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

by Milo James Fowler

  “They fight alone,” Rehana says to me. “Cain’s goddess will not fight with them.”

  Would this change his mind about Gaia? If so, perhaps he will also change his mind about destroying the incubation units. I’ll never forget how Milton acted while possessed by that evil spirit. Is Cain being affected the same way?

  To commit such an atrocity—it’s inhuman.

  Shechara continues to brief us on the battle’s developments as Cain catches up with his advancing war party. The warriors in jeeps drive at the periphery, shooting as many of the daemons as they can. They have good aim, Shechara notes. Every round fired is a kill shot.

  “Are Willard’s daemons armed?” Luther asks.

  “No.” Shechara’s eyes zoom in to focus. “But they are winning. Even Cain’s swiftest warriors are being torn apart.” She pauses. “Literally.”

  “We go in with guns blazing,” Samson booms, perspiration soaking his head covering and tunic. “Nobody will be expecting us.”

  Once we are within a kilometer of the city ruins, Luther asks Shechara to estimate the distance between us and the UW troops approaching from the west.

  “I don’t see the ground assault teams,” she reports. “But there are more than a dozen aircraft headed this way. It looks like they’re…burning the ground ahead of them as they approach.”

  “Hoping to avoid what happened to Bishop’s chopper,” Samson says. “Smart.”

  “Burning it with what?” I ask.

  “Liquid fire.” Shechara shakes her head. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Sounds like napalm,” Samson replies.

  We press onward. By Shechara’s count, Cain has already lost nearly twenty warriors. Whatever Willard did to augment these daemons, it worked. According to Luther, they are nothing like the variety that met him, Shechara, and Samson in the tunnel leading out of Eden. When Willard trapped them, forcing them to fight for their lives, those daemons were frail and emaciated. Samson with his massive strength disemboweled most of them by hand, stacking the corpses to hold back the onslaught.

  I don’t see that happening this time.

  “Is Cain falling back?” Luther asks.

  “He’s still inside his vehicle,” Shechara says. “It’s plowing straight into the horde. The daemons are climbing on top, trying to break in, falling on top of each other.”

  If we’re lucky, all of them will be otherwise occupied by the time we arrive on the scene.

  “Everyone ready?” Luther calls back.

  We raise our weapons. I carry a spear, preferring hand-to-hand combat, but Shechara insisted that I take a handgun as well. So a semiautomatic is tucked into my belt.

  “Guess you can’t carry a crossbow anymore,” I tell Rehana.

  “We’ll do our best to confuse your enemy while you slip inside. May the Creator bless your efforts.”

  Nothing at all like the Rehana I knew, who never believed in a higher power. But I nod to show I heard her and prepare myself for what’s to come. Bloodshed, I’m sure, and plenty of it.

  I’ve killed my fair share of daemons over the past year and a half; I don’t fear them. Even this new breed doesn’t frighten me. What makes me nervous is the thought of rescuing the unborn children. How will we possibly get them all out of Eden safely? And even if we do, how will we take care of them in the Homeplace with no power, no running water, no heat? Wouldn’t it really be better to let the UW troops take them?

  My thoughts are cut short.

  The stench of fresh carnage approaches as Luther leads us at a dead run into the battle’s northern flank. The daemons are raging, wild and powerful, tossing Cain’s warriors through the air and overturning their jeeps. The ones on top of the Hummer rock it side to side, intending to capsize it. Their gnarled fists pound the windows, unrelenting yet unable to break the bulletproof glass.

  Cain’s faster warriors whip through the daemon throngs leaving splashes of black blood in their wakes, blades slashing with flashes of sunlight. The fighters armed with rifles down the daemons with headshots, leaving close to a hundred lying in pools of their own blood. But there is no end to this horde. Daemon upon daemon lunges forward with hungry snarls and yellow eyes bulging hatefully, their steel collars blinking red. I avert my gaze from a pair at the periphery as they tear a warrior’s body into bloody pieces and gobble up the slick organs like they haven’t eaten in weeks.

  Luther has his shotgun at the ready, slamming the stock against daemon skulls in his way, saving ammunition. Samson brings up the rear, sending any daemon stupid enough to approach him flying backward through the air, cut in two. The Rehana-spirit stirs up the dust at our feet to cover our approach, blinding the enemy to our presence until it’s too late for them.

  I plunge my spear through the throat of a daemon lunging my way and down it instantly. Jerking the black spearhead free, I sprint after Luther, keeping up with his advance. We race toward the parking structure where we first encountered Willard and his men.

  That seems so long ago. A lot has changed since then.

  By the time we reach the first sublevel, we’ve lost six from our group. Samson tells us he saw them fall without a chance to fire a single shot. He dispatched the daemons responsible, and the black blood drooling down both his arms is proof he did so with extreme prejudice. But there is no time to claim the dead.

  The underground parking garage is as dank and silent as I remember—eerily so, with the abandoned vehicles sitting right where they were the last time we saw them. As if no time has passed. We remove our head coverings, goggles slid up onto our foreheads or left to dangle around our necks.

  Sudden gunshots explode like bombs going off, echoing throughout the structure. Daemons foolish enough to follow us inside fall dead, thanks to the rear guard. Luther leads us downward until we reach a tunnel that doesn’t look familiar. I remember why: I didn’t get this far before. The evil spirit possessing Milton took me topside and left me in the middle of the street instead.

  Clunking along behind us, Samson mutters a curse at the sight of the tunnel. He remembers it all too well.

  With no daemons now to contend with, it’s clear that Milton and Bishop are in charge of Eden. They must have called off Willard’s dogs from this area once they spotted us entering the parking garage. Estimating the distance to Eden’s central dome to be two or three kilometers through the tunnel, we pace ourselves, moving as a unit in a steady jog. Samson does well keeping up, lunging from one leg to the other in long, awkward strides, the clanking noise drowning out the sounds of our breathing and footsteps.

  Eventually, we reach the massive steel hatch into Eden.

  An intercom speaker switches on above us. I hope we don’t hear Willard’s nasal voice.

  “Glad you guys could make it,” Milton says. “Want in?”

  “Yeah, and be quick about it!” Samson bellows, catching his breath.

  The hatch swings open with a long, slow creak. We enter Eden’s subterranean dome, lit up inside as bright as day. Milton shakes hands with Luther and hugs Shechara as the others filter inside. Once Samson is through, Willard’s soldiers swing the hatch shut and lock it into place.

  “You all look like you’ve been through the wringer.” Milton’s gaze lingers on Samson’s arms, dripping daemon blood onto the pristine concrete floor.

  “You look like you’re playing for the wrong team.” Samson scowls at Milton’s choice of attire—an Eden Guardsman’s uniform.

  “Couldn’t be helped.” Milton shrugs.

  “Are the children safe?” Luther grips Milton’s arm and glances at Willard’s soldiers nearby, who stare mutely.

  Milton nods. “Checked them out myself. Bishop’s with them now. Figured one of us should always be there, you know—Willard being an untrustworthy bastard and all.”

  “Where is he?” Fury reignites inside me at the sound of his name. The fetuses may be safe for now, but I know how to keep them that way. “And Perch. I want to see both of them.”r />
  “Daiyna—” Luther gives me a concerned look.

  I point at him. “Don’t.” Tears burn my eyes, and I struggle to restrain them. “They took something from me—from us—” I glance at Shechara, who directs her expressionless gaze at the floor. “You can’t understand, Luther. We’ll never be the same.” Because of what they did to us, Shechara and I will never be able to have children of our own.

  Luther holds out his scarred hands. “Our children are here, Daiyna…”

  “I have to end this.” I pound a fist against my chest where hatred has raged like an inferno for so many months.

  Willard’s men murmur among themselves, watching me. They’re armed, but they won’t try to stop me. I won’t let them.

  “Where’s Willard?” I demand. One of the Eden Guardsmen hesitantly points up toward Willard’s quarters. Of course. Things have come full circle. The last time I saw him up there, he was wedged between the unconscious bodies of his men.

  I start for the ladder and its adjoining catwalk.

  “I’ll go with you,” Shechara says quietly.

  I don’t turn her away. Milton and Luther approach.

  “We need him, Daiyna,” Milton says. “He’s in communication with the leader of the United World, somebody named Hawthorne. They’ve got a rapport going, if you can believe.”

  I ignore him, reaching for the rungs and pulling myself upward hand over hand.

  “Daiyna, think about what you’re doing,” Luther admonishes from the floor below. He doesn’t move to follow.

  “I have. Believe me.” I haven’t thought about much else lately.

  “Stay right where you are,” Samson advises Willard’s men as they shift their weapons.

  “What’s she doing?” one of them demands.

  “Payback’s a real bitch,” Samson rumbles.

  I’m halfway up the ladder when I notice Milton has beaten me to the catwalk. He cheated, flying.

  “You’re not going to stop me,” I tell him. A stupid thing to say. He moves so fast, he can stop me before I even know I’ve started.

  “You’re right. I’m not.”

  “Then get the hell out of my way.”

  He takes a step back. As I reach the catwalk, he unlocks Willard’s door and slides it aside. “Figured you’d need to get in.” He holds up the key. But he’s not smiling.

  I reach for the semiautomatic tucked into my belt.

  “Daiyna—” Shechara climbs up behind me.

  “He’s not getting off this continent.” I clench my jaw.

  Milton nods. I’ve never seen him look so grim. “I’ll be right outside if you need anything,” he says.

  I glance down below. Everyone but Samson is following one of Willard’s guardsmen, probably going to check on the incubation pods and meet with Sergeant Bishop. Samson remains behind to keep any of Willard’s more foolhardy men from climbing the ladder after me. They maintain their distance, eyeing his biomechatronic arms.

  I meet Milton’s gaze. “Thank you.”

  “I once killed a man who embodied evil for me, and now I see him whenever the evil spirits manifest themselves. Jackson—I might’ve mentioned him to you.” Milton shrugs. “Willard deserves to die. Don’t get me wrong. I’m just saying, if you want him showing up all the time from here on out, go ahead and end him. If you’re lucky, maybe that’s the last you’ll ever see of him.” He pauses. “But honestly, I would let the UW have the guy. They deserve each other, don’t you think?”

  No. Arthur Willard deserves only one thing.

  I look away. I don’t give myself a chance to change my mind. With my gun at the ready, I enter the apartment and pull the trigger as soon as I see the man sitting on the sofa. He doesn’t get to say a word.

  I keep firing until the gun clicks empty.

  Epilogue: Hawthorne

  18 Months After All-Clear

  I stand before the full-length mirror in my office and smooth back the lines around my eyes and mouth. I wear my years well, but there are always improvements to be made. Thankfully, Dr. Wong will be available tomorrow to make them.

  Garbed in a tailored black dress with a fetching little vest and a tasteful string of pearls around my neck, I murmur quietly to myself as I go over my speech from memory.

  A new day is dawning on Eurasia, one of great hope...

  On a widescreen next to the mirror, a live vidfeed from the Argonaus air assault on Eden comes through on my private channel. The hoverplanes' incinerators have neutralized resistance on the ground. Apparently, there was some sort of altercation between hordes of hideous mutants and clans of survivalists. Charred bodies and scorched earth are all that lie outside the city ruins now.

  Ash in the wind.

  Captain Mutegi mentioned something about a bullet-scarred Hummer approaching what's left of the capsized shipyard on the coast, but that doesn't concern us. If anyone survived Mutegi's shelling along the shore, I am certain they will pose little threat to our planes and precious cargo.

  What matters now is the scene playing out before me. Arthur Willard's people are bringing the incubation chambers to meet my ground assault team holding the ruins' perimeter. The man originally in charge of the mission, John (or James? Jack? I must remind myself to find out) Bishop, did not die in the line of duty like the rest of his team, as we assumed. His wife and children were released from custody as soon as he was pronounced dead; they may even have attended his memorial. Won't it be a surprise for them when he returns to a hero's welcome?

  I almost smile at the thought of it—but quickly refrain. Smiling makes additional lines fold across my cheeks.

  The announcement will go live as soon as the fetuses are on board the hoverplanes headed back to the Argonaus.

  Citizens of Eurasia, rejoice! The children are coming!

  I clasp my hands together as tears well up in my eyes. This is what it feels like to be giddy with joy. I cannot wait to show the doctors and scientists these prime specimens, twenty infants just waiting to be born—all uninfected and without the infertility problem plaguing the United World populace.

  These children will grow up to be Eurasians of the future...

  My thoughts dissipate as I focus on the screen. The first of the incubation pods emerge out of what was once a parking substructure before D-Day. The figure carrying the pod wears loose cotton clothing, a quaint head covering wrapped around his face, and black goggles to protect his eyes from the sun. Another figure similarly clothed appears, carrying an identical incubation canister. Then another, and another, each figure moving slowly with what appears to be...reverence.

  The last arrival is a cyborg. The massive figure carries two pods, one in each of its mechanical arms.

  "Chancellor, are you seeing this?" says the voice of Captain Mutegi on my audiolink.

  I nod, counting every pod in the arms of these faceless people standing among a myriad of blackened corpses, facing the armed UW troops but advancing no farther. All twenty are here.

  "Where is Arthur Willard?" I demand. "They're—" I peer closely at the monitor. "These people aren't wearing ventilators!"

  "Willard has not responded. No one inside Eden is answering our hails. Not even Sergeant Bishop." Mutegi pauses. "Please advise."

  I narrow my gaze. "Who are they?"

  One of the figures speaks up, and his voice comes through the link loud and clear:

  "Representatives of the United World, welcome to what remains of the North American Sectors. We know you have traveled far to reach us, and we know why you have come." The man raises the incubation canister in his arms. "For our children."

  I clench my jaw to keep it from dropping. "What is this?"

  Mutegi makes no reply.

  "We understand your situation, that you are unable to conceive as a consequence of your actions on D-Day," the nameless man continues. "Our Creator has blessed us with unspeakable gifts, abilities you would not understand. Not that we do ourselves." The man pauses. When he continues, his voice is
thick with emotion, "We give you our children, knowing you will be able to provide them with a better life. They will not suffer the hardships we have come to expect, living on this quarantined continent. They will not know us, but we hope you will tell them about us. And if they wish, at some point in the future, to allow us to live with them in their world...we pray they will look upon us kindly."

  The man falters, his shoulders trembling. Yet he maintains a secure hold on the pod.

  Others in his ranks stir, but no one moves. Only the cyborg shouts, "Come and get 'em, for crying out loud. Before we change our damn minds!"

  "Move in," I give the order, and Mutegi relays it to his troops.

  The soldiers in armored hazard suits retrieve each of the pods and carry them to the waiting hoverplanes stirring up dust with their rotors in motion. The canisters are strapped in securely for their flight to the Argonaus where doctors eagerly await their arrival. I watch until the last pod is taken from that peculiar assembly of desert people.

  They stand like vandalized statues.

  As the planes eventually lift off and the ground assault teams turn an about-face from the city ruins to march westward, I dismiss the screen with a wave of my hand. It darkens automatically, and I return my gaze to the mirror. My eyes are glassy with the tears I restrained from ruining my makeup.

  Citizens of Eurasia, rejoice...

  Tapping my temple, I deactivate the audiolink and reach for the antique snuff box in my vest pocket. Inside the silver filigreed container sit a few ounces of dust, taken from what once were the North American Sectors. Gently I inhale just a pinch with my left nostril, then my right. I wipe away the remnants from my upper lip with a silk kerchief that I fold neatly and keep in the palm of my hand.

  For a moment, there is only the silence of my expansive office. Intermittent shadows cross my window-wall as aerocars pass by, soaring over the city's splendor at the same altitude as its Chancellor.

  Then the voices hit me in waves that roll one after another, people talking on every floor of this one-hundred-fifty-story skyscraper—the tallest in Dome 1. I hear them all, acutely aware of everything everyone is saying. I am able to tune into any conversation I wish, hopping from one to another, as long as the dust effects last. Often for minutes at a time.