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

Home? But we are already here.

I nod, keeping my eyes closed. I can understand why she would think that. Yes. And he is taking you to—

How to explain? The little ones have parents that are not even aware of their existence.

There are others here, in addition to Tucker, the young female’s thoughts come through.

Again I nod, taking a quick breath to steady my nerves. How many? Can you see—? I stop myself.

See?

Too late. I take a moment to berate my own foolishness for using a word unknown to the little one. It describes a sense she cannot understand.

Yes. It is what you are doing now. You see Tucker. You know he is there with you. I pause. Can you see the others as well?

Another trembling sensation courses through the link we share. I strain to remain present, in the moment.

Yes, but they do not see me.

And do they see Tucker?

Yes. They rumble at him.

I understand this approximation, a word that holds meaning for an unborn consciousness trapped in amniotic fluid. The others with Tucker now, rumbling at him, are speaking to him. They can see him in the same way I can see this little one: they are able to communicate with one another. But no one present is able to share a telepathic link; no one else is able to communicate with her in the same way I can.

Tucker may have arrived at Luther’s camp. From what I remember, there wasn’t anyone in his group who shared my special mutation and its abilities. This little one and I could be the only two of our kind.

Can you—? I want to ask her to read their thoughts, these people who rumble at Tucker. But how can I explain thoughts? Or even a mind? Better to stick with what is working already: approximations. They cannot see you the way I can, these others that are with Tucker. But can you see them?

Yes.

This is good, very good. And can you see the—? Words? What are they to a neonate? Can you see what is behind the rumbling? The thoughts behind their words?

I hope my meaning comes through clear enough.

They are not content.

My head jerks back; my eyes twitch beneath their lids. This is a new presence now linked to my mind, one that has been silent up to this point: the male, son of Shechara and Samson.

Not content, I echo his thought.

They are agitated. Unhappy.

Such a vocabulary. But is he truly using words to communicate with me? Or is it my mind, translating whatever synaptic signals they transmit into words I can comprehend? Agitated and unhappy—are these the feelings of a male child ready to be released from an incubation chamber, emotions he can easily understand?

The others that Tucker has encountered could be agitated because he caught them unaware. Likely, due to his special mutation and penchant for appearing without warning. Or are they trigger-happy UW troops, uncertain of their orders? I doubt they were prepped to meet an invisible man.

What else do you see? I ask the little ones, my heart surging now as heavy boots tread along the steel catwalk outside my room.

Confusion. They do not know who we are.

I frown at that. Luther would remember Tucker—

The bolt on the door slides back. It is not Jamison or Willard who enters, but Perch with his bolt cutters in hand and a hungry look on his face.

“Wakey wakey.” He chuckles.

I shut my eyes, struggling to keep the link open with the little ones for as long as possible before the torture begins anew. I have to know they are safe.

Through the metaphysical conduit, I hear a sudden noise, one that brings the rumbles of conversation to a halt.

A gunshot.

My eyes widen.

Perch grins down at me, liking the reaction. He licks his teeth.

7 Bishop18 months after All-Clear

Wedged between Sinclair and Harris in the backseat of the solar jeep, I bounce along with the rest of the team as Morley takes us across the rough terrain, tearing through the barren Wastes as fast as the vehicle can manage. No doubt sending up a plume of dust in our wake visible to any of the hostiles we hope to outrun on our course due east.

Destination: Eden. Some kind of subterranean city, by the sound of it. Tough to imagine.

Visually, I remain closed off from my surroundings, thanks to the malfunctioning HUD in my helmet. But I can hear well enough, and Granger was able to make contact with Captain Mutegi aboard the Argonaus. The entire team was given access to further instructions originally intended for my eyes only.

“I don’t like the idea of you going in blind,” Mutegi said, the irony of his words lost on no one. “The more you all know, the better.”

We’re not here just to make contact with the last bastion of survivors from D-Day. We’ve also been tasked with convincing these survivors—led by an engineer by the name of Arthur Willard—to give up their newborn children for testing. If Harris and Sinclair find them to be healthy, contaminant-free specimens of humankind, Mutegi will send in a second chopper from the fleet. Not a moment beforehand.

I don’t blame him, considering what happened to the first one.

“Still no sign of ’em,” Granger’s voice comes through on comms, and the others in the jeep murmur affirmatively, accustomed to his periodic updates even as they each keep their own watch. But I appreciate it, as Granger has to see for the both of us now.

We managed to scavenge an impressive arsenal from the dead hostiles: two high-powered rifles with long-range infrared scopes in addition to three military-issued daggers. All with the same UW insignia, plain to see.

We agreed they probably weren’t from Eden.

“That’s what we’d look like without our suits,” Morley said as we piled into the solar-powered jeep. He hadn’t been able to shift his gaze from the mutilated corpses we were leaving behind.

“So it would appear,” Harris said, deep in thought.

“They