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

to click in his brain, and he guffaws abruptly. “What a load of crap! You hear this guy?” He nudges Morley with his elbow. “Talk about ghost stories!”

Morley shrugs, barely noticeable in the suit. “We shall see.”

“Perhaps it would be prudent to withhold speculation until after the briefing,” Sinclair suggests as the lift groans to a halt. She faces Granger.

“Prudent, yeah.” Granger’s line of sight travels down her suit out of habit, despite the fact that her figure remains completely obscured.

She graces him with a withering look.

The doors seem reluctant to open, but after a few moments of awkward silence, they part with a metallic squeal. We’re met with a blast of blinding sunlight, our helmets darkening instantly to shield exposed faces from the harmful ultraviolet rays. A gangly silhouette approaches.

“What took you so long? This way, this way.” With a sweep of his scrawny arm, the scientist from the medical bay beckons us out of the elevator and onto the flight deck. A chugging chopper sits fifty meters away, its rotors slicing neatly through the air.

“Hey, how’d you beat us here?” Granger says.

“Short cut.” The scientist shrugs affably. He wears a white jumpsuit with a transparent face shield now, having somehow found time to change. “Gather your team, Sergeant Bishop, and follow me.”

I blink away the white spots from my glimpse of the sun. My gaze wanders toward the rolling sea, grey ocean water stretching infinitely on all sides. Easy to imagine the breeze on my skin. I can almost feel it, fished from deep memory.

I step out of the lift and glance back. The others are tough to tell apart with their black bubble helmets, except for Granger and Sinclair, whose respective size differences make them easy to identify. They take a moment to collect themselves and then march after me, ducking slightly once in range of the chopper’s rotors. A makeshift ramp has been set up to aid us in climbing aboard. No chance we’d be able to, otherwise.

The scientist jogs up the ramp and finds a seat inside. He quickly buckles himself in.

“He’s coming with us?” Granger sounds disappointed, like a kid hoping to avoid being chaperoned.

“Briefing us en route.” I heave myself onto the ramp. “I doubt he’ll stick around after the drop.”

“How ‘bout we drop him instead and head home?”

“They might have something to say about that.” I nod toward the row of well-armed soldiers with opaque face shields already seated inside. They wear jumpsuits over bulky body armor, but no hazard protection. Their purpose is clear: to ensure that my team makes the drop. Not to join us.

Granger falls silent.

The chopper lifts off once all five of us are locked into place with magnetic clamps fastened to our unwieldy suits, holding them upright and immobile. Sitting is not an option. The tinting on our helmets dissolves just enough for me to catch Sinclair’s eye. I give her a wink. She stares me down, unimpressed. The woman has a real attitude. I like that.

“Test, test,” chirps the scientist through our comms. “Can everyone hear all right? Let me know if you can hear me with a thumbs up. Hello? Everyone?”

We nod or mutter in the affirmative. Granger feigns technical difficulties with his helmet, but decides to give up the gag when nobody but me notices. Their attention remains elsewhere. The murky ocean depths pass swiftly below, and every meter takes us closer to the North American Wastes. It has a way of dampening the spirit and the sense of humor: the impending unknown.

“Good, good,” the scientist bobs his head, again reminding me of an extinct angular waterfowl. Can’t remember the species. “All right then. We’re on our way. Your suits check out, your O2 reserves are stocked. We’ll be in constant communication while you’re over there. Remember, you run into any unexpected difficulties, you radio. Don’t delay. That’s what we’re here for.” He grins. “We’re your backup.”

Encouraging. I avoid Granger’s sardonic gaze while Harris clears his throat.

“Yes, Doctor?” The scientist raises both eyebrows.

“Where will you be, exactly?”

“Back on board the Argonaus. We don’t have enough fuel for the chopper to remain above your location. Once we make your drop, we’ll return to the ship, refuel, and await your call.”

“Ten minutes, then,” Harris says.

The scientist frowns slightly. “How’s that?”

“That’s how long we’ll be stranded, once we radio you. Ten minutes.”

“I see what you mean. Unfortunately, the Argonaus cannot position itself closer to shore. UW mandate and all—government red tape, I’m afraid. And yes, it will take us ten minutes to reach your position.”

“Where is that exactly?” Morley speaks up. He glances at the other members of our team. “Am I the only one who’s got no idea where it is we’re goin’?”

The scientist holds up his hands and closes his eyes for a moment. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves.” He licks his lips and fixes his bulbous eyes on me. “I thought you would have told them something by now, Sergeant.”

Passing the buck. “Under orders.” I can play the game as well as anybody. “They’re supposed to hear it straight from you,” I lie.

I’ll be hearing it for the first time as well. Right here, right now. But of course I can’t admit that in front of my team. I have to at least look like I know what I’m doing.

“Very well, then.” The scientist straightens his posture and sweeps the five helmeted heads before him with his gaze. For a moment, it doesn’t look like he knows where to begin. “The D-Day bunkers across what remains of the United Sectors were programmed to open on a designated date: All-Clear. We sent our search and rescue teams in early to survey the situation.” He nods, fully aware this is common knowledge.

“Right. And they never came back,” Granger says.

“Hundreds of ’em,” Morley echoes.

“Two hundred seventy. Thirty squads, to be exact. We lost all radio contact within an hour of their landing. They were fully equipped with solar jeeps, supplies, weapons, and hydration suits, tasked to check