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

It's really insane, when I think about it: the four of us driving full-speed toward wherever the daemons come from, our only defense being two rifles, a knife, and the superhuman gifts we possess. We have no idea how many of them there are or what other weapons they might possess. Odds are we'll be killed and eaten—hopefully in that order.

But we're not alone.

"You don't know what we're up against, Luther. It's too soon to take our only vehicle and weapons to face these creatures. If they overtake you, we'll be right back where we started." Plato shook his head, seated cross-legged beside me. "It's rash."

Luther regarded him with a steady gaze across the circle. He'd called this meeting early in the morning after I'd woken him.

"I understand your concern, my friend. We'll be careful, believe me. But we won't be alone." He looked at me, his eyes bright with hope. "Daiyna has heard from the spirits."

Plato dropped his gaze. I knew he wouldn't like what I had to say. Of them all, he was the least supportive of the belief that spirits of the earth existed. He had even more difficulty believing that they could communicate, and that they chose to do so with me alone.

I cleared my throat, glancing at Shechara beside me. She nodded, encouraging me to speak. "They'll go with us. We have nothing to fear." I faltered. "That's what they told me, anyway."

"Nothing to fear?" Plato pointed across the cavern toward where Milton lay. "Didn't one of your spirits do that to him? How can we trust anything they say?"

I looked him in the eye. "I don't know if we can."

"We can." Luther sounded confident. "Daiyna is their vessel, and they've chosen to join us in our journey east. I say that bodes well."

Plato cursed under his breath. "Where's the logic in that, Luther? Are you listening to yourself? None of this makes any sense, yet you're so willing to believe it!" He faced me. "They told you to rescue Milton, right? When that sandstorm was attacking him? Why would they do that, then make him try to kill himself later?"

I had no answer. I could have argued semantics, that it might have been the good spirits who told me to rescue Milton and it was now an evil one inside him. But I wondered if there was really any distinction between the voice that spoke to me and the force that attacked Rehana, or the entity that chased Milton when I first came upon him. None of it made any sense.

"You must believe, my friend." Luther's voice was calm and quiet, in contrast to Plato's angst. "We're living in a different world now, and there's much about it we don't fully understand. We must have faith—"

"In what exactly, Luther? These spirits? This Creator you're always talking about? Where would you have us direct our faith?" Plato rose, leaving us without another word.

There's no sign that the spirits are with us now. Tens of kilometers away from the safety of our caves, this sun-scorched earth reminds us how alone we are.

Maybe we should have waited. We could have ambushed a few more of the daemons' hunting parties, taken more vehicles and weapons. Hunted the hunters in stronger numbers. But if we come upon a hundred of the daemons, armed, hungry, and waiting, it won't matter either way. Likewise if spirits of the earth decide to attack us with rocks and sand, it won't matter how prepared we are.

I can only hope there are good spirits with us now, and that they'll protect us on this journey as they said they would.

Maybe I shouldn't have woken Luther and told him. But he's made it clear he wants to know every time I hear the spirits' voice. He seems obsessed, always asking if I've heard anything. Maybe he wishes the spirits would speak to him as well. I'd gladly let him or anyone else take this ability from me. I don't know why I was chosen. Of us all, Luther is the most spiritual. He should be the spirits' vessel. I've never been one to care about the supernatural, and since D-Day, the idea of anything remotely spiritual has been the furthest thing from my mind.

Samson takes us over the lip of a large crater, and we plunge headlong toward its bottom. He laughs out loud while the rest of us hold on with all our strength. I grit my teeth to keep from biting off my tongue. We're thrown back against our seats as he accelerates up the opposite side of the crater, and we sail through the air for a moment, clearing the rim and landing hard, skidding sideways on the chunky tires. Samson pounds the dashboard with his fist, obviously delighted with himself.

Luther needs to reel him in. He's going to get us killed.

"Let's avoid the craters as much as possible, shall we?" Luther's voice emerges clearly through his head covering. His claws have extended through the holes in his gloves, digging into the dashboard.

"My bad." Samson's chuckle is as deep as thunder. "Just wanted to see how much power this thing's got!"

"I believe we've tested its limits sufficiently."

They make an odd pair: the well-built intellectual and the hairy Neanderthal. But they seem as close as blood brothers. Samson, despite being bigger and stronger, always defers to Luther.

"Up there." Luther points ahead to a bluff on the left, his claws retracting. "That should provide a good vantage point."

Samson nods, steering the jeep in that direction. He guns the engine as we top the rise, then slams on the brake once we reach the plateau, jerking us forward. We collect ourselves as the dust clears.

"First stop, folks." Samson hauls himself out of the driver's seat as we exit the vehicle. "A whole lot of nothing!"

Always in high spirits. So obnoxious.

But he's right. There's nothing ahead of us that we haven't already left behind: more