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

Milton could have saved us a lot of trouble by flying directly to the entry point. Too bad it’s not an option. The way he moves in fast-forward stirs up a whole lot of dust that would be visible on the muto-cams. Better to take it slow in enemy territory. And besides, I don’t know for sure this first stop will be our ticket to Eden. If the manhole covers are sealed, we’ll have to take an entirely different route—one Milton won’t like at all.

He’ll remember it: the underground parking structure where he and his friends first ran into Willard’s crew.

We reach the manhole and crouch beside it, keeping an eye on the mutos nearby, only five meters away. They don’t seem to notice any invisible trespassers; they just stare off into space. Starving, most likely. Willard likes to keep them hungry, says it makes them easier to control. Truth is, it makes them even more vicious than they are in their wild state.

I mime the need for a crowbar, something to pry the cover upward. Milton runs the fingers of his free hand around the rim. It doesn’t appear to have been soldered into place. I was hoping this one would be overlooked if Willard decided to seal off the access points into Eden. This corner of the city is outside the area I normally frequent, finding all manner of goods for the Eden Guard. The poor side of town back in the day, where the government housed Sector 30’s laborers.

Keeping one hand on me, Milton looks around for anything we could use as a pry bar. Nothing but debris in sight—until I spot a length of exposed rebar sticking out of some rubble. I nudge Milton and point at it with a shrug. Milton nods. It’ll have to work.

But it’s half a meter away from the muto closest to us.

Milton reaches for the rebar and shoves down on it, moving it a centimeter at most. He heaves it the opposite direction, bringing it back to its original position. He waits to see if the muto took notice. It’s still staring up at the sky, pondering the sun.

Milton bursts into super-speed, his arm moving in a blur of motion and the rebar right along with it. I’ve never seen anything like this—except maybe in a cartoon when I was a kid. Then with a metallic squeal and a crunch from the surrounding concrete, Milton has the meter-long piece of rebar free.

The muto snorts and reels around to face us, its eyes twitching in their sockets as its exposed nasal cavity expands and retracts in spasms. With a grunt, the other mutos join it, staggering straight toward us. Milton grips the length of iron like a weapon, but I tug him back toward the manhole cover, and we set about trying to pry it up out of the street as fast as we can.

The mutos incline their heads and snort at each other. They heard something they couldn’t see, and now they’re determined to sniff it out. If anyone in the Eden control station is watching their screens, they’ll be more than a little interested right about now. The way the freaks’ collars are facing, they’ll get a clear view of the manhole cover as it slides aside.

Miming a cameraman, I point at the mutos and gesture pushing them away. Milton seems to understand. He points at a chunk of concrete the size of a man’s head, sitting next to me. He shrugs, and I have to agree. It’s as good an idea as any.

Gritting my teeth at the weight of it, I heave the chunk like a shot put, past the two freaks by a good couple meters. It lands with a crumbling clatter, skidding across the dusty asphalt. Immediately, the mutos’ attention whips toward it, their collar-mounted cameras pivoting right along with them.

Problem solved.

We seize the moment, gripping the makeshift crowbar hand over hand and putting our backs into it. The cover is wedged in there pretty tight, proof I haven’t used this access point into Eden nearly as often as the others.

The mutos grunt, seeming to curse in their own garbled, phlegm-coated language. They’ve reached the piece of concrete and are kicking at it now with their tattered boots.

Milton and I heave the iron cover upward and slide it aside as quietly as we can, but the metallic rumble isn’t lost on the freaks. Their heads twist to look back. Milton gives the rebar a lateral toss that sends it hurtling end over end, straight at them. It strikes one in the side of its deformed head, and the muto goes over backward, collapsing onto its buddy with plenty of gargled shrieking—pain and rage in equal measure.

“After you,” I whisper.

Milton drops down the hole and clings to the ladder, releasing his hold on me as soon as he’s swallowed up by the street. Glancing at the two mutos, I step down the ladder after him and slide the cover over our entry point, pressing upward with all my strength until it settles into place. Closing us in.

“Can’t see a damned thing,” Milton mutters, his voice carrying down the tunnel before us. “Guess we go that way.”

I nod, then realize Milton can’t see the gesture now that we aren’t joined at the hip anymore. “That’s right. There shouldn’t be any sort of drop-off for a hundred meters or so. By then, our eyes will have acclimated somewhat.”

I pause to look around and blink against the dark. As far as I know, there are no night vision cameras mounted down here.

“That trick with the rebar was really something.” I keep my voice low as we slosh through ankle-deep water. From the smell, this is no sewer. So far, so good.

Milton almost chuckles. “Can’t believe I nailed that one in the head.”

“Yeah.” I sniff. “But I meant before, how you got it out of the rubble.”

What else is he able to do with his