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

"Not sure what you're breathing. The atmospheric O2 is just about depleted. Not enough plant life survived D-Day."

I shrug. "Haven't seen a tree for five years." Any growing thing, for that matter.

"If they're from Dome 6, they might have mechanical lungs or something," raider number two suggests.

"No, they're not from Eurasia." The leader slings his rifle over his shoulder and motions for the others to do the same. Which they do, without pause. Just like that, the tension of the moment eases up some. "You're from out west, aren't you?"

I nod. "What gave it away?"

"Hot damn. Five thousand klicks!" He lets out a low whistle that's slightly distorted through his helmet's external speaker. "You must be on some kind of mission."

"Dirt enthusiasts. We heard you've got the best stuff out here. Had to see for ourselves." I raise my voice so the raiders at the back of the pack can hear me, "Didn't mean to wake you."

Immovable, they stare back like a wall of statues.

I lower my arms slowly, keeping my eyes fixed on the leader. "Mind if we…" I move to rise.

"Go ahead."

We get to our feet without any sudden movements, and the raiders hold their positions. It's a silent faceoff, but oddly enough, I don't get the sense there's any impending violence. Word from their western counterparts must not have traveled this far. Apparently, no warning's been issued to be on the lookout for a large cyborg and his two beautiful traveling companions.

"So what is all this?" I keep the conversational tone that's been working so well and incline my head toward the tables and tech set up behind me.

"Classified," he says, still with an edge of humor. "Illegal is more like it. And in high demand."

"Dirt?" I just don't get it.

"Dust."

Shechara touches my arm. "You ship it to Eurasia," she says, her eyes rotating as they focus on each of the stations set up around us, cataloging each gadget and its purpose as only she can, "after it's been sifted, collected, concentrated. Packaged for distribution."

He shifts his stance. Impressed. "You see more than the average person."

"Aren't they afraid of infection? The people who use it?" she clarifies.

"What?" I'm completely lost, but she squeezes my arm gently. She's steering the conversation now, and she wants me to trust her. Can do.

"The effects are only temporary," he replies, "as long as the filtered air is pure. No lasting damage, no genetic transformation. We ran a whole battery of tests years ago to be sure. No way we'd still be in business, otherwise."

"How long have you been in operation?" Shechara probes, her voice quiet and curious.

"A couple months after All-Clear..." He glances at his second-in-command, who nods. "That's when the fluke happened."

"The fluke," I echo.

He chuckles, looking at his fellow raider. "Go on. Show them."

The other guy shrugs and steps past me, making his way toward one of the tables and picking up a small vial. He holds it between a gloved thumb and index finger. Then he pops the cap and attaches it to a valve at the bottom of his helmet, under his chin. His sudden inhalation vibrates through the external speaker, loud and clear. When he holds up the vial again, it's empty.

"So you just…" Okay. The situation is becoming clearer—and completely bizarre.

Aren't these UW people terrified of becoming infected? Isn't that why they wear these protective suits and breathe their own O2? From their point of view, our continent is a contaminated wasteland. Why would they intentionally put themselves in danger?

"Wait for it," says the leader.

His second-in-command stands still for a few moments as if digesting the dust. Then he sets down the vial and steps toward his fellow raiders, who clear a path for him. He ambles toward the shoreline, where the waves crash and slide up the wet sand, then recede like ink. He glances back and gives us a thumbs up.

Then he launches himself into the air. The raiders hoot and holler as he lands with a splash a hundred meters out to sea.

"A new record!" the leader cheers, and they all applaud.

I look at Shechara, then at Daiyna, who puts into words what all three of us are thinking, "What the hell is this?"

The raider out in the water sinks below the surface and doesn't reappear as the breakers roll in. The raiders on shore watch expectantly. So do we.

Thirty seconds pass before he explodes out of the ocean like a missile, soaring high overhead, his figure a ghostly blue form against the black sky in my night-vision. He plummets to the ground and lands in a crouch on the exact sandy spot where he first took off, his armored suit dripping with seawater.

The other raiders gather around to slap him on the back, congratulating him on his extraordinary feat. Made possible by inhaling a bit of demon dust, as Arthur Willard used to call it.

Just when I think I've seen everything on this messed-up continent. The idea of un-gifted UW types snorting a little dirt in order to perform superhuman tricks? Never crossed my mind. How do they avoid the infection they've always been so afraid of? Why don't their abilities last? Sifted, collected... and packaged for distribution—that's what Shechara said.

"Oh hell no," I growl, and the raiders turn as one to stare at me again. "You mean to tell me people in Eurasia snort this stuff to...show off for each other at parties?"

The leader chuckles. "That's about the shape of it. The wealthy and powerful always need something to battle their boredom." He takes a step toward me with his gloved hand outstretched, and I have to fight the reflex to deck him. "Alan Reinhart. Commander of the Dust Squad."

I reach forward, and he clasps my metal hand in a solid grip.

"Samson," I introduce myself without much in the way of gusto. This whole situation has me taken aback a bit.

He goes down the line, shaking hands with Shechara and Daiyna next. They introduce themselves as well, equally guarded.

"First