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

tear up the hillside, straight for me. Have they already encountered the UW crew? Pried them out of their hazard suits and feasted on their insides?

“Leave that to us,” Jamison says. “You stay put and hope they’re not smart enough to blow out your tires.”

“Then you’ll be in a real pickle.” Perch chuckles.

The jeeps advance at full speed, gravel flying up behind them, two mutos seated in the front of each vehicle and two standing in the back, holding onto the roll bar and aiming their assault rifles single-handedly at the Hummer. They squeeze off a volley of shots that rake across the hood, sparking as the rounds are deflected by the vehicle’s armored plating.

I cringe as bullets plow into the windshield. How much abuse can the reinforced glass take before it caves in?

I glance at the muto beside me. It stares at the scene outside with what looks like keen interest. Does it recognize these mutants as others of its kind? They look so different to me, so well-fed in contrast to my emaciated travel companion.

“How close are they now?”

I frown at Jamison’s question. Isn’t he seeing everything I’m seeing? “Twenty meters and closing.” I flinch at another barrage of weapons fire.

“Release the hound!” Perch roars.

“He’s unarmed. They’ll tear him to pieces.” Do I hear concern for this hideous, foul-smelling creature in my voice?

“Just wait,” Jamison says. “Unlock the door, and we’ll take things from there.”

I watch the mutant as it grunts quietly to itself. The jeeps outside skid to a halt a few meters in front of the Hummer, and a cloud of dust sweeps over us. I bite my lip and hesitate just a second before hitting the passenger side’s door lock on my armrest. The dog’s collar flares red, and the mutant jerks to attention, turning toward the door. It swings open automatically and then closes behind him, locking into place.

Outside, the wild mutos have already disembarked from their vehicles, grunting and snorting at one another, their heads jerking spastically. Automatic rifles at the ready, they stare with oozing yellow eyes fixed on my windshield—almost as if they can see straight through the black tinting.

Maybe they can, I realize with a sick chill.

Eight of them approach, muscular in build, their skin charred and blistered where it has been exposed to the sun. Where it is covered, they wear some sort of hide stitched together as clothing, a leather unlike anything I’ve seen before.

“Human flesh,” Perch says as though he’s the one reading my thoughts. “Quite the fashion statement, don’t you think?”

“Focus,” Jamison says.

I sink lower in my seat. My hands remain on the steering wheel, and my right boot hovers over the gas pedal. I will run them down if I have to, if the collared dog proves to be no match for these superior specimens.

Moving jerkily, like an automaton from half a century ago, the collared muto staggers toward the mutant pack. They surround him, for the moment losing all interest in the vehicle where I hold my breath and watch.

The wild mutos sniff at the dog, poke him with the muzzles of their assault rifles, nudge him back and forth between them. For his part, the collared muto allows their curious groping without so much as a twitch, holding himself erect and not turning his head to stare back at them. I notice his eyes, pulsating in a frenzy. Is he frightened?

One from the pack prods the shock collar with its gnarled, clawed fingers, grunting with interest.

“Get ready,” Jamison says, but I don’t know if he means me or Perch.

The wild mutos close in, reaching for the collar’s blinking lights, clawing at each other to get their hands on the device. They fall on one another, onto the dog, reaching violently and elbowing their way closer.

“Now,” Jamison says.

“Hell yeah.” Perch chuckles.

I don’t know what to expect. Will the collared mutant suddenly go berserk in some sort of remote-controlled killing spree, ripping these unsuspecting creatures limb from limb in a fountain-spray of blood before they can get off a single shot?

Apparently not.

One moment, the mutos are all over the dog, pawing at his blinking collar like it’s something more valuable than gold. The next instant, the dog is rigid, head thrown back and arms extended, clawing the air and shrieking a guttural roar as a burst of high voltage issues forth from the collar, passing from his body to anything in contact with him. The other mutants close by are instantly as paralyzed as he is, jerking upright and screaming as the current blasts through them. Only two on the perimeter of the throng remain unaffected. Thrown back by the initial shock, they hit the ground and shake their heads sharply, growling at one another in confusion, slow to return to their feet.

I keep my eye on them. “Six neutralized. Two remain unharmed,” I report. I bite my lip as the two unaffected mutos turn their full attention on the Hummer.

Silence on the comm. Disconcerting, to say the least.

“There should be a flare gun in the glove box,” Jamison offers. “You could use it—”

“Just run them over,” Perch says. “I’m giving the rest of ’em all the juice I’ve got. Heads should start exploding any second now.”

Lovely. I reach for the compartment below the dashboard on the passenger’s side. There is an operations manual with the large UW Motors logo on the cover. Beneath it, a flare gun sits unloaded with no cartridges nearby.

“Try the rear hatch,” Jamison says, watching my efforts through the camera in my collar.

With a curse, I check the parking brake to be sure it’s set, then crawl onto the backseat and over it, reaching for the utility compartment next to the relay rods. Meanwhile, the dog and its six paralyzed friends continue to strain spastically against the electrical current coursing through them, and the two other mutos stagger toward the Hummer with harsh barking noises between them, sounding more excited the closer they come.

The hatch on the compartment pops open