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

by Milo James Fowler

  "It's a lot to process."

  I nod. Then I switch to telepathic mode, The good thing is you're not alone. I was right where you are less than twelve hours ago.

  She blinks at me. You accept it? Being a...mind reader?

  "Not sure what else to do about it." I shrug. Then I gesture at Wink and Blink as Erik turns my way. "Can you sync these two up with D1-436?"

  "I can." He nods. "But why should I?"

  The aerocar sets down on the rooftop with a soft bump, and the whine of the electromagnetic coils deepens in pitch as the engines cool off. Our side door drifts open automatically.

  "Because I'm asking you to." I tap the law enforcement insignia on my uniform.

  "About that…" He winces a little, like he can't stand the sight of it all of a sudden. "Better for everybody involved if you get out of that thing."

  "Excuse me?"

  "The locals—particularly the ones I do business with—don't appreciate seeing law enforcers in their neighborhood. And enforcement drones—" He nods toward Wink and Blink. "—will be shot out of the sky." He shrugs by way of apology. "So you can either wait here while I conduct my business or change."

  Stay behind? Not a chance. I unzip my uniform and tug it off while everyone on board finds somewhere else to direct their eyes.

  "Give me your jacket." Standing in my skin-tight bodysuit and boots, I hold out my hand to Erik expectantly.

  He raises an eyebrow at me as he pulls it off and hands it over. "Not bad."

  You better not be talking about my body. I narrow my gaze at him.

  "You'll blend in nicely," he clarifies, nodding as I zip up his jacket. Clearing his throat in an awkward attempt at indifference, he steps out of the aerocar.

  "You two stay put," I tell Wink and Blink. Then I glance at Arienna and the clones in turn. "You three as well."

  They nod—except for the disabled clone. It sits there in a silent stupor.

  I follow Erik out of the vehicle and slap the door as I exit. It drops behind me in slow motion and locks into place as we make our way toward the roof access structure.

  "So, these friends of yours. Not exactly law-abiding citizens, I take it?"

  "What makes you say that?" He casts a devilish grin my way. "They're not terrorists, if it makes you feel any better."

  He holds the creaky door open to the interior stairwell. An outdated gentlemanly gesture. Flickering overhead lights reveal stained steps and graffiti-covered walls. Again, not an environment I've ever experienced in real life, but it might have inspired half the VR games I've played over the years.

  I pause before entering. "How can these citizens allow their dome to fall into such disrepair?"

  "How do you mean?" He frowns at me like I'm speaking a different language.

  I gesture at our surroundings. "It's filthy here."

  "We're at the bottom of the food chain, Enforcer Chen. Dome 9, where I hail from, is only a step or two up from this. The citizens here and in the agricultural domes work hard and don't have time to clean house. What they do is vital to the lives of all Eurasian citizens. But how often do we wonder what happens after we flush the toilet? Or where the water comes from that we expect to see flowing out of the faucet?"

  I nod toward the street below. "What's with the traffic? Where are they all going?"

  "Takes a lot of laborers to keep things running. There are multiple waste management and water reclamation facilities here, and they all have different schedules. We arrived at a shift change." He heads inside, giving the door a final shove to keep it open long enough for me to follow.

  Our boots thump noisily down the stairwell. There's no surveillance equipment inside that I can see. Strange, if this building is full of criminals. I keep my hands in the pockets of Erik's jacket, shoving the hem downward in a futile attempt to cover my backside. My bodysuit doesn't leave much to the imagination, but my lack of a weapon makes me feel even more naked as we continue downward. Five, ten, fifteen flights with no end in sight as we pass one level after another.

  "Let me guess," I mutter, my voice echoing in the confined space. "Ground floor."

  He shakes his head. "Second."

  Forty flights later, he veers into a hallway where the stairwell door is missing from its hinges. It's dim inside and smells musty, like fresh air hasn't visited for a while. Thick, stained carpet masks our footfalls. Doors lining the walls are closed and silent. Either the rooms on the other side are soundproofed, or this floor was abandoned a while ago.

  Offices? I think at him. Or Dome 10's idea of a cube complex?

  Both. He slows as he approaches an unmarked door, frowning at it. There are no numbers or any sort of identification on the others that we've passed, either. Then he shakes his head as if chiding himself and continues onward down the hall. People work and sleep here.

  But they're not in the waste or water business, I clarify.

  He glances over his shoulder at me with half a smile. You catch on fast, Enforcer Chen.

  Why doesn't local law enforcement shut them down?

  He pauses outside another door, squinting at the tarnished brass knob. Because local law enforcement receives a cut of all profits. He nods to himself and takes a step back, straightening his posture as if he's about to have his hologram captured.

  So they're dirty.

  He smirks. Isn't everything around here?

  The door slides open without warning. A blast of white light floods outward for a split-second, along with the sounds of dozens of people talking under a deluge of float-rawk background music threatening to drown them out. Erik squints in the glare and steps inside, flashing one of his most disarming smiles to date. I move to follow him, but the door slides shut again, blocking my path and silencing the noise as if it never existed.

  I refrain from cursing, instead adopting the same posture as Erik's prior to the door opening. There must be some sort of security measure in place, a hidden camera. Someone's watching, and they scan anyone attempting to enter.

  A sudden burst of white light interrupts my train of thought, and I step forward, through the doorway, blinded for a few moments. I assume the door slides shut behind me, but I can't hear anything above the wave of voices and music that hits me head-on. When my eyes adjust, I notice the room seems to go on forever to the left and right, taking up the entire floor. So, none of those other doors we passed led anywhere.

  The space isn't lit very well, and an easily recognizable haze of illegal smoke hangs low like an oppressive fog in a VR mystery. Well-dressed people mill about with drinks in their hands, many of them with a smoking apparatus clamped between their teeth, releasing gusts of multi-colored and multi-flavored smoke with every exhalation. Everyone is absorbed in some type of conversation, a few serious with their heads together, others more flamboyant with violent hand gestures and explosive laughter. There must be close to a hundred citizens in here, clustered on low couches, standing in huddles, drifting with the music, never remaining in one place for too long.

  Unlike me. I've been standing as still as a tree since I stepped inside. Yet no one seems to notice.

  So I enter the organized melee and try to look natural. Like I belong here. Keeping an eye out for Erik—who seems to have been swallowed whole, never to reappear—I navigate the perimeter of the animated, smoke-spewing throngs. In the distance, where the lights are even lower, I spy the glow of multiple screens and dark figures hunched over what appears to be a bank of antique computer consoles. I decide to drift nonchalantly in that direction.

  "Drink?" A tall blonde in a silver cocktail dress steps in front of me. She has an athletic build and carries a platter with a variety of beverages on display—wine, beer, martinis, others I don't recognize. No idea where she came from, but she seems eager to share her bounties. "Smoke? Dust?"

  Dust. Offered like it's just another variety of legal indulgences. How many people in here are high on the stuff? So far, nobody is climbing across the ceiling, so the abilities it produces
must be more subdued. Like telepathy, for instance.

  "I'm looking for someone." I lean toward her and raise my voice over the din. No band in sight, so the music must be recorded, playing through speakers I haven't been able to spot. "We got separated."

  "You're with Erik, right?" She flashes me a gorgeous smile, the kind you might see on a VR model. Come to think of it, haven't I seen her online? "He sent me over. Said he'll just be a minute, that you should unwind a little while you wait." She lowers the platter and thrusts a glass of red wine at me. Her smile doesn't waver, but I get the distinct impression that she's stalling me.

  "I don't drink." I slide past her and keep walking.

  She grips my arm with sharp fingernails that dig through the fabric of Erik's jacket. The platter of drinks remains steady in her other hand.

  "On the house, Enforcer Chen."

  "Where's Erik?" I don't try to pull away. Not interested in making a scene. Also, not sure how many of these dust-addled revelers will rush to her aid if I knock her to the floor.

  "Neck deep in negotiations, at the moment." She doesn't relax her grip.

  So, it's a standoff. "I'm here in an unofficial capacity."

  "Yes, we know. You never would have gotten in the door, otherwise." She gives me a friendly wink. "C'mon, take a load off. Erik will be back before you know it."

  Without my augments, I have no way of knowing if what she's saying is true. But I don't need them, do I? Because I've got this weird mind-reading ability now. And not only can I dig around in her brain, but everybody else here is fair game, as well. So I replay their memories of Erik's arrival and where exactly he went, once he stepped into this murky dive bar.

  What I see doesn't inspire confidence in this waitress's sense of honesty.

  I chop her in the throat and yank my arm free, resuming my course toward the computer bank and the secret room beyond, cloaked in a hologram that reflects the lounge's revelry and modifies it just enough to make it look unique, extending the illusion that the room goes on for another fifty meters. How do I know? Because as soon as Erik stepped inside, two blank-faced bouncers converged on him, each one taking him by the arm and escorting him into the invisible room. As they passed through the holo-cloak, it rippled around them like a disturbed pool of water and then stilled once they disappeared on the other side.

  No one but the friendly waitress—currently doubled over and wheezing with a hand to her windpipe and her tray of drinks miraculously unspilled—saw Erik's gruff welcome take place. Everyone else in attendance apparently had eyes only for each other or their screens.

  And still do. Not one of them races over to ask the waitress what's wrong.

  She curses me in a hoarse rasp, saying somebody named Trezon will tear me apart. Something to avoid.

  I pass the computer consoles and keep my eyes to myself. The people hunched over the old-fashioned keyboards quickly close out whatever's on their screens and mutter expletives aimed in my general direction. Picking up the pace, I head for the holo-cloaked room and walk straight through the mirage.

  No one's waiting on the other side—just a nondescript wall, closing off this end of the room. And in the middle of the wall, less than a meter in front of me, a single steel door with a retinal scanner mounted beside it.

  I consider going back for the waitress. Grabbing her by the arm and dragging her over here to stare into the scanner. But I don't have to. Once again, just by standing in front of a locked door, I get it to open for me. Customary in Dome 1 where proximity detectors open any door that's unlocked. But I'm getting the feeling somebody noticed me, or they were alerted when I passed through the holo-cloak.

  "Enforcer Chen, welcome." The Terminal-Aged man has a deep, oily voice to match his slicked-back hair, and he twirls a chrome baton with one hand. Trezon, I assume. As with the waitress, he looks like someone I've seen in VR. The smooth operator. The gangster with a face covered in spiraling tattoos. They've clearly modeled themselves after characters from the Linkstream, not the other way around. "Erik has told me so much about you..."

  I don't like the sound of that. And I don't like the looks of Erik at the moment. His face is a bloody mess as he lurches forward in the chair he's tied to. The pair of bouncers land meaty hands on his shoulders, shoving him back into place.

  Get out, Sera! he screams into my mind.

  But I can't. Because I've been hit in the middle of my back with a shocker that sends me to the floor in convulsions. Before I black out completely, a familiar face approaches from behind to loom over me.

  "Told you to watch your six," Drasko says.

  18 Daiyna

  5 Years After All-Clear

  So we're truckers now. Driving a stolen big rig with a shipping container full of food, drink, supplies, and more than a few dirt bikes.

  Shechara, Samson, and I take turns at the wheel, driving day and night. Always one of us driving, one riding shotgun, and one sleeping, stretched out in the back of the cab. We keep an eye out for any raiders looking for revenge—or hoping to take back what's theirs. But so far we've been all alone on this dusty stretch of hardpan. No daemons-in-the-making, no cannibals pretending to be post-apocalyptic desert warriors.

  For the first time in a long time, I feel more like myself. Free to be the person I was, way back when. There's plenty of whiskey in my flask; it hasn't been empty for days. I haven't had a reason to refill it. The spirits still show up periodically, and sometimes it's Willard's ugly face that appears, but I don't have to hide from them.

  I've been hiding for too damn long.

  "Think it might be time?" Rehana said last week. I was returning to the tractor-trailer after relieving myself behind a boulder.

  "For you to leave me alone? Definitely."

  "She's a lost cause," Mother Lairen said in disgust. She'd been sulking ever since we left Eden. Guess things hadn't gone down the way she wanted. Knowing the evil spirits as well as I do, I bet she was hoping we'd all end up killing each other.

  "Time to guide Shechara and Samson where they belong," Rehana said. "Where you belong, Daiyna. With Luther and Milton and the others."

  I shook my head, goggles trained on my dust-smothered boots. "I'm not ready for that."

  Seeing Luther again after so many years apart. Not knowing how he'd react. Or how I would.

  "Three and a half years, and she's still not ready." Mother Lairen laughed bitterly.

  "What about them?" Rehana nodded toward the truck with Shechara and Samson inside. "What if I told you they feel the same way? That no matter how much they might want to reunite with your friends, they fear they wouldn't be welcomed back."

  That made me frown. "What do they have to be ashamed of?"

  "Words were spoken." Rehana shrugs. "Sometimes things are said that you can't take back."

  That's why I left without saying a word. I couldn't explain how sorry I was for allowing my thirst for revenge to get our people killed.

  "Would you tell them to stay out here in the wastelands? That they should never seek to reunite with Luther?"

  My footsteps slowed to a halt. I was a few meters away from the passenger door on the big rig. I faced Rehana. "Of course not."

  "Why?"

  "Because…" Tears burned hot in my eyes, and I had to clench my jaw to maintain my composure. "Because Luther would forgive just about anything. That's who he is." He's a good man.

  "A man after God's own heart." Whenever Rehana didn't sound like herself, I was instantly reminded that this wasn't really her at all. Just a spirit-projection. "I think you have your answer, Daiyna." She smiled at me. "When you're ready, you'll need to travel to the east coast. That's where you'll find your friends."

  With that, she and Mother Lairen faded away like a mirage on the sun-scorched horizon.

  Shechara and Samson took some convincing. Like me, they'd settled comfortably into their desert nomad ways. The two of them against a post-apocalyptic world.

  "We don't even know where they are," She
chara said.

  Samson shook his head and shrugged his thick shoulders. "Milton told us he might touch base once they got there, but…"

  "He never did," Shechara finished his sentence. "And that was three years ago."

  "They might not even be on this continent anymore," Samson said.

  He had some explaining to do at that point: Apparently, Luther wanted to invite the UW ashore to establish diplomatic relations. He mentioned contacting Captain Mutegi on the Argonaus, but then Milton heard from the spirits—

  "By that point, after all we'd lost…" Samson shook his head. "I'd had just about enough of Milton's supernatural guidance."

  "We've done alright on our own." Shechara reached out and squeezed Samson's metal forearm. Not sure whether he could feel it, but it was a sweet gesture of support all the same. "We found you." She smiled.

  I smiled back. "So if I were to tell you the spirits let me know where we should go...to meet up with Luther and Milton…"

  Something in their demeanor changed at that point, like they were surprised I would even suggest a reunion. Maybe they thought if I could go back to Luther after all I'd done, then they could, too. If I could let my reasons for staying away crumble and seek reconciliation, they could do the same. In a way, they seemed relieved, and I had to wonder if they'd been waiting for me to come around.

  "So, where to?" Samson grinned, always up for a new adventure.

  Neither of them liked the idea of the east coast as a destination. Mainly because it's a lot of territory to cover, and the spirits had been so nonspecific. I've been waiting for more details ever since, but they've remained oddly quiet, failing to appear to me at all.

  Days have passed into more than a week, and we continue onward, forging a lonely path through the desolation, maintaining an eastward heading according to the compass mounted on the rig's dashboard console. We've already burned through half our fuel reserves and plenty of our hydro. The tractor-trailer is a thirsty beast, and the heat is incredible through the continent's interior. Not to mention the dust storms. We had a few out west, but we were close enough to the coast for the moisture to tamp them down some. Out here, we've had to put our journey on pause half a dozen times when the dust gets so thick we can't see where we're going. We roll up the windows real tight, cover our faces, and wait it out, perspiring until we're soaked through and through. After every storm, we spend an hour blowing sand out of the engine with air compressors Samson located in the shipping container. Not sure what we'll do when they run out.