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

unleashed their bioweapons, only the bunkers in the southwestern Sectors had been completed and were ready for our internment. The government had to act fast, abandoning all else in favor of what was expedient. If the situation hadn't come to a head so soon, there may have been millions of survivors at All-Clear.

And more daemons than we could ever hope to deal with.

As the situation stands, we estimate there to be at least a hundred daemons in tribes scattered across the desert wastes. Sergeant Bishop says the original number would have been under a thousand. Deducting the number of daemons we've neutralized since we left the bunkers—along with those that died in the tunnel outside Eden when Willard sent a collared horde after Samson, Shechara, and myself—and those that were incinerated by the UW hoverplanes—we're left with a hundred, give or take.

From what we've seen, they never roam in groups of more than twelve, four to a jeep. But we have seen plenty of single jeeps out and about, hunting for their next meal…

My head jerks upward. Now is not the time to be nodding off. I blink and inhale the cool night air, doing my best to stay in the moment. I peer east through the rifle scope and trace the terrain we crossed on foot. No daemons are following our tracks. I glance over at Justus who's keeping a steely eye on our southern flank. Easily the oldest among the Shipyard survivors—or any of us, for that matter—he took it in stride when we told him what happened to Cain and his warriors.

"Guess that means I'm one of you now," he said. "What you've wanted for a while, isn't it? Joining forces." He winked, the skin crinkling around his eye like wax paper. "Gaia's chosen people and the infidels."

Meeting him for the first time, I couldn't help but be reminded of Rip, the oldest member of our Sector 51 brotherhood. Killed by daemons when they attacked our first cave refuge, farther inland.

When I think back to that series of caves we occupied, survivors from Sectors 50 and 51 finally living together after so long apart, the memory morphs into the Homeplace, as if the older images have been overwritten by the new. I try to remember the twinkle in Rip's eye, and instead I see Justus, whom I've known for only a few weeks. I knew Rip for twenty years.

Two decades from now, what will my memories be like? Will I even remember this moment? Crouched up here behind this rock, holding this rifle, keeping watch in silence as the stars shine above and the night's chill creeps into my bones. How many of us will still be alive? Will we survive the next few weeks?

I glance at Samson, facing north. His remark earlier today about the Canaanites gave me pause. The God of Israel commanded his chosen people to wipe out the native inhabitants of the Promised Land. They were idolaters who sacrificed their own firstborn children, and despite multiple warnings, they would not change their ways. So when judgment eventually came, they were annihilated.

I have always found that genocide difficult to reconcile with the New Testament scriptures, which are concerned with going out into the world and sharing the Good News that God is love, and He made a way for us to spend eternity with Him: through Jesus Christ paying the price for our sins. What about the Canaanites? Was there no redemption for them?

Perhaps the lesson is to get right with God before it is too late—before the ax of judgment falls.

The daemons were men and women, once. Some of them may have shared my beliefs. Not many do in Eurasia these days, according to Sergeant Bishop; but throughout history, there has always been a remnant of true believers. Followers of the Way, the Truth, and the Life.

What happened to the human souls the daemon bodies once carried? When we exterminate them, will we be freeing them from the torment of their daily lives? Or are they so far gone that they don't remember who they once were and can't comprehend what they've become?

Without warning, dust blasts upward as Milton lands in our midst, causing those in their bedrolls to cough and curse quietly, turning away from him.

"Sorry," he whispers, crouching sheepishly and making his way to my side.

"Anything?" I look up at him.

He shakes his head. "I'll try again before first light. You'd think all those explosions on the coast would've scared them inland. Figured there would be more than a few nests to spot from the air." He shrugs. "Zilch so far."

"What about the northwestern ruins?"

"I'll check them out tomorrow. Didn't want to get too far ahead. You know, in case you needed me or something." He unwraps his head covering, releasing his shaggy hair.

"Good thinking." I give him half a smile, but it fades when I notice his worried look. "What is it?"

"Probably nothing." He pauses. "But it's weird, right? How a few daemons have been parking half a klick out and watching the Homeplace? Like they know better than to approach, but they're thinking about it anyway."

I nod. "That's one of the reasons we're out here."

"Yeah. What are the other reasons again?"

"The UW may never permit us to enter their domed city, but that doesn't mean they intend to abandon us here. If we remove the daemon threat, they will be more likely to interact with us. Perhaps even send us food and supplies without fear of having their helicopters shot down."

"You're a very optimistic person." Milton leans back against a boulder and closes his eyes. "Has anybody ever told you that?"

"Once or twice." I pat him on the shoulder. "Get some rest. We'll need you in the air again soon."

"Roger that." He nods, interlocking his fingers across his abdomen. It isn't long before he's snoring quietly.

I have a difficult time remembering the Milton I first met over a year ago. He was a different person then. The spirits played