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

him. He cracks it in one of his big hands. Instantly, the darkness is chased away by a sickening green light that illuminates more bodies to sidestep...so many. Men, women, mutants. A hideous massacre.

"What a mess," he mutters, cursing.

No one could have survived this. What was it—two days ago? A week? They said I was in a coma, that I'd been shot. My hand drifts to my chest. I feel fine now. Maybe I do heal faster now with my superspeed.

I unfasten my face shield and pocket it once I'm out of the sun's reach. Jackson does the same, covering his nose and mouth by reflex. It's bad in here, but I deserve to smell it. I should have to suffer for this.

"Which way?" He glances at me.

"Straight. There's another cavern, larger. Through that passage." Where they slept, where I woke up when they were under attack. When Plato thought I'd help defend their home. "I thought there was an avalanche, that there was no way in or out."

"There was." Jackson winks at me. "I have a way with rocks."

We pass beneath the earthen archway and into the large cavern strewn with bloodstained mattresses and more bodies, too many to count. They must have dragged their dying in here. But from the looks of things, they were feasted upon shortly after.

I choke down the bile in my throat.

"Recognize any of 'em?"

I shake my head. I can't identify the remains. I didn't know them. But I could have... They wanted me to help them, to use my gift for good. But I used it to run away instead.

Have I mentioned that I hate myself?

"Any other passages?" He pans the glowstick around and the light sweeps away the shadows. I'm sure there are, but I don't know how to find them.

"Nobody's in here. They're all dead." I turn away to face the black, to find my way out. "I'm done."

"Giving up so soon? Now that's not like you at all. I seem to remember you walking endless kilometers after All-Clear, hoping to find another living soul. You didn't give up then. Why should you now?"

"I don't want—I don't need to be here. There's nothing I can do. They're—"

"Dead. Right. I can see that. But why are you so sure there isn't even one sole survivor?"

I stare at his green-lit face. "Is there?" I step toward him and stop. "Is somebody still alive in here?"

He regards me for a moment. "What if there was? Would you be so hasty to leave?"

"If you know something I don't—"

He chuckles. "Don't get me started, Milton."

I curse him, my mind suddenly filled with images of his murder and my blood-covered hands. "Just tell me! Is someone here?"

"Yes."

My heart skips a beat. "Where?"

Without a word, he swings the light toward a cleft a meter up the earthen wall. I take off running and leap into the gap, just as he tosses the glowstick to me. I duck my head and crawl deep inside the crevice.

"Hello?" My voice doesn't echo in the stale air of this confined space. "Is anyone there?"

Silence answers me, interrupted only by the sounds of my shuffling boots. The green light of the glowstick extends a few meters before darkness overwhelms it. I wait, listening. If anyone's in here, I should be able to hear them breathing.

Was Jackson just screwing with me? I curse him under my breath and keep crawling, refusing to turn back until I see how far this passage goes.

Maybe I'll stay in here. If Jackson gets curious, he can join me, and I'll wring his thick neck. But I don't think he'd fit. I barely do, shoulders sliding across unyielding rock cool to the touch. Regardless, I finally have some breathing room. No voice in my head, no ghosts to haunt me. Too bad the air's so unsavory. Otherwise, I'd consider living out the rest of my days in here until I starve to death.

Fitting. I'd die among the remains of the people I killed. Will they call it the Milton Massacre someday? Probably not. Nobody survived to tell the tale. I can write history the way I like it: The mutants outnumbered them ten to one. They never had a chance. It was fate, survival of the fittest. The mutants were stronger, and they easily dominated the humans with superior weapons of warfare.

It wasn't fair, but that's life. It wasn't fair before D-Day, and it wasn't fair in the bunker. Why should it be any different now?

A dry cough barks ahead of me. I freeze for a second, then double my pace on hands and knees.

"Are you all right?" Stupid question.

Another cough replies, louder, as I draw near. The crawlspace opens into a cave the size of a small storeroom, every corner illuminated in green—including the one where a man's body lies curled on his side, facing away from me.

"Don't be afraid." I drop inside and reach for the hydropack in my pocket. "I'm not—"

"A killer?" Jackson rolls over and grins up at me.

I jump backward, my heart lurching.

"Milton, save me..." he whimpers. "Please Milton, use your gift. Help me!" He kicks his feet like an infant. Then he curses, sneering, "You're no hero. Only one thing you're good at: killing. Face it. The sooner you do, the sooner you'll realize your true purpose in this world. You're the Grim Reaper!"

"How the hell did you get in here?"

"I'm your imaginary friend, Milton. You tell me." He laughs and rolls over, raising an eyebrow at my silence. "What? Did you really think anybody survived that mess out there? Not a chance. I mean, they could have, if...you know. But that's not what you do. You don't save lives. You take them. That's how it was in the bunker, and that's how it was here." He rises to his feet, his dark eyes fixed on me. "That's how it's going to be in Eden."

She warned me, told me I had to let go of the past. She told me something else, too...