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

13 Bishop2 Years After All-Clear

When we return to the Homeplace, Milton is standing outside the collapsed cave entrance covered in dust and blood smears. Beside him is the young woman Victoria holding her five-month-old son close, both dirty and disheveled. Three others are close by: Taylor, one of Luther's sentries; Burke, an elderly man from the coast, cradling another baby. They stare vacantly, in shock. The babies wail.

They're the only survivors. The missile killed everyone else we left behind.

We don't know who fired it. Could have been the Integrity or the mutants. A United World warship might target a group of infected survivors harboring a deserter. But why would the mutants do it? Their only aim in life is to capture and devour fresh meat. They don't destroy things without a reason. When they shot down my chopper six months ago, they closed in for the kill once we hit the ground. But here, as smoke billows out of the Homeplace, none of the creatures are to be seen.

One at a time, Milton flies the survivors down to meet us at the base of the cliff where we've parked the two jeeps. He swoops in low, then jets upward to retrieve the next. Margo approaches Victoria, and the two of them share a telepathic conversation. Have they already searched the rubble with their minds to make sure Milton didn't miss anyone? I have a feeling Luther will want to bury the dead and recite his scriptures over them; but looking up at the cave, I can't help thinking the whole thing could collapse in on itself at any moment.

We need to leave this place immediately and regroup. Find shelter elsewhere, someplace with food and supplies. Everything Luther's people have stockpiled in those caves is lost now. We can't go back for it and risk losing anyone else.

If Luther asks for my advice, that's what I'll tell him. Or I might jump the gun and suggest it anyway. But I'm not in charge here. I have to remember that. They took me in, and I'm grateful for it. I can't overstep—as much as I want to find whoever did this and make them pay dearly.

"Anyone else?" Luther takes Milton aside.

He shakes his head. His sorrowful expression is hidden behind the head coverings and goggles protecting him from the morning sun. But his broken posture speaks volumes.

"So many…" Luther trails off, gazing upward as if he can see our dead deep inside the mountain. "We can't leave them in there. We must bury them."

"It isn't safe," Milton argues gently, squeezing his shoulder. "Luther, I barely got out myself, and that's with my speed—ducking and dodging. We probably shouldn't even be standing here. The whole cliff is unstable."

Something I didn't consider. At Luther's nod, I gesture for Samson and Shechara to put their jeeps into reverse. I climb onto the back of Samson's vehicle and beckon for the others to join us. They start shambling in our direction, glancing back intermittently, unable to ignore the smoking tomb.

Once we're a hundred meters out, we stop.

"The storerooms are lost." Margo is at my side before I realize she's there, her somber monotone unaffected by the recent tragedy. "We can't remain here."

I nod. If the mutants pick this moment to attack, we'll be easily surrounded, pinned against the cliff. "Any hostiles on approach?"

She pauses as if she's listening intently to something. Then she shakes her head. "I don't sense anyone nearby."

Regardless, I keep my head on a swivel, one hand on the rifle slung over my shoulder. "We'll need to find higher ground, a defensible position. Set up camp, then send out scavenging parties for food and supplies."

"The spot where we camped last night should suffice."

With no other options at present, I approach Luther. He can't shake his gaze from the collapsed cave entrance above.

"We have to get these people to safety," I tell him. Fifteen of us now.

At first it doesn't seem like he heard me, but then he nods absently. "Lead them, Sergeant. I'll be along shortly."

I look at Samson standing nearby. The big cyborg nods. "I'll keep an eye on him," he rumbles.

Margo and I each take the wheel of a jeep, and the others climb aboard, standing on the running boards and gripping the roll bars. Milton doesn't need a ride, and the babies don't take up much space, so we have enough seats for everyone else in the two vehicles. I save a pair for Luther and Samson and signal Milton to head out. He'll fly over the path ahead to make sure we're still alone, as Margo seems to think. I gesture for her to start driving.

"We just can't seem to catch a break," says the older fellow Justus, seated beside me. "The way we keep losing people... If I didn't know better, I'd say we're cursed."

"You don't think we are?" I glance over my shoulder to find Luther and Samson heading our way, both with their heads downcast.

"I don't believe in curses. Or blessings, for that matter. We make our own fate." Justus chuckles with no humor in his tone. "For better or worse."

"So you don't believe in Gaia. Or the spirits of the earth."

He curses under his breath. "I believe in what I can see, Sarge."

I've given up correcting them when they address me by rank. "Wish I could unsee some things."

"That's right, they say you've seen 'em." Justus faces me now, appraising me. "Those spirits. You and Milton are special that way. They reveal themselves to you."

"Not special." I nod to Luther as he climbs into his seat, followed by the cyborg. "Cursed."

Justus grunts.

Six months. That's how long I've been breathing this air—ever since my helmet was damaged. But unlike so many of Luther's people, I haven't exhibited any bizarre talents. I can't fly or move with supersonic speed like Milton; I can't read minds like Margo and Victoria. But every now and then, the spirits talk