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

in the tunnel. "But you're too smart for this, Luther. I would've thought you had it all figured out. Maybe I gave you too much credit. You are just a breeder, after all. The only brains you've got dangle between your thighs."

Lights glare white hot all around us, and we squint in their sudden brilliance, stumbling to a halt. A heavy creak rumbles behind us. We turn in time to see a solid steel blast door drop from the roof of the tunnel and slide into place, groaning as the locking mechanism holds it securely, shutting us out of the dome. We stand rooted, glancing at the door, at the lights above us, at the darkness beyond their range. What's Willard doing? Why would he want to keep us from going back? Returning to Eden is the furthest thing from our minds.

Then Shechara gasps, staring into the pitch black beyond the lights.

Willard chuckles on the speaker mounted over the blast door. "I really wish this was a two-way radio. I'm sure you've got all manner of choice words for me right about now. But maybe you should just listen instead."

He pauses, and from the darkness I begin to hear the shuffle of approaching footsteps. Too many to count.

"What the...?" Samson scowls into the black and grips his rifle.

"They're coming." Shechara's voice is hoarse as she backs toward the blast door, her eyes unblinking.

Another chuckle from the speaker. "You'll probably hate me for this, but... It wasn't really the east tunnel the mutos breached."

Samson stares at me, his features slack as a multitude of guttural sounds emerge from the darkness. The footsteps increase their pace. They'll be upon us in moments. I shove the pistol into my belt and flex my fingers, breathing a quick prayer as my claws extend.

"Well, good luck to you all. I'd say God be with you, but I don't think he much favors your kind. Anyhow, these are the same bunch that ate up all your friends, so feel free to show 'em no mercy. For as long as you can, that is." The speaker clicks off, cutting his chuckle short.

"There are so many..." Shechara cringes against the steel door, unable to bear what only her eyes can see.

"Let them come," Samson rumbles, clenching his jaw.

"God be with us," I manage as a sickening chill snakes down my back.

The daemons emerge from the shadows and jerk strangely in the light, unable to blink their lidless eyes. They shield them with deformed hands and stagger toward us, grunting and shrieking in a wild rage, jaws snapping hungrily. Samson fires his rifle and the first line of creatures falls flailing to the tunnel floor. Their limbs look skeletal, rags hanging loosely on narrow shoulders, ribcages protruding through charred flesh. The stains of fresh blood are absent, as are any weapons.

Samson wastes no time and fires again, dropping another line. Shechara fires her weapon and takes down a few more. But they keep coming, and we won't be able to shoot them all. There are too many. And from the sound of it, more are on the way.

I step forward as one of them launches itself into the air to avoid the barrage of weapons fire. It stares at me like a starving animal as it descends, fangs chomping in anticipation of its first course. I thrust my hand into its throat, and my claws pierce straight through. The yellow eyes remain fixed on me as its warm blood gurgles, flowing over my hand. The daemon convulses before its head drops limply to the side. I let it fall and watch it lie still, my eyes immediately drawn to the blinking light at the base of its neck. I lean forward, sure I must be seeing things. But there it is: a pulsing pinpoint of red light, almost hidden by the flap of human hide the daemon wears. The miniscule bulb blinks once more before it fades out.

Samson drops the rifle and grabs his handgun, able to dispatch two more daemons before the weapon is emptied and cast aside. Then he tightens his fists, cracking his knuckles, prepared to use all that he has left: the strength he's been given by the spirits. He will exact as much damage as he can with his bare hands.

Where are the spirits now? Will they fight with us? Or have we been abandoned here?

I toss Willard's pistol to Shechara. "Save a round."

She nods, stuffing it into her belt and quickly aiming her rifle to take down the last daemons she can before the magazine clicks empty. Then she grips the weapon like a club with both hands. I step beside her and plant my feet. We don't plan to make it easy for these creatures to feed on us.

Recognizing we're now unarmed, the daemons surge forward en masse, their bulging eyes finally accustomed to the light. Sharp fangs gnash out a syncopated rhythm as they advance. The ones foolish enough to attack Samson outright are no match for his strength. He crushes their skulls against each other and uses their limp bodies to beat back the ones following close behind. Those that manage to avoid his radius of mayhem quickly find themselves slashed and gutted by the sharp talons I've been gifted with. I show no mercy.

Blood sprays in all directions, all I can taste and smell. The thick, coppery stench sickens me, but I don't stop. I can't. We have to survive. We'll paint this tunnel in a fresh coat of crimson if we must. But my muscles begin to ache in the face of such overwhelming odds. We won't be able to hold them off indefinitely. There are far too many.

"Luther!" Samson shouts, and I notice he's stacking the bodies of the daemon corpses as they fall around him. "Send 'em this way!"

I tear through two more throats and shove the dead daemons toward his bloody pile. Undoubtedly putting into practice a lesson learned from his studies of warfare, he's