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

"A little early for Halloween, don't you think?" I shout, leaning one mechanical elbow out my window. Then I give them a nod through the windshield. Neighborly, but not interested in leaving my seat.

"Halloween." They glance at each other and shrug. Then the one who spoke points at my silent passenger—the dead guy with a lock-bar through his chest. "Nice costume."

"You from Stack?" I say.

They shake their heads. Didn't think so.

"You're trespassing," says the Wastelander. "You have to pay the toll."

"This your land?"

They both nod.

"Funny." I pause. "Didn't see any signs posted."

The quiet one reaches behind his back. But he's not going for a weapon. Instead, he's got a length of rebar in one hand with a human skull mounted on top. He plants the thing into the ground, marking their territory.

"This is the way of things," he says.

Simultaneously, they reach for their belts. Slow and easy. Going for gunmetal now.

I grab hold of my dead traveling companion and haul both his arms and his assault rifle inside the cab. As the two Wastelanders draw their revolvers and aim our way—one at Shechara's jeep, one at me—I plow my left arm through the rig's windshield, popping it free and sending it sliding down the engine compartment. At the same time, I aim the dead raider's Tavor at them.

Oddly enough, they don't seem surprised.

"Half your load or half your woman," the first Wastelander says, slouching behind the .45 caliber muzzle of a classic Desert Eagle. His partner is a mirror image. "We decide which half."

Easy choice.

"Not my load. Help yourself." I rest the Tavor on the dashboard, keeping it aimed between the two bikers. "Back door's already open."

"Put your gun down."

"Not mine either." I don't move it. A sidelong glance is all I need to see Shechara in her jeep with her 9mm out, ready for action. "Unless you've got backup, you'll want to hurry. The raiders we hijacked? Their reinforcements are on the way."

They have no response to that—other than looking at each other and sitting up straighter in their saddles. I could shoot them both right now. But one of those super-sized revolvers is pointed at Shechara, and I can't risk a knee-jerk trigger-pull. I'm sure she's got a headshot lined up, and I'm equally sure she won't take the same risk where I'm concerned.

"Deactivate the tracker," the Wastelander says, proud of himself. Problem solved, he thinks.

So, he doesn't have any backup.

"Would if I could. Don't have a scanner." I shrug. "We've got all kinds of good stuff up for grabs. What're you waiting for?"

They look at each other again, skulls gaping. Then, in unison, they pivot their muzzles skyward and raise their other hands as if to say no harm, no foul.

"Aw, they don't want a fight," Shechara says on my radio.

I keep the Tavor pointed their way. "Change your minds?"

Both Wastelanders holster their giant revolvers and nod to me, pushing with their boots to back up their bikes. They stop once my path is clear again.

"See you in Stack," says the second one.

Wouldn't surprise me if they were able to speak telepathically to each other. Stranger things have happened on this continent.

Revving their motors, they swing their bikes around 180 degrees in an impressive display of road warrior skills and tear off in the direction we're headed.

"That was weird," Shechara says.

"Those types usually are." I release the parking brake.

"I couldn't see them lying in wait."

"They were hiding behind solid rock. Far as I know, you don't have x-ray vision, Sweetness."

"I should have noticed something. Heat signatures."

"Don't let it get to you. All kinds of uncanny abilities are sprouting up these days."

"Maybe." She doesn't sound convinced.

We cover the next four klicks without any raider or Wastelander sightings. When the three Stack sentries eventually stop us with hands raised in the universal gesture for halt and their rifles aimed at the ground, we comply.

"Samson? Been a while." I recognize Barrett, the leader of the pack, by his voice and build. Like Shechara and me, he's got his head and every other patch of skin covered. Unlike the Wastelanders, he doesn't sport any bones, armor, or feathers. "You got something to trade?"

He approaches my door and waves amiably at Shechara parked behind me.

"Believe so." I nod over my shoulder. "You wouldn't happen to have a scanner on you?"

He signals one of his compadres, and the sentry retrieves a device from under his jacket. As I figured, they make a habit of examining anything headed into Stack. Without a word, he holds the scanner out toward the tractor-trailer and starts walking along the side, headed toward the back.

"You got one of 'em." Barrett nods toward my passenger.

"His choice."

"Thought you might lead his friends our way?"

"Figured you could take 'em."

Barrett leans his head to one side, weighing my answer. "Or we could turn you away."

"Fifty-fifty chance, as I saw it."

The trailer reverberates with thuds from the sentry's boots as he hops inside, hunting for that tracking device. I have a feeling Shechara is keeping her eye on him. And her 9mm, just out of sight. Can't be too careful with anybody these days.

I make out the faint, high-pitched beep of the scanner as it closes in on its target. Hidden somewhere underneath all those crates back there.

"Maybe you don't like the arrangement we have with the raiders?" Barrett says.

"Figured you had some kind of deal."

"Fifty-fifty." There's a smile in his tone. "Half of everything we scavenge goes to them. In return, they leave us alone to scratch out our existence." He turns as the sentry with the scanner approaches. The guy holds a tracker in the palm of his hand. "Deactivated?"

The sentry nods. Then he tosses the device up to me. I catch it in my left hand, metal clinking against metal. Keeping my goggles trained on him, I crush the thing to pieces and let them rain onto the ground. Now there's no doubt about it.

"Here's how you're going to proceed," Barrett says. "Drive