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

the left side of the trail, the side where, if I were to venture far enough through the tall overgrowth below the leafy canopy, I'd eventually find myself standing at the lakeshore.

Perhaps I'll go for a swim after my morning jog. Last year, I swam across the lake in the rain, and the water I stroked through carried the texture of a million raindrops. I smile at the memory.

"We're all going to die here, Luther."

Milton stands rooted in the middle of the path before me. I skid to a halt. His jumpsuit is filthy with dust and blood stains. He holds his cracked face shield down at his side. His eyes are hollow as he stares at me.

"They don't want us to live," he says.

I open my mouth to speak, but no words come. I clear my throat as the rain falls heavier now.

"They want me to help them." He shakes his head, his sodden hair swinging in clumps against his face, drawn and unshaven. "I can't fight them. They're too strong."

Who? Willard and his men?

I look up, and the rain pelts my eyelids, forcing me to close them. I extend my arms out to the sides and breathe. Milton isn't here, he can't be. I'm seeing things, hearing things. I listen to the rain rushing through the trees, building in intensity. I'm sure there are white caps out on the lake.

"You have to stop them, Luther. Before it's too late. If they succeed, there won't be any of us left." Milton shudders as if suddenly chilled to the bone. "They've taken her."

Wake up!

A jolt of electricity pierces my midsection and I cry out. My eyelids blink against hot white light. I pull my arms and legs against steel shackles clamped onto my wrists and ankles. I twist with my torso and swing slightly. I'm suspended from the ceiling by chains. My head jerks forward, and I look down.

I'm naked, covered in gooseflesh.

"Have a nice nap?" the block-jawed Perch grins at me. He grips a shock prod down at his side. It sparks eagerly. "Hope you enjoyed yourself. You won't be gettin' any more winks for a while, I'm afraid."

We're alone in a small room with cold steel walls. A solid, windowless door stands a few meters beyond my chained feet. I can't see anything on either side. Perch moves behind me and rattles something on a metal tray. I drop my head back to find a cart, upside-down from my perspective. Perch holds a pair of large pliers and winks.

"The boss is gonna fix you up good. But first, I gotta make sure you won't be any trouble." He chuckles and nods down at me knowingly. "Been a while since you had a manicure, huh?"

He jams the prod into my side, just above my groin, and I grit my teeth to keep from screaming. My claws flex outward against my will, and he's ready with the pliers. He clamps on and rips the talon out of my index finger with brutal strength. It feels as though my finger's been torn from its socket. A hoarse scream escapes me as he lets the bloody claw drop to the floor. I pull against my restraints with all my might and arch my back. Then I fall on the chains and swing against him. He steadies me with one hand.

"Easy now. One down. Nine to go." He chuckles. "Hurts like hell, I bet."

He's a sadist. My head swims, dangling below my shoulders as the room spins. Pain blooms, and I look at my finger, wet with blood.

Will the claw grow back? Will the spirits bless me anew?

Where are they now?

Perch pulls out the next one from my middle finger, stripping me of my gift one claw at a time. I scream again, unable to control myself. The lights blink out, and everything goes black. Have I lost consciousness? The glaring white returns as the pliers rip the claw from my third finger. I scream, enraged. With all of the determination I can muster, I focus on willing the remaining talons to retract. I can't tell whether they obey me. I'm beginning to lose feeling in my limbs. Perhaps that's for the best.

"Hey now, don't you try anything cute." Perch jams the prod into me again, but the pain is nothing compared to the pliers. He hits me with it again on a higher setting. The jolt of electricity courses through me, shaking every nerve in my body. "Good boy." The pliers tug out another claw and send it to the floor.

The lights go out again. This time, they don't return.

I stand at the edge of the lake. A grassy slope descends toward dark silt beneath the lapping water. Rain falls heavily, and a wind has picked up from the north, driving short white crests onto shore. Raindrops plummet into the choppy surface, and I long to dive into the tumult. But my feet are planted to the ankles in the soil. No matter how hard I pull, I stand rooted here like a tree.

I turn my face to the sky and keep my eyes closed in the downpour. I feel the presence of the Creator. He's not in the rain or the wind, but they both are from Him. They are His creation.

"What are mortals, that You should think of us?" The words emerge from deep in my mind. They escape me in a whisper, a prayer. The fresh water rushes between my parted lips, and I swallow. "You put us in charge of everything you made." We were unworthy of such responsibility, yet He already knew the end at its beginning. He gave us free dominion of His creation, knowing what we would do with it. And even so, He's given us a second chance. For He was, and is, and forever shall be the God of second chances. "Behold, all things are made new..."

Before my eyes, the lake and everything around it is instantly transformed. The clouds, overloaded with precipitation,