Spirits of the Earth: The Complete Series: (A Post-Apocalyptic Series Box Set: Books 1-3) by Milo Fowler (reading comprehension books TXT) 📗

walk across the desert toward me, their mirrored face shields showing my reflection. My arms push out to the sides as I try to pull myself free. But it's no use. I'm stuck.

"What have you done with it all?"

They don't respond. They approach and stand over me, their heads tilted forward as they stare.

"What do you want?" I thrash wildly, swinging my arms at them with clenched fists. "Leave me alone!"

They bend down to reach for me, their gloved fingers curled to grab hold of my arms. I see my eyes—bloodshot with rage—in the face shield of one of them, and my scream is both guttural and unintelligible as I thrust my hand at his throat. My fingernails, suddenly extended long and sharp like eagle talons, rip through his suit and tear into his flesh. I feel the warmth of his blood as it pours over me. He convulses and falls backward.

My hand moves slowly as I pull back and stare at it.

What have I done?

My blood-red claws start to retract into my fingers. I flex them, and out come the talons again. Sharp. Lethal.

What the hell is this? What's happening to me?

The other scientist has let go of my arm. His face shield is trained on my hand. In the reflection, I look like a monster.

"Get away from me!"

I raise my other hand with menace, and a matching set of claws flex outward from my fingers. Before I'm aware of what's happening, my body launches up out of the sand, and I descend upon the scientists with a vengeance that's not my own. My claws rip into them both, blood splashing upward and outward, staining the ground. They writhe under my wrath as I watch, horrified, unable to stop. I shred their suits and their bodies. I squeeze my eyes shut as an all-consuming rage takes control—it's in control, and it's not mine.

I'm not the one doing this to these men. I can't be.

I pray for it to stop.

I sit up from my mattress and cough, choking on the ash covering me. My heart races, pounding like a fist against my chest. I blink, and my eyes sting. Wiping at them only smears the dust from my hands. The interior of my shelter is caked in a layer of ash a centimeter deep. I cough again, feeling the grit coat my throat. How did all this get inside?

I break open a hydropack and rinse my eyes, nose, and mouth. I reach for my face shield and gloves. Fits of coughing erupt from the other shelters.

The men are in danger.

"Luther!" Plato rushes toward me as I emerge from beneath the tarp, fastening my face shield into place. He too is covered in the stuff. "Are you all right?"

"What's happened? A sandstorm?"

"If there was, we slept through it."

I look down the rows of shelters. "Get the men together. We need to assess the situation."

We shout out the names of our brothers as we go from one shelter to the next and help them overcome their disorientation, wash their faces, get their face shields on, and join the group forming in the center of our village. The invisible Presence I've felt before is stronger now, hovering over us as I look upon the men. They stand dazed and perplexed in a half circle, their jumpsuits filthy.

It's as though we've been marked.

A strange thought.

I train my gaze on our surroundings—silent and still beneath the scorching sun—for any sign of movement. I don't know exactly what I'm looking for; anything that can take the blame would be helpful. The men are on edge, and the last thing they need to hear from me are musings on an invisible Presence watching us.

"What do we tell them?" Plato stands beside me, his back to the men.

"All accounted for?" I fight to keep my nerves steady.

"We're all here." He curses quietly, shaking his head. "What the hell happened?"

I can't allow the men to panic.

"Hey Luther, did we sleep through some kinda dust storm or something?" Rip pipes up over the murmuring of the others, and some of them chuckle.

I can always count on him to lighten the mood. "Yes—" I begin.

"How did it get inside? I've got ash a couple centimeters deep in my shelter, wall to wall," cuts in one of the men from the back of our assembly. The other men echo his description of the situation, their voices building as tension rises, reaching a crescendo. "No way it could've gotten in on its own!"

I hold up my gloved hands to quiet them. My mind flashes back to the dream where claws came out of my fingers. I fight to clear my thoughts, even as I remain unsettled by both of the bizarre nightmares I've had today.

"My friends, you're not alone. We're all in this together. Remember that," I say in a strong, surprisingly confident voice. They begin to quiet down. Their tinted face shields stare at me without expression. "We must remain calm and confront whatever comes our way unified, as one. We're strong together, my friends, strong enough to survive any freak sandstorm that gets us a little dirty." I turn to Plato, hoping I've bought him enough time to develop the sort of rational explanation he's known for. I pat him on the back with a puff of dust and quietly wish him luck as I step aside.

"Luther's right. Only with peace of mind can there be reason." He clears his throat as he steps forward. "While we were sleeping, there was some kind of...wind disturbance that swept through our village, stirring up the dust inside and out—"

"Load of crap! Look—the tarps are clean on the outside, just like we left 'em. There's no sign of any sandstorm." The vocal dissenter elbows his way to the front of the crowd. He's called Holmes, always one for a good argument. "You don't have a clue what's happened. Admit it, Plato. You're dumbfounded, just like the rest of us." He gestures to the others