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

"An hour?" I've been here that long?

"I've been keeping an eye on you. Wasn't easy finding you. This place is a crazy maze."

Does he mean he's been here for an hour? "How long have I been here?" The words barely escape my lips. I've never felt so exhausted.

"Uh—you don't remember?"

"Remember what?" My head aches now. Something isn't right.

He hesitates. "They brought you in here—into this room—on a stretcher. Like you'd been in surgery…or something."

"When?" My abdomen tightens.

He bites his lip again. "Hard to keep track of the time without sunlight."

Surgery. Why don't I remember it? They shot me, knocked me off that ladder, helped me to my feet. I must have blacked out. Then here. How much time passed in between?

"The others are across the way, on the other side. I found them yesterday." He blows out a short sigh and shakes his head. "They're in pretty bad shape, but they're alive."

The others. "Shechara? Luther and—"

"Samson, yeah." He nods grimly. "They've...done stuff to them. Bad stuff."

They who? Wait. I remember. Tucker told me about them. He called them naturals.

"Can you walk?" He rises. "I didn't want to wake you, figured you could use the sleep after whatever they did..." His gaze drifts down the blankets. "But we should go. Before they come back."

"Right." Of course. I can't stay here, wherever we are. We have to find the others, get back to the caves. That's why we came here in the first place.

But what is this itching sensation along the middle of my belly? I reach down to scratch it...and find a rough row of stitches.

My blood runs cold. I throw aside the covers.

"Turning away now." Milton shuffles quickly.

Whoever sewed me up did a good job. The two centimeters of black thread below my navel are tight and even. Why did I need this? I gingerly touch the smooth skin around the wound and press on it. Why did they cut me open? Did I injure myself when I fell from the ladder? But no...there are other scars here, smaller, only millimeters in length. One in my navel, too.

"I'll find you some clothes." Milton leaves the bedroom. Closet doors slide with a thud outside.

Why can't I remember what happened? Tucker said these naturals tried to cure others gifted by the spirits. Is that what they did to me? But why these stitched incisions? Why would they need to see inside me?

Amnesia is infuriating.

"These might work. Just guessing your size here—not that I saw anything." He drops some colorful women's apparel onto the foot of the bed. "I'll be out front. Let me know when you're ready." He leaves without a backward glance.

I catch myself staring at the clothes. Floral patterns take me back to another life. It's been so long without color...

But there's no time to lose. I slide off the side of the bed and sink into thick carpet. I close my eyes at the memory of home—my real home, long before All-Clear, before the bunker, before D-Day. My room, my dollhouse, the one we made from a blueprint we found on the web, my mother, my sister, my dog—

Now the only family I have left is here, somewhere. I need to find them.

I reach for the dress Milton found for me. Wasn't there anything more practical? Pulling it on, I step outside into a short hallway.

A sudden spasm of pain rocks me. I clutch my stomach and lean against the wall. I grit my teeth to keep from crying out. Eventually the pain subsides, releasing its grip on my abdominal muscles. My fingers brush the stitches beneath the fabric of the dress.

What did they do to me?

Milton looks up as I enter the front room, a spacious area with couches and bookshelves and a fireplace. It's a living room, so much like the home I remember from long ago. What is this place?

"It fits? Good."

I glance down at the dress and pluck at it self-consciously. It leaves my shoulders and arms bare and ends just below my knees—legs exposed that haven't been shaved in who knows how long. Good thing the hair down there is so fine, barely noticeable. I hope.

A strange thing to focus on right now.

"Couldn't find anything else?" The pattern is full of red roses and purple lilacs. I remember them both from another world.

"That's all there is in the closet—dresses, that sort of thing. Looks like somebody's already been through them. A few hangers are empty."

I try to maintain what dignity I can muster. "No undergarments?"

"Uh..."

The front door rattles. Unlike the rest of this comfortable living space, it's solid steel and formidable, like something on a warehouse. Or a prison. Locked from the outside.

Milton disappears at superspeed, passing me with a blast of air and a whisper, "I'm not here."

He's left me. Again.

The door slides to the side as two men enter. They both wear blue camouflage uniforms and black berets. Guns holstered at their sides. Soldiers?

"Up so soon?" asks the one with a thin mustache. His beady eyes rove up and down the dress I'm wearing, and he grins with appreciation. "You look great, Daiyna."

I step back reflexively. How does he know my name?

"Lock the door on your way out," Mustache orders his partner.

"Sir?"

Mustache's eyes remain on my dress. "You heard me, Jamison."

Jamison glances from him to me. Then he salutes awkwardly. "Yes sir." He steps out and hauls the door shut. The bolt reverberates as it's locked in place.

"Now then." Mustache moves toward one of the couches and sits carefully, as though he doesn't want to wrinkle his uniform. He gestures toward the cushion beside him. "Won't you join me, Daiyna?"

I watch him. I listen for Milton. Where's he hiding?

"Please." The grin remains, stretching Mustache's gaunt face.

I sit down on the cushion farthest from him, careful to keep my knees together. Strange how old habits return unbidden.

"I'm sure you're feeling a bit out of sorts right now, Daiyna. One of the side effects of the drugs we gave you,