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

by Milo James Fowler

  Originally, the daemons were human beings. Military personnel, ordered to assist us with our re-entry into the world, helping us rebuild lives for ourselves on this wasted continent after we left the bunkers. Their superiors had no idea the spirits of the earth would have other plans for them.

  "If only there were more of us." I shake my head at the map. We cannot afford to lose anyone else. Not that we ever could. "The mothers with children will remain here." I look both men in the eye in turn. "Leave two sentries to guard the front and rear cave entrances. Everyone else—arm them, divide them into teams. We'll move out at dusk."

  Bishop nods, almost saluting as he exits the alcove. He's one of us now, and he's taken to his role naturally, putting his military training to use. Our people seem to like him, and they don't mind when he orders them around. Because he does it with respect for their abilities. He's learned each of their names, and he knows what each of them can do. He seemed lost when Milton brought him back to us, once it became clear the UW wouldn't allow him to return home. But he's found his new purpose.

  He has hope, as I do, that we will see our children again. It may not be tomorrow or even ten years from now, but it will happen. The Creator has not seen us through all of the trials we've endured only to leave us without a future. I have faith He will continue to guide us and protect us, and that somehow, we will break into that city of glass across the sea. Or at the very least, make this quarantined continent a place worth visiting, should our children ever desire to do so.

  Samson lingers at the earthen doorway to the passage beyond, the alcove's glow barely revealing his features. "It's a good plan," he offers.

  I nod. It's the best we have. "I can't lose anyone else…" I trail off.

  He takes a step toward the large rock I use as a desk and rumbles quietly, "You didn't lose her. She left us."

  "I should have been there for her—or stopped her." I can't bring myself to say her name. I'm afraid the sound of it will bring tears to my eyes.

  "She's got some stuff to work out. Needs space. She'll come back when she's ready, I'm sure of it."

  I shake my head, not sure at all. "She's given herself over to vengeance. She's lost herself in it."

  "That guy had it coming."

  Willard deserved to die. No question. "But she didn't have to be his executioner. She could have left him in the hands of the Creator, who rewards both the just and the unjust, according to their works."

  Samson gives me a sympathetic smile. "If only the whole world shared your beliefs. Maybe D-Day never would've happened."

  "We can't change the past. What's done is done. But we can avoid making the same mistakes going forward." My gaze returns to the map. "I hope this is the right move."

  "Exterminating the daemons? Yeah, I'd say so. One step closer to a livable future, at any rate." He pauses, trying to remember something. "We've gotta clear the Promised Land of those Canaanites before we can live in it. Something like that, right?"

  Back in the bunker, I would read aloud from the Holy Scriptures every night. I was never sure whether Samson paid any attention, swinging in his hammock with his eyes closed.

  "Except our Canaanites are cannibal freaks," he mutters.

  I join him at the doorway and clap a hand on his shoulder. "Let's get to work, brother."

  In the great cavern, Milton and Sergeant Bishop have everyone assembled, seated and attentive. There are thirty of us left. We lost people when Cain's warriors attacked, and when we marched on Eden. We lost more when Perch led the Edenites against us, after the UW flew off with our unborn children in the bellies of their planes. But our numbers increased when Cain's wives, children, and the elderly members of the Shipyard joined our ranks. United now, we gather to prepare for our ground assault against the daemons.

  Milton will fly ahead, conducting an aerial search to locate daemon positions while trying not to get himself shot down in the process. Margo will remain in contact with him telepathically and relay his recon back to us as we move out. Victoria will stay here in the Homeplace, but she will use her gift to scan the terrain on all sides of us for daemons, notifying Margo of any movement. Shechara will join Samson and myself as we take point. Bishop, Margo, and Justus will flank right while another team of three—Ethan, Connor, and Deven—flank left. We'll be in constant radio contact every step of the way as we press westward and set up camp at the first lookout, ten kilometers out.

  Bishop explains the tactics and strategy, fielding questions, answering people by name. He was born for this.

  Samson nudges me with his mechatronic elbow. "Glad he's on our side."

  As am I.

  Taylor, one of the sentries, slips inside to notify me that dusk has fallen. I gesture to Bishop, and he wraps up the meeting. The nine of us heading out collect our weapons and make the slow descent from the cave entrance to the foothills below. We don't speak to one another, using hand gestures and nods instead.

  Except for Margo. Once Milton launches into the darkening skies, she faces me.

  I will keep Sergeant Bishop informed of any sightings made by Milton or Victoria. He will radio you should the need arise, she projects her thoughts into my mind.

  Nodding to her, I beckon to Samson and Shechara, and the three of us take the lead, leaving the foothills and striking out across the desert. If all goes according to plan, we won't be walking on the way home. The daemons' solar jeeps will be ours.

  We maintain a brisk pace for ten klicks. Then after trudging uphill for half an hour, we reach the first vantage point marked on the map. All nine of us meet at the hilltop and set up camp for the night behind the boulders: four on watch, one at each compass point. We'll rotate in two-hour shifts. Margo, Justus, Samson, and I take first watch. The others lay out their bedrolls and try to get comfortable.

  I raise an eyebrow at Margo as I rest my rifle on a level sheet of rock. She shakes her head. Not daemon sightings yet.

  They tend to be less mobile at the end of the day, although they have been known to attack after dark. It's fine by me if we don't engage them until first light. Milton will lure them our way, and we will neutralize them. Once the next team from the Homeplace arrives to take our place here, we'll split up, advance, and take the next three positions. Milton will again lure them into the kill zone, and we'll keep forging westward, repeating the strategy until we've cleared a path to the coast. By then, we should have enough of their jeeps and weapons to split our forces and sweep both north and south as well. Should the Creator bless our efforts, we will then move inland, past the Homeplace toward Eden, scouring the wastelands for any lingering daemons.

  This is an enormous continent, but thankfully the only Sectors with bunkers prepared for D-Day were located here in the southwest. So it was only here that the UW sent their search and rescue teams. We don't need to worry about daemons roaming across all of North America.

  Why the southwest? Why not build bunkers from coast to coast? Originally, that had been the plan, but by the time the patriots unleashed their bioweapons, only the bunkers in the southwestern Sectors had been completed and were ready for our internment. The government had to act fast, abandoning all else in favor of what was expedient. If the situation hadn't come to a head so soon, there may have been millions of survivors at All-Clear.

  And more daemons than we could ever hope to deal with.

  As the situation stands, we estimate there to be at least a hundred daemons in tribes scattered across the desert wastes. Sergeant Bishop says the original number would have been under a thousand. Deducting the number of daemons we've neutralized since we left the bunkers—along with those that died in the tunnel outside Eden when Willard sent a collared horde after Samson, Shechara, and myself—and those that were incinerated by the UW hoverplanes—we're left with a hundred, give or take.

  From what we've seen, they never roam in groups of more than twelve, four to a jeep. But we have seen plenty of single jeeps out and about, hunting for their next meal…

&n
bsp; My head jerks upward. Now is not the time to be nodding off. I blink and inhale the cool night air, doing my best to stay in the moment. I peer east through the rifle scope and trace the terrain we crossed on foot. No daemons are following our tracks. I glance over at Justus who's keeping a steely eye on our southern flank. Easily the oldest among the Shipyard survivors—or any of us, for that matter—he took it in stride when we told him what happened to Cain and his warriors.

  "Guess that means I'm one of you now," he said. "What you've wanted for a while, isn't it? Joining forces." He winked, the skin crinkling around his eye like wax paper. "Gaia's chosen people and the infidels."

  Meeting him for the first time, I couldn't help but be reminded of Rip, the oldest member of our Sector 51 brotherhood. Killed by daemons when they attacked our first cave refuge, farther inland.

  When I think back to that series of caves we occupied, survivors from Sectors 50 and 51 finally living together after so long apart, the memory morphs into the Homeplace, as if the older images have been overwritten by the new. I try to remember the twinkle in Rip's eye, and instead I see Justus, whom I've known for only a few weeks. I knew Rip for twenty years.

  Two decades from now, what will my memories be like? Will I even remember this moment? Crouched up here behind this rock, holding this rifle, keeping watch in silence as the stars shine above and the night's chill creeps into my bones. How many of us will still be alive? Will we survive the next few weeks?

  I glance at Samson, facing north. His remark earlier today about the Canaanites gave me pause. The God of Israel commanded his chosen people to wipe out the native inhabitants of the Promised Land. They were idolaters who sacrificed their own firstborn children, and despite multiple warnings, they would not change their ways. So when judgment eventually came, they were annihilated.

  I have always found that genocide difficult to reconcile with the New Testament scriptures, which are concerned with going out into the world and sharing the Good News that God is love, and He made a way for us to spend eternity with Him: through Jesus Christ paying the price for our sins. What about the Canaanites? Was there no redemption for them?

  Perhaps the lesson is to get right with God before it is too late—before the ax of judgment falls.

  The daemons were men and women, once. Some of them may have shared my beliefs. Not many do in Eurasia these days, according to Sergeant Bishop; but throughout history, there has always been a remnant of true believers. Followers of the Way, the Truth, and the Life.

  What happened to the human souls the daemon bodies once carried? When we exterminate them, will we be freeing them from the torment of their daily lives? Or are they so far gone that they don't remember who they once were and can't comprehend what they've become?

  Without warning, dust blasts upward as Milton lands in our midst, causing those in their bedrolls to cough and curse quietly, turning away from him.

  "Sorry," he whispers, crouching sheepishly and making his way to my side.

  "Anything?" I look up at him.

  He shakes his head. "I'll try again before first light. You'd think all those explosions on the coast would've scared them inland. Figured there would be more than a few nests to spot from the air." He shrugs. "Zilch so far."

  "What about the northwestern ruins?"

  "I'll check them out tomorrow. Didn't want to get too far ahead. You know, in case you needed me or something." He unwraps his head covering, releasing his shaggy hair.

  "Good thinking." I give him half a smile, but it fades when I notice his worried look. "What is it?"

  "Probably nothing." He pauses. "But it's weird, right? How a few daemons have been parking half a klick out and watching the Homeplace? Like they know better than to approach, but they're thinking about it anyway."

  I nod. "That's one of the reasons we're out here."

  "Yeah. What are the other reasons again?"

  "The UW may never permit us to enter their domed city, but that doesn't mean they intend to abandon us here. If we remove the daemon threat, they will be more likely to interact with us. Perhaps even send us food and supplies without fear of having their helicopters shot down."

  "You're a very optimistic person." Milton leans back against a boulder and closes his eyes. "Has anybody ever told you that?"

  "Once or twice." I pat him on the shoulder. "Get some rest. We'll need you in the air again soon."

  "Roger that." He nods, interlocking his fingers across his abdomen. It isn't long before he's snoring quietly.

  I have a difficult time remembering the Milton I first met over a year ago. He was a different person then. The spirits played tug of war with him, two sides attempting to sway him to their cause: saving the human remnant versus destroying it. I prayed for him while he was possessed by an evil spirit, but I had my doubts whether he would emerge from the experience unscathed.

  Yet he did. And he was granted an additional ability by the spirits. Not only is he the fastest man I have ever seen, but he's also able to fly without a jetpack. It's clear to me that the Creator has a purpose for Milton's life, as He does for all of us. But with Milton, safe to say it is something special.

  He went through a period of doubting the spirits, even after they blessed him with flight. He let them know he could figure things out for himself. But lately he seems to be on speaking terms with them again; and they, in turn, have communicated with him.

  They have confirmed what we suspected: that the only daemons who remain alive are located in our corner of the continent. Once we eradicate them, life will change for us. We will not have to hide in our clifftop caves. We can scavenge materials from deserted city ruins and build a life for ourselves. Makeshift villages will lead to towns and future cities—

  One step at a time, one foot in front of the other. We cannot afford to get ahead of ourselves. One of the pitfalls of optimism, I suppose.

  Sergeant Bishop takes over my post at the shift-change, and I take his word for it that two hours have already passed. He's the only one of us who wears a timepiece. We'll trade places two hours from now.

  "All quiet," I tell him as he sets his rifle on the rock and settles in. "Anything from the spirits?"

  "Not yet."

  He's uncomfortable sharing an open line of communication with the spirits of the earth. So far, they haven't told him anything different from what they told Milton. And, so far, Bishop has yet to see a manifestation of the malevolent spirits. Only the benevolent variety has appeared to him, taking the form of his beloved wife. He has not exhibited any other unique abilities, which is probably for the best. His interactions with the spirits unnerve him enough as it is.

  I have often wondered why I was excluded—why the spirits have chosen to communicate with individuals who are less inclined toward any sort of spiritual belief system. But I remind myself that the Creator is the one I worship, not His creation. These spirits of the animal kingdom are powerful, but they are not omnipotent, nor are they omniscient. If anything, they remind me of the capricious gods of ancient Greece: some blessing us while others curse us.

  Many spirits retain fond memories of their interactions with humans prior to D-Day, but others do not. When the blasts and resultant nuclear winter wiped out every living creature on the planet, the spirits with no love for humankind found another reason to hate us. They tried to get Milton to detonate the nuclear reactor in Eden, but they failed. Then they tried to get Cain to destroy the unborn children in Eden's incubators—another failure. What plan are they currently concocting to exterminate the human remnant?

  Once the daemons are gone, they will no longer be a tool for the evil spirits to wield against us. Whether another group of survivors similar to Cain's warriors rises up to fill the void, only time will tell. I pray for peace to fall upon these ravaged wastelands, and I hope those of us gifted by the spirits will unite behind a common purpose. More than mere survival, we need to find a way to flourish.

  I eventually nod off, and when I awake, it fe
els as though no time at all has passed. Instead of Bishop, it's Milton who jostles my shoulder.

  "I'm heading out," he says, wrapping his head covering into place.

  What happened to my second shift? I sit up with a start.

  "Bishop took two watches," he explains. "Said he couldn't sleep anyway. Figured you could use the rest." He slides his goggles down from his forehead over his eyes. "I'm thinking he was right."

  "Thank you," I tell the sergeant in the predawn darkness. "But going forward, I won't tolerate any preferential treatment."

  "You did me a favor," Bishop says, keeping his eyes on the terrain below. "I feel more like myself right now than I have for...too long. If it's all the same, I'd like to hang onto this feeling."

  He's a marine again, a man with a mission. A purpose. "But you need to get your rest as well."

  He nods. "I will. I know my limits."

  Milton takes off into the sky with a burst of dust, waking up anyone who wasn't already greeting the early morning of a new day. We break camp but hold position, waiting for Margo to let us know when Milton returns, leading a few daemons our way. I pray that he's able to get their attention while remaining out of range of their guns and rocket-launchers.

  But when Margo approaches me, her brow wrinkled with concern, it's not Milton she's worried about.

  "I've lost Victoria," she says.

  At the same instant, a flash of light illuminates the eastern sky and the ground reverberates from the impact of a massive blast. We all catch our breath and stare, frozen in place.

  Oh God, no...

  "The Homeplace," Shechara says, her mechanical eyes rotating as she zooms in to focus across the distance. Ten kilometers makes no difference to her. "It's been hit."

  Samson stomps forward on his mechatronic legs. "With what?"

  "Missile." Bishop peers through his binoculars.

  "Who…?" I struggle to find words, as if the air has been knocked out of me. "Daemons?"

  "Could be the Integrity," Bishop offers.

  Samson curses under his breath. "The UW strikes again."