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

addition to the raiders' trucks, the skiffs transporting scavenged items, and the freighters loading up the plunder, there are also makeshift buildings set back from the shore, large enough to be warehouses, as well as a series of tent-like structures that could be living quarters. Three earth-moving vehicles carry loads of dirt to one structure in particular, where it's offloaded by raiders who shovel the stuff into bags.

"Hold on—" Samson can't believe what he's hearing. "They're stealing our dirt now?"

Shechara shrugs. "I'm just telling you what I see."

"Don't they think it's contaminated?" I wonder.

I'm willing to bet they have their domed cities sealed off completely, with the ground covered by something human-made—either concrete or artificial turf. It makes no sense that they'd want our dirt for anything at all.

Confused, we return to our bikes and wait out the day's scorching heat. The temperature always seems hotter when you're not driving or riding, creating your own breeze. But we handle it like the desert veterans we are, and when night falls along with the temperature, we load the gear we need onto our backs—weapons, ammo, hydro, rations—and leave the rest behind, strapped to the dirt bikes.

We keep our heads on a swivel as we approach the raiders' camp, aiming for the vicinity of the dirt-packing facility. According to Shechara, it's deserted right now. Guess you don't have to guard contaminated dirt when the whole continent is covered with the stuff.

Crossing the kilometers in silence, Samson and I scan our surroundings through gifted eyes that light up the terrain in a ghostly blue glow. Shechara's mechanical pair keep track of any movement in the distance. The skiffs and trucks have been sitting motionless ever since the sun went down, and the raiders appear to be congregating in a couple of areas, carousing now that their shifts are over. No sentries are stationed anywhere in sight.

Why have the spirits led us here? If we wanted to sneak up on raiders, we could have remained on the west coast. Our friends are nowhere to be seen.

Samson does his best to keep his clanking parts quiet. Shechara and I walk heel to toe in our boots, avoiding any sole-scuffing. This time of night and this close to shore, the dust seems content to lie still, and we don't want to disturb its rest. Sticking to the shadows, we slide between one of the dump trucks and the tent next to it, listening for any sounds of raiders nearby.

Laughter echoes from a tent in the distance where men and women too rowdy to turn in for the night drink and razz each other. Samson points at the wall of the dirt-packing tent beside us. I'd rather we stay put and get the lay of the land, but he holds up a metal index finger, signaling he'll be gone just a minute. Shechara frowns but doesn't say anything as he creeps toward the front of the tent and ducks his head. Once inside, he pokes the canvas in our direction. His way of letting us know he's all right.

Shechara grabs my arm, her eyes staring in the direction where all the carousing was going on—until a moment ago.

I see five of them. Garbed in body armor and helmets that reflect moonlight like polished obsidian, assault rifles at the ready as they step heel to toe without making a sound.

Converging on our location.

19 Samson5 Years After All-Clear

I should've been more careful.

Stepping into the tent must have triggered a silent alarm. Not because these east coast raiders find dirt valuable. There's a lot of equipment in here, most of it unidentifiable. Besides the tables, scales, and sifting trays, it's hard to tell what I'm looking at. But these people treasure it enough to send over a squad of armed gunmen to make my acquaintance.

Pivoting to face them, I hold my rifle across my chest and smile. "Good evening. Quite the setup you've got here. Let me guess: prepping for the biggest sandcastle challenge of the century?"

The lead raider barks out the usual commands to drop my weapon, get on my knees, interlock my fingers—

"What the hell?" He's noticed that I'm not exactly human. Not all of me, anyway.

It takes some work, but I manage to keep my confident smile in place as Shechara and Daiyna are escorted into the tent to kneel beside me. Both are armed, as I am—we won't be relinquishing our guns until they ask nicely. But we don't go for our weapons. Not with so many muzzles staring us in the face.

"Get a load of this!" The raider half-turns toward his squad, all four of whom face us with their weapons aimed at our heads. "We've got a couple escapees from Dome 6, looks like." He gestures at Shechara and me. "What about you?" He tilts his head toward Daiyna. "Got any mechanical parts we can't see?"

She flips him off, and he chuckles.

Figures move in the distance—raiders disturbed from their slumber staggering out into the night to see what's up. It isn't long before this side of the encampment stirs to life, all twenty-odd of them gathering around to take a look at the three oddities in the dirt processing tent.

"They're not wearing masks," one of the raiders observes. Seeing how he's the only other one to speak, I'm thinking he might be second in command.

"Noticed that," says their leader.

Uncanny how quiet they are, just staring from behind their black face shields. Even with the rifles trained on us, these raiders seem more curious than confrontational. Unlike others we've crossed paths with over the years. At least this bunch hasn't shot at us or threatened to pull off my arms and legs. A mark in their favor.

"Are you mutants?" the leader asks with an ironic edge to his tone.

"They're all gone, haven't you heard?" I nod toward my companions. "We helped get rid of them. When was that, three years ago?"

Shechara nods. Daiyna glares daggers up at the lead raider who's shaking his head