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

Our garments are dirty, soot-stained, torn and ragged. Bloody in spots, threadbare in others. For the most part, they still shield us from the sun's rays, but we'll need to exchange them for fresh clothing when we return to the caves.

"Milton said he passed through city ruins like this. Wreckage from D-Day. He was able to scavenge supplies and find relief from the sun. But this is the first I've seen for myself." Luther faces me as we walk. "You?"

I shake my head. My ears are starting to work right again. "We went straight to the caves as soon as we were out of the bunker. Sightseeing was never much on our minds."

"For us either. Everything was very clear-cut then: build shelters, find our wives—"

"Wives? Is that what you called them?"

"You." He pauses to clear his throat. "Your sector, that is."

"We had another name for them."

"Oh?"

"Cows."

"Not mating partners?" His tone is playful.

"Reproductive companions," I recall from the bunker database.

"That's right," he laughs. "I remember the film."

"They made you watch it, too?" What am I thinking? Or course they would have.

"I'm sure ours was more tailored to the male psyche. Regardless, we thought wives was a better term to use, considering the connotations."

"And those would be?" When he says we, he usually means himself, with Plato's input. Why would they use such an archaic word as wife?

The only sound is that of our boots across the gravel. Samson has pulled ahead, but Shechara remains beside me.

"Wife connotes a bond more meaningful than a mere procreation partner. Of course, rebuilding our species is the greatest purpose we must shoulder in the years to come, but we're sure to have other challenges along the way. And to meet them effectively, I knew the men would need wives. Companions for life." He holds up his empty hands. "It's how the Creator first intended us to live. He said it wasn't good for us to be alone." He pauses. "A better word than cows, at any rate."

My lips curve into a smile beneath my head covering. But it fades as I remember Rehana. "The daemons were the first men we met outside the bunker. The thought of being reproductive companions lost its appeal rather quickly. But one of us was calling our other sisters cows long before that. She didn't like the idea that bearing children was our only purpose in life. She rebelled against our leader, and many of us followed her example." My voice falters.

"What became of her?"

My eyes sting, and I swallow. "The cows killed her. But they didn't really know what they were doing."

They were possessed. Like Milton.

Ahead of us, Samson stoops to retrieve the rocket launcher from one of the dead daemons. Shechara jogs to join him.

Luther lowers his voice. "Have you heard anything?"

My mind is cluttered with images of Rehana and Mother Lairen, and I feel hollow inside as these memories resurface, thoughts and feelings I've fought so hard to bury. Isn't it obvious to him I'm not thinking about the spirits right now? I thought he was more intuitive.

But what did I expect? When he lowered his voice, did I hope for him to offer me some kind of consolation? Did I want him to touch me? That was my mistake.

"No." My tone is flat. "Nothing."

I move ahead to join Shechara. Deftly, she removes the ammunition from the three daemons' rifles while Samson turns the launcher end to end, acquainting himself with it. Luther's goggles are fixed on the city before us.

"What's this?" Shechara holds a miniature version of one of the rifles—a handgun.

Samson glances up. "Smith and Wesson nine millimeter semi-automatic." He returns his attention to the rocket launcher and chuckles with delight, rising to his feet as he hefts his new war toy to his shoulder. "This'll be a fun one. Can't wait to try it out."

"Let's hope you won't need to." Luther shakes his head. "Strange to see a city like this. An entire sprawl, laid to waste."

"Home to our friendly neighborhood cannibals?" Samson turns to Shechara. "See any more of them, Small Fry?"

Her goggles slowly pan the ruins from left to right. She wants to be absolutely sure before she says anything.

There you must go, the spirits said. Why? What will we find? You have nothing to fear. Does that mean we won't come across any daemons in there? Or will the spirits fight for us?

We've had some close calls so far, but we're alive and relatively uninjured. Maybe I was wrong to doubt them. But it frustrates me when they're silent like this, when I want them to speak to me, offer assurances, and they don't. I want them to lead us, but at the same time, I want them to leave me the hell alone.

Part of me is glad when their voice isn't surging through me. I can feel like myself again. Yet I also feel utterly alone.

"There's no movement, none that I can see." Shechara gives Samson the handgun. "You can have this one. It's too small for me." She steps past him, the rifle slung over her shoulder.

Samson takes the gun but hesitates before jamming it into his belt. He doesn't seem to know how to take her remark. "Okay?"

Leaving the corpses behind, we follow Shechara across the valley floor. Somewhere beneath all the sand and ash under our feet there must be concrete and asphalt, multiple InterSector lanes that once brought people by the thousands in and out of this great city. The green signs with white letters posted on strong steel supports must lie buried as well. If I let my mind wander, I can almost hear the rushing vehicles traveling at speeds near two hundred kilometers per hour. The rush hours when traffic ground nearly to a halt and drivers insisted on changing lanes, always thinking the one they were in was the slowest. The daily accidents when drivers racing home would suddenly slow down and look for carnage, causing more traffic congestion behind them, then speeding