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

everything is pitch black. Outside, the sounds of Stack's loyal residents putting out the fire continue. Funny they didn't expect us to lend a hand. Probably because the work Tullson has in store for us tomorrow will be the more back-breaking variety. Or the unsavory. I don't even want to guess what it might entail.

I lie back on my bunk and close my eyes. Open or closed, the average human wouldn't be able to see a hand in front of one's face in here. But I've got this special night-vision ability. So if I want to stop counting the furrows in the steel ceiling and think things through, my eyes have to be shut.

If Samson and Shechara are on their own, just looking out for themselves, and if there's nothing worth scavenging west of here, it makes sense that our paths would cross eventually. After gunning down Willard, I kept to myself, covering the range between Sectors 30 and 35. I didn't return to the Homeplace with everybody else. I couldn't.

Not after causing that mess in Eden.

While Luther and the others were topside handing over the incubation units to Bishop's people, I was underground, chasing down Perch. I wanted to end him the same way I'd ended his boss—by emptying an entire clip into his torso and head.

Perch always struck me as a witless neanderthal who got off on hurting people. He never seemed to have much going on between the ears, besides hate and a loathsome personality. So imagine how surprised I was when he succeeded in trapping me inside. Sealing off the exits, he turned the hunter into prey. Once he showed the Eden Guard what I'd done to Captain Willard, they came after me frothing with vengeance and would have killed me, had Milton and Samson not intervened.

It was a bloodbath.

Our people and Eden's paid a high price for my revenge, but Perch survived. We managed to make it out of there, suffering multiple casualties as the men of Eden fired endless rounds after our retreat. They refused to follow us outside, so once we made it topside, we were relatively safe. Only seven of us. Down from more than twenty.

Because of me. The darkness inside. My hate.

Good people died that day, and I couldn't face those who remained. Like a coward, I ran off through the ruins and hid until Milton's flyovers eventually ended and Luther's voice calling out my name faded away beneath the howling wind.

Shechara says he misses me. But Luther misses who I used to be. His ally. His friend. This person I am now? I barely recognize her anymore.

Maybe I miss me, too.

I pour the last drops from the flask down my throat and savor the smoky burn. Outside, the commotion settles as the flames go out. Inside, from beyond the flimsy partition-walls, low thuds of footsteps and the murmur of conversation seeps through cracks along the floor and ceiling. Nothing I can't sleep through.

Is this your doing? I ask the Rehana-spirit, wherever she is. Doubtful that she'll make an appearance in this cargo container. Her kind isn't able to move through human-made materials. If the floor was covered in dust or dirt, that would be a different matter. Did you bring us together?

I want to stay with Shechara, and yes, even Samson, but part of me knows I can't. If they stick with me, I'll put them in danger. There's the bounty on my head to contend with as well as the intangible sense that I've been cursed with bad luck. Tonight's as good an example as any: under house arrest with a guard standing right outside the door.

An ear-splitting explosion interrupts my thoughts as the shipping container reverberates. The bunk bed sways and slams back against the wall. Screams pierce the night outside, cut short by yet another blast.

The dark interior of the container glows with a ghostly blue aura in my special night-vision. I launch myself from the bunk and land between Samson's metal legs as both he and Shechara sit up and blink at me. She can see in the dark as well as I can with those eye implants, and Samson shares my gift from the spirits.

A siren wails. Mandatory evacuation.

"Under attack," Samson states the obvious.

"The UW?" Shechara asks.

No way to know. "This is our ticket out of here. We take one of their vehicles, and we don't look back."

Samson and Shechara glance at each other and nod grimly. Maybe they don't like the idea of running away. Or stealing. Too bad. They're riding with me now.

I kick open the door to find our guard has abandoned her post. Not surprising. Outside, fresh fire lights up the night as dark figures run in every direction. Screams and automatic weapons fire compete with the wailing siren. Dirt bikes rip to and fro, grinding and chugging, kicking up dust in their wakes.

So, not UW raiders. Marauders have hit Stack.

"Wastelanders." Samson curses as he steps outside, scowling at the mayhem.

They're well-armed. At least three of the shipping containers-turned-makeshift buildings lie in smoking ruin, pulverized by the same sort of missile that took out the raiders' big rig. Same telltale craters in the earth surrounding each impact zone.

A dirt bike skids around the corner adjacent to us, and the rider cackles behind his ridiculous skull-mask and feathers, heading straight for us. He revs his motor as he raises the assault rifle slung over his shoulder and shrieks, "Half your load or half your woman!"

Samson steps past Shechara and me to meet the marauder head-on. The cyborg's arms pivot as he walks, transforming from metal hands to lethal blades.

"Find us a ride," he rumbles. "I'll catch up."

Shechara lurches forward, drawing her semiautomatic as if planning to join him. But I grab hold of her and swing her around the corner. I keep her ahead of me and glance over my shoulder just as the marauder releases a burst of automatic fire. The rounds ricochet off Samson's blade-arms with sparks of light. A