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

his own. But I know better. Both Markus and Vincent carry an impressive array of weaponry, from daggers and short swords to handguns, rifles, and explosives, all hidden by the folds of their cloaks.

The soldier soon realizes it as well. I notice the display on his face shield flash red as it catalogs every weapon in an instant.

“Drop your weapons! Do it now!” He tightens his grip on the rifle. “I’m warning you, this gun’s got a real hair trigger.”

Markus’s direct stare never wavers as he reaches carefully with both hands to remove his weapons one at a time and drop them to the sand with puffs of dust, white in the moonlight. I become aware of my own breathing in the moment, even as I notice Victoria holding her own.

“Good.” The soldier nods, but Markus is nowhere near finished. “Now tell me who you are. Where are you from?”

“The coast,” Markus says in a rich baritone. He doesn’t sound nervous in the least.

“Why are you following us?” The soldier takes a step toward him. “And where’s your partner?”

Markus nods over his shoulder. “Taking a leak. He’ll be back.” Guns and blades lie scattered around his boots. Only the explosives remain in hiding.

“Those too.” The soldier gestures with his rifle muzzle at the pockets in Markus’s cloak.

“You don’t miss much.” There is actual humor in the warrior’s tone.

“No. I don’t.”

“Then you’ve probably noticed I’m not wearing any sort of breathing apparatus.” Markus fishes into his pockets, and each hand reappears with a frag grenade in it. He thumbs the detonators, activating them.

“What the hell?” I can only stare.

The soldier does the same, wide-eyed as he stumbles backward.

“You do realize the air is fine out here, don’t you?” A tight grin spreads across Markus’s sharp features.

“What’re you playing at, man?” Real fear tightens the soldier’s voice. “Shut those things down!”

Markus frowns, regarding the explosives with curiosity. “I don’t think they work that way...”

“So what, then?” The soldier knows better than to think he can outrun the blast—not in his suit. “What happens next?”

“You drop your weapon.”

“Yeah, right.” The soldier curses. The laser sight remains on Markus. “You don’t expect me to believe you’re gonna blow yourself—”

“My orders are to take you dead or alive. The particulars are up to me.”

“Either way, I need him in one piece,” I grumble. “Not blown to bits!”

Victoria frowns at that, but she doesn’t ask me why. And I am glad of it. The last thing I want is to explain how Gaia tasked me with starting a war between the Sectors’ survivors and the UW. Staking the body of this soldier and his comrades along the shoreline in clear view of the UW ships will be a surefire way to get their attention.

“The hinges,” she murmurs, bringing me back to the moment. “You see?” She points, and I see what she means. At the joints, while not providing the best mobility, the hazard suit’s heavy Kevlar is missing. Instead, there appears to be a dense mesh material of some kind. “A blade should slip through easily enough.”

Has she been looking for a weakness in the suit all this time? I can’t help being impressed. But then again, there is a reason why I chose her as a wife.

I nod. “Tell them we’ve found Achilles’ heel.”

No sooner has Victoria relayed the message than Vincent springs upward from the sand behind the soldier. As Markus advances with the explosives held outward like a peace offering, Vincent’s blade gleams in the moonlight, puncturing the back of the soldier’s knee joint before he has time to whirl around and face his new adversary. The soldier cries out, trigger finger contracting spastically as he throws up his arms in alarm and agony, bursts of automatic fire puncturing the night. Then he crumples awkwardly to the ground, cursing and pounding his fists.

Markus deactivates the grenades and pockets them, moving quickly to confiscate the UW scout’s only weapon. “Nice work.”

Vincent nods as he wipes his machete clean before sheathing it over his shoulder. “You didn’t do so bad yourself.”

The soldier writhes, grappling with his injured leg, bleeding profusely in spurts of crimson across the earth.

I scowl. “Tell them to stop the bleeding. Otherwise, they’ll leave a trail straight back to us.”

Victoria relays the message.

“Have them bring him to me.”

“And the others?” She scans the distance. No sign of them on approach. “I have a feeling they will be close behind this one.”

“As do I.” Of course they would have heard the shots fired.

Markus does his best to hold the soldier still, but he fights a losing battle, finding the heavy arms of the suit difficult to restrain, much less the legs.

“We’ve got to get him out of that thing,” Vincent says. “No way to apply pressure to his wound with him still inside it.”

Markus curses. “We can’t carry him like this, that’s for sure.”

Vincent faces the soldier through the transparent helmet. “You like it in there?”

The soldier spits foul curses and insults, eyes bulging, teeth flashing against his dark skin.

“Thought as much.” Vincent reaches for the helmet’s locking clamps.

“What the hell are you doing?” The soldier swings his arms, fighting to keep the two warriors at bay.

“Hold him!”

Markus moves to intercept the flailing limbs. “You sure this is a good idea?”

Vincent has one of the clamps pried free. Four others remain. “Cain said dead or alive.”

Markus smirks at that.

“No—you can’t! You—!” the soldier shrieks, reaching an octave usually reserved for small boys. Or men missing their testicles.

“The air’s just fine out here, boss.” Vincent pries open two more clamps.

“Y-you’re infected!”

“Hear that?” Markus turns to Vincent and shakes his head. “He thinks we’re sick.”

“Do we look sick to you?” Vincent chuckles.

Markus slaps the side of the soldier’s helmet. “Must not have seen any goblyns yet.”

The soldier stops moving. “You can’t do this to me. Please—!”

“Gaia is the All-Merciful One.” Vincent unlatches the remaining clamps and jerks the helmet upward, tossing it aside. “Me? Not so much.”

The soldier took one last gulp of processed