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

and blinks out of sight. I take off running, veering south, climbing, leaping over every obstacle in my path. I glance back for any sign of pursuit, any tracks made by bare feet through the dust.

Tossing caution to the wind, I sprint down the middle of a mangled street. Too much time has been wasted already. I can't allow fear to slow me down. If the daemons show themselves, I'll take out as many as I can with this gun and out-maneuver the rest. Mid-stride, I check the chamber, the magazine. Six rounds left. Better than a chunk of concrete.

The sky glows brighter, anticipating dawn's arrival. A new day is coming.

So much has happened in the last twenty-four hours. Yesterday at this time, I awoke with a message from the spirits. We had nothing to fear. We were to travel east and, in so doing, leave our brothers and sisters to be slaughtered in the caves. They're all dead, Milton told us. How can I make any sense of that? Do the spirits want to destroy us? Why won't they speak to me now?

Their silence is as unsettling as the first time they spoke to me. No, this is worse. It makes me wonder if it was all in my head to begin with. Hearing voices—not the sort of thing usually associated with a healthy psyche. Maybe I'm like Tucker. Over the edge, unable to deal with my own survivor's guilt.

They say when you've lost your mind, you're the last one to know about it. Who are they? I must have read it in the bunker database.

So if I'm completely out of my mind, and if there are no spirits of the earth who've been guiding me all this time, then everything is my fault. The attack on the caves, our getting stranded, the disappearance of Shechara, Luther, Samson. The only reason they came here in the first place was because of that voice I heard. A voice that no longer exists.

My eyes start to sting, and I curse. Tears trickle down my cheeks and cling to the inside of my head covering. My lungs shudder, but I don't slow down. I can't. A short sob escapes me before I can stifle it. When was the last time I wept like this? What the hell is wrong with me?

Rays of morning sunlight illuminate the thick layer of dust and ash that covers the ruins around me, making them shine like the broken remains of a celestial city. The blue haze of my night-vision fades, and now everything is tinted by the goggles I wear. I can only imagine how golden the sun must look to the naked eye. I can almost remember it. I focus on that memory until the tears stop trickling. I take a deep breath as my boots beat a steady rhythm across the ground.

Less than a kilometer ahead, the street dissolves into an expanse of desert sand. The south end of the city. I'm getting close. I look east, then west. Where's that parking structure we found?

There they are—the charred remains of those skyscrapers, maybe two kilometers west of my current course. The farthest one, angled awkwardly, held the parking garage in its sublevels. Hope stirs within me. I'm close now, so close. I will find them.

"With or without your help," I mutter—either to the spirits or to my own psychosis.

A bullet skids across the crumpled pavement a meter in front of me as a firearm reports from the right. Adrenaline floods my system with a jolt. I leap sideways and back, finding cover behind a frozen puddle of plastic and steel that might have been a large commuter vehicle at one time. I grip Tucker's gun with both hands, ready to take out the first daemon to rear its lumpy head.

Grunts echo as boots crunch toward me from the other side of the street. At least three of the creatures, from the sound of things. Strange they didn't hit me; they're usually better shots. Maybe they're not as good with moving targets. Or they're not completely awake yet. Regardless, they know where I am now. I'll have to make each bullet count.

A loud grunt becomes a garbled cry cut short. Something clatters to the ground. Shots are fired, but not at me. Then everything is still, silent.

I risk a quick glance over the mound providing my cover. Three daemons lie in the street, two shot dead. The third's head is on backwards, its weapon missing. I frown as one of its boots disappears into thin air, then the other. Its legs jostle as the footwear is tugged free.

"You followed me." I stand, the gun down at my side. I don't know if I should be glad or annoyed. My gaze drifts across the daemons' bodies.

Boots scuffle, sounding like he's putting them on, buckling them up. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't even mutter to himself.

"Thanks." I gesture lamely at the fresh corpses.

"I can't take you into that parking garage," Tucker's voice comes from the empty space beside the barefoot daemon. "They've got infrared and thermoptic scanners set up in there. They'll see me."

"They?"

"The naturals. I told you about 'em. But I know another way in, east of here. I can take you there, and we can look for your friends."

What more does he have to do to earn my trust? Why am I so reluctant? I can't shake the feeling that something isn't right—with him, with me... I don't know.

"All right." I pause. "But tell me more about these naturals."

The boots shuffle, making tracks toward me, before they stop beside the other two daemons. Their fallen weapons—short-barreled rifles with large clips—vanish. "Ain't safe up here now." His boot prints approach me. Cold steel bumps against my arm. He appears briefly, like a flickering image in a failing holo-emitter. "Take it. Looks like an Uzi—submachine gun, automatic. Plenty of ammo."

I fumble with the weapon as it appears in my gloved hands, then I shoulder it by