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

little motors and kick up plumes of dust in our wakes, taking off at double-speed in the same direction as before—thanks to the compass Samson carved out of the big rig's dashboard.

The sight of a man his size riding a motorcycle is comical, enough to keep Shechara and me giggling for a while. He has to hunch over and pull his metal knees up like an adult trying to ride something meant for a child.

The laughter feels...good. Like I'm exercising muscles that have almost atrophied. Once we recover from the hilarious sight of our friendly cyborg on wheels, I find that I can breathe easier. Deeper. My head feels clearer.

But that could be due to lower blood alcohol levels. When we packed up the bikes, I didn't bother to take a bottle or few. Didn't top off my flask, either. It's still two-thirds full, and I haven't opened it for the past week. Not a single sip.

Not even when the Willard-spirit shows up.

"We say jump, and you don't even bother asking how high?" he sneers at me, floating beside my dirt bike. His scrawny arms are crossed like a malevolent genie's. "You'd do anything we ask, wouldn't you?"

I shake my head. I've never spoken to this apparition, not since he started appearing to me three and a half years ago. I had nothing to say to him then, and I don't now. I wait for him to morph into Mother Lairen, which he usually does, sooner or later. Just requires a little patience. And time is one thing I have in abundance.

"I'm proud of her," the Rehana-spirit says, floating on my other side. "You trust us, Daiyna. After all you've been through, all that we've put you through. You still listen."

"I trust you," I murmur, not loud enough for Shechara or Samson to hear over the noise of the bikes. "You've always played straight with me. So how about you tell me where exactly we're going?"

"Hold this heading, due east, and you'll get there." Rehana smiles. "Then you'll help us get where we need to be."

Before I have a chance to ask what the hell that's supposed to mean, both spirit manifestations dissolve into the hot air from whence they came. Helpful as ever.

Without the big rig, we can't take turns sleeping, so we make camp at nightfall and keep watch in shifts. Not that there's anything to keep watch for. Not yet, anyway. For the past three thousand kilometers, there hasn't been a single soul. But I'm sure that will change once we reach the coast.

I didn't realize riding the bike would make me so saddle sore, and it doesn't get much better over the next few days. I notice Shechara standing on her bike as she rides, giving her rear end a rest, and I try that for a while. Should've thought of it sooner. Samson has locked his metal legs at an angle that keeps him hovering above the seat. I point it out to Shechara, and we start laughing at him all over again. He's too busy leading the charge to notice.

Three and a half years ago, I tolerated him. Now? Maybe it's because he's Shechara's husband, but I've started thinking of him as family. The kind you actually feel some affection for.

Damn. All the crust is melting off my heart like wax.

Strange to think I've been self-medicating for so many years that I've lost track of the woman hiding inside. But really, I've been hiding my feelings longer than that. Ever since Mother Lairen and the other sisters turned against me following that first daemon attack, I've had to bury my emotions and fight to survive. What happened in Eden formed another rock-hard layer of survival instinct. Then when I killed Willard, part of me cracked, and I had to find something to fill in the gaps—to keep myself together. The whiskey did that for a while. But it also clouded my mind, made me think I didn't care. When deep down, the real me kept right on caring.

Leaning on the left grip of my dirt bike, I reach under my tunic and retrieve the flask. I unscrew the cap one-handed and hold it under my head covering. Just a whiff of the stuff inside brings back a lot of memories, most of them blurry. More like a feeling: dark, comfortable, safe. But also sad. Pathetic.

I cap the flask and toss it over my shoulder. I don't watch it go. I don't hear it hit the ground and bounce until it finds its final resting place. It served its purpose. Time to move on.

There's a lot of time to get lost in your own thoughts when you're riding through monotonous desert terrain. You've got to watch out for craters and rocks and patches of soft sand that will throw the bike off its game, but I can do that with half my brain. With the other half, I mull over what I'm going to say to Luther.

I have a few options, and they're all terrible:

Hey there, stranger. Miss me?

Been a while. What're you up to these days?

Hi, Luther. It's me, Daiyna. So...guess who fired that missile at the Homeplace?

My thoughts drift back to a moment in the caves, when those of us from Sectors 50 and 51 were sleeping separately to avoid the possibility of bringing new life into this messed-up world. Luther and I had noticed a couple who seemed sweet on each other. We agreed it was wise, at least until we dealt with the daemon problem, not to allow procreation. But after seeing these two together… I may have given them night watch duties with a direct line of sight on each other. When Luther called me on it, I admitted nothing. But I couldn't help smiling.

Another memory resurfaces: my reunion with Luther in Eden after his claws had been torn out of his hands, and my egg cells had been surgically removed. We embraced, and in that moment, I wanted to