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

hundred meters and closing." She rests her hand on my shoulder. "We should swing back toward the main road. Include the raiders in this little meet-up."

Not a bad idea. The enemy of our enemy is someone who may not try to kill us right away. Or something like that. I adjust our course toward the southwest.

"You still in touch with the spirits?" I ask Daiyna.

"Whether I want to be or not," she replies, sounding more exhausted than ever.

"Mind asking them to contact Milton?"

"You expect him to save the day?" She leans toward me, holding onto the back of my seat. "Is that how it works now? You and Shechara go off on your own, hijacking raiders and whatnot, and when you get into some trouble, you cry for help? Scream for the local superhero to rescue you?"

Her tone is bitter, her voice ragged around the edges. Like she's been drinking hard liquor day and night for a few years. Trying to dull the pain, quiet the ghosts. For her, those ghosts are literal, thanks to the spirits of the earth showing up as people from her past.

Glad I'm not somebody blessed by their presence.

"Prior to last night, we've managed to cross paths with the Wastelanders without killing any of them," I explain, taking the jeep across a rough patch that jostles all three of us fiercely in our seats. "They're not easy to get along with, but it's never gotten violent."

"Then you had to go and skewer that guy," Daiyna says.

"Seemed like the right thing to do at the time."

"Usually does." Daiyna exhales loudly. "Alright. So what are we looking at here? Territorial biker gang? Sexual deviants? Cannibals?"

"All of the above," Shechara says. "They've been building a reputation for over a year now. Filling the vacuum left by the daemons." Shechara glances at me. We both had a hand in their extermination.

"The Wastes needs its freaks," I offer. "Difference is, you can reason with these guys. Sometimes—when they aren't high as kites."

Daiyna takes that at face value, and we cut the chatter, bracing ourselves for what's to come. Shechara updates us on how close the Wastelanders are. A hundred meters, then fifty, but no missiles fired yet, not even an RPG. Maybe they don't want to kill us outright.

They want to have fun with us first. Probably Cain's idea.

So he didn't die when those UW planes rained fire down on his warriors and the collared daemons outside Eden. He was inside that Hummer at the time, riding in style. Maybe it sheltered him somewhat. But the burns he endured left him looking like some creature from an old, twentieth-century horror movie. And he didn't sound exactly sane back there in Stack, screaming something about fire and brimstone. Or judgment—that was it.

I thought he died years ago, and he hasn't crossed my mind since.

Shechara nudges me, and I glance into the rearview. The dirt bikes are spreading out, the ones at the edges speeding up as if they've been holding back until now, toying with us. They're planning to flank us on both sides before they close in. Then they'll get in front of us and start shooting.

I clench the steering wheel and swallow a curse. No sign of any raiders as we approach the main thoroughfare, almost as flat as a graded road in comparison to the rugged country we've been bouncing through. Of all the times for those UW scavengers to be nowhere in sight.

According to the battery gauge, we'll have enough power to continue at these unsafe velocities for the next five minutes, maybe ten. After that, we'll drop to impulse speed while the sun rises and the solar panels soak up as much energy as they can.

But impulse might as well be a dead stop. We'll be surrounded by Wastelanders, and we'll have nowhere to go.

The ground in front of us erupts with a sudden explosion—a rocket-propelled grenade fired over our heads. I swerve to avoid the crater as sand splashes against the windshield and side windows, raining down on top of us as we cringe in our seats.

There was no time to put the roof on when we stole this thing. Had to drive it as-is. Of course, the roof would have included a few more solar panels in addition to what's mounted on the hood and doors, and that might've given us a little more juice. Live and learn.

"Warning shot," Shechara observes, and I nod.

No reason to return fire. Yet.

We've got bikers flanking our jeep now, their bleached skull-masks grinning at us instead of watching where they're going. Daiyna looks ready to send a few shots their way, but Shechara shakes her head. Daiyna shrugs, leaning back in her seat to enjoy the ride. She seems strangely detached, as if she's already made her peace with death. Almost like she welcomes it.

Well, good for her. I just hope she doesn't do anything stupid to put Shechara's life in danger. Or mine.

By the time the Wastelanders encircle us, keeping a good ten-meter buffer zone around our vehicle, the jeep's battery decides it's time to sleepwalk. No matter how hard I smash the accelerator into the floor, we won't go faster than a crawl. The dirt bikes slow down, matching our speed and maintaining their oblong circle around us. Thirteen bikes, three of which carry Wastelanders riding double, the ones in back holding shoulder-mounted missile launchers.

I brake, slowing the jeep to a stop. The bikes in front of us and at our flanks pivot, skidding their chunky tires through the dust to face us. The one nearest my window carries the scorched remains of Cain. Flamethrower nowhere to be seen, he carries a Stinger proudly on his thick-muscled shoulder.

"Samson!" he cries, his voice a frayed imitation of the zealous warlord I remember. He climbs off the back of the bike, one hand gripping the shoulder of the smaller man steering the thing, pushing down on him. "It has been too long. Where have you hidden yourself all