But the Good Lord's blessed us again and again, and by his blessings we know without a doubt that we're his chosen ones. All we have to do is look around: Eden, beauty from ashes. A clean, secure city built beneath the rubble of the past. Powered by the same machines of death used to destroy the old world, sustained by resources that remain on the new. It's been one miracle after another with God doing what he does best: using what was meant for evil for our good. That missile we discovered months ago—the first of many now harnessed for our electricity and power. Finding this subterranean dome in the first place, not to mention the plutonium stores to fuel the reactor—both miracles. The dogs themselves, mutant degenerates who attacked us soon after we began engineering the structural integrity of Eden, now our servants. All things have worked together for good!
I drop the crate onto the conveyor and start up the ladder nearby. We'll both reach the catwalk above us at the same time. Jamison's boots echo as he trots by, headed for the monitoring station. He frowns up at me, confused.
"I'll join you shortly," I toss over my shoulder as I climb.
He pauses to salute again, then resumes his jog toward the north tunnel and the station beyond where he'll see everything the dogs see through the cameras in their collars.
I pull myself over the last rung and reach the steel grate of the catwalk just as the conveyor drops off my parcel. Another book's golden title catches the light: A Holy Bible. Banned ever since the UW's zero tolerance laws went into effect. Apparently, religions used to cause wars. You want world peace, you get rid of all the holy books.
Right. And that worked out real well for everybody.
I heft the crate, this time remembering to bend with my knees like my grandfather had to whenever he dropped anything. I'm not an old man, I just have an old soul as any prophet would. I'm sure Moses did. God favors old souls. We ask for wisdom instead of riches, and sometimes we end up with both.
Hands full, I knock with the toe of my boot, striking the solid steel door. Not the most polite way to announce my arrival, but I'm sure she'll understand, considering.
Silence. Is she monitoring one of her patients? She was already on her shift when I woke up this morning. Thought she'd be back by now. Doesn't matter. I'll drop off the books and head down—
Muffled footfalls thump across the carpet on the other side of the door. Then it slides aside.
"I come bearing gifts." I give her a wink.
"Books?" Margo steps back as I pass her, wet from a shower. The scent of extinct flowers drifts from her soggy hair.
"Dogs found 'em today. Thought we might see a few we like." I set them down in the middle of the living room floor, right in front of our two couches.
"Do we have time for reading?" She slides the front door shut and adjusts the thin towel that clings to her curves, barely covering her slick body. Beads of water trickle down her chest, between her breasts.
"We'll make time." I take off my beret and sling it across the room. I charge straight for her as she whips off the towel and tosses it into my face with a laugh. Blinded momentarily, I pull it aside and catch hold of her by the bare midsection. She twists away, laughing as I lose my hold on her.
"Slippery when wet!" She runs off down the hallway, her ripe buttocks jiggling. But I'm hot on her tail, and when she ducks into the first bedroom on the left, I dive and land on top of her on the bed. The mattress springs give beneath us, squeaking as our laughter quickly turns to passionate gasps.
We kiss wildly, like animals in heat—if animals kissed, that is. My uniform's torn off, tossed aside. She climbs on top of me, her dark eyes intense, hungry. How long has it been since our last rendezvous? Maybe twelve hours. We both want it now. So we let nature take its course, and as I watch her ride me, I find that the only thing passing through my mind is…
I can't believe I thought she was one of them.
Couldn't be too careful, not when all our lives depended on it. As things turned out, we ended up losing nearly half our numbers. But now we know without a doubt that the fifty-two of us left are all-natural children of God. No demon-dust passing through any of our lungs, no signs of any mutation for almost four months now.
We're safe, finally safe.
She falls beside me, landing on her back and gasping. "Wow..."
Must've been good for her. "I aim to please." I turn onto my side and face her, tracing her smooth flank with my finger.
"And you succeed," she breathes heavily, "every time." There's a smile on her lips as she recovers. "Being sterile certainly has its benefits."
"Really?" No. It's a curse.
"Nothing to fear."
I wouldn't fear it—impregnating her. I would welcome it, a true miracle. But to bring new life to Eden would take an act of God. As it is, we'll eventually die out here after we've lived the rest of our days. No future generations. The end of the line.
Damn those government scientists. What the hell were they thinking?
"Do you think they made it? The breeders?" My voice sounds preoccupied, vulnerable. No one else ever sees me like this, laid bare, inside out.
Only Margo. Her eyelashes flutter like the butterflies I've seen in my dreams, and her large pupils focus on me. "You're worrying again."
The breeders from Sectors 50 and 51 are our only hope for the future. Our species won't survive without them. Humankind, gone forever. Never to be seen again on the planet.
But I nod. I made a deal with her just a couple days ago: I was going to give up worrying and enjoy all that God's blessed us with.
Easier promised than done.
"Right. Stop worrying and love the bomb," I mutter.
"What's that?" She rolls onto her side and brushes my nose with hers. She runs her fingers down through the thick hair on my chest and torso.
"A book. One of the treasures the dogs brought down today."
"I wish you wouldn't call them that."
"What else should we call 'em?"
"Servants, maybe?"
"They're not people. You checked them out yourself."
"The tests were limited, inconclusive. We don't know more than we do." She shakes her head. "I'm not a doctor, you know."
"You're the best one we've got."
"I'm all we've got."
That's what I meant.
She blows out a sigh. "I think they were human at one point, but something went horribly wrong. They were exposed to something toxic or radioactive, maybe both. Something turned them into what they are now. But deep down, they're still human. I'm sure of it."
"They're animals." I take her hand in mine and interlace our fingers. She meets my gaze. "There's nothing human about them, Margo. Even if there was, once upon a long time ago, it's not what they are anymore. And if we didn't collar 'em, they'd be trying to eat every last one of us. Don't you remember?"
Of course she does. It haunts us all—the first time we encountered them. They poured into Eden from every tunnel, all four sides, like a plague hell-bent on our total destruction. But it wasn't God's will for us to be annihilated by these monsters. Instead, he wanted them to serve us.
"I know..." She shakes her head and bites her lip. "But I wish it didn't have to be this way." Does she feel compassion for them?
It's misplaced, but I can't really fault her for it. I'm sure a few of the Egyptians felt sorry for the minions under the whip who built their pyramids. And on our own continent, before the cold wars and everything in between, there were probably folks who felt compassion for the ones who did all the work nobody else wanted to do: the laborers from Sector 43.
The work had to be done regardless, just like it has to be done now. We can't go topside and risk infection, but we won't survive long without having what we need brought down to us. The farthest we venture are the parking structures to the south and east. But even then, we only go up into the first and second sublevels, and we always wear our O2 masks.
Never onto the surface. Never.
I nudge her and wink. "
What if we call 'em retrievers?"
She almost smiles. "Still reminds me of golden—"
"Captain Willard?" Perch's throaty voice comes through the radio clipped to my uniform, somewhere on the floor.
With a short sigh, I roll off the bed and sink my bare feet into the thick carpet. The radio chirps from my camouflage pants. Takes me a few seconds to locate them in the tangled mess we threw aside moments ago.
"Captain?"
Margo giggles, watching me struggle. She sits up, uncovered and unashamed. I contemplate dropping the uniform and diving onto her for another round.
"Willard here." This had better be good.
"Am I interrupting anything, sir?"
He knows he is. I'm sure he wants her for himself, wishes he was captain. Maybe not. Paranoia—another burden of leadership.
"Not at all. Proceed."
A short pause. "The dogs, they-uh…found somethin' you'll want to see."
His tone makes me glance at Margo apologetically. "I'll be right over."
With my uniform and beret back in place, I shut the door to our apartment and head down the ladder. Margo and I will meet up again later when she makes her rounds. She reminded me yet again how important it is for me to be a visible presence amongst the patients. Whatever makes her happy. I can't afford to lose her.
Not that she'd be stupid enough to leave me, of course. She's a smart girl.
Jamison stands outside the door to the monitoring station, his features guarded. He's already seen what I'm about to; that much is obvious. And he doesn't know how I'm going to react. Should be interesting.
I step inside without a word to him, but he salutes anyway and I return the gesture as I pass. Perch is seated inside the dim room in front of a wall of monitors, each one displaying the viewpoint of a different camera-equipped dog collar. His thick fingers are splayed over the dials on the console before him, increasing and decreasing the settings, guiding the mutos where he wants them to go.
"Captain," he greets me without looking my way, his attention divided between the screens and the controls.
I lean over his shoulder. My eyes rove across the monitors. "What am I supposed to be looking at here?" The images are green and fuzzy, distorted. I thought we'd already made all the needed improvements.
"Coming up," he murmurs, concentrating.
"We're—he's getting them to face it from different angles so we can get a better look. But they're tired, probably hungry. They're not responding as quickly as normal," Jamison explains.
"Increase the settings then." Send a thousand volts through them, I don't care. There's plenty more mutos where they come from.
"That's what we're doing, but they can only take so much before they—"
"Keel over." Perch curses as one of the monitors is seized by static. "Lost that one."
"What did they find?" I assumed it would be ready for me to see, whatever it is.
Jamison points to the third screen from the left, second from the top. "There. You can almost make it out."
I see fuzzy green and black shadows. I squint and lean in closer, but it's no help. "Can't you adjust—?"
"Compensating," Perch mutters, reaching for another dial on the control panel. Gradually, the image resolution clears. "How's that?"
"Better." I see it now. Time slows. I forget to breathe. "Where are they?" I whisper.
"From what we can tell, they're beneath one of the storage facilities to the southeast. Two or three levels down." Jamison clears his throat. "It's a radio. Shortwave, by the looks of it."
Obviously. But why is the light on the receiver blinking? "Power source?"
"None that we can see." Perch sets the dials and leans back, folding his hands behind his head. "Three, four, and six." He gestures to the monitors. "Those are our boys. Got 'em on standby."
One muto's camera faces the radio; the other two are aimed at its sides and just behind it, against a concrete wall. The light next to the receiver blinks steadily, patiently, with an incoming transmission. How long has it been functional? Twenty years?
What kind of battery would last that long?
"So..." Jamison clears his throat, crossing his arms. "You can see our dilemma here."
I glance at him. Of course I do. If we have the mutos fetch it for us, we risk losing the call, whoever it's from. The dogs haven't held the greatest track record with retrieving fragile items. But there's no other option. We can't go and get it for ourselves. It's too far out.
That option better not be crossing their minds.
"No dilemma here." I shake my head and step back. "Have 'em bring it down."
Jamison's mouth drops open and hangs there a moment. "This could be important, sir. Can we really expect the mutos to deliver it in one piece?"
"Important?" I raise an eyebrow at him.
"The incoming transmission... I mean, it could be—"
"Are you expecting a call, Jamison?" I grin, and Perch snickers. "From an old girlfriend, perhaps?"
He looks down, but his eyes rebound quickly. "We could send somebody up—"
"Not happening." He's an idiot even to think it.
"Just hear me out, sir." Jamison steps forward and waits for my reluctant sigh before continuing, "The patients. Couldn't we send one of them? They're already infected, so the harm's been done. We could use a radio to guide them to it, then—"
"Then what?" Perch chuckles. "Have 'em talk to whoever's on the other end? Yeah, that would go over real well. Not the best spokesmen for Eden, that bunch." He laughs out loud.
But I don't. Because young Jamison here has stumbled onto something brilliant. Of course we wouldn't want any of the patients to actually use the shortwave radio—but they could bring it to us. And I'm sure they'd do a better job handling this sensitive piece of equipment than the mutos ever could, even on their best days.
"How many of those collars do we have left?"
Both of them look at me quizzically. They have no idea what I'm thinking. Or maybe they do, and they can't be sure I'm serious.
But I am. As serious as I've ever been.
Perch scratches his protruding jaw. "Maybe ten. We're makin' more—"
"Get one and meet me at the recovery rooms." I turn on my heel and leave them to stare, forgetting to salute.
Once outside, I make my way across the main floor, my boots striking the concrete in a clipped rhythm. Men clear a path, avoiding my direct route as their transport vehicles carry pallets loaded with supplies. They salute me and I return the gesture half-heartedly. At the far end of the dome, along the catwalk suspended in the air, I see my destination: unmarked steel doors lined side by side, so neat and tidy.
My stomach tightens as I approach.
I still have my doubts. I hate the uncertainty. Should we have killed them all? Yes. Do we owe them our lives for helping us fight off the mutos when they first attacked? Probably. But it was never my intention to keep these patients around this long. Margo talked me into it. She has a habit of doing that.
Hope she doesn't catch wind of what I'm about to do here. She wouldn't like it. Not one bit.
She wants to study them, find out how the physiological transformations have affected—or been affected by—their current genetic make-up and whatnot. Maybe learn how to reverse the process. She's so passionate about it.
I'm a structural engineer; give me something to work on that's tangible. None of this DNA crap. That's her area of expertise.
If she wasn't here to convince me, they'd all be dead already. She probably knows that. She's no dummy, and that's a fact. They're her pet project, and she won't take kindly to me using one of them like this. But if I play my cards right, I'll have him back in bed before she starts her evening rounds.
"Hello, Mathis." I slide the door shut quietly behind me and try to catch my breath. You'd think I'd be in better shape with all these ladders around here, but they get me every time.
"Go to hell, Willard."
The body in the elevated m
edical bed lies still, attached by all manner of tubes and hoses to machines on both sides. They bleep and blink, monitoring his vitals, taking samples, recycling his blood. As far as we can tell, he's recovering. One of the lucky ones, I guess.
"Glad to see you're coherent." I pull a stool up to his bedside and take a seat. "How're you feeling these days?"
"Like you care." Unlike his paralyzed body, his head is able to turn—away from me. "Leave me alone, you son of a bitch."
My mustache itches. I scratch it, smooth it down. My other hand drifts to my sidearm. It would be so easy...
What purpose does it serve, keeping them alive like this? Margo can't believe they'll ever be part of the Eden Guard. Not Mathis, not Catherine, none of them. Ash freaks. Even if she manages to permanently reverse the effects of their infection, they'll still be tainted. They won't ever be like us.
This is better. He'll serve a purpose. He'll serve us.
"You're going on a little trip, Mathis."
His head rolls toward me as interest flickers in his eyes, but his brow remains furrowed. "Well, that should be fascinating, seeing how I can't move a muscle. You've got me so pumped full of—."
"Easily remedied. Once you're leashed." I grin.
"What're you talking about?"
I pat his bare chest. "Not to worry. You'll love it. How long have you been cooped up in here? Months, right? A little fresh air will do you good."
"It's fresher in here," he retorts. "Have you already forgotten who programmed the air processors?"
"Of course not. You did a great job. All of you. But I was referring to the air your kind prefers."
His severe gaze narrows. "Thought you didn't want anybody going topside."
I can't restrain the chuckle that rocks my shoulders. "Well, you're special, Mathis. And we've got a very special assignment, just for you."
He glares at me.
"On our way, Captain," Jamison's voice crackles from my radio.
I raise it to reply, but I pause. There's something strange about Mathis's eyes. He stares straight through me, his corneas glassy, his chapped lips stretching into a gruesome smile. He's quiet for a few moments. Then he chuckles, sounding like he's regurgitating a recent meal.
Spirits of the Earth: The Complete Series: (A Post-Apocalyptic Series Box Set: Books 1-3) Page 33