Spirits of the Earth: The Complete Series: (A Post-Apocalyptic Series Box Set: Books 1-3) by Milo Fowler (paper ebook reader .TXT) 📕

“Just let ‘er rip, pal.” Granger chuckles.

The room explodes with raucous laughter, all present contributing—except for the distinguished science officer. She sighs instead, looking bored.

“It’s really not that complicated,” chortles the scientist in charge. He’s the last one to overcome his giggles, and by the time he does, he’s the only one enjoying himself. “There is a waste reservoir built into the suit. If you have an excretory emergency—” He grins like a five-year-old. “Go ahead and make your deposit. We’ll retrieve it once you’re back here, safe and sound.”

“How can I sign up for that job?” asks Harris, the other latecomer—oldest member of the team by at least twenty years. He had quite the distinguished medical career both in the UW military and private sector prior to D-Day, publishing studies on genetics and such, the kind they studied in med schools. It’s unclear why the elderly doctor has been included on this trip.

I haven’t been told much. I know we’re headed into forbidden territory, but that’s about it. No one has set foot in the Wastes for years, not since those reports of something going horribly wrong with the search and rescue teams dropped onto the North American continent. No details, of course, only rumors that spread like a virus. The entire situation reeks of a government cover-up.

Have we been drafted for a suicide mission?

“What do you say, Sergeant?”

The bug-eyed scientist stares at me with an expectant grin.

“How’s that?” I frown, lost.

“Our fearless leader,” Sinclair mutters.

The scientist gestures toward the door, reaching out his spindly arm. “Shall we go?”

Like we have a choice. But I nod anyway, turning to lead the team in an awkward, exaggerated march out of the medical bay, down a long, narrow corridor, and into the ship’s main storage area. The cargo lift awaits—a glorified freight elevator—and all of us somehow manage to cram inside the oily smelling thing.

“How many hazard suits can you fit in an elevator?” Adam’s apple shuddering, the scientist giggles like it’s a joke worthy of a spectacular punchline. Only he doesn’t seem to have one prepared. Dipping his chin, he moves to follow us in.

“We’re full.” I stiff-arm him and punch the UP arrow. The cage doors slide shut. “Take the next one.”

Granger chuckles at the hurt look on the scientist’s face.

With a groan, the lift rises toward the flight deck, passing through levels one at a time and seeming to linger unnecessarily between each floor. It wasn’t designed for cargo of the human variety. For the massive crates of foodstuffs, weapons, and supplies that usually come down through here, the passage of time is immaterial. But for me, every second counts—every moment I’m away from my family. There is no time to waste.

Get in, get out. That’s the mantra. Get the job done right. Then I’ll see my children again—before they forget me.

Assuming I make it back alive.

“So, Captain. You ready for this?” Granger nudges me.

I barely feel the gesture through this suit. “I doubt any of us are.”

“It’s true, yeah? The stuff they say?” Morley pipes up.

“The rumors?” Sinclair intones, affecting both disdain and disinterest in a single aloof expression, sharp nose angled upward. She succeeds in removing herself from the conversation while standing smack-dab in the middle of it, staring at the seam in the elevator doors. It looks like she’s willing them to open and save her from what promises to be a wearisome discussion.

“They’re more than that,” Doc Harris says. “Rumor implies it might not be entirely true.”

“And you think it is?” Granger tilts his helmet back to look up at the doctor. “Cuz I’ve heard plenty of crazy stories.”

Harris nods, pursing his lips in thought. “There is a certain mythos to the continent, to be sure. An aura of secrecy, maintained by ships such as this one and the naval blockade. Its purpose being what exactly? To keep the rest of the world away from that wasted, inhospitable land?” He narrows his gaze. “Or to keep something already there contained?”

The rest of the world. As if it still exists as anything more than a domed megacity along the Mediterranean.

No one says anything for a few seconds. There’s only the whine of the elevator cables and the creaking of the ship to punctuate the silence.

“What do you think, Captain?” Morley points his chin at me. “You believin’ the ghost stories?”

Captain again. As far as this team is concerned, I guess I am the Ubermensch. I’ll lead them straight through the gates of Hades with the UW’s blessing. How far they follow me will depend on one thing: whatever their superiors are holding over their heads. Children are probably out of the question. As far as I know, I’m the only man in my cube complex with offspring under the Terminal Age. One in ten thousand, they say.

Mr. and Mrs. Bishop are special that way. Or we were—before we, too, found ourselves unable to conceive.

“I believe what I can see,” I mutter.

Sinclair glances at me and quickly looks away.

“A realist,” Harris says with half a grin, revealing a set of pristine, white dentures. “So you don’t believe the reports of a highly contagious mutagen? Difficult to see something like that, I’d wager. Without a microscope, anyhow.”

“You’re thinking that’s what it is, then?” Morley says. “Some sort of creepy crawly?”

“Well, duh!” Granger gestures at our suits. “Why do you think we’re wearin’ these things? What do you think’s waiting for us over there?”

Morley’s eyes are naturally wide, noticeably so when he neglects to blink. “I believe in the eternal soul. It cannot be destroyed by bombs. You may think of it as the spirit within us all.” His gloved hand pats his chest twice. “A soul that has been taken against its will—as so many were on D-Day—remains on the earth for one reason only.” He pauses dramatically, looking at each of the faces around him. “Vengeance.”

Sinclair releases a petulant sigh.

Granger stares for a moment, his lips parted. Then something seems