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

"Know what exactly? That these things want to eat us? I thought that was already well-established." Plato shakes his head. "You need that wound cleaned out. Come with me." He takes me by the shoulder and turns me toward the cave high above us.

I look back at Samson, and he grins, holding up three fingers. "Three rifles, too. And a jeep," he booms. "Not bad for one night, eh Luther?"

"Not bad at all, my friend." I should share his joy at our first victory in battle. We accomplished what we set out to do, and the Creator has blessed us. Not one of ours was lost.

"Shechara." Daiyna turns to her sister. "Go with Luther and Plato. Make sure no other daemons are out tonight. Take this." She hands her the daemon's fallen rifle.

Shechara nods, keeping her gaze downcast as she takes the large weapon and slings it over her shoulder by the strap. Then she moves to my side. She's been blessed with far-sight, and it was due to her gift that we knew this band of daemons was headed our way.

"Thank you for your help tonight, Shechara." I look at her, but she doesn't return my gaze. Her dark eyes remain fixed on the ground before her, waiting for us to begin our climb toward the caves. "You have a great gift. May the Creator bless you for your courage."

She stiffens, drawing back slightly.

She's attractive, as are all the women from Sector 50. Their lack of hair doesn't interfere with their beauty. Shechara tends to be quieter than most, but when I've been graced by her eyes, I've found a world of feeling behind them.

Plato leads the way up the steep grade, and I follow with Shechara close behind. I glance down at my hand, extended claws wet with the daemon's blood. I avert my gaze.

Three rifles and a solar-powered vehicle will be a great help to us. When day breaks, we'll set out in search of the creatures' place of origin. We must know how many there are, whether they have other machines, tools, or technology we could put to use.

Why do their weapons carry the UW insignia? Did they happen upon a military bunker after they emerged from their own? Or were they supplied with weapons and vehicles from the start? If so, why would the government scientists have equipped these creatures with such things and left us entirely without? We now represent three sectors—43, 50, and 51. Three separate bunkers. Not one of them was supplied with a weapon or vehicle of any sort.

Most of our supplies are nourishment packs—hydro, protein, vitamineral. We should have enough to last a year if we ration them well. In that time, with the Creator's help, we hope to make it to the northern sectors. According to the bunker database, the Preserve is an untouched wilderness sheltered from the ravages of war by some sort of energy field. I have to believe it remains, that it's still there waiting for us. To think otherwise would lead to despair.

Ironic that we have plenty of nourishment, but no weapons or vehicles that would help us in our journey north, while the daemons possess what we lack. Yet they have no food. Why else would they resort to eating the flesh of their own kind?

Perhaps they no longer think of themselves as human, if they are even capable of rational thought.

The changes in their physiology could not have happened since All-Clear. Their deformities would have taken years of exposure to the biotoxins and radioactive waste to develop. The daemons could have been on the surface longer than any of us, perhaps years. Long enough for their skin to change, for their noses, ears, and eyelids to drop off, for mucous membranes to overdevelop and coat their facial orifices against the relentless heat of this dry, barren land. The fangs and fingernails didn't grow that way; they were sharpened intentionally, proving these creatures have embraced their new identity, leaving their humanity behind. They have become something new.

We all have been changed.

"What did you have to know, Luther?" Plato casts over his shoulder as we reach the last portion of our climb. "When you insisted on speaking to that thing."

I pull myself up the rock face behind him, my hands gripping the crevice below his foot. "I had to know...they're not like us. There's no humanity left in them." He waits for me to continue. "It was because of war, brothers and sisters killing one other...that we were sent deep into the earth. Part of me wondered if we're heading down that same path." Shouldn't every life that survived D-Day be given a second chance to live? "But they're not human anymore. And if we don't destroy them, they will keep coming after us...until none of us is left."

"We must kill them all," Shechara says quietly with conviction.

The rifles and jeep are only the beginning. From this night forward, we fight back against the daemons. We will go to war.

Plato pulls himself onto the ledge and reaches down for my arm. Once I'm up beside him, we offer our hands to Shechara. She smiles slightly and swings up beside us on her own. Adjusting the rifle strap on her shoulder, she gazes out into the distance. The ashen, cratered landscape looks much like the moon's under its own light.

"Anything?" Plato turns east.

Shechara shakes her head. "Perhaps they've had enough for one night."

I hope they didn't hear their comrades die and decide to return in stronger numbers. "We should bury them."

"The daemons?" Plato faces me. "They don't deserve that. Let them rot."

"We can't allow the next hunting party to find them. They may retaliate, and we'll have lost what ground we gained tonight."

With a reluctant nod, he turns to our brother who's kept watch from the northernmost cave. "Shechara will relieve you," Plato tells him.

"You put on a good show down there," says the tall, strong man