Spirits of the Earth: The Complete Series: (A Post-Apocalyptic Series Box Set: Books 1-3)

by Milo James Fowler

  Before we have time to register what's happening, he steps outside and his men heave the steel door shut with a solid thud. A heavy bolt slides into place, locking us in.

  Samson curses.

  "This isn't good," Shechara says.

  I nod, scanning our surroundings. Are there cameras in here, as there were in the garage above us? "We must be careful."

  "What kind of freak show is this?" Samson bellows, unable to contain himself any longer. "A fireplace? What the hell?"

  It's an interesting point for him to focus on, but I know what he means. After struggling to survive for the past months, the extravagance of this place—these comforts from a past life—are now so alien to us. What's their purpose? I find it difficult to believe every unit in this dome would be so luxurious. But what if this is the case? Is this underground community truly paradise?

  Running water...

  Without a word, I go to the sink in the bathroom—and I'm immediately startled by the face in the mirror. Clear blue eyes stare back at me, familiar but for their haunted look. My skin's creased, dark with grime. My beard's scraggly and grey along the sides of my jaw, matching the temples where long, unkempt hair is pushed back from my furrowed brow. I lean forward and turn to get a closer look at my ear, the one bitten by that daemon. It's healing well enough, thanks to Plato's quick work with the salve.

  The cold water handle creaks as I turn it. A sound from another life. Water rushes out, streaming into the sink, swirling down the drain. Such a beautiful sound.

  But I shut it off. I shouldn't waste it.

  "What're you doing?" Samson fills the doorframe, ducking his head as he enters. "We've got to get out of here!"

  I look at him, but I don't really see him. "They have water." I turn the handle on, then off, catching the cool stream in the palm of my hand, splashing it in the basin. I stare at the shower's frosted glass door.

  "They've got it made, I'll give them that. But something isn't right here, Luther. Everything... It's messed up somehow. I can feel it."

  "There are no women."

  He turns sharply to find Shechara behind him. "What's that, Small Fry?"

  "I saw them. All of Willard's people, as we drove in. There are only men." She bites her lip. Then she holds up a woman's floral dress on a hanger. "But I found this in the closet."

  Samson curses again. "What did I say? Messed up!" He reaches for his belt beneath the folds of his outer garment and pulls out a handgun, dwarfed in his paw. "When that scrawny captain comes back, we make a run for it."

  "Where did you get that?"

  "One of those daemons we shot." He holds it up with a shrug. "Captain Freakshow didn't ask for it, so—"

  "You've had it all this time?" I marvel at his restraint.

  "Just waiting for the opportune moment." He gestures at my hands. "Not like you're completely unarmed."

  My eyes flash a warning. These walls may have ears. If so, then Willard will already know about the gun when he returns. Samson wasn't thinking clearly. I point to my ear, then to the walls and ceiling. He scowls at me, then registers what I mean and hastily stuffs the weapon back into his belt.

  Shechara returns the dress to the closet, leaving the door open to expose racks of women's clothing. Very odd...assuming there are only men in this dome. Were there women here at one time? Do they work elsewhere, out of sight?

  Samson pushes past me and pulls open the shower door. He jerks the handle to the side, and the water thunders into the drain. Glancing at me, he turns on the shower head.

  "Don't waste it," I caution him. How have these people managed to create running water? I can't help but marvel at it, almost hypnotized by the sight and sound.

  He nods and grabs my shoulder, pulling me close. "Get in."

  Before I have a chance to react, he pushes me into the downpour and I sputter, blinking against the spray. He ducks his head inside and sticks his tongue out as the water clings to his beard.

  "Tastes like the real stuff." He licks at his mouth.

  I part my lips and let the water rush in. He's right. The hydropacks don't do it justice. This is the real thing. Drenched, I look down at my slick boots and the streams of muddy rivulets cascading from my soggy garments, rushing down the drain. I hear laughter, like music. Shechara leans against the doorframe, her hand over her mouth, her eyes sparkling. I've never heard her laugh before.

  "Quite the sight?" I call out to her. She giggles, holding her stomach now. "All right, you've had your fun." I move to step out.

  Samson shakes his head, dripping wet. "They can't hear us in here."

  What's he talking about?

  "If you're right, if they've got this place bugged, then the sound of the shower should interfere with whatever gizmos they've got hidden in the walls." He wipes at his eyes. "I'd join you in there, but I don't think there's enough room."

  I rinse and spit to clear my mouth. "Allow me to state the obvious, then. They're not soldiers."

  "They don't carry themselves or their weapons like UW troops. And they're not trade workers, either. This place is too...advanced."

  "Engineers then, from Sector 30. Wouldn't that be a peculiar twist of fate? We planned to meet up with them on our way to the Preserve, and they find us first."

  "Fate?" He frowns. "Maybe. But why bother playing soldier?"

  I shrug, rubbing at my face beneath the stream of water. I might as well put it to use. "Perhaps they found the weapons and uniforms when they first entered the city."

  "Why set up this underground colony? Engineers should've been able to use what's left on the surface and turn those ruins back into a metropolis. That's what they do, right?"

  "Willard mentioned they've had to contend with the daemons as we have. Perhaps that's what drove them below. The daemons have a way of interfering with our best-laid plans, it would seem." He grumbles knowingly, and I weigh my words before asking, "Do you believe them to be...gifted as we are?"

  "I don't know. Doesn't seem like it."

  If only Daiyna were here, she would know. If only the spirits would speak to me, as they do to her. If only I could sense their presence as I did on the surface.

  "Until we know for certain, we continue to keep our abilities hidden. Agreed?"

  Samson nods, glancing over his shoulder at Shechara. She nods her agreement. "So what now?" He reaches for his gun.

  "I'm going to enjoy a hot shower." I start tugging off my waterlogged garments.

  He backs away and shuts the shower door. "That's our cue, Small Fry. We don't want to see this." They leave with a thud of the bathroom door.

  I drop my filthy clothing to the shower floor and nudge it aside. I let my boots fall on top of them. My skin's tender at first beneath the pelting streams of hot water, but after a minute or two, the sensation is incredible. I use the soap awkwardly, as if I'm recalling how to perform each step of a ritual from a past life. I move quickly so as not to waste any of this precious water, savoring every moment in its numbing warmth.

  I could never have imagined this, not in a million years. How have these people achieved so much in the past months, while we've managed barely to survive?

  I shut off the water and open the shower door. The room is filled with fog. Grabbing a thick white towel from the cupboard, I wipe at my face. The towel smells fresh, like it was washed recently. I wipe at the mirror. This time, the face looking back at me is almost familiar. The eyes are still haggard. When was the last time I slept through the night?

  In a smaller cupboard beside the mirror, I find a straight razor and a bottle of shaving gel. I nod to my reflection. The beard must go.

  I wrap the towel around my waist and begin the arduous task of removing thick bristles from my neck, my jaw line, and beneath my nose. With a minimum of spilled blood, I'm eventually successful, and when I look into the mirror this time—despite the pieces of tissue attached here and there to sop oozing cuts—the face I see looks more or less like the man I remember. He's a good ten years
younger than that hermit who greeted me earlier.

  As the steam dissipates, I glance at my torso's reflection before I leave the room. All of the muscles are where I left them. They may be necessary, should we have to fight our way out of here.

  I open the door and head down the hallway, keeping a firm grasp on the towel around me. Perhaps there's a closet full of men's clothing near the women's dresses. That was odd. I can only hope Willard gives us a straight answer when he returns.

  "Try the next one down."

  I turn to find Shechara standing behind me, her head tilted to one side as she looks at my face.

  "The next one?" I hold my towel with both hands. "Here?"

  She nods. "There are two closets full of men's clothing." She starts to smile. "You shaved."

  I'm sure she's noticed my battle scars. "I had a fight with a razor. It was a close shave, but I believe I was victorious." I throw open the closet door she referred to and step behind it, out of view. The racks hold men's shirts and pants, just as she said. No fluid-recycling jumpsuits to be found among them.

  The bathroom door shuts quietly, and I glance back to find she's disappeared. Perhaps she too has decided to take advantage of the shower. Samson might want to consider following suit if he plans on ever wooing the wives of his dreams.

  I pull down a pair of folded boxers and a pair of coarse blue pants—jeans, they were called—as well as a white button-down shirt. I leave the socks on the shelf. I like the way the thick carpet feels between my toes.

  "All squeaky clean?" Samson smirks, sprawled out across one of the couches in the front room.

  "Highly recommended." Buttoning up the front of the long-sleeved shirt, I take a seat on the couch adjacent to his.

  "You find those duds here?"

  I raise an eyebrow at his obvious question.

  He nods and grunts something, rubbing between his eyes. "Right. You know, I forgot guys used to dress like that. It's been so long." He fails to stifle an enormous yawn. "What time do you think it is?"

  "After nightfall, I'd assume." I look around the room.

  "No clocks in here. I checked." He sighs, shaking his head. "Weird, huh? It's like we're back in the old days, when we were kids. And this is what house arrest felt like."

  I give him a cautionary look. We should refrain from saying anything that could be construed as negative for the time being, in case we're being monitored.

  "The running water..." I trail off as the sounds of Shechara's shower fill the moment—splashes, bare feet thumping on the shower floor. "I don't know how they've done it."

  Samson listens, but I'm sure his mind is occupied by the usual. There is, after all, a naked woman only a few doors down from him. "They must've found some protected groundwater or something. Started purifying and recycling it, maybe." He glances toward the bathroom. "You think she's all right in there? I'd hate for her to slip and fall. Maybe I should—" He moves to rise.

  "Steady." I shake my head. "She's fine. You, on the other hand..."

  He scowls and falls back onto the couch. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  I maintain a straight face. "Let's just say it might serve you well to take a look in the mirror at some point. If you plan on ever charming that wife of yours."

  "Wives," he corrects me.

  "If you plan on winning their affections anytime soon, you might want to make sure you still recognize the face in the mirror. Take my word for it."

  A broad smile creeps across his face. "Scared yourself in there, did you?"

  "Perhaps."

  He throws back his head and laughs heartily.

  Laughter. Running water. Couches and carpet. A fire in the fireplace—gas, no doubt, but amazing to see, just the same. In stark contrast is the steel door, locked from the outside. No windows. It's as Samson said: we've been arrested. But we're in a very comfortable cell block.

  Where is Daiyna? Milton? Have they been captured as well? Are they in another one of these luxurious apartments? Or did they manage to escape in time, before Willard's soldiers went on the hunt?

  According to Willard, Milton had her by the throat. What was going on there? Was he trying to kill her? It had to be the spirit inside him, acting through him. I can't allow myself to speculate whether he was successful. But with his superhuman speed, no one could stop him.

  "They've got books." Samson gestures at the rosewood cupboards along the far wall. "Hardbound, all kinds. Not the digital stuff we had in the bunker. The more illegal variety."

  "We had everything," I remark absently. I read most of what the database had to offer, but it was far too extensive even for the most avid of readers to exhaust, given twenty years or a lifetime.

  I step across the plush carpet toward the row of enclosed shelves mounted on the wall. The small door opens with a short creak. Instantly I'm met with the ancient aroma of print, paper, and glue. Yet there is nothing ancient about these books. Were they printed here, by these people who seem to have no end to their modern conveniences? Or were they printed before, decades ago, by trade workers in blatant defiance of the UW mandate?

  "Well?" Samson yawns again. This place is putting him to sleep. "See anything you like?"

  All of the bindings are similar, a forest of green leather with titles embossed in gold. One stands out: A Holy Bible. My breath catches as I reach for it. How long has it been since I've held the word of God in my hands? My fingers tremble as I slide it out from the books on either side. I cradle it in my palms, letting it fall open. But it does so reluctantly. The binding creaks and the pages remain in clumps. No one has opened this book before.

  "They're new." Reverently, I tuck the Bible under my arm and reach for a random title. Robinson Crusoe. It's in the same pristine condition. So is Great Expectations and Les Miserables and War and Peace. "They've never been read."

  Samson grunts and scratches his belly. "Weird, huh? I don't think anybody's ever lived in this place." He winks at me and raises his voice. "You sure don't get this kind of hospitality everywhere you go!"

  Anywhere would be more like it, but his comment was meant for anyone listening in. There is no hospitality on this planet, not anymore. There are no comforts outside this strange place. Unless I am mistaken, and this is merely one of many subterranean returns to normalcy. How long have they lived like this, while we've fought for our lives on the surface?

  Was it a mistake to leave the bunker when we did? Perhaps we too would have found some sort of tunnel to this place or another like it if we'd only looked. If I hadn't been so determined for us to make a new life for ourselves outside.

  Defeat overwhelms me as I think of the lives lost since All-Clear. Could we have avoided all that suffering?

  "They've really rolled out the red carpet, that's for sure." Samson rubs between his eyes again and blinks. He looks as though he's fighting a losing battle against the weariness overtaking him. "But I hope they can answer the hundred or so questions I've got for them. Because right now, no matter how I look at it, I can't get much of this to add up."

  "Our gracious host will return soon." I wish we could speak freely. I have a feeling Captain Willard is far from the gracious type.

  "Find a good one?" He leans over to take a look at the Bible in my hands, but his interest fades. "Oh."

  "Not one of your favorites?" I turn to the middle, having always found solace in reading the Psalms of King David. Samson, on the other hand, has always found strength in himself—despite the irony of the name we bestowed on him years ago. For the Samson of the Bible, strength came only from Jehovah.

  "Not much of a reader," he admits. "Unless I'm into the topic. Sex, weapons, warfare, you know. The usual."

  "You might be surprised by what you find in here." I almost smile. "Have you ever heard of King Solomon?"

  "Maybe. Why?"

  "He had hundreds of wives."

  Samson blinks at me, his face expressionless. "How did he manage to...?" He shakes his head. "Wow. What chapter is he in?"
/>
  The shower shuts off. We both look up, then glance at each other. In his eyes, I can tell what he's thinking. "Have a sudden urge to visit the bathroom?" I know him too well.

  "No." He gestures to the Bible. "Where's this Solomon guy?"

  "But you were thinking about it."

  "What?" He looks up, catches my gaze, and quickly averts his eyes.

  "You were imagining her naked."

  "Was not." He points at the Bible again. "Show me."

  "Don't try to change the topic."

  The lobes of his ears start to flush. "Are you going to show me or not?"

  "When you admit it."

  The bathroom door opens, and Shechara emerges wearing clothing from the hall closet. Unlike me, she thought ahead, bringing a pair of jeans and a cream turtleneck sweater with her. She too is barefoot as she steps lightly across the carpet to join us.

  "All washed up?" Samson manages, jumping to his feet and not seeming to know what to do with his hands. Or his eyes.

  Shechara's figure—normally hidden by her loose garments—is shapely in the form-fitting attire. Her scalp shows a day's growth. She must have decided not to shave it. My mind wanders, imagining her with a full head of dark, thick hair.

  Daiyna's face flashes through my mind.

  "Your turn." Shechara looks up at him, her tone congenial but with enough of an edge to achieve the desired result.

  "Right." With a short nod and his eyes focused on nothing in particular, Samson drops his head and stomps toward the bathroom like he's marching to war.

  Before he can reach his cold shower, the bolt on the front door slides open. I clench my fists quickly as my talons flex outward, piercing the palms of my hands and drawing blood. I grit my teeth and will them back where they belong. Staring at the steel door as it's shoved aside, I force a pleasant expression.

  "Settling in, I trust?" Captain Willard strides toward us with three of his armed soldiers and a familiar grin stretching his face. His eyes wander to Shechara and linger, roving slowly across her curves. "Forgive me for barging in like this, but the situation calls for it. Your friends are here."