Spirits of the Earth: The Complete Series: (A Post-Apocalyptic Series Box Set: Books 1-3) Milo Fowler (different e readers TXT) 📖

Both of them look at me quizzically. They have no idea what I'm thinking. Or maybe they do, and they can't be sure I'm serious.

But I am. As serious as I've ever been.

Perch scratches his protruding jaw. "Maybe ten. We're makin' more—"

"Get one and meet me at the recovery rooms." I turn on my heel and leave them to stare, forgetting to salute.

Once outside, I make my way across the main floor, my boots striking the concrete in a clipped rhythm. Men clear a path, avoiding my direct route as their transport vehicles carry pallets loaded with supplies. They salute me and I return the gesture half-heartedly. At the far end of the dome, along the catwalk suspended in the air, I see my destination: unmarked steel doors lined side by side, so neat and tidy.

My stomach tightens as I approach.

I still have my doubts. I hate the uncertainty. Should we have killed them all? Yes. Do we owe them our lives for helping us fight off the mutos when they first attacked? Probably. But it was never my intention to keep these patients around this long. Margo talked me into it. She has a habit of doing that.

Hope she doesn't catch wind of what I'm about to do here. She wouldn't like it. Not one bit.

She wants to study them, find out how the physiological transformations have affected—or been affected by—their current genetic make-up and whatnot. Maybe learn how to reverse the process. She's so passionate about it.

I'm a structural engineer; give me something to work on that's tangible. None of this DNA crap. That's her area of expertise.

If she wasn't here to convince me, they'd all be dead already. She probably knows that. She's no dummy, and that's a fact. They're her pet project, and she won't take kindly to me using one of them like this. But if I play my cards right, I'll have him back in bed before she starts her evening rounds.

"Hello, Mathis." I slide the door shut quietly behind me and try to catch my breath. You'd think I'd be in better shape with all these ladders around here, but they get me every time.

"Go to hell, Willard."

The body in the elevated medical bed lies still, attached by all manner of tubes and hoses to machines on both sides. They bleep and blink, monitoring his vitals, taking samples, recycling his blood. As far as we can tell, he's recovering. One of the lucky ones, I guess.

"Glad to see you're coherent." I pull a stool up to his bedside and take a seat. "How're you feeling these days?"

"Like you care." Unlike his paralyzed body, his head is able to turn—away from me. "Leave me alone, you son of a bitch."

My mustache itches. I scratch it, smooth it down. My other hand drifts to my sidearm. It would be so easy...

What purpose does it serve, keeping them alive like this? Margo can't believe they'll ever be part of the Eden Guard. Not Mathis, not Catherine, none of them. Ash freaks. Even if she manages to permanently reverse the effects of their infection, they'll still be tainted. They won't ever be like us.

This is better. He'll serve a purpose. He'll serve us.

"You're going on a little trip, Mathis."

His head rolls toward me as interest flickers in his eyes, but his brow remains furrowed. "Well, that should be fascinating, seeing how I can't move a muscle. You've got me so pumped full of—."

"Easily remedied. Once you're leashed." I grin.

"What're you talking about?"

I pat his bare chest. "Not to worry. You'll love it. How long have you been cooped up in here? Months, right? A little fresh air will do you good."

"It's fresher in here," he retorts. "Have you already forgotten who programmed the air processors?"

"Of course not. You did a great job. All of you. But I was referring to the air your kind prefers."

His severe gaze narrows. "Thought you didn't want anybody going topside."

I can't restrain the chuckle that rocks my shoulders. "Well, you're special, Mathis. And we've got a very special assignment, just for you."

He glares at me.

"On our way, Captain," Jamison's voice crackles from my radio.

I raise it to reply, but I pause. There's something strange about Mathis's eyes. He stares straight through me, his corneas glassy, his chapped lips stretching into a gruesome smile. He's quiet for a few moments. Then he chuckles, sounding like he's regurgitating a recent meal.

"Somebody to see you, Willard," he hisses.

"Recovery room eight," I respond to Jamison, keeping my gaze on Mathis as I return the radio to my belt.

"Not them." Mathis rolls his head side to side on his pillow. "Somebody else. He's at the door. Watching you."

I glance over my shoulder. The door's shut, just like I left it.

I don't have time for this crap. I squeeze my temples. Might as well humor the freak. Soon as Perch and Jamison arrive, playtime's over anyway.

"Who do you see, Mathis?"

"Tucker."

The stool skids, screeching out from under me as I get to my feet. Adrenaline courses through my veins, my heart pumping double time. I whip out the Colt holstered at my side and grip it in both hands.

"Never seen you so scared, Willard!" Mathis wheezes.

"Where is he?" I demand, panning the small room with my gun muzzle.

"Can't you see him? Something wrong with your eyes?" he mocks me. "I thought he died, Captain. That's what you told us. Remember way back when? You said Sharon and the girls got him when they turned into crazy cannibals."

"They did." Didn't they? They must have. Or something else killed him. When those fools went topside and retrieved the guns, all they found were bloody remains. There's no way Tucker could've survived on the surface. Not all this time, not all alone. "No one survived."

"Well, that's not what he says." There's an edge to Mathis's voice. He thinks he has something on me even as he lies there impotent, paralyzed from the neck down. "He