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

“By taking us to the enemy?”

Harris curses. “Sinclair, you’re in no condition to know what the hell is going on.”

“Meaning?” She raises an eyebrow.

“You’re one of them,” the good doctor hisses, his gloved hand pointing at the driver and then upward, referring to the flying mutant above. “You’ve got us outnumbered now. The sergeant and I are at your mercy!”

“Can it,” I order. “Any more talk like that, I’ll relieve you of duty.”

“You haven’t the authority—” Harris sputters, wide-eyed.

“Keep your head on straight, Doctor.” I face Sinclair. “Where is she taking us?” She shakes her head. No idea. “Push comes to shove, we’re commandeering this vehicle. You got me?”

Sinclair warns, “Careful, Sergeant. She knows your thoughts.”

I look up to find the driver’s dark eyes on me in the rearview mirror. Not creepy at all.

“Please, tell us where we’re going,” Harris demands.

Margo remains silent. Then with her eyes darting between the mirror and the uneven, whitewashed moonscape ahead, she says, “We’re picking up someone who needs our help. Then we’ll find cover until morning.”

“You’re taking us straight into harm’s way!” Harris shouts.

My gloved hand falls flat against his face shield, quieting him for the moment.

“Ma’am, can you hear me?” I test the waters. If it’s true that she’s a telepath, then she doesn’t have to be on our comms, and my soundproof helmet won’t be an issue.

“Yes.”

“Alright then. It’s not as though we don’t have cause for concern here. Those men coming for us—they’re not human.”

“I’ll try not to take that personally, Sergeant.” Margo whips the wheel expertly around an outcropping of rock, and the vehicle pitches sideways. “Rest assured, we’re not in this alone.”

“The flying man? They’ll shoot him out of the sky. He caught them by surprise the last time. They’ll be gunning for him now.” I pause. “Unless he’s bulletproof.”

“Not that I know of,” Margo says. “But he’s not the help I was referring to.”

I cough. The air in my helmet is getting thin; I can taste the difference. Not now! I cough again, my throat tightening, burning.

“Sergeant?” Harris faces me as my arms drop like dead weight.

“His oxygen is depleted,” Margo says. “You’ll have to swap out the O2 supply. Quickly.”

Harris looks aghast. It wouldn’t be from his suit, that much is clear. He turns to the pair in the backseat, both in their thermals. “Where are your suits?”

“Left ’em behind,” Granger says. He frowns at me and takes a deep breath of the ambient air. “Really, Captain, it ain’t that bad. I don’t feel any different, honest to God.”

“Check the emergency compartment in the rear,” Margo says. “There should be a breather or two in there.”

Harris scrambles to pop open the compartment. Three breathing apparatuses hang on hooks inside. “This is not a sealed environment, Sergeant. You will need to take one deep breath before I disconnect your helmet and affix this breather to your face. Do you understand?”

I choke but nod, unsure there’s enough oxygen left for a deep breath. I start fumbling with my helmet clamps, prepared to remove the cracked polymer. In my mind, all I see are the faces of my wife and children. If this doesn’t work, if I become infected in the process, I will never see them again. The UW authorities will never allow me to step inside Eurasia.

But if I suffocate here, the end result will be the same.

My gloved fingers move with clumsy trepidation, unable to function correctly. This is fear—an old enemy I thought I beat into submission long ago—rearing its wicked head.

“Help me,” Harris barks at Granger. “We don’t have much time.”

Granger turns around in his seat to lend a hand. Sinclair moves to join them. The Hummer hits a deep rut and rocks at an awkward angle, throwing them off-target. Margo casts an apology over her shoulder.

A hermetically sealed interior with its own air supply would be ideal right now, but we’ll have to make do.

“Ready,” Harris says.

I’m about as ready as I’ll ever be, and barely conscious. Both Granger and Sinclair are there to lend my spastic fingers assistance.

“On three—”

“You mean on it, or right before?” Granger frowns. “One, two, three—or one, two, then three?”

“Now,” Sinclair says, and they lift the cracked helmet off me.

The breather slips over my nose and mouth, guided by the doctor’s steady hands. I grit my teeth, grimacing as my lungs cling to the last iota of air I was able to suck out of my depleted oxygen supply. My body lurches, fighting for breath.

Harris curses suddenly. The breather is in place, but the helmet’s docking clamps are not aligned properly as it slides back down over my head. “We can’t start the flow of oxygen until these clamps are fastened tight!”

I fight the panic surging within me. I’m going to suffocate with a breather ready to go. So close, yet so far.

I grapple with the rim of my helmet, fighting to push it away—an irrational response. On some level, my body must know there’s breathable air inside the vehicle, and its quality doesn’t matter right now. My mind knows better, however, and I don’t retaliate when Harris and Granger swat my hands out of the way.

I’m shaking. The fear is winning.

Then a voice enters the maelstrom of my mind, and I know exactly where it comes from. I stare into the rearview mirror with wide, bloodshot eyes.

I know you’re afraid, Sergeant, Margo says, mind-to-mind. They have taken your family from you, and you can’t bear the thought of never seeing them again.

How is this possible? I freeze. Have I already been changed? Am I like you now?

Not to worry. Then she says out loud, “Try to relax. Your people are taking care of you.”

Despite all evidence to the contrary, I feel no reason to be afraid. An overwhelming sense of calm sweeps over me instead, making me feel light-headed—or that could be due to hypoxia.

From you? My eyes remain fixed on the