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

of bunk beds, a toilet, and a sink with its sickly light. Scant privacy from the other rooms, but no privacy among the three of us.

"Enjoy your stay," the sentry sneers, slamming the door behind us. She doesn't lock it from the outside, and her boots don't go anywhere.

Lucky her. She gets the first rotation of guard duty. No wonder she's so pleasant.

Samson eyes the bunks. There's no way he'll fit in either one, and he knows it.

"I'll take the floor," he offers, like he's being chivalrous or something. Grunting and grimacing, he bends his mechanical legs awkwardly and positions his feet against the door. Smart. He'll make a good doorstop. He stretches out onto his back, his metal arms down at his sides, and his eyes closed. "Wake me up if you plan on escaping."

Shechara kneels down beside his oversized head like a princess from a fairy tale, caring for a wounded ogre. She smooths back his tousled hair and rests her hand on his brow. He smiles up at her, and she smiles back, neither of them saying anything. Then she leans forward and kisses him. On the lips. He sighs contentedly, and before she reaches her bottom bunk, he's already snoring.

"Roll onto your side, Strongman," she says quietly.

He obeys, metal parts clunking against the floor. The snores subside.

"That's new." I unwrap my head covering and shrug out of my outer layers, reaching up to place them on the top bunk. "You two?"

She smiles shyly at me. "Three years now. Luther married us. He performed the ceremony, I mean."

"People still do that?" I try not to laugh. "Get married?"

"We did. It took a while for us to realize we loved each other. That we were good for each other. We shared so much… And knowing that, across the ocean, we have ten children growing up inside Eurasia—"

"So this is it." I have my 9mm in hand, and I nod toward the one she has tucked in her belt. "Two semiautomatics and a cyborg. That's how we're getting out of here."

She blinks at the sudden shift in conversation, her metal eyes expressionless. "You think we should fight them."

"We're slaves otherwise, working off however much that crane was worth."

She shakes her head. "You don't owe them anything, Daiyna."

"You do?"

"I told Samson to hijack that truck. We've never tried it before. There was just so much in the trailer, and we couldn't fit it all in my jeep." Her brow furrows. "Now we have nothing. No haul. No jeep. And Mayor Tullson will expect us to work indentured. You're right about that." She slides out of her bunk and places her hand on my arm. "But you can leave. You don't have to suffer because of our mistake."

I don't intend to. But I'll be taking them with me. I just haven't figured out how. Maybe we work for Tullson tomorrow—hell, maybe for a couple days, if they feed us well. Then once we've lulled him and his crew into a false sense of…

Shechara said something, and I missed it. "What?"

"He misses you. He said so, more than once."

I don't have to ask who she's talking about. "When was that?"

"A while ago. After we got rid of all the daemons. He was working with Milton and Sergeant Bishop. They were planning to contact the UW—"

"Idiots," I mutter. Before I realize it, the flask is in my hand, and I've downed a burning gulp of whiskey. I catch Shechara staring at me. "Want some?" There isn't much left, but I'm willing to share. Stack's saloon will be open in the morning. Maybe I'll trade a few bullets for a fresh supply.

Shechara shakes her head, her long hair swaying. "Three and a half years is a long time, Daiyna. What have you been doing out there?"

I cap the flask and set it on my bunk. "Getting by. Doing what I have to."

"We heard about the bounty…"

I laugh—then shoot a glance at Samson. He's still dead to the world.

"Nothing wakes him up short of a kick to the ribs." She smiles with affection.

"You really love him."

She nods without reservation. "I do." Then she pauses. "Luther's worried about you—"

"I don't want to talk about Luther." It stings too much to remember how I hurt him. And recalling his boundless optimism is enough to make me gag. "How about we plan our escape?"

She squeezes my arm before sliding back into her bunk and laying her head down on the pillow. She closes those incredible cybernetic eyes. "You plan your escape, Daiyna. If you're gone when I wake up, I won't blame you."

I frown. There's no way I'm leaving without her. And if she thinks she's going to sleep through any sort of escape I attempt, then she doesn't know me very well.

Time changes people. So does time apart.

Up on my bunk, I'm closest to the light, so I reach out for the pull-chain. But I pause to watch Samson for a moment, then Shechara. Both of them sound asleep. Married? Hard to imagine, but I guess this is reality. I just have to accept it.

Why aren't they still with Luther and Milton on the coast? Maybe gathering supplies is the work they've been assigned. After what happened to the Homeplace, Luther and his people lost all of their stores: food, water, weapons. I'm sure they've had to scramble and scavenge ever since.

Welcome to life in the Wastes.

So Samson and Shechara were supposed to load up their jeep and then what? Drive all the way back to the coast and divvy it up? Makes no sense. Why head this far inland?

The raiders could have already hit every stockpile west of here. They could be systematically sweeping inland from the coastline, scouring every city ruin and bunker along the way, hauling everything back to their ships on the Pacific. If I remember my geography correctly, their return voyage would take them south, then through the Panama Canal, and onward across the Atlantic to Eurasia.

I pull the chain, and instantly