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

Her laughter is music. "How about you keep your eyes on the road, Strongman?"

Probably a good idea. But I'm already thinking back on our most recent delightful encounter—when was that? Yesterday morning? Last night? It was dark out, either way. She was incredible, as always. Said I warmed up my metal parts to the perfect temperature, just the way she likes it. Then again, she always says that.

She's never cringed away from my inorganic limbs. And I've never looked away from her eyes. Because they're beautiful, like polished silver and diamonds. Rare. Valuable. Unlike any other eyes on the planet. When she looks at me, I feel—

The engine makes an awful grinding noise as I shift gears, and the rig shudders so much I'm afraid it's going to stall.

"Is that a normal sound, Strongman?"

"Not a good one, Eagle Eye. Maybe I should call you Eagle Ear."

"Pretty sure everybody over in Stack heard that."

"Then they'll know we're on our way." The truck lurches forward, and without warning, it's off, rolling right along and gaining speed. "Hope you can keep up."

"Roger that, good buddy. Eagle Eye out."

I glance at the side mirror but can't see her jeep. Probably in my blind spot. And the screen of dust I'm kicking up isn't helping the view any. Best to focus on what's ahead.

I take the rig at half-speed off the beaten path traversed by the raiders on their trips to and from the coast. That unpaved road-of-sorts was uneven at best. This is untamed wilderness, and it's downright bumpy. I have to strap in just to keep from bouncing out of my seat.

"You go much slower, Strongman, and we might be able to welcome the raiders' reinforcements in style. Just the two of us."

"Thought you said out. That usually implies an end to the conversation."

"Am I distracting you? Does my big, strong man need to focus all of his attention on driving right now?" She's using that pouty voice she reserves for my grumpier moments. When I'm taking things too seriously.

Like when I'm hijacking a UW tractor-trailer.

"How're we looking, Eagle Eye? Any bogeys?"

"None to report. Will keep you posted. Eagle Eye out."

I wait for her to come back on the line, but she doesn't. And for the next ten klicks, the ride is uneventful—except for being a literal pain in my ass as I jounce and lurch, upping the speed just enough to make better progress without overturning the trailer. Or jackknifing. Wouldn't want that, either.

"No raiders in sight, Strongman," Shechara provides the halfway-point update.

"If you're not seeing them, they're not there, Eagle Eye."

"True enough."

Sometimes it's hard to believe she was that shy, quiet woman I met five years ago. Tough to get a word out of her back then. She and Daiyna were as tight as sisters, and they always had plenty to say to each other. Words mostly, but sometimes just expressions, like they shared a secret language.

We've all missed Daiyna. Luther loved her, I'm pretty sure. But Shechara lost a part of herself when Daiyna went off on her own.

Guess I was there when Shechara needed a friend. We bonded. Finding out we had ten kids generated in test tubes should have been enough to drive us apart, but it had the opposite effect. We talked about them, about maybe meeting them someday. Seeing who they look more like, me or her. We both agreed they should look like her, for their sake.

Back in the bunker, and even after we climbed out, I always dreamed of having multiple wives. Made sense, since we were the breeders, and it would be our job after All-Clear to repopulate the planet. Or so we were told. But Shechara is more than enough woman for me, even though she's only half my size. She's the other half I never knew I was missing. And now I can't imagine my life without her in it.

Being the closest thing to a preacher anywhere on this continent, Luther performed our marriage ceremony. That was seriously the happiest day of my life. Sometimes we talk about going back there, meeting up with the others. But I don't think we will. Better to hold onto the good memories of what things were like before the missile strike.

Two dirt bikes appear from behind a pair of boulders, one at my ten o'clock, the other at my two, fifty meters ahead in the late afternoon's fading light. Motors grinding, they kick up clouds of dust on approach. Chunky tires skid across the hardpan once they've cut the distance in half. Chugging idly, they sit there, each with a Wastelander in the saddle.

These marauders are a different breed. Nobody knows where they come from or how they de-evolved into insanity. Maybe they lacked a community of right-minded individuals seeking the common good instead of survival for its own sake. They don't seem to care about building a better life or fighting back against the UW raiders. Instead, they've embraced the late 20th century's vision of a post-apocalyptic lifestyle.

I may have watched a few of those films in the bunker. More than once.

"We've got company," I tell Shechara.

"I see them." Her jeep sidles up alongside the rig as I slow it down, balancing the trailer brakes with the truck's. "Not from Stack."

"Agreed." We're about five klicks away. Usually, Stack's sentries hold a perimeter a kilometer out.

The Wastelanders keep their hands on the grips of their dirt bikes. They face me in their bleached-white skull-masks, grinning with all the personality of a Jolly Roger. No way to tell what expressions hide underneath. Black goggles cover their eyes, and a bizarre amalgam of body armor, sandcloth, bones, and man-made feathers adorn their bodies. I assume the feathers are synthetic, since nobody's seen any birds around since before D-Day.

I set the parking brake once I'm within a few meters of their front tires, but I keep the engine running. I don't plan on staying here for long. If these fools intend to hijack