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

power, and that Stinger was obviously fully functional. It blew a LoneWolf UAX-38 out of the sky, for crying out loud. But who the hell are they—and what idiot armed them?

A gust of wind blasts against my back, throwing me into the rock. I groan out loud, surprised by the sudden force of the blow. I half-turn, as if to glance back. But that’s pointless; the suit won’t allow it, even if I were able to see.

Everything’s still.

“Papa?”

A shock jolts through my system, but it has nothing to do with the hazard suit’s power coming back online.

“Papa, is that you?”

I’m not hearing this. It can’t be happening. The voice isn’t coming through my headset on the comm channel. I can hear it with my ears. The ringing has stopped, and I hear the small voice as it approaches with footsteps shuffling toward me through the dust.

“What’s wrong, Papa?”

I can feel the voice in the center of my chest. I squint against the red glare blinking OFFLINE on the HUD. My eyes sting. My lips part without sound.

It can’t be Mara. Not my little girl. Not out here. It makes no sense. She’s with her brother, with their mother in Eurasia—

I’m losing my mind.

I’m better than this. Trained better. UW marines are disciplined to withstand every brand of hardship. Nothing can break us.

“Papa?” The voice comes within reach.

“Stay back.” I force an arm outward, palm extended. I’m cornered here with no retreat. I’ll have to climb uphill in spite of Granger’s warning if I plan on moving away from this voice. “Identify yourself.”

“But you know who I am.” Mara sounds hurt.

It’s not Mara. It’s some kind of trick. The hostiles—it has to be one of them with a bizarre telepathic ability that reaches into the subconscious, somehow able to pull out what I hold most precious and use it against me.

But that’s insane. I’m totally losing it now.

“Did you fire on us?” I keep my tone steady, under control. It’s a wonder she can hear me at all through my helmet.

“You’re not safe here, Papa. They’re going to be looking for you, and they are very hungry.”

I hear her take another step toward me. “I said stay back!”

“I know you’re scared, but you have to think. Where should you be right now?”

Up. That’s my first thought.

“I can help you,” she says. “If you let me.”

“Who are you?” I demand.

“You know who I am.”

I shake my head. “It’s not—you’re not—”

“You want to see me again, don’t you, Papa?”

Of course I do. It’s the only thing that gets me through every endless day apart from my family: the hope that when this tour of duty ends, we’ll be reunited.

“You’re not my daughter,” I manage at last. “I don’t know who or what you are, but you’re not her.”

Not my Mara.

Silence follows except for my own labored breathing.

“You’re a smart man, James. But I guess that’s why I married you,” comes the voice of my wife.

Emma.

I feel a sudden chill despite the temperature inside my suit—well over seventy degrees centigrade by now. This isn’t real. I squeeze my eyes shut and force a deep breath. My mind has snapped. That’s all. I just need to remain calm and focus on something else. Anything.

But all I can think about is my family, and I can’t push their faces out of my mind’s eye.

“Do you remember the last thing you told me?” Emma asks.

Like it was yesterday. The UW soldiers in their crisp grey uniforms and black boots, escorting my wife and children from our home. The scene so diplomatic and orderly. Such a pretentious façade. My family taken hostage, the official government representatives acting as their captors—until I return.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” I offered at the time, seething, detained at my own front door by a high-ranking official.

Emma glanced over her shoulder at me as they were led away. She smiled. Not because she understood what was going on or because she was okay with it. She smiled at me because she loved me.

“You must stay alive, James. So much depends on you,” she says now in this hot, alien place where neither one of us belongs.

I frown, back in the moment. “How do you know my name?”

“There will be time for questions later. For now, we must get you to safety. You cannot hear them, but they are coming.”

“The hostiles.” I strain to listen for the sound of their jeeps.

“You could call them that. To others, they are known as goblyns. Or daemons.”

“And what are you, exactly? I’m not going anywhere until you tell me that.” I take a bold step forward, reaching blindly. “Some kind of mind-reader?”

My gloved hand makes contact with a bare shoulder—my wife’s? I know its shape better than my own. But I draw back sharply, as if I’ve been burned. How could I feel such a thing with my glove on?

She takes my hand in hers, and I feel her skin against mine. “Come with me.” Her grip is strong and sure as she pivots to lead me up the hill.

A hot tear spills over the corner of my eye and skids down my cheek. I resist, even as I yearn to go with her. It’s not her. It can’t be!

“What are you?” I don’t pull away.

“You are here for a purpose, James Bishop.”

My mission: first contact with the only D-Day survivors on the continent. Is this one of them? Did the biological weapons and nuclear fallout turn them into telepathic shape-shifters?

Science fiction. Get a grip!

“We cannot allow you to be harmed.”

“We?” I let her pull me forward and upward, but I hold my other hand out to the side, remembering the rocks Granger was so concerned about. “There are others here like you?”

“Yes.” Her voice drops near a whisper. Even so, I hear it as clearly as if she’s brushing my earlobe with her lips. “But we are not the same.”

You’re telling me. “Not exactly human, are you?” A heat-induced hallucination. That has to be