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

by Milo James Fowler

  I send the second RPG rocketing past them to detonate deep inside the caves. The explosion throws the daemons attempting to escape to the ground as dust and rocks fly upward and outward. I load the last RPG and fire it at the roof of the cave's mouth, crushing any daemons who survived the first blast.

  When the dust eventually clears, carried off by the desert breeze, there is no movement. The caves have been destroyed, along with everything inside. The daemons who've made our lives hell for so long...are no more.

  Someone slow-claps on the ground below me: the Jackson-spirit.

  "Bravo!" he calls out.

  He grins as I descend, my boots touching down with twin puffs of dust. Even if I had another RPG in my launcher, it would be useless against him.

  "I should be able to retire early, what with you doing my work for me. Only ten of you left?" He snickers.

  "Your monsters are extinct." I jerk my head toward the demolition above.

  "You don't think I can make more?"

  The Julia-spirit lands beside me with no evidence that her feet have touched the earth. "You promised not to interfere," she chides him.

  He shrugs his bulky shoulders, garbed in the same jumpsuit he wore down in the bunker. "I don't have to. Just wait and see. Once the food starts running out, and the oxygen—"

  "That won't affect them," Julia counters.

  "Not talking about them." He nods at me. "They're golden. Blessed, you might say. But anybody who's been breathing filtered air up to now? As soon as their lungs try to squeeze out what little O2 is left…" He shakes his head. "It won't be pretty."

  With no plants or trees anywhere in sight, I've often wondered how we've managed to keep on breathing. I hoped the Preserve—with its acres of untouched wilderness and forests—was still up north, shielded by some kind of force field. Wishful thinking, that it wasn't annihilated on D-Day like the rest of the continent.

  "Are you saying…?" Not sure how to phrase it.

  "Part of the gift she gave you," Jackson explains derisively, arms folded. "You breathe whatever this air has to offer, immune to any ugly side effects."

  "I see." I really don't.

  I still have no idea how I can fly or move at superspeed. I accept it because it happens on a regular basis, but I don't understand it. Guess the same goes for breathing now.

  "Thanks," I offer lamely.

  Julia smiles.

  "So you're saying if the guys in Eden try breathing the air on the surface, or if the UW people send another team onto shore, and they aren't wearing any sort of breathing apparatus… They'll turn into daemons?"

  If so, our actions here—the lives we lost—were for nothing. We'll never see the end of those creatures.

  "Not to worry. They wouldn't be foolish enough to risk becoming infected, Milton. They have safeguards in place." She pauses, shifting her somber gaze to the mountain. "Return to your people now. They need you." She pats me on the arm. It never ceases to amaze me that I can feel her touch. "We've kept you long enough."

  The spirits fade away like evaporating mist. Julia with adoration in her eyes. Jackson with disgust, shaking his head at me like he thinks I'm a sack of crap. Maybe I was, back in the bunker as his hangman. But that's not who I am anymore.

  I haven't been that guy for a while.

  Taking off in a super-powered sprint, I reach the other side of the mountain in time to find Luther, Samson, and the others starting to dig fresh graves beyond the base of the cliff. The Homeplace graveyard, where we buried everyone we lost six months ago—after Cain and his warriors attacked. When Bishop joined us, he left markers for the members of his team, even though their remains were taken by those UW hoverplanes that carried the unborn babies away to Eurasia.

  Now we have five more bodies to add.

  "It's over." Luther's voice is quiet as I approach his side. His goggles are focused on the ground as he digs.

  The only sounds are shovels cutting and scraping through hard, dry earth as the members of our dwindling tribe follow his example.

  "Yeah. They're…" I glance up at the ruined cave entrance. "They're done." I reach for his shovel. "Here, let me. You've got words to prepare."

  He always speaks over our dead, reciting the holy scriptures he memorized a long time ago. They seem to have a comforting effect on those left behind. Not sure if I believe the words, or the Creator that Luther believes in, but I understand their purpose.

  "We can't lose any more," he whispers, trembling, reluctant to hand over the shovel. "We've already lost too much... I can't bear it. How can He expect us to go on like this?"

  I assume he's referring to the Creator again.

  "I've got this." I take hold of the shovel and gently pull it from his grasp. The others around us keep their eyes and their thoughts to themselves. "Take a break," I tell him quietly. "Pray or something. We need you to be you."

  He stares back at me for a moment. Then he nods to himself. "Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil..." he murmurs as he shuffles away.

  I keep an eye on him intermittently as I dig. It's unsettling to see our fearless leader out of sorts. I guess he is human, after all. He walks aimlessly for a while, arms crossed, head bowed. Eventually he settles into a rhythm, pacing back and forth thirty meters away.

  "He blames himself," Samson states the obvious.

  "He shouldn't," I reply.

  "Tough not to," Bishop says, "when you're the one in charge."

  Guess he would know.

  Once the graves are dug, we gather around the bodies. We lower them into their final resting places one at a time and cover them first in loose dirt, then gravel and larger rocks atop the mounds. Not like we have to worry about animals or daemons digging them up anymore, but it's tradition. In the same way that Bishop left markers for each of his team members, we stack rocks in piles, one for each person we lost when that heat-seeking missile struck the Homeplace.

  Luther returns as soon as we finish. He's standing taller, his voice quiet but controlled as he recites what he calls Salm 23. At the end of it, he says, "Amen," and we all repeat that word. More tradition, I guess. Then he invites us to say a few words about the ones we've lost.

  My focus wanders as the others take turns sharing fond memories. I can't help remembering the bodies I left in my bunker. That was their final resting place, and they deserved so much better. Maybe I should go back and leave rock piles outside the blast door to memorialize each one.

  "Milton?" Luther says.

  Everybody's staring at me. I guess it's my turn.

  "They were good people." I clear my throat, not sure what I'm supposed to say. Nothing sounds right. "They'll be missed." I remember what the Julia-spirit said. "They lived and died for a purpose: so we could have a future. So let's do them proud."

  "Amen," Samson rumbles, and the others nod, echoing the sentiment.

  I was planning to fly back to Victoria at this point, but Luther convinces me to drive one of the jeeps instead. With only seven of us, we're leaving behind plenty of vehicles the daemons will no longer need; but we choose the best of the bunch, loading them up with all the weapons and ammo we can carry. By the time we're ready to roll out, our mobile stockpile is almost equal to what we had inside the Homeplace. Hopefully we'll be able to recoup our losses where hydro, rations, and supplies are concerned as well. The city ruins where we're headed will be as good a place as any to start scavenging.

  After an hour or so of driving through the Wastes, we're there. Victoria steps out of the concrete sublevel of a blown-out building and greets us with a baby in each arm. Her grim demeanor suggests she already knows about our losses.

  "Ten of us now," she says to me.

  I nod and take Florence from her, already more confident in my baby-handling skills after Bishop's tutorial. The little one fusses at first but then settles down as I hold her close. Security—that's what we'll need in Homeplace 2.0, wherever we decide that's going to be.

 
What will life be like now that the daemons are gone? Without the constant threat of those flesh-eating freaks appearing on the horizon? Can we allow ourselves to relax, or will new dangers present themselves? Not sure what they'd look like, other than fellow survivors we've yet to meet. Crazy cannibals, maybe.

  Bishop and Samson agree that this sublevel is a suitable place to set up camp. Perched atop a hill at the edge of the ruins, it has one entry point, plenty of cover from the sun, and provides a panoramic view of the surrounding area. We park the jeeps on the cracked street and unload our armory. Bishop organizes everything inside and makes sure we each carry a weapon of choice on our persons at all times, along with extra ammo. Just as a precaution, of course. I choose a Beretta 92 with a 15-round magazine. Because why not?

  Next up: scavenging for food and supplies. We break up into pairs before heading out. My partner is Justus, that old pal from the Shipyard. I hand baby Florence to Taylor, who's staying behind with Victoria and little Boaz.

  "I'll be keeping an eye on you," Victoria whispers into my ear. I assume she means telepathically. "Happy hunting."

  I hesitate just a second before kissing her cheek and patting her son's head. "See you soon."

  Searching the ruins takes me back to those early months I spent alone after All-Clear, talking to mountain ranges, charred skeletons, and the occasional ill-conceived pet rock. Scared out of my mind that I was going to lose it—until I did. Worst experience of my life. Being possessed by an evil spirit at the same time was just the proverbial rancid icing on an otherwise inedible cake.

  Justus doesn't say much as we head out on the hunt, and neither do I. After all we've been through lately, we need some time to process it internally. Samson and Shechara head west; Luther and Bishop go north; so that leaves the southern part of town for us to pick through. Each pair takes a jeep.

  The good news: it doesn't look like anybody's been through this city since All-Clear. The bad news: there's not much to find.

  "What Sector would this have been?" I gesture at our charred, dilapidated surroundings as we step out of the vehicle and start walking.

  "Twenty-five, maybe. Or Twenty-six." Justus pauses mid-step. "So that makes it either a labor sector or manufacturing center."

  The two usually went hand-in-hand. Factories needed their labor force, and those workers needed to be housed nearby.

  "So, if we're lucky, we might find a few dozen washing machines in storage." He forces a laugh, but it dies in his throat.

  Survivor's guilt: What right do we have to joke around when so many of us are gone forever?

  "Laborers needed to eat, same as everybody else." I survey our surroundings. We're not going to find anything above-ground here. The skeletal remains and crumbling brick don't hold any secrets; their barren, ash-covered interiors are clear to see. "Give me a second." That's all it takes to make a complete circuit of the area in a blur of speed and return to his side. "Found something."

  "Alright then." He gestures for me to lead the way. "I reckon you could sweep the entire city all by yourself in just a few minutes."

  Over a hundred square kilometers, give or take? Maybe an hour.

  "Two sets of eyes are better than one."

  He grunts noncommittally.

  But he curses with appreciation and slaps me on the back when we reach the dusty storeroom underneath what might have been a business center, back in the day.

  "Not bad, Milton! What do you think? Emergency shelter? Non-sanctioned bunker or some such?" He peers into the darkness. There's enough exterior light to make the shelves of hydro, protein, and vitamineral packs visible, along with cans of fuel and other supplies. "Was it locked?"

  I nod. "Didn't take much to jiggle it loose."

  So far, there's been no evidence of anyone living here since All-Clear, not even daemons.

  "Well then." He claps his gloved hands together. "Let's load up the jeep!"

  When all three scavenging parties return to Homeplace 2.0, none of us are empty-handed. After one day's hunt, we have enough to keep us fed and watered for a month, maybe two. With only eight adults and two babies, we don't need as much as we used to in order to survive. But Luther wants us to go back out for the next few weeks, until we've cleared every cache to be found. He'd like our stockpile of foodstuffs and supplies to rival our weapons.

  The days that follow blur into each other like my surroundings when I'm running or flying. And I do a lot of both, scoping out the lifeless ruins as well as the desert terrain surrounding them. Hurtling through the air, covering kilometer after kilometer, I scan the entire area. On the coast, the Shipyard lies in ruin, and a single UW vessel sits out at sea, seemingly anchored there. I keep my distance and don't hover in one location for too long. If the Integrity sent that heat-seeking missile to destroy the Homeplace, I don't want to give them another target.

  As days turn into weeks, we manage to accumulate enough necessities to survive the next six months, as long as we stick to Bishop's rationing plan. Outside of Homeplace 2.0, there isn't anything left in these ruins to eat or drink; so our scavenging days are through for now.

  Hard to believe, but there's not a single government-issued bunker in this sector. Guess the esteemed United World Governors didn't think anybody living here was worth saving.

  A month or so after our arrival, we celebrate the union of Samson and Shechara.

  I never saw it coming, but their odd-couple romance is enough to cheer everybody up. "Turning our mourning into dancing," as Luther says. We light up the new Homeplace with a dozen glowsticks that make the big concrete box we're living in seem alive with otherworldly energy. Luther leads the proceedings, facing the happy couple while the rest of us sit on crates covered with blankets. I try to imagine everybody in suits and fancy dresses, with incandescent bulbs glowing and live stringed music playing, flower petals strewn across a polished wood floor. Never considered myself a romantic, but weddings will do that to you.

  Instead, we're all in our grubby desert nomad attire, smelling the furthest thing imaginable from fresh, and after the vows and the kiss—Shechara on tip-toes and Samson hunched over like a gentle giant—we get to eat and drink the same ration-packs we've been eating and drinking every day since All-Clear. But since it's a wedding, Bishop says we can indulge in double-rations. And, wonder of wonders, he managed to get his hands on a couple bottles of champagne and keep them hidden until this moment.

  "To the bride and groom!" he toasts, taking a swig from the bottle and handing it to the next person in line, which happens to be me.

  Samson and Shechara beam and take turns drinking from their bottle. They even get Luther to take a sip. The rest of us pass ours around and congratulate the newlyweds. It doesn't take much to become mildly intoxicated. After drinking only hydropacks since All-Clear, our alcohol tolerances may have atrophied a bit.

  We hum some faintly recognizable tune—can't remember the name of it or the lyrics—while Samson and Shechara slow-dance with their eyes closed. Cheek-to-cheek, her standing on top of his metal feet. Every clank and clunk of his mechanical parts echo in the enclosed space, providing the rhythm to our well-intentioned attempt at acapella background music.

  Maybe it's the champagne and the beauty of the wedding. Or it might be because Victoria and I spend the night on the same blanket, spooning with our arms entwined. It could also be that for the first time in a very long time, I feel safe here. Regardless, it's the best night's sleep I've had in more years than I can count.

  Months pass the way they do, one rolling into the next. We expand our scavenging runs to nearby city ruins, once I've scouted ahead to be sure there's anything worth taking. In the process, while adding to our growing stockpile of food, water, fuel, and supplies, we come across a solar-powered shortwave radio.

  Luther sees it as a sign from the Creator: it's time to contact the United World and notify them that the daemon threat has been neutralized. The former North American Sectors are now safe for visitors. It's clea
r he wants to establish diplomatic relations with them so that, someday, all the children will be allowed to return and meet their parents. The problem is, the Integrity is the only UW ship currently patrolling our shores, and Bishop doesn't want them knowing he's still alive.

  "I'm a deserter," he explains. "And that's bad enough, a court-martial offense. But they'll also want to run all kinds of tests on me, now that I'm infected. I'll be a human lab experiment."

  "If they're the ones who fired that missile at the Homeplace, do we really want them knowing where we are now?" Samson adds.

  "But if it brings you one step closer to seeing your family again," Luther says to Bishop, "isn't it worth the risk? We won't mention you at all. We'll simply tell them the hostiles who downed their helicopter a year ago are no longer a threat. And that we welcome the possibility of speaking with a UW representative in person at some point."

  "To what end?" Shechara steps forward. "We saw what their hoverplanes did to Cain's warriors. Why contact people with such disregard for human life?"

  Samson nods. "It's in our best interest to keep them off our land. Let them think the daemons are lying in wait with rocket-launchers at the ready."

  Luther keeps his focus on Bishop, seeming to realize the newlyweds aren't going to change their minds. "We could find out what happened to Captain Mutegi, whether the Argonaus will be returning to our coast. You said you trusted him."

  Bishop gives a reluctant nod. "He'd be the only one."

  After having his superiors decide he was killed in action long before it was clear he'd become infected and ineligible to return to Eurasia, it makes sense he'd be leery of trusting any of them.

  "So we find out how to reach Mutegi," Luther continues earnestly. "Perhaps he could sneak us aboard his vessel, disguising us as members of his crew—"

  Samson curses under his breath. All eyes turn on him.

  "You can't be serious," he rumbles. "There are only ten of us left. And two are toddlers." He sweeps a metal hand toward our diminutive group. "You'll put their lives in danger by contacting the very people responsible for blasting the Homeplace."