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

We are hemmed in before and behind. The wall the chieftains built months ago to protect us from the goblyn raids forms a semicircle around the overturned ships. The thick metal barrier does not extend far into the water. For some reason, the goblyns refuse to go near the crashing surf, as if it frightens them. Even so, I had the men plant the wall a hundred meters seaward so that, between the tides, there would be no absence of protection at our flanks. The ocean itself provides a line of defense behind us, one neither the goblyns nor the UW have dared to breach. Yet.

I scowl at the grey battleship. The UW Argonaus, according to its white lettering along the side. How long has it guarded the coast, ensuring that no one leaves this diseased continent? As far as we know, the naval blockade has been in place ever since All-Clear, when my men and I were released from our underground bunker. We left Sector 15 eleven months ago and headed due west to fulfill nothing less than a manifest destiny, guided by Gaia herself every step of the way.

Why do they watch us? I turn away from the sea.

“We meet again,” the man outside the gate calls amicably. He is the leader of the nomad heretics, and his name is Luther. He wears light, sand-colored garments that wrap him like a mummy. With the black goggles, he also resembles the Invisible Man. Perhaps I spent too much time in the bunker watching old horror films.

I step forward to grip one of the gate’s iron bars at eye level. “You don’t take no for an answer. What is this—your final plea?”

“If you accept our offer.” Luther nods.

My eyes flick to the figure beside him. Samson, the cyborg. A large man, close to my stature and well-developed musculature. In a fair fight, we might be evenly matched. But Samson has biomechatronic arms and legs, powerful prosthetics. From what I remember of such things, a cyborg can easily possess the strength of ten formidable men.

Blistering sunlight flashes from the cyborg’s naked metal. He stands with his mechanical arms folded across a massive chest, only his head and torso covered, protected from the sun. Luther’s bodyguard. Why does he think he needs one? My warriors and I have been nothing but genial in all our interactions thus far with these misguided people.

A wry grin twitches at the corner of my lips, hidden in shadow beneath my hood. Perhaps not entirely genial.

“The offer of which you speak,” I feign a temporary memory lapse. “Could it be the same one that sent you out of our gates last time, chased by our laughter?”

“The same,” Luther returns without pause.

“To join you. Wandering vagabonds of the desert. While we have everything we need right here. Protection. Food. Weapons. Company—strength in numbers. How many of you are there now?”

“Forty.”

I laugh out loud. “Compared to our ninety strong! If anything, you should be asking us to welcome you into the fold.”

The cyborg leans over to whisper something to Luther, keeping his goggles fixed on me. I would enjoy seeing what this Samson is made of. Pit him against two dozen goblyns and watch the blood fly.

Perhaps there will be time for that later. For now, I subdue my laughter, clear my throat. Wait with all the patience I can muster.

“It may appear that you are safe,” Luther says as Samson leans back, resuming his silent stance. “You have done well for yourselves here, I grant you that. Better than we have, in many ways. But your people are in grave danger. They cannot remain in this place.”

I exhale harshly, dropping my hand from the gate. “We’ve been over this already. You have no evidence—”

“That has changed.”

I watch them for a moment. A cool breeze chills the already sweat-drenched cloak clinging to my back. “How so? There hasn’t been anything new on the radio—just that quarantine message on an endless loop. Don’t tell me you’ve got somebody who can overhear a conversation three kilometers away.”

Luther tilts his head to one side. “Actually, we do. But even she would be unable to hear anything on board the Argonaus or the other ships out there—too much interference. Suffice it to say, we have learned that a special team of soldiers will soon be dispatched ashore.”

“Finally decided to make contact, have they?” I cross my arms. “No idea why it’s taken them this long.”

“First contact, yes. But not with you.” He pauses. “With Eden.”

I glance from Luther to Samson. “Eden is not our concern.” My tone is cool, detached, even as my heart rate surges. “From what you’ve told me, they should be able to fend for themselves well enough.”

“It’s not them we’re worried about,” the cyborg mutters in a low baritone.

“It speaks.” I smirk, noticing my guards now hard at work with a tub of tar and a spatula. “Every last one,” I order. “I don’t want to see any daylight through there.”

They nod, slapping thick gobs of the black muck onto the wall. Will they have enough? Damn those goblyns and their submachine guns.

“Eden’s survivors are expendable. As are we,” Luther says. “The UW is only interested in—”

“The children.” I think of my own on the way, all four of them. The mothers I sleep alongside every day. I should be with them now. Not out under this hot sun, shooting the breeze with these infidels.

That is the truth of it. They worship a false god, one Luther calls The Creator. Ridiculous. Gaia is the earth spirit of creation itself, and she has no rivals. When asked for a sign of his god’s power, Luther was unable to call forth a single one. Pathetic and impotent, this god he serves.

“Yes.” Luther nods. “The children.” His words hang in the air, unfinished.

I glance at my guards. If they are listening, they give