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

possible. One moment they’re crouching low, digging their fingers into the cracked earth and holding on for their lives. The next moment, they’re gone in blurs of speed, leaving their weapons scattered across the ground.

That’s when the strangest thing happens: from out of the whirlwind steps the figure of a man. As the dust settles, he says something to the UW personnel rising cautiously to their feet. Then he turns to face my vehicle, and I recognize him instantly.

There is only one among us who can move that fast, able to create quite the dust devil and make the hostiles look like slugs in comparison.

By all appearances, Milton has gotten faster over the past months.

“What is it? What do you see?” Jamison’s voice demands as silence descends on the scene. Only my eyes peek out the side window. I’ll have to sit upright for the camera on my collar to give him a full view.

“I don’t know.” I don’t move.

“Give us a better angle.”

Milton approaches. He removes his dust-caked goggles and unwraps the sandcloth from his face. Behind him, the UW people struggle to their feet, two of them bleeding—one from his arm, the other from her leg wound. They collect as many fallen weapons as they can carry.

“Up a little higher,” Jamison says.

The windows are tinted black. Milton can’t see me.

“They’re all gone...” I murmur.

“What?” Perch is back on comms. “How the hell—?”

“Some kind of freak sandstorm. It came without warning, drove off the hostiles.” I bite my lip for a moment. “But the UW crew appears to be fine, more or less. Two are injured.”

“What are you waiting for? Haul your ass out there and start administering some first aid. Mutegi won’t be happy if he hears you let his people bleed out.”

A knock pounds against my window, knuckles rapping twice. Then Milton’s voice: “Hey-uh, open up.”

“Go ahead, Margo,” Jamison says on the comm. “Get everybody inside the Hummer, and wait it out. You’ll be safe in there while we send for help.”

“Hello?” Milton knocks again.

What will Perch and Jamison do when they see him? Blow my collar then and there, just to eliminate him? They can’t be that stupid. The UW personnel are well within the kill zone now, staggering toward my dilapidated vehicle in their heavy hazard suits. But the men of Eden hate Milton with a vengeance. He made them all look like fools when he escaped all those months ago, moving so fast they were frozen in their boots, powerless to stop him as he disarmed them, knocked them out, and piled them on top of each other like rag dolls. Perch in particular would do anything to wipe Milton off the face of the earth, once and for all.

And if he were to find out that Milton has actually become faster—

“C’mon, open up. We’ve got wounded out here,” Milton says.

“That could be their team leader, Margo. His name is—” Jamison pauses, probably to consult his notes. Of course he wouldn’t recognize Milton’s voice. “Sergeant James Bishop, United World marines. A good soldier with a clean record. A family man, looks like. I know you’ve been through a lot, and I know you’re afraid, but this man is not dangerous.”

“Open the damn door!” Perch bellows in the background.

I curse him silently and reach for the manual release lever. With a whir, the internal mechanism unlocks the door, and it drifts upward. Milton ducks under, extending his hand to me. Fortunately for him, he isn’t more than a dark silhouette against moonlight in the collar-cam’s eye. But it’s clear he wears no hazard suit.

“Who the hell—?” Perch demands.

“Hey!” Milton grins at me. “I remember you.”

I try swallowing the lump clogging my throat and reach cautiously for his outstretched hand. He notices my collar, and his smile fades.

“They’ve got you wearing one of those again?” He frowns.

“Margo, who is this man?” Jamison says in alarm.

“I’ll tell you who he is!” Perch lapses into obscenities. “He’s one of those sand freaks—the fast one!”

“I’m sorry,” I tell Milton. My muscles tense, waiting for the inevitable blast that will blow us all away in bloody pieces.

Will we feel anything? Or will it happen too fast?

He shrugs. Then, in a flash, he grabs my collar and breaks it off my neck. Throwing it to the ground, he crushes it beneath the sole of his boot. All in the span of a split-second.

“Better now?” His boyish grin returns.

I stare at him with my hand gingerly touching my throat. It feels naked, exposed. “You’ve gotten stronger, as well,” is all I can think to say.

“I guess.” He regards the broken steel band for a moment, watching the red pinpoint of light fade out as the signal with Eden is lost. “You’ve got a medkit in there, I hope.”

“Yes—of course.” I pop open the passenger dashboard compartment and retrieve two plastic white boxes with red crosses on them.

“Looks like a couple of these people are hurt pretty bad.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” I climb out of the vehicle.

“I don’t know how much you’ll be able to help, dressed the way they are.” He gestures at their bulky suits and helmets.

“They fear our air.” I walk past him.

He follows me as I approach the first member of the UW team, a well-built man with grey stubble along his jawline and a clear face shield on his helmet. Unlike the others, there are no lights from a functioning heads-up display. The man’s unguarded wonder is plain to see as he stares first at Milton, then me. He nudges the short, stocky member of his team, the one with a wounded arm, who speaks up.

“You’re from Eden?” he says.

“She is.” Milton points. “I’m not.”

“You…” The man clears his throat, but no words emerge.

“I can fly.” Milton shrugs. “Weird, right?”

The man nods, but nothing registers in his eyes. His mind has no frame of reference to make sense of recent events. A dust storm drove away a score of heavily armed hostiles, and Milton—wearing no protective