” he explains.

  “You’re a survivor. From which sector?” Granger asks.

  “Good ol’ 43.” Then he mutters, “There’s got to be a repair kit inside...” He climbs into the passenger side.

  “Try the rear compartment,” I call, knowing what he’s up to without looking. His thoughts are loud enough to be my own.

  “Thanks.” He rummages around.

  My hands pause for a moment as I work to help the stoic UW woman out of her hazard suit. Meanwhile, I project my mind outward in a single pulse of extra-sensory perception, and my efforts do not go unrewarded. Almost immediately, the thoughts of the young female, offspring of Luther and Daiyna, connect with my own. The little one seems confused but unharmed, unable to understand where I’ve been all this time.

  A sense of impending danger comes through our link, along with visceral fear.

  I blink, returning my focus to the woman’s suit. I will have to reconnect with the young one at the next opportunity, whenever that is. For now, it’s enough to know she is safe—and the male, as well. They are both all right despite a danger which, strangely enough, does not seem to be directed toward them. I am glad of that.

  But what about Tucker? Is he still with them?

  I glance back at Milton as he clambers into the back of the vehicle. Should I probe his mind for answers?

  “I do not require your help,” the UW woman snaps at her short crewmate.

  “Hate to break it to you, but you’re leaking like a sieve here.” Granger, despite his own injury, is doing all he can to assist—perhaps a little too eagerly.

  “You’re no better off yourself.” The older man reaches for the short fellow’s bleeding arm. “Dr. Jefferson Harris, ma’am.” He extends his gloved hand.

  I grasp it briefly and return to the woman’s stubborn suit before realizing: “Dr. Harris…I read your work. All of it—in the bunker.” I blink up at him.

  Harris is obviously pleased with his living-legend status. “Glad they gave you kids some adequate reading material while you were down there. Although, of course, most of it was outdated halfway through your internment.” He chuckles dryly. “Couldn’t be helped, I suppose. All that concrete made it impossible for wireless transfer.”

  “Your work on genetics and artificial insemination—your case studies—” I could go on.

  “Fascinating, I’m sure,” the injured woman interjects with a pained gasp. “But if you’re going to expose me to the elements, then hadn’t we better get on with it?” She sounds resigned to h
er fate.

  “Isn’t there some way we could portion off the suit at the site of the injury?” Harris suggests. “There’s really no need to remove the entire thing, is there?”

  “I’m sorry, Doctor. Her air supply was compromised as soon as the puncture was made.”

  “Damned design flaw,” Harris mutters.

  “After I treat the wound, we need to get her into the vehicle where it’s warm, let her rest. She could go into shock at any moment.”

  “They will be back...” The injured woman glances westward into the night.

  “Captain’s working on that with the superhero.” Granger lets out a low whistle. “Did you see that, Doc? The way he came out of the air? Holy crap!”

  “Your suit should come off as well,” Harris tells him, surveying his injury. “There’s no way to get at it with this armor in the way.”

  “What the hell, go ahead and pry me out. Guess we’ll be your guinea pigs. You can monitor what happens to us and publish your findings.” Granger gives me a sidelong glance. “Say, what’s your superpower, ma’am?”

  I ignore him as I strain against the woman’s suit with very little help from her; she is too weak to lend much of a hand. The upper portion comes off like pieces of shell from a beetle’s back, revealing a white, skin-tight bodysuit the woman wears underneath.

  “Come now, as one doctor to another.” Harris begins to remove Granger’s suit in like manner. “Why were you the only member of Eden sent out to meet us? And how did this flying superhuman know exactly where to find you?” He pauses. “Could it be that you share some sort of advanced telepathic ability?”

  Instead of answering, I project an intense burst of fear into his mind that the hostiles are returning at this very moment—skimming across the sand in blurs of speed.

  “We must hurry.” The good doctor doubles his efforts.

  Granger winces and groans at the lack of any bedside manner whatsoever, but he does what he can to help the process with his functional arm.