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

the dagger and noted the UW insignia laser-engraved into the steel blade. "How many of ours?" My voice sounded hollow.

"All of Holmes' bunch. And Reagan." He cursed. "Maybe fifteen were..." He couldn't bring himself to say it.

"I know." Carved up, butchered. Eaten. "We'll bury them." I handed him the knife.

"What if those freaks come back?" He faced the cloud of dust retreating into the distance.

"We'll dig quickly."

We buried all of our fallen brothers. For some of them, it was only what remained of their bodies. Plato kept watch, armed with our only weapon—the military dagger. We left the mangled bodies of the cannibals to rot in the sun.

It was strange to see their exposed skin, hard and blistered. Their mouths gaped open, revealing teeth sharpened to points, obviously for tearing into human flesh. Their eyes, yellow and bulbous, oozed a foul-smelling mucus, as did their ears and noses. Their faces were severely deformed, their shoulders and backs hunched over and thickly muscled. It was obvious they had suffered some sort of genetic mutation, but we could offer only conjecture as to what could have caused it.

Had they left their bunker too soon, before All-Clear, and fallen victim to whatever radioactive toxins remained outside? How fast had their DNA been damaged to manifest such bizarre physiological changes? And why had they turned to cannibalism? Had their nourishment packs run out?

Something horrendous and incomprehensible had happened to these men. But we spared no sympathy for them. They were the enemy, predators intent on hunting us down to the last meal.

Another bullet blasts the rock above me and I cringe, tightening my grip on the crossbow. They know where I am. They must have seen me take cover here. My claws flex outward involuntarily, then retract as I weigh my chances at changing location. As if to punctuate the futility of such an attempt, another bullet ricochets, followed by another.

Then everything is quiet. I hear only my own breathing—rapid and too loud. Below me, footsteps crunch the gravel at the base of the slope where it levels out. A rifle bolt cracks, shattering the silence.

The daemon is reloading.

I jump to my feet and aim the crossbow at him. He stands twenty meters away, staring back at me with lidless eyes as his misshapen hands deftly load the rifle. The full moonlight casts a surreal backdrop to our silent face-off. Time slows. I can't tell what lies behind his bulbous yellow gaze. Instinct? Conscious thought? Is he even human anymore?

I don't call out. I don't want to alert the other two daemons on the opposite side of the ridge. Daiyna and her group have attempted to flank them, and I hope they've been successful.

Silence holds the moment.

The daemon's rifle is loaded. My finger tightens on the trigger of the crossbow. He snorts, involuntarily it seems, as thick mucus oozes from his gaping nasal cavity. Then he raises the rifle with practiced ease and takes quick aim.

Samson appears on the daemon's right and plunges in his spear. Taken by surprise, the daemon lurches against the blade in his ribs and throws back his head to cry out. But Samson is too quick. In an instant, he's behind the daemon with knife in hand, slashing his throat in one swift movement and dropping him gurgling in his own blood. Samson pulls the spear free, then plunges it in again to be sure the daemon is dead. Satisfied, he looks up at me and grins, holding up one finger.

I nod. One down. Two to go.

My boots crunch across the gravel as I join my brothers. I try to quiet my footsteps, stepping heel to toe. There's no sign of the other daemons.

Plato retrieves the fallen rifle and examines it closely, his hands unfamiliar with such a weapon. Nevertheless, he holds it up and shakes it triumphantly. I can't hide my smile. It's a victory, our first in months. We now have one of their firearms. A step in the right direction, but balancing the scales in our favor will take more than a single rifle.

Plato points at the insignia on the stock. There it is again, the same that's on the dagger Samson carries: United World. Another military-grade weapon?

Shots ring out from the other side of the ridge. Samson grabs the rifle from Plato and gestures for us to follow. Warily, we begin the climb. More shots. Bullets ricochet off boulders, blasting dust into the air. We charge up the slope, keeping our weight forward as sand shifts at our feet. Samson falls prostrate with rifle in hand, tucked against his shoulder. Plato and I hit the ground at his side.

Below us, Daiyna and five of her sisters have scattered across the hillside, finding cover behind lopsided boulders jutting out of the ground. At the bottom of the grade, two daemons stand brazenly in the open, firing their rifles at will. Between volleys, they wait patiently for any movement, their eyes twitching side to side, their mouths sagging open. They tilt their heads one way and then the other like a pair of deranged hunters, toying with their prey.

"Go to hell," Samson grates out quietly, taking careful aim through the rifle scope.

"You know what you're doing?" Plato whispers

Samson shrugs. "We'll see."

He pulls the trigger, and the rifle kicks back hard against his shoulder, startling him. He curses as he quickly regains control of the weapon. The shot was wide, causing the daemons to cower and shriek. They glance at each other, then turn and charge toward the ridge.

Straight toward us.

"Brilliant," Plato mutters, pressing himself against the ground. "Now what?"

Samson takes aim. But he hesitates.

"You've got this," I encourage him.

One of the daemons calls out, his voice guttural and the words garbled, echoing against the hillside. Both creatures look up in our general direction and fire their weapons before Samson can get off another shot. The gravel and dust fly upward on impact, less than a meter from our faces. The same daemon calls out again. Is it