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

If they could only see their city now, I'm sure they would stop and stare—with good reason.

The wreckage looms larger with every step we take toward it. In the silence, interrupted only by the rhythmic pattern of our footsteps, I sense an eerie calm, one that reminds me of the bunker when we first entered. As if this city has known we would be coming, and it's expecting us.

There you must go, the spirits told me. You have nothing to fear. I wish I could find courage in those words.

"Does-uh...anybody remember what this place was called?" Samson has his rifle in one hand and the launcher balanced on his shoulder with the other. His gaze swings side to side, watching the two burnt-out buildings that will flank us as we enter the city.

Luther seems distracted. "What sector would this be?"

We traveled east by jeep, then north on foot. "Thirty, maybe?" I take my rifle down from my shoulder.

Luther nods. His claws extend through his gloves. "Yes, perhaps... But the maps had it farther north." His goggles are fixed on the building to our right as though he's seen something stirring. He holds his rifle ready. Then he turns back and joins our triangular formation behind Shechara. "It could be thirty-one. A trade sector would still have many useful things for us."

Samson scoffs, but it sounds half-hearted. "If the daemons haven't taken it all. You know, that might explain their UW gear. Wasn't this where all of it was manufactured?" He curses softly. "Now entering hell. Visitors welcome."

Our boots cross into the shadow cast by the tilting remains of a skyscraper.

"They always come from the east," Luther says.

"What?" I glance at him, then return my gaze to the buildings on either side, tangled steel supports with charred clumps of concrete clinging to them.

"The daemons," he says absently. "When they attack, they come from the east...every time."

"So what're you saying, Luther?" Samson half-turns as if he saw something move. He shakes his head and keeps walking. "You don't think they're camped out here after all?"

"They never come from this direction."

The big man chuckles. "I hope you're right. That would mean we have nothing—"

"Nothing to fear." Luther faces me. "As the spirits told you, Daiyna."

I don't say anything.

Shechara stops beside the concrete sublevel of a blown-out structure. She peers down inside, then turns and beckons us to follow. Shelter from the sun. We could use a few minutes' rest. To drink some hydro, grab a bite or two from our protein packs. One of us will have to keep watch, but we can alternate.

Shechara drops in first, followed by Samson. Luther gestures for me to go next, but I shake my head and let him go before me. Samson sighs loudly and smack his lips, already drawing from his hydropack in the shadows below. I hesitate before joining them.

I turn and look back, out of the ruins, past the four daemon bodies baking in the sun. Beyond the crumpled rim of the crater where the rocket blast blackened the sand, beyond the charred remains of our disabled jeep, a cloud of dust rises up from the earth, a single plume headed this way.

He is coming.

The spirits' voice catches me off guard and I stumble forward, nearly dropping my rifle.

"Who?" I strain to see. "Shechara..." I whisper, unable to find my voice.

"Daiyna?" Luther steps behind me. "What is it?"

My boots shuffle away from the sublevel, one step, then two, toward the approaching dust cloud. Faster than any vehicle could possibly move.

He is coming.

Dust and ash streak upward across the valley floor in his wake, and before I know it, he stands in front of me in his filthy urine suit, his face shield dull and cracked.

"Milton?" I fall back from him, my heart skipping a beat as the dust passes over us and settles.

"They're dead." Milton's voice emerges unlabored. He stands at ease, arms hanging limply at his sides. "They're all dead."

Part III

Possession

7 MiltonTen Months after All-Clear

Wake up.

My eyes open as a jolt of energy courses through my body. I jerk upright to find myself sitting on a mattress inside a dark cavern. Voices shouting, people running like there's some kind of emergency. Gunshots and echoing screams punctuate my confusion.

"Milton, you're awake!" An older man with stooped shoulders grabs my arm. "Get up, quick!"

Rip is his name. He wanted to tie me up earlier, when that weird spitter blinded me.

"What's happening?" My voice is husky, like I haven't spoken in a while. I move to rise, but pain shoots through my chest, and I look down to see I'm bandaged. My head swims, and the rock floor shifts beneath my feet. I land back on the mattress with a groan.

"You've got to pull yourself together, man. We've gotta get you out of here!" He throws one of my arms over his bony shoulders and steadies me on my feet. "The daemons are—"

An explosion cuts him short. The entire cave trembles as dirt showers us.

"They're armed to the teeth!" He pulls me forward.

I struggle to put one foot in front of the other at first, but then I start getting the hang of it. We head out under an earthen arch into another cave, this one filled with natural light pouring in from the mouth at the other end. Silhouettes move side to side there, jerking awkwardly, fighting against one another. Gunshots explode. Shadowy figures fall and writhe. Screams echo from all directions, some shrill, others guttural like they're from wild animals. But that can't be. There aren't any animals anymore. I should know. I was out there long enough—

Rip pulls me into the fray.

"Is this the only way out?" Why's he taking me this way if we're under attack?

"We need you outside," he grunts under my weight.

I pull back. "What do you mean?"

A strong hand grabs my shoulder. "Milton." It's that weird spitter: Plato. "You're awake!"

How long was I asleep? "What's going on?"

Plato leads