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

suit or breathing apparatus—descended from the whirlwind, stepping out of it as one would have a carriage to the cobblestone streets of 19th century London. It is too incredible to be believed, even though he saw it with his own eyes.

“The air—you’re able to breathe it…just fine?” An older man in another hazard suit approaches me. “You see this, Sergeant? It’s remarkable!”

“Which one of you is in charge here?” I don’t wait for an answer, moving between the men as they turn to face me. I make straight for the injured woman, unsure what good I will be able to do. She and the short fellow were both cut with a blade of some sort. Apparently, there are vulnerable spots in their armored suits. The designers hadn’t expected them to go up against sword-wielding desert warriors.

The man with the malfunctioning HUD pats his chest plate, but it’s the short one who speaks for him again, “This is Sergeant James Bishop, ma’am. United World Marines. His helmet’s on the fritz, so I’m acting as translator. Name’s Granger.”

“Margo.” I look Bishop over. How much oxygen remains in his suit? He’s doing a good job at hiding it, but he is frightened, as any man would be in a similar situation. I don’t have to be a telepath to notice. But his fear has nothing to do with his O2 levels or the armed hostiles who are sure to return in greater numbers. He’s terrified of one thing only: not being allowed to return home.

“We were hoping Eden would send more than—”

“One woman?” I glance back at Granger as I kneel beside the woman on the ground. She’s lost plenty of blood, but there is no way her femoral artery was pierced at this angle.

“I’m sure they could’ve spared a few more personnel.”

“Not on the surface.” I shake my head. “The men of Eden refuse to breathe the air. Something you have in common.”

Bishop’s worried gaze focuses on his crewmate’s suit at the site of the puncture.

“This suit no longer serves any purpose—other than impeding the care she needs.” I make eye contact with the tall woman and keep my tone matter-of-fact. She stares unblinking from behind her face shield. “If you would like me to save your life, it will have to come off.”

The woman appears to have frozen. When she eventually speaks, her voice is a choked whisper. “Will it be a life worth saving?”

Granger takes a knee beside her. “Hey now. It won’t be all bad. I’m in the same boat you are, remember. Hell, we might get some cool mutant superpowers or something. Did you get a load of this guy?” He nods toward Milton.

“Or we’ll end up like those creatures we found,” the woman retorts.

Milton clears his throat. “Don’t worry about that. You guys are under the spirits’ protection. Just let Margo do her thing, and you’ll be fine. I promise.”

“Spirits?” The older man steps toward Milton with keen interest. “Did I hear you correctly, young man?”

“Yeah—the spirits of the earth.” Milton nods as if it’s common knowledge. “You know, from all the animals that were blown up on D-Day.”

The old man blinks, lips parted for words that never make an appearance. He half-turns toward Sergeant Bishop, but his eyes are still fixed on Milton like he’s some sort of science experiment gone awry. “You hear that, Sergeant? Not even a quarter century has passed…and already a primitive religious structure has sprung forth among the survivors. How incredible!”

Bishop dismisses him to assist the wounded. He watches as the older man shuffles off, muttering to himself, before he turns his attention fully on Milton.

“If you’re not from Eden, then what are you doing out here?” Granger asks.

“That’s a long story, and we don’t have a lot of time. Like I said, Cain’s boys frighten easily—they’re a real superstitious bunch—but they’ll be back.” Milton beckons to Bishop as he surveys the Hummer’s tires. “How about you lend me a hand, and we’ll get this thing back in order? Those bastards sure did give it the works.”

Bishop nods and approaches the vehicle.

Milton kicks at what remains of the right rear tire. “Grew up in a trade sector, so I know my way around the parts of almost anything. Putting them all together, though? That’s beyond my job description.” He drops to one knee and runs his gloved hand across the flabby tread, sliding toward the hub. “With InstaGoo, anything’s possible!” He half-grins at the sergeant. “Trade sector humor,” he explains.

“You’re a survivor. From which sector?” Granger asks.

“Good ol’ 43.” Then he mutters, “There’s got to be a repair kit inside...” He climbs into the passenger side.

“Try the rear compartment,” I call, knowing what he’s up to without looking. His thoughts are loud enough to be my own.

“Thanks.” He rummages around.

My hands pause for a moment as I work to help the stoic UW woman out of her hazard suit. Meanwhile, I project my mind outward in a single pulse of extra-sensory perception, and my efforts do not go unrewarded. Almost immediately, the thoughts of the young female, offspring of Luther and Daiyna, connect with my own. The little one seems confused but unharmed, unable to understand where I’ve been all this time.

A sense of impending danger comes through our link, along with visceral fear.

I blink, returning my focus to the woman’s suit. I will have to reconnect with the young one at the next opportunity, whenever that is. For now, it’s enough to know she is safe—and the male, as well. They are both all right despite a danger which, strangely enough, does not seem to be directed toward them. I am glad of that.

But what about Tucker? Is he still with them?

I glance back at Milton as he clambers into the back of the vehicle. Should I probe his mind for answers?

“I do not require your help,” the UW woman snaps at her short crewmate.

“Hate to break it to you, but you’re leaking like a sieve here.” Granger, despite his