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

toss the bar inside at shin-level, toppling the guards headfirst as I step into the shipping container. Their spastic fingers send a few rounds clattering around the steel interior, but they miss my organic parts. Small favors.

"Enough." I disarm the first one within reach and grab him by the front of his armored vest. These raiders are always decked out in the most advanced protective gear I've ever seen, straight from Eurasia. The form-fitting body armor and oxygen-helmets are a far cry from Bishop's bulky suit way back when. "Start walking."

I toss him out the back of the container and don't bother watching him bounce across the ground in an impressive array of lateral somersaults. Seen it before. The lack of any metallic crunch means Shechara steered her jeep clear of the flying body.

We're a well-oiled machine. Our earliest attempts at highway robbery were downright comical in comparison.

"What are you?" The second guard has his rifle pointed at me, but my mechatronic hand is clamped over the muzzle, squeezing and bending it out of shape. His eyes widen behind his face shield.

Have to admit, I always like this part.

"I am justice," I growl, grabbing him by the throat and lifting him up to my eye level. His puny boots kick at my metal legs with a series of clanks and clunks. He's got real spirit. "Tell your superiors this road is off limits. No more pillaging."

"Road?" he scoffs. "There aren't any roads in the Wastes!"

"They'll get the idea." I toss him out the back to practice his acrobatics. The landing, in particular.

Two down, two to go: the driver, and the guard riding shotgun. By now, they will have radioed for backup. So we need to grab whatever we can before we're really outnumbered.

The container is piled high with crates of materials and supplies, things you can scavenge in just about every city ruin on the continent. Not sure why Eurasia needs this stuff—other than to make our lives more difficult. They've already fired missiles at the Homeplace and the Shipyard and every other campsite where survivors have gathered to start a new life together. Now, after trying to kill us and separate us, Eurasia is sending in soldiers to steal from us and starve us. Not surprising, I guess.

Hydropacks are worth more than just about anything these days, along with protein packs and vitaminerals. Standard rations. Nothing special to a Eurasian. From what I hear, those domed cities across the ocean have their own farms producing fresh foodstuffs every day. They don't need what we have.

But they take it anyway. Or try to.

"Anything good?" Shechara asks on the radio.

"Plenty." I pick up the lock-bar. No way to know for sure what's inside these crates without breaking them open. "More than we can carry."

"So we hijack the truck. Drive it off their route and bury what we can't take with us."

"Hijack it, huh?" That'll be a first. Usually we smash and grab, then run as fast as we can. "Their reinforcements will track this thing wherever we take it."

"So we locate the tracker inside and deactivate it. Then we leave the truck someplace they'll be outnumbered, where a shipping container like this might go unnoticed."

I can't help grinning. "Sounds like a plan, Small Fry."

Dropping the lock-bar, I thrust both of my arms out to the sides and rotate them at the elbows. One of the benefits of having Swiss Army hands: I'm never unprepared. The metal digits flip inward, and in their place, pivoting outward from each wrist, I now have two blades. I like to think of them as medieval broadswords. Close enough.

Squeezing between the crates and crushing a few inward as I pass, I make my way toward the front end of the shipping container. With two swipes of my blade-arms, I cut a gash in the corten steel wide enough to peel and punch my way through.

In case I didn't already, now I definitely have the attention of the pair inside the truck. The guard leans out of the cab and fires a few bursts from his Tavor assault rifle, sending rounds pinging off my forearms with sparks of light. I duck back into the cargo container and reach for that lock-bar. My right blade retracts into a compartment in my forearm as my metal fingers make a reappearance, gripping the bar like a javelin.

Usually, I try to avoid killing these raiders. They're not the enemy, not really. Their superiors have given them a job to do, and they do it. Efficiently. I've never gotten the feeling that it's personal, that they sit in dark corners during their off-hours and cackle gleefully at the thought of starving North American survivors to death.

But who knows? Maybe that's exactly what they do.

"Stop this truck!" I bellow.

The guard fires another few bursts in my general direction. The driver doesn't slow down one iota. Which is disconcerting, considering the terrain. Wouldn't take much to capsize this rig.

The next burst of weapons fire is too close for comfort. Almost hits my fleshy trunk—the part of me holding all the important wet works. Not that I'm overweight; I'm stronger now than I've ever been. Have to be, lugging these mechanical arms and legs around. Round-the-clock weight training.

"Pull over! Last warning!" I shout.

A few expletives from the guard this time, followed by yet another volley.

I've had enough of this little dance.

I hurl the lock-bar through the back of the cab, and it impales the guard. He slumps out the open window with his arms dangling, the rifle swinging from its strap.

Stepping forward, I plow my left blade through the cab's rear wall, right through the middle, and tear a hole big enough to see the driver. Can't make out the face inside the helmet, but the semiautomatic pistol aimed between my eyes is clear enough.

"We're not stopping," she says, keeping an eye on the barren landscape ahead. Smart, considering its unpredictable nature. One-handed, she steers us around occasional outcroppings of rock, ditches, and soft patches