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

biological children didn't magically bring us closer together. Unlike Shechara and Samson, we drifted even further apart, until the unspoken wall between us was insurmountable.

"Daiyna?" Samson glances into the rearview. "Everything alright?"

"Yeah," I lie.

"Spirit problems?"

"You could say that."

Cain grunts in a frenzy, struggling against his bonds, jerking his head against his restraints like he wants to turn toward me but can't.

"Gaia has abandoned him." Mother Lairen clucks her tongue. "The poor wretch."

"What are they telling you?" Shechara rubs my arm.

"Nothing new," I mutter.

"He's lost without her," Mother Lairen continues, shaking her head at Cain with a combination of disgust and pity. "His missile strikes are shots in the dark. He hopes to recapture her favor with these blind attempts at appeasement."

As long as he's killing people, the evil spirits are perfectly content with him shooting blindly. As far as I can tell, their only desire is to eliminate the human remnant from the face of the earth. Turn us against each other, let us wipe ourselves out. Then, once the Wastes are cleared of human refuse, will they move on to Eurasia? I'm sure they're already trying to worm their way into that last bastion of humankind.

But if it's anything like Eden, composed entirely of human-made materials, they'll have a tough time getting inside that sealed biosphere. They move through the dust, through the air. Maybe if they convince the UW raiders to ship back a few tons of dirt—

"Trouble," Shechara murmurs, her mechatronic eyes twitching as they zoom to focus on an indistinct shape appearing over the eastern horizon.

"What do you see?" I strain but can't make it out.

"Raiders," she says, "driving a big rig this way."

"Deja vu." Samson chuckles without much mirth. "We should get out of their way." He turns the steering wheel hand over hand, aiming toward an outcropping of rock. "With any luck, they haven't spotted us yet."

I'm sure they haven't. But the Wastelanders are another matter entirely. Whooping and screaming, they gun their bikes and bolt full-speed toward the tractor-trailer in the distance.

"Guess they don't wait for orders from their queen," Samson observes.

I watch them go while Cain lets out a staccato of gagged laughter.

"Standing orders." I assume. "Pillage and scavenge."

"They seriously have no fear." Shechara watches them approach the tractor-trailer while Samson pulls our jeep behind the looming rock formation and cuts the engine.

"We'll wait it out here." He remains behind the wheel. "See what's left when the dust settles."

"You've changed." I remember a Samson who wasn't nearly this cautious.

He turns toward me. "Marriage will do that, I suppose."

Shechara rests her hand on his metal arm. Such an unexpected couple. I still have trouble believing what I'm seeing.

"How did it happen?" Not sure I phrased that correctly. "Or when…?"

"Not long after the missile strike on the Homeplace." Samson glances at Cain, who has gone strangely silent again. "We lost a lot of good people. Many of them from Shiptown." He pauses, probably hoping that will sink into Cain's addled brain. "Ten of us were away when it happened, and Milton got back first. Sorted through the rubble at superspeed for survivors. He found five."

From fifty strong when I left them, to fifteen. Luther must have been beside himself. All he's ever wanted was to unite the survivors of this wasteland, and for our numbers to grow as more recruits entered the fold.

"We could've been there when it happened." Samson covers Shechara's hand gently with his own, metal glinting under the sun. "Life's transience made a big impression on us."

Shechara nods. "We decided to spend however many days we had left as husband and wife. Best decision I've ever made."

"Your options were limited." Samson sounds like he's smiling.

"So were yours," she counters.

Maybe they are perfect for each other. But I for one never saw it coming. Guess a lot can change when you're faced with a massacre or few. You cling to those you hold dear.

Or you make your own path with your spirit-friends and a flask brimming with whatever whiskey you can find.

"They're not slowing down," Shechara says, peering around the rock formation to keep an eye on the approaching truck.

The sound of weapons fire pops in the distance.

"The raiders or the Wastelanders?" I strain to see, but it's still too far.

"Both."

Cain's grunting again, adamant about something. Too bad we don't care.

"Two of the Wastelanders have been shot," Shechara reports. "Their bikes and bodies crushed under the rig."

"Eleven to go." Mother Lairen wrinkles her non-corporeal lip at me. "Admit it. You don't mind if they die."

Honestly? No. I don't. They're an untrustworthy bunch of cannibals, and their fashion sense is the worst. My main goal is to keep them away from Shechara and the parts of Samson that are still human.

"Nobody told them to go up against a truck full of raiders," Rehana counters. "They're out of their minds."

"Daiyna knew something like this would happen. If not against the Edenites, then these UW raiders. Either way, it whittles down the number of marauders, makes them more manageable." Mother Lairen stares unblinking at me. "Isn't that right?"

"Half a klick away now." Shechara gazes off into the distance. "The Wastelanders are firing at the cab. There's blood on the windshield, but the truck is driving straight."

"Do you let it play out, or do you lend a hand?" Mother Lairen raises an eyebrow. "And whom do you help? The cannibals or the people under attack—the people from that glass city where your children are growing up?"

She wants me to react. But I refuse to give her the satisfaction. Besides, Shechara has seen enough Crazy Daiyna for one day. So I grip my 9mm and wait beneath the sun's oppressive heat, putting the voices of the spirits and Cain's barking out of my mind. Focusing all my attention on the approaching gunshots and roar of the truck's engine.

I give Shechara a pat on the shoulder and a nod, letting her know I can see what's happening now. The number of bikers is down from thirteen to ten,