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

by Milo James Fowler

  Then it's onward to the Argonaus. Standard decontamination procedures will be followed to the letter. Assuming we all check out, Mutegi will expect me to debrief him while the medical crew takes the incubators into custody and prepares them for the voyage to Eurasia.

  Home.

  "That battle was some kind of welcome," the marine continues, still eager to strike up a conversation. "Looked like they were going at each other medieval-style, but with automatic weapons. Didn't get a good close-up view, but would I be right in guessing they weren't exactly human?"

  I keep my eyes shut. "More or less."

  "So the rumors are true? The toxins in the air turned the D-Day survivors into—"

  "Corporal?"

  "Yeah, Sarge?"

  "Let me sleep."

  Rank has its privileges on rare occasions. This is one of them. The last thing I want to do is talk about what happened on the ground, let alone think about it. My briefing with Captain Mutegi will be bad enough.

  Thankfully, the next time I hear the corporal's voice isn't until the hoverplane touches down on the deck of the Argonaus. I unfasten my safety harness and struggle against my suit to stand, watching as the ramp lowers and the medical team files aboard, their intense focus riveted on the incubators. Everything seems to check out; it doesn't take them long to start wheeling the units out of here on hand trucks.

  One of the medics glances back at me, her expression visible behind the clear face shield of her protective suit. She looks concerned. "Sergeant Bishop?"

  I frown at her. Why is she talking to me? Then I look around. I'm the last one on board. The marines are gone, and so are the incubation units.

  I must have lost track of time, not to mention my surroundings.

  "Yeah." I take a step toward her, and she gestures for me to follow her out of the plane.

  "This way. I assume you've been through decon procedures before?"

  "I want to talk to my family."

  "All in due time, Sergeant. Decon first. Then you'll meet with the Captain. He'll get you in touch with your family."

  The UW is always a stickler when it comes to procedure. I should have expected as much. So I go through the motions on autopilot. Do what the medic tells me to do. Walk through here. Stand there. Don't touch anything. Don't move while the scanner is in operation. Don't take off my helmet.

  "Stay here." She leaves quickly. Two armed marines pivot to block the exit.

  I'm standing in a shower-sized cubicle partitioned off from the flight deck. No freight elevator ride down to the medical bay. Not until I check out. These guards have been tasked with making sure I don't leave. I give them a nod. They don't respond, their face shields automatically darkened by the sun.

  Not sure what to think. Scratch that. Worst case scenario: my helmet was compromised when I crash-landed. I've been infected ever since.

  I'll never see my family again. I'll never go home.

  My gloved hands are tight fists when the medic returns with Captain Mutegi. The guards turn to allow them entry and then stand facing each other, rifles at rest.

  "Bishop." Mutegi nods to me as he removes his cap. He always wears it, even if he has to set it on top of his environmental helmet. Behind the face shield, it's clear he hasn't slept for a couple days. The worry lines in his dark skin are more pronounced than ever.

  "Captain." I glance at the medic. She keeps her eyes on the Slate in her hand, fingers swiping spastically across the glowing screen. "I'd like to call my family. Let them know I'm all right. That I'll be home soon."

  Mutegi stares at me. "I'm sorry. That won't be possible, Sergeant."

  I clench my jaw and wait for him to explain.

  He turns to the medic, and she shows him her screen. He scowls at it. "You're sure."

  "Yes, Captain." She's pensive. "I ran it three times."

  That sounds unnecessary. These decon scanners are so fine-tuned, they'll detect a case of the flu three days before you start showing any symptoms.

  Mutegi dismisses the medic, and she salutes crisply before leaving. She glances at me with an apologetic look. I focus on the captain.

  "So now what, sir?"

  He folds his arms—easier to accomplish in a hazard suit like his. No armor. "Bishop, I'll give it to you straight."

  "Wouldn't expect anything else."

  A hint of a smile glints in his eyes, then dims. "Your family was released from custody yesterday, as soon as my superiors decided you were killed in action along with your entire team." He pauses to let that sink in.

  "They...think I'm dead?"

  "Your family was told that you died a hero. And because of that, they have been welcomed back into Eurasian society. With honors. They will live a very comfortable life, James. I have it on good authority that Chancellor Hawthorne herself has taken an interest in your children."

  Now I'm staring. "But this happened before…" I tap my fractured helmet. "Before I lost my team."

  "Yes." He stands up straighter. "I assume you've already figured out—"

  "I'm not an idiot." I catch myself. "Sir."

  He takes no offense. I'm a dead man, after all.

  "Have you noticed any changes in yourself? Anything out of the ordinary?"

  Besides talking to a ghost that looks like my wife? Hearing the voice of my daughter? "No, nothing at all." I reach for my helmet clamps. "Okay if I take this thing off?"

  "Of course." He takes a step back instinctively, as if what I've got might be catching.

  I release each of the clamps and remove the helmet. Inhale the salty sea air. My gloved fingers trace the cracks in the polymer. I don't feel fury or overwhelming anguish now that my greatest fear has been realized. Instead I'm strangely numb all over, my insides hollow and cold.

  James Bishop has left the building.

  Mutegi clears his throat. No idea how long I've been standing here staring at my helmet.

  "Orders, Captain?" I don't know what else to say.

  He nods grimly. "You'll be transferred to the Integrity for observation. The medical team over there wants to...study you. For any signs of genetic abnormalities." It's clear he finds the subject distasteful.

  As do I, being the subject.

  "No one will ever forget what you did here." He clasps my shoulder. "Mission accomplished, Sergeant. You did it. You saved the world."

  What about my world: Emma, Mara, Emmanuel? They'll be all right. Better than. Seeing how I died a war hero, my family will join one of the upper Eurasian castes—with Hawthorne herself looking out for them. I couldn't ask for a better way to leave them in my absence.

  Only I'm not absent. I'm right here, alive and breathing.

  "There's one thing I don't understand."

  Mutegi nods. He's no idiot, either. He lowers his voice, "Why you were officially declared KIA." He holds my gaze. "Makes me wonder if we're all living on borrowed time, James."

  "Because of what we know."

  He squeezes my shoulder. "I'd be surprised if any of us make it back inside the Domes."

  Leaving me to chew on that, he steps away and salutes. I give a return salute my best effort, considering the armored suit I'm in. One silver lining: I won't have to wear it much longer. I'll be trading it for a glass cage. A locked observation room with a complete array of electrodes. Won't that be nice.

  "Escort Sergeant Bishop to the Zodiac," Mutegi tells the guards. "He won't be joining us on our voyage to Eurasia."

  He looks back at me one last time, like he wants to say something but can't, due to his rank. So he dips his head and leaves, his long strides thumping across the deck.

  "Give me a hand here," I tell the guards, gesturing at my suit. Not something I can remove on my own. They glance at each other, unsure whether they're allowed inside my little infected space. "C'mon, I obviously don't need this thing anymore. Right? The damage is already done."

  I give them a sheepish grin, and they shrug at each other. Why not humor the dead man? They each take a heavy slee
ve and pull, prying me out of the bulky thing.

  "Thanks. I've got it from here." I sit on the floor and set about freeing my legs. Underneath, all I've got on is a sweat-stained bodysuit. Enough to protect most of me from the sun outside. "I'll need gloves and shoes. Something to protect my head and face."

  Their face shields are clear now that they're inside the decon room. They glance at each other again, almost like they're telepathic. But no, they're just wet behind the ears. They've never had to deal with a mutant-in-the-making before.

  My throat catches as I remember Granger's fear at the prospect of changing into something inhuman, followed by his amped-up, devil-may-care attitude. I miss that guy.

  "We can get you something like this," one of the guards offers, gesturing at his protective suit. The lite version of mine.

  "That'll work." I give him a nod of approval.

  While he scurries off, the other guard resumes his post at the doorway. I remain seated on the floor with my knees pulled up to my chest.

  The thing about your worst fear being realized? Once you push down the grief, squeezing it into some dark corner of your mind where it will resurface later on when you least expect it, and after you wade through the numbness toward the light of acceptance at the end of that dark tunnel, you find you're completely invulnerable.

  Nothing can hurt you now. Not their lies to your family or their lab tests. Not even the prospect of turning into something superhuman and superweird. In a way, you're not even you anymore. Your former self really is dead.

  So why do anything they want you to?

  The guard returns with my new suit, creased from where it's been sitting on a shelf in storage. I pull it on and zip it up, lace up the boots, tug on the gloves, adjust the hood and face shield so I have the widest field of vision possible.

  Then I follow the lead guard toward the rigid inflatable boat while the rear guard follows me step by step. Both of them have their rifles at rest. Standard procedure, of course. They don't expect the hero Sergeant James Bishop to give them any trouble.

  And I don't. Not until we're on the water halfway between the Argonaus and the Integrity. That's when I make my move.

  I pretend to choke, giving the universal sign for an O2 malfunction. The guard who isn't steering the Zodiac doesn't think twice before rushing over to assist me. He doesn't wonder why I'd be having an O2 malfunction when my suit isn't outfitted with a breather. Nobody has to worry about me breathing contaminated air anymore. But he's young, and he acts on instinct a few seconds too soon, before he can think it through.

  I hit him in the solar plexus with my elbow, doubling him over while I pivot on one heel. Then I throw him over my shoulder and into the water. He's far behind our wake by the time the other guard turns away from the helm to find me holding his partner's rifle.

  "Dive in," I tell him, assuming he'll take me up on the offer. Beats getting shot.

  But he's still got one hand on the wheel, so he gives it a savage spin, sending the Zodiac veering sharply off-course. I topple backward, nearly falling overboard myself.

  "Drop it, Sergeant!" the guard shouts, powering down the boat. We're rocking in the water now with more than a few hundred meters between us and the nearest ship. "Do it now!" He takes a step toward me, his rifle aimed at my head.

  I toss his partner's weapon across the boat and raise my hands. "Now what? You plan on shooting me, marine?"

  The dark face shield hides his confusion. He tightens his grip on the rifle. Probably never trained for a situation like this. He knows how to hold his gun and how to fire it, most likely. But at a fellow marine? He's not so sure about that.

  "Don't give me a reason to, sir!" He struggles to keep his footing as the boat throws him off balance. There's plenty of chop on the water.

  I take my chances and hurl myself at him. What have I got to lose? I'm already a dead man. And I don't plan on being anybody's lab rat.

  The rifle goes off with short bursts into the air as I tackle him against the helm. We wrestle for his weapon, and another burst rips across the Zodiac. Unfortunately, my escorts failed to activate the boat's bulletproof armor, having no idea they were carrying a soon-to-be dangerous fugitive. The rounds tear open the heavy-duty rubber, and air whistles outward from the deflating air chamber. The good news: plenty of other chambers remain intact, so we won't sink.

  I won't sink. This marine won't be joining me.

  He howls as I heave him into the water. Then I start up the outboard motor, and it growls to life. Hands on the wheel, I change course. Sergeant Bishop won't be transferring to the Integrity, and he's not welcome aboard the Argonaus. So there's only one place for him to go.

  Back to shore.

  Full throttle, with the wind whipping against my protective suit, it's tough to hear the radio. But Captain Mutegi's voice is clear enough.

  He keeps it short: "Godspeed, James."

  I nod, hoping he makes it home, that our exalted superiors allow him back inside the Domes. I've got a strong feeling I'll never see him again, either way. But he'll complete his mission. He'll get those incubators and their precious cargo to Eurasia. Because of our efforts, the civilized world will continue beyond the Terminal Age generation. Mara and Emmanuel won't be among the Ten Domes' youngest citizens anymore.

  Ten minutes later, I approach the coastline. Those overturned ships are no more, reduced to rubble. The beach where they sat is littered with charred debris and countless craters from the recent shelling, courtesy of the Argonaus. If any of Cain's people survived, they won't be here.

  I cut the throttle and coast the Zodiac onto shore. Once it's wedged in the wet sand, I jump out and trudge inland with no clear destination in sight. A glance over my shoulder tells me the Integrity has yet to send a retrieval crew after their lab rat—or deserter. Whichever shoe fits. The crashing waves are already sliding the Zodiac out of position. They're welcome to it.

  The heat inside this suit is unbearable without environmental controls. I crack open the face shield to let in some air. The sooner I can change into the locals' attire, the better. But that will require finding said locals.

  I'm walking through a disaster zone here. No signs of life.

  Until I stumble across tire tracks through the soot and sand. If I had to guess, they belonged to that armored Hummer Margo was driving. Maybe she's still here, somewhere nearby—on the other side of those windswept dunes in the distance.

  "Hello?" I call out as my boots maintain a steady rhythm through the wreckage.

  "James, you came back."

  The sight of my wife brings me to a halt.

  "You again." I look away, unable to bear seeing her like this. A ghost in daylight.

  More like an angel, barefoot in her white gown, with her dark hair loose around her shoulders. Smiling at me like only Emma does.

  I keep my head down and walk past her.

  "They won't let you return home." She doesn't sound surprised.

  Of course not. From the moment I first heard her voice, I was already infected. I should have known at that point I'd never see my family again. Maybe I just couldn't allow myself to accept it.

  "Looks like this is my home now." I keep moving.

  "Where are you going?"

  "No idea."

  She glides along beside me. "You're a man on a mission."

  "Not anymore." I'm adrift, lost at sea. Without purpose.

  But survival is a purpose. As is avoiding the poking and prodding I was bound to receive aboard the Integrity. Exchanging a glass cage for this post-apocalyptic wasteland. Way to go, Sarge.

  "You have friends here," she says. "They will be glad to see you."

  "We can all suffer together." I stop and face her. "Where is everybody? Margo—"

  "She was here. After you left, Milton found her. They are now escorting the sole survivors from Cain's enclave to the Homeplace."

  I frown at that. "Why not Eden? That place has everything they need."

  "Unfort
unately, after Willard's death, Perch rallied the Eden Guard against Luther's people, driving them away. Eden is sealed off once again. Those men will live out their days underground."

  "So Luther and his bunch are headed back to the Homeplace as well."

  She nods.

  "Alright." I pick up the pace. "Guess I am too."

  "You will never make it, James. You have no water, no weapon."

  And the Wastes are crawling with meat-eaters. So much for feeling invincible. I really haven't thought this through.

  "What do you suggest? Another tornado ride?"

  She shakes her head. "That suit you're wearing is not durable enough. It will not protect you from the whirling sand." She smiles. "We will contact Milton."

  I pat my suit. "No radio, either." I glance back toward the coast, but I can't spot the Zodiac.

  "No need." She smiles. "He's already on his way."

  Less than a minute later, a sonic boom reverberates in the distance, and Milton the flying man soars into view. He pulls up short in mid-air, hovering maybe a hundred meters above the ground.

  "You're back?" he calls down, surprised. "Something wrong? Are the babies okay?"

  "They're fine, shipping out for Eurasia today," I shout up at him, but I'm not sure he can hear me. The face shield muffles my voice. I pop it open and hold it like a visor. "I'm...infected."

  He glides to the ground, his boots sending up puffs of dust on impact. His gloved hands are clenched into fists as he shakes his head. "I'm so sorry, man. Your family—"

  "They'll be fine." I glance at spirit-Emma. "She said everybody's headed back to your cave. Everyone who survived…" I trail off.

  Milton looks at the spirit. Pretty sure he doesn't see my wife. For him, she appears as someone from his own past.

  "That includes you, Sergeant," he says.

  "Call me James. Deserters have no rank."

  Milton steps toward me and rests a hand on my shoulder. "You afraid of heights, James?"

  Like always, I refuse to admit a hint of weakness. The next thing I know, he has one arm around me and the other aimed for the sky. I've got a pretty good hunch where this is headed, so I grab onto him. A split-second later, we're hurtling through the air faster than the speed of sound, and my stomach is lodged in my throat.