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

A desolate valley opens below. The descent from here is a short drop, then a gradual slope downward. Four small, distinct shapes move at a leisurely pace across the hardpan in the distance, the ash-colored earth rising up around them at an even grade. Less than five kilometers ahead of them, spread out across the valley floor like a child's sand castle smashed by bullies, lie the broken remains of a large city.

The devastation is incredible. Mangled frames of what were once skyscrapers lean sideways at awkward angles. Rubble in mounds nearly as high cover what would have been urban neighborhoods. Everything lies caked in a thick layer of ashen dust, making it look like it's been forced up out of the earth and rejected.

There you must go.

My nerves stand at attention. "Why? What will we find?" All we need is a vehicle to get out of here. If we come back, we do so in greater numbers—and with Milton, who can outrun anything.

What do you fear?

Honestly? "That place down there." An image passes through my mind of frenzied ants covering a disturbed hill. "It's probably crawling with daemons."

The spirits' voice is silent.

Heavy breathing and grunting breaks the silence behind me. I whirl around, rifle ready.

"Stand down, soldier." Samson hangs a few meters below me, his brawny arms elbow-deep in the side of the crater. Behind him is a track of holes he's punched along the way up. He chuckles, pulling one arm free from the shifting gravel and slamming it in half a meter above his head. Then he heaves himself upward by it. The spirits have indeed gifted him with strength.

"Anything?" he manages.

I nod. I can't find any words to say.

"Keeping low?" He punches in his other arm and hauls himself up to the rim, throwing over his forearm to brace himself. "They haven't spotted you."

"No." I swallow. On one knee, I turn back toward the valley. "Not yet."

He pulls himself forward onto his hands and knees, head down as he catches his breath a moment. Then he looks up.

He curses. "So that's where they live? Nice digs." He takes his rifle from his shoulder and slides forward onto his belly, the scope flat against his goggle lens. "There they are." His finger curls around the trigger.

Is he going to shoot them? "Wait—"

"For them to catch sight of us?" He curses again, taking careful aim. "Not a chance."

"You won't be able to hit all four of them. They'll run ahead and warn the others." What is he thinking? We're all alone out here. We can't afford to take risks like this.

"Have a little faith." He squeezes the trigger.

I jerk my rifle scope up to my goggles in time to see the daemon on the far left crumple to the ground and lie still. The other three stop to look at him. One of them nudges the fallen daemon's back with his rifle. They seem strangely unaffected by the loss of their comrade.

Then they turn and look our way.

My stomach drops. Through the scope, it's like they're looking right at us. The one with the large pipe on his shoulder drops to one knee and fires without a moment's hesitation. Why didn't Samson shoot him first?

"Get down!" Samson roars, clamping onto my arm as he dives headfirst down the side of the crater.

A short cry escapes me, and the sky between my boots is all I see until a blast rocks the earth and a hail of sand and gravel fills my vision, pelting me from head to foot. I raise my free arm to shield my face and cry out again, this time in pain. Samson shouts something, but I can barely hear him. We slide to an abrupt halt, and I swing outward then fall back, my arm still in his grip, nearly wrenched from its socket. I look up. Samson has planted his arm into the side of the crater, and we're anchored by it for the time being. I glance down between my dangling boots and see another thirty meters to the crater's bottom.

The staccato popping of gunfire reaches my ears. Two shadowy figures stand at what remains of the crater's rim above us. The shadows jerk at the sound of each shot.

Samson shouts again. I wish he would let go of me. I don't need his help.

The gunfire subsides, and the shadows move, becoming larger as they approach. The sun glints in their goggles. It's Shechara and Luther, closer to our position than I would have thought. The blast took out a large piece of the crater's rim. They hold out their gloved hands, Luther with the holes torn in the fingertips. Relief swells within me.

Did they take down the remaining three daemons? If so, we're no longer in danger of being discovered. Or have we announced our arrival?

Samson lifts me up over his head, and I clasp Luther's forearm as he pulls me up. Ears still ringing from the blast, I find my footing and turn to Shechara.

"Did you get them?" I shout.

She nods, turning me with a hand on my shoulder as she points. The bodies of the daemons lie where they've fallen, dark forms on the dusty valley floor. I look beyond them, and there's no movement in the dilapidated city sprawl, no indication we've been spotted. Either they didn't hear the rocket blast and rifle fire, or they're waiting patiently for us—wherever they're camped.

Samson heaves himself upward without much help from Luther and bellows, "So what do you think? City of the living dead?"

Luther turns toward the valley and nods. "It would seem to warrant a closer inspection."

"We get a jeep, and we go back." I'm more adamant than ever.

Luther nods slowly. "Of course."

Samson starts down the grade toward the valley. "Let's roll. Looks like we've got some more firepower waiting for us."

The fallen daemons' weapons—the rocket launcher, in particular—lure him onward. As we follow him down, I can't help but notice that we look a little worse for wear.