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

The scientist laughs out loud. “Actually, if you say manual, it’ll pop right up. Some in-flight reading material for you, how’s that?”

Harris and Morley take his tip and start skimming over the text on their face shields. Granger is quick to follow suit, followed by Sinclair with another bored sigh. I refrain from activating the HUD manual. In my mind, I can still see the overturned ships, the obliterated shoreline, completely devoid of life. So much for the North American Sectors. The idea that anything other than death will be found on this continent is difficult to accept. Yet here I am, flying straight into a wasteland with one purpose in mind: first contact.

“Something wrong, Sergeant?” The scientist leans toward me. “Is there a glitch with your operations manual?”

I look at him, look through him. Something in my blank expression makes him sit back in his seat and keep to himself, fidgeting a little.

“I’ll figure it out as I go,” I tell him.

Like I always do.

2 Cain13 months after All-Clear

A rusty, slow-revolving ceiling fan dangles from the deck above with a single spotted lightbulb. The sickly glow illuminates the top of a crate—a makeshift poker table. We sit in a tight circle around it, three men to my left, two to my right, using whatever is available for chairs. Smaller crates work for them, but not for the biggest one in their midst, the one with the hand to beat: me.

I have a sturdy folding chair all my own.

One by one, this motley bunch—sun-damaged, scarred, thickly muscled and glistening with sweat—folds, tossing down their tattered cards in disgust. I chew my cigar with relish in the hazy smoke and watch them, keeping my face an expressionless mask. A single opponent remains, and I stare hard at this one, the youngest at the table, reading him, sensing his heart rate quicken. Is he bluffing? Or merely excited at the prospect of holding a winning hand for once?

The stack of hydropacks in the middle of the crate is more than enough to last a body two weeks, maybe three. In the Old World, they might have been bars of solid gold.

“Think you can beat me, Lemuel?” I ask, my voice deep and husky.

Lemuel licks his lips. Now that is an obvious tell. He is uncertain. He perspires as we all do; it is always hot as hell this time of day. But his thermal energy output is twice that of anyone else at the table. My eyes miss nothing.

“You’re going to lose, one of these days,” Lemuel says. He fights to keep his features slack, his eyes free of emotion. A futile effort.

I chuckle, and the sound reverberates deep in my broad chest. “Not today, Lemuel. Make up your mind. Call or fold.”

“Piss or get off the pot,” snickers one of the others.

Lemuel glares at him.

The iron door clangs open, and with it blasts a flood of blinding white from outside. I look away while the men groan, wincing like rodents unaccustomed to sunlight. They hold up their hands to shield their eyes and curse. A dark figure enters, waddling with great effort.

“What is it, woman?” I demand with a scowl as the door slams shut.

She approaches my side without hesitation, far along in her pregnancy. Her protruding abdomen stretches her stained tank top.

“He’s back. And he’s got that cyborg with him.”

“Gaia-dammit.” I pound my fist on the crate, jostling the hydropacks. “I said we weren’t to be disturbed!”

“Keep your voice down.” She rests a hand on my bare shoulder, slick with sweat. “You’ll wake the others.”

I allow myself to seethe for a moment, nostrils flared. “You embarrass me in front of my chieftains,” I warn her.

She shrugs, winking at Lemuel—who averts his eyes. “They already know who wears the pants in this family.”

I grab her, and she nearly cries out at my strength and roughness. But I grin amiably as I set her down on my lap and hold her there like a child.

“Gentlemen, say hello to Lady Victoria.” I playfully pinch her cheek, and she slaps my hand away. “My fourth wife. Obviously the youngest, as she has yet to learn her proper place.”

The chieftains stir and nod, grunting about it being a pleasure to see her today. But they don’t seem to know where to direct their eyes.

“Your fourth,” Lemuel echoes. “How do you make time for so many women?” Now that he sits at a man’s table, he seems to think he has the right to ask any impertinent question that pops into his head. “Are they on a rotating schedule or something?”

“Mind your idiot tongue!” The wizened old-timer at his side throws a hard punch into Lemuel’s shoulder. The youth winces.

“A good guess, but no.” I caress Victoria’s giant melon that holds my child. “They come when I summon them. For now, they are where they belong: deep in the bowels of this ship, safe and sound. Just as ripe as my dear Victoria. I will be the father of four robust lads and lasses by this time next month.” I pinch her again. She squirms, struggling to rise.

“Luther and the cyborg wait for you outside,” she says. My hands drop from her, allowing her to stand. “They are patient men, but—”

“They are infidels. Gaia should drown them in sand and deliver us from their bothersome meddling. I would kill them myself, if only they were not human.”

The chieftains watch me silently. One clears his throat, but none speak. They know better.

“Who are they? These visitors?” Lemuel asks. He grimaces as the old-timer punches him a second time.

“You’re a guest here! You don’t get to question Lord Cain—”

“It’s all right, Justus. Lemuel sits at this table now. And rightly so.” I narrow my gaze at the youth. Victoria stands by, watching the scene unfold with unguarded curiosity. “How many goblyn heads have you spiked along the wall, Lemuel?” I stroke my wide, stubble-covered chin.

“Thirty-four,” Lemuel