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

up blueprints of this entire substructure and overlay them in real time. Instead, I have memories bubbling to the surface that make no sense whatsoever.

Erik mentioned two names that meant nothing to me before: Tucker and Margo. But now I sense some kind of connection to them both. I don't see any faces in my mind's eye, but I feel something. Friendship? Loyalty? Directed toward me from each of them. They cared about me and Erik. They cared what happened to us.

"Enforcer Chen," the security clone's hollow voice calls after me. By the sound of it, holding position at the gate was not a priority. It's following me instead. "I cannot allow you to continue along this course of action. You are placing yourself in danger. Please stay where you are, and I will join you. Together, we will apprehend the fugitive and escort him to police headquarters."

A dark figure lands on the walkway right in front of me, one hand gripping my assault rifle and forcing the muzzle toward the ground, the other pulling me into a tight side-embrace.

"So I'm a fugitive now," Erik says into my ear.

I twist the rifle, shining the flashlight up into his eyes. He flinches, and I drive my boot into his shin. With a garbled cry, he releases both me and my weapon and stumbles away.

"Enforcer Chen, are you in danger?" The clone approaches, its boots smacking the pavement as it jogs my way.

"Halt!" I yell at it, and it does what I say. What a concept. I shine the light at Erik's chest. "Were you hanging from the ceiling?"

He shrugs. "Impressed?"

Exasperated is more like it. "If I have to put you in shackles, I will."

"Think back to the person you were twenty-four hours ago. Before we met."

Before my life became an incomprehensible mess. "Why?"

"Imagine eighteen other people out there, exactly the same age as us. Nine of them your brothers and sisters, nine of them mine. All of them with no idea who they really are or where they came from." He takes a step toward me. "Don't you think they deserve to know? What they're capable of? What our government has been using them for?"

You know where they are...and you're going to find them, I think at him. To turn their lives inside out, like you did mine.

"To introduce them to the truth." He gives me half a grin. Join me, Sera.

I glance over my shoulder at the clone, silent and still in the darkness. Then I lower my voice as I turn back to Erik.

"First tell me about Tucker and Margo."

9 Samson5 Years After All-Clear

Dawn breaks behind us as we race across the desert, going as fast as the jeep can manage along this uneven terrain. Best to stay off the raiders' well-beaten path, and if any Wastelanders want to follow us, they'll have to work for it.

Shechara hears them first and turns around in her seat to look back, her eyes doing that thing they do when she zooms in on details too far away for anybody else to see—without binoculars. Those metal spheres in her sockets are made of overlapping parts that swivel and slide across one another, glinting under the sun.

I keep my foot on the accelerator and glance into the rearview mirror, squinting through the screen of dust in our wake. Morning light glows across the eastern horizon, scaring off the stars and painting the sky twilight's violet-indigo. Worth stopping and admiring if you're not on the run from a pack of desert freaks.

The grinding motors of their dirt bikes reach my ears before I see their dark forms emerge from the gloom, a dozen of them riding full-speed after us. Some of them take the opportunity to jump their bikes into the air and pose with an arm or leg outstretched before landing. They sure know how to have a good time while hunting their prey.

If I had to guess, I'd say they finished off Stack and got bored. Raping, killing, and pillaging provides only so much in the way of entertainment. They needed something else to keep their hopped-up minds busy. That charred monstrosity formerly known as Cain—not sure what to think of that yet—must have told them about our escape, and they all decided to track us down.

So here we are. With morning on the way and too many Wastelanders for my liking about to overtake us.

Half a dozen, we could deal with. But I'm not optimistic about our current chances. Particularly if these freaks are well-armed. The missiles that hit Stack could have come from a Stinger. If any of the dirt bikes at our six are carrying a Wastelander with a shoulder-mounted rocket launcher, and if they're able to lock onto us with its guidance systems, then we are toast.

But I'm not about to give up. This jeep still has some juice, and I'm squeezing the batteries for all they've got. Shechara and Daiyna are both armed, and I've got the Uzi I took off that Wastelander—not to mention a few tricks up my metal arms. If push comes to shove, we'll take out half of them and then see how we do with the ones left over.

"Thirteen bikes," Shechara reports, her 9mm in hand and pointed at the floorboard.

"Lucky thirteen," I mutter.

"You've had trouble with these guys before, I take it?" Daiyna has drawn her semiautomatic as well.

"You haven't?" I glance at her in the rearview.

She looks different than the last time I saw her. Skinny, unhealthy, pale. Her eyes move around a lot, and she has trouble sitting still. Her short hair is choppy; looks like she hacked at it with a knife. Shechara's overjoyed to see her, to be with her. I hope Daiyna has the presence of mind not to break her sister's heart by disappearing from her life again anytime soon.

"I've been living like a hermit," she explains, "doing my best to avoid people like this."

"Good idea." Shechara's eyes are focused on our pursuers. "Two