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

cross before we’ll reach the city ruins and the skyscraper skeletons jutting upward from the ashen sand. “An hour ago, maybe longer.”

“What did they say?”

“I don’t know.”

Sounds more like he doesn’t want to know. “They spoke to you and you alone, and you can’t remember what they said?”

“We don’t need them. We can fend for ourselves.”

“Unlike those babies.”

Milton’s grip on me tightens, and he propels himself onward with a sudden burst of speed, plowing through the rushing air like a missile. It seems like we’re going faster than before, but maybe it’s just the contrast between hovering in midair and rocketing through it.

He’s made up his mind.

“If those daemons hurt anybody but Cain’s people, I’m holding you personally responsible,” Milton shouts.

Join the club. Daiyna would appreciate having Milton on her side in the Eden-hating faction.

Within minutes, the twisted, charred metal spires of the city ruins appear in the distance like long, crooked fingers clawing at the sky. Below, a few levels under the ash-smothered streets, lies the subterranean refuge of Willard’s Eden Guard. Won’t they be surprised to find ol’ Tucker and his super-friend knocking at their door?

“You got inside once before, from what I recall,” I shout over the rushing wind.

“Through the sewage tunnels, yeah. I was hoping you knew a better way.”

“Head south once you reach the towers. There’s a network of underground waterways, separate from the sewers. They were used to channel groundwater to the surface before D-Day.”

As we approach the city ruins with their crumbling buildings and heaps of dusty rubble, I notice hundreds of dark, indistinguishable forms roaming the abandoned streets below.

“We’ve got company.” Milton doesn’t sound too happy about it.

When I left Eden, Willard and the Eden Guard were doubling their efforts with the mutos, collaring a fresh dozen every day. It helped that a large number of them called the ruins above Eden their home. With plenty of collared dogs already wired and remote-controlled, it was a simple matter for Perch or Jamison—Willard’s right and left-hand man, respectively—to send a dog or two out to collect new recruits.

Now, staring into the distance at so many creatures wandering out in the open, I have to wonder if there are any wild mutos left in the city.

Willard has a flesh-eating army at his disposal. I don’t have a gun on me, and neither does Milton. We’ll just have to trust my ability to keep us invisible and Milton’s ability to get us out of a tight squeeze faster than the speed of sound.

“How many, would you say?”

Milton shakes his head. “Too many.”

He brings us in lower, swooping over one of the buildings that’s still somewhat intact—a three-story brick apartment house. He points at the flat stretch of concrete roof, scorched and strewn with debris. I nod, assuming he means we’re going in for a landing.

Touching down like a loon across the tranquil surface of a lake, Milton’s boots skid once or twice as he fights for balance. He holds onto me with one arm while swinging the other as a counterweight. Good thing we’re still invisible, or the mutos below would’ve noticed us right off. As it is, the slow-moving horde in the street tilt back their heads and stare goggle-eyed at nothing in particular. Sure looks like they heard something.

Milton gestures to keep silent as he pries my death grip off him, keeping a firm hold of my shoulder with one hand as he does so. We’ve got to stay in contact in order for him to remain invisible. The last thing either of us wants is to be noticed right now.

The mutos below wear the telltale signs they’re members of Willard’s dog pound: shock collars adorn their scabby throats. The steel bands are cinched snugly at the base of each muto’s neck, and a red pinpoint of light blinks to show it’s active, transmitting video of everything it faces via a micro-camera.

I nudge Milton and point down a southbound side street. We’ll have to climb to the ground, then navigate our way through throngs of mutos without being noticed. As long as we move among the freaks without bumping into any of them, we’ll be fine.

All those muto feet have stirred the dust along the ground in well-trod sections of the city. The trouble will come when we cross a less popular stretch of terrain. If Jamison or Perch, monitoring the muto-cams, happens to notice our tracks leading into the underground waterways, then Milton and I will lose the element of surprise.

And considering how matters stand at present, that’s our only advantage.

Milton nods, ready to follow me over the side of the building and down the rusted iron ladder along disintegrating brick. If I were a praying man, I might’ve said some words before placing my boot on the first rung and letting it take my full weight. I try not to imagine the ladder breaking off the wall and sending me and Milton plummeting onto a bunch of hungry mutos below.

I make my descent with one hand on Milton’s ankle above me, keeping him invisible. Rung after rung without a word, we reach the street. Holding my breath, and with Milton’s hand on my shoulder, I head through the mass of twitching bodies more dead than alive, staggering with no clear direction in sight. Milton follows close behind. Both of us are invisible to the creatures, but knowing that doesn’t make it any less horrifying: the way these rotten-smelling freaks stare right at us as we pass, their lidless yellow eyes oozing a foul fluid that seems to be their lifeblood. I’m thankful for the head covering I wear; it cuts down on some of the stench reaching my nostrils.

I pause to point down an alley blocked by a trio of mutos swaying on their feet like drug addicts higher than cloud nine. Milton nods, his goggles tracking the freaks closest to us. Even though they can’t see us, they can smell well enough. Lingering in one place for more than a