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

at my touch. Inside I find an adjustable wrench, a multitool, spares for the roof’s supplemental solar panels...but no flares.

“Try the other side,” Jamison says, referring to the compartment above the opposite wheel well.

I slide along the rear seat and extend my arm toward the hatch just as a volley of rounds rake along the vehicle’s side. I fall back, flinching at the close-range thuds.

“What the hell are you afraid of?” Perch scoffs. “No way they’ll pierce that armor.”

It isn’t the armor that concerns me as I note small fractures along the side windows. Blowing out a quick breath, I dive forward, over the backseat, and pop the second utility compartment. Among what looks like tire-changing equipment, I locate one unused flare cartridge.

Better than nothing. I slide it into the empty gun and snap the muzzle into ready position.

Outside, the collared dog’s head bursts with a sickening pop and a splash of blood and cranial matter. The body remains standing, remote-controlled by Perch, as the voltage continues to hold the other six mutos in its agonizing grip.

“Take out one of them,” Jamison says, referring to the pair at my window.

“Unless you can get ’em to line up for you,” Perch says.

A stupid remark. The flare will burrow into one target and set it aflame, allowing the other one to blow out my tires and leave me stranded here. It’s what I fear most.

That, and having my own head explode.

“What are you waiting for?” Jamison sounds stressed, even though he’s safe and sound far away from here. What does he have to be worried about?

The two mutos pound the ends of their assault rifles against the Hummer. The reinforced glass repels their blows with hollow-sounding bumps.

“Roll down that window and let ’em have it!” Perch urges. “Go for a headshot.” He chuckles eagerly. It’s all fun and games to him.

“You should have sent me with a real weapon,” I mutter.

“We did,” Perch counters, probably meaning the expired dog.

“A lot of good he’ll be now.”

“Just wait and see. We’ve got it under control.”

I doubt that. By all indications, they’re flying by the seats of their pants, strategizing moment to moment with no clear plan of action.

Unlike me. I know better than to think I can stay here much longer. There is no telling how long the dog’s collar will keep the other mutos incapacitated, and it’s only a matter of time before the pair assaulting this vehicle manages to get inside.

I have one flare.

And plenty of relay rods.

Sucking down a quick breath, I crawl into the rear cargo hold and kick the hatch release. Immediately, the two mutos stagger around toward the back as the door opens. The first one gets a flare in the face, recoiling and shrieking as it sparks and sizzles. He drops his weapon and claws at the blossoming flare, falling back on his partner, forcing him aside and giving me the split second I need to grab one of the relays and lunge out of the vehicle with the rod poised like a javelin.

The muto with the rifle shoves his writhing pal to the ground and squeezes off a few rounds that ping off the back of the vehicle and pierce the faux-leather interior. I duck at the same time, hurling the rod as hard as I can. The sharp end, designed to be planted deep into the hard-packed earth, impales the muto’s midsection, doubling him over with a hoarse scream. He looks surprised more than anything else. But he doesn’t let go of his weapon, even as he staggers under the impact with one hand on the rod skewering his abdomen.

I drop to the ground as the creature lets loose another volley of shots, badly aimed but wild enough to be dangerous. I retrieve the fallen assault rifle from the flare-faced muto and take quick aim, squeezing the trigger and holding it there until the magazine empties. I don’t realize my eyes are closed until the weapon clicks in my hands.

Once my eyelids open, I see the relay rod quivering erect from the motionless muto, covered in its own blood, punctured by thirty-odd rounds.

Perch curses in appreciation of my handiwork.

The other muto also lies still, its face a smoldering mass of scorched flesh. Despite my medical training, I feel a sudden urge to vomit, which I do my best to restrain. Even so, bile burns my throat.

Gritting my teeth, I step toward the skewered muto’s corpse and enter the rod’s planting code. After a moment’s verification, the relay rod sinks completely into the ground, straight through the creature’s bullet-ridden body.

I pick up its loaded rifle and then climb up into the Hummer without a glance back. As my insides threaten to rebel, the rear hatch automatically shuts behind me, locking me inside where, for the moment, I’m safe.

“Good work, Margo.” Jamison sounds relieved. And impressed.

I don’t reply. Setting the weapon on the empty passenger seat, I climb behind the wheel and gun the engine, veering sharply around the headless high-voltage square dance that has lost none of its fervor.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Perch demands. “Don’t you leave that dog—”

“It’s no good to me now. I’m staying on mission. Keep those other mutos occupied as long as you can.”

“He’s just pissed that you’re leaving his camera behind,” Jamison mutters. “Ignore him.”

“I plan to,” I agree—and instantly regret doing so. A sudden shock nearly sends me into convulsions.

“What the hell?” Jamison shouts on the comm.

“Damn bitch should learn her place!” Perch counters.

I swallow, struggling to stay in the moment. The vehicle skids lengthwise down the embankment as I fight the wheel for control.

Jamison adds a few choice words for emphasis. “Margo, I’m sorry. That won’t happen again.”

It had better not. The next time, I might end up flipping the vehicle.

“Are you all right?” Jamison sounds concerned.

The Hummer jostles me as it hits the valley floor, but I hold on, in complete control now as a level stretch of terrain opens before me. “Fine.”

I glance at the