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

"Get our guns while you're at it!" Samson shouts after him. "They expect us to fight with them, they'd better give us back what's ours," he mutters to me, folding his brawny arms and glaring straight ahead.

He has no intention to join this fight. I would ask what he has in mind instead, but the remaining two soldiers stand close by. They no longer train their weapons on us, but it still seems we're their prisoners.

"What do you see?" I ask Shechara quietly.

"Everything," she whispers.

"Is that where we came in?" I gesture briefly and scratch behind my ear.

She glances toward the south tunnel where three armed soldiers stand guard, talking among themselves. They watch others race past in jeeps, headed for the east tunnel, close to a hundred meters off to the right. They make no motion to leave their post. Shechara nods.

Samson watches the guards. He would be able to subdue them easily. Shechara would be our eyes through the darkness beyond, and eventually we would reach the parking structure where we were separated from Daiyna and Milton hours ago.

Only hours? It seems like days have passed since we left the caves and ventured into the city ruins above.

Willard returns and dismisses the two soldiers by us. They break into a trot and join the three at the south tunnel. I glance at Samson. Our odds have changed.

"What about our friends? Have you found them?" I turn to Willard.

"Your sister, you mean?" He grins, and I remember that's how Samson referred to Daiyna. "And the tagalong? Nope. Can't say that we have. But don't you fret. They'll turn up. We'll pick up the search soon as we give these mutos some serious hell."

Perch returns, boots pounding as he jogs back with three camouflage uniforms. He tosses them at us, one at a time.

"Put 'em on," Willard says.

"Not without our weapons." Samson glares at him.

Gunshots echo in the distance. "Enemy engaged," reports the voice over the loudspeaker.

Perch curses. "We don't have time for this."

Willard nods, his features tight. "If they get in here, we're done for. We could use your help. But if you'd rather wait upstairs..." He gestures toward the apartment above us. Our comfortable prison cell.

I pull off the jeans and quickly tug on the crisp UW uniform, one leg at a time. Samson and Shechara reluctantly follow my lead. If we plan to escape anytime soon, we must stay out of that locked apartment.

"You forgot their boots." Willard glances at Shechara's bare feet and shakes his head at Perch, who curses and trots away on his second errand in as many minutes. "Doesn't always think straight, that one." Willard's eyes linger on Shechara as she struggles to fit into her uniform. "You make a mighty fine soldier, darlin'. Really fill everything out in all the right places." He winks at her.

Samson's fist blindsides him, whipping his head to the side. With a groan, Willard crumples to the ground and lies still.

"That's about all I could take." Samson pulls the gun out of his belt and holds it ready.

"You're a patient man." I stoop to grab Willard's pistol from its holster.

"Timing is everything," Shechara says, smiling up at my brother.

But time is in short supply. Already we've drawn the attention of those five men at the south tunnel—our only escape route. Two of them hold their post while three fan out with rifles at the ready, trained on us. They shout commands to lay down arms and remain where we are. Erupting with foul obscenities, Perch charges toward us, his face livid.

"Now what?" Shechara steps beside Samson, dwarfed by his frame.

"We get the hell out of here, Small Fry," he growls. He fires a warning shot over Perch's head, who throws himself prostrate to the ground.

"Stand down!" shouts one of the approaching soldiers.

Willard stirs. We have to make a run for it before he comes to and summons more of his men. Samson fires another warning shot, and the closest soldier ducks low, staring at us in disbelief. The other two flank us and close in. But they don't return fire. Have they been given orders to keep us alive?

Shooting a daemon is one thing, but these are men, like us. Do I have it in me to kill them?

Shechara snatches the gun from my grip and squeezes the trigger twice before handing it back to me, the shots exploding, echoing like bombs. The soldiers flanking us cry out, clutching their legs as they topple over. Their rifles clatter to the concrete, and Shechara scoops them up mid-stride, leveling them on the two men at the entrance to the south tunnel. Wide-eyed, they drop their weapons and step aside as she draws near.

"Let's move." Grinning with admiration, Samson chases after her, pausing only to send a couple more rounds back at anyone foolish enough to follow. I stay abreast of him. "Good work!" he shouts to Shechara.

She tosses him one of the rifles as he approaches.

"You boys might want to high-tail it." Samson swings the muzzle toward their kneecaps, and the two remaining soldiers break into a run in different directions. "Posers," he mutters. Then to Shechara, he says with a big smile, "Lead the way."

She nods, glancing at the two men she shot. Their moans and curses echo across the floor. Regret flashes through her eyes. Then she runs into the tunnel and we follow, immersing ourselves in the darkness.

I race after the sounds of Samson's heavy boots and Shechara's small feet as naked as my own. We're making a prison break—from a prison that would have provided everything we need. Regardless, we were held against our will, and now we're free to find Daiyna and Milton, to take one of the vehicles from the parking structure and return to the caves.

But we don't get far before Willard's voice echoes all around us.

"That ape's got a solid right hook." A loudspeaker crackles