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

There are large cubicles built out from the walls with steel catwalks and ladders leading down to the main floor, upon which a myriad of crates and boxes sit plastic-wrapped in rows, like in a warehouse. Three forklifts sit empty, as if they’ve been abandoned mid-job. Everything is still and silent, with no one in sight.

“So much for your red carpet welcome, marine.” Perch keeps his voice low and his eyes darting, semiautomatic pistol in hand. “Stop the vehicle,” he orders the driver. Then he faces me, aiming the weapon at my cracked helmet. “Get out.”

The hatch slams shut behind us with a resounding clang. Both Perch and the driver jump in their seats. I’ve got an uneasy feeling they’re more confused than I am.

24 Milton18 Months After All-Clear

We watch the widescreen monitor mounted above a gas-fueled hearth in the captain’s quarters. Jamison sits on the sofa with a 9mm jammed into the ribs of the man seated beside him, Arthur Willard. I stand off to one side, between the monitor and the front door leading to the catwalk outside. On the screen, one of Willard’s men drives the Hummer out of the tunnel and onto Eden’s main floor. There it sits idling, tinted windows too dark to see anyone inside.

“You’re going to pay for this treachery,” Willard grates out for the fifth or sixth time. I’ve lost count.

“Someday you’ll thank me,” Jamison says. “When you’re able to see past your own ego.”

“How dare you? I’ve given you life!”

“Shut it.” I glare at Willard. It nauseates me just to be back in the same room with this guy. The last thing I need is to hear him whine and complain. “And keep it shut.”

“Or what? You’ll kill me?” Willard snickers. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Go ahead. Try something. If Jamison doesn’t shoot you, I’ll break your nose.”

Willard curses, shaking his head. “You honestly think you hold the upper hand here?”

“Let me see.” I count my fingers. “All of your crew’s locked in their quarters, and we’ve got the Big Cheese of Eden at gunpoint. Yeah, I’d say so.”

Willard laughs, a short explosive burst. “After that escape you pulled off a few months ago, we’ve drilled for contingencies such as this. Just you wait.”

“He’s bluffing.” Jamison glances at me. “We never trained—”

“As far as you know.” Willard’s beady-eyed gaze narrows. “I could tell from the start you didn’t have the guts necessary for what needed to be done.”

“Killing those infants won’t get you any closer to Eurasia.” Jamison’s neck muscles strain, his face flushing. “They’re the future, dammit! Why can’t you see that?”

“We’ll see what Chancellor Hawthorne decides.” Willard crosses his arms. “She’ll give me what I want, or I’ll start taking away what she wants. One incubation chamber at a time. You know as well as I do, sometimes the electricity can really fluctuate around here—unexpectedly.”

I shake my head. “You won’t be going anywhere near that nursery, trust me.”

“Who said my proximity matters?” Something in Willard’s wild gaze makes me uneasy. Is he only bluffing?

On the screen, the tunnel’s hatch closes on its own—or appears to do so, thanks to Tucker. A tense minute or two follows. Then the vehicle’s rear door floats upward, and a man in a bulky environmental suit with a tinted helmet steps out. Sergeant Bishop. He survived Cain’s surprise attack on the Homeplace, but how’d he manage to get here so fast? Are Cain’s warriors right behind him?

The vehicle’s front doors drift open next, allowing Perch and the driver to exit. Each man has his sidearm at the ready. Perch’s is trained on Bishop while the driver swings his side to side and upward, scoping out the scene.

“Turn up the volume.” Willard kicks back, propping his boots on a plush corduroy ottoman. A tight smile stretches his gaunt face. “I don’t want to miss any of this.”

I humor him, pressing the button on the side of the monitor.

“Take off that helmet,” Perch barks from Eden’s main floor. “And stay right there in front of me. That’s right. My own personal human shield—UW marine edition.” He chuckles without any real humor in his tone. “You see anybody?”

“No one,” says the driver.

Perch curses before shouting, “Where you at, Tucker boy?”

No response. Bishop releases the clamps at his collar and removes his helmet, along with the breather covering his face. His short dark hair is plastered against his scalp with perspiration, and beads of sweat stand out across his brow.

“I’m sure he’s enjoying Eden’s cool 22 degrees Celsius,” Willard says with a snicker.

“Where is everyone?” the sergeant demands. “And why are you pointing that gun—?”

Perch grabs him by the back of his collar—a rigid metal ring where the helmet docks—and gives him a rough shake. “I’m thinking you were the distraction, marine. While we were up there fetching you, some of your cohorts snuck inside via alternate routes. So how ‘bout you call them out, and we see how this goes down?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The driver lurches forward with a sudden cry, his sidearm disappearing into thin air as he stumbles. Blood gushes from his broken nose. “What the hell was that?”

“Tucker!” Perch roars, jamming his pistol against Bishop’s temple. “Drop that weapon or I swear, this guy’s muto meat!”

“Shoot him, and you’re next,” Tucker responds in his slow drawl.

Perch whips his gun toward the voice and fires. The shot explodes like a bomb going off in the expansive concrete dome. Bishop swings his helmet upward and clocks Perch right between the eyes. The big man staggers back but maintains his hold on Bishop’s collar, dragging him along with him. Bishop stumbles awkwardly in the cumbersome suit, struggling to keep his feet beneath him. He trips over Perch as both men hit the concrete floor. Perch’s weapon discharges two more rounds, the sound carrying through Willard’s thick steel door as well as the monitor’s speakers.

Then Perch vanishes for a second. When he reappears, his