Spirits of the Earth: The Complete Series: (A Post-Apocalyptic Series Box Set: Books 1-3) by Milo Fowler (paper ebook reader .TXT) 📕

appropriate name, but I kept the one I was given, as was our custom.) Quite a few of the men followed my example, using meditation and physical exercise to free their minds of our God-given urges. Avoiding madness was always the goal.

"All in good time, my friends," I offer with what sounds like certainty. "We've lasted this long. We can hold out a while longer. If the women of today are anything like those we remember, then I doubt that they'll want anything to do with us until we get these shelters finished." I raise an eyebrow at Samson. "And perhaps take a shower or two."

Hearty laughter erupts, and with renewed vigor, the men return to their work, doubling their efforts.

"Well said," Plato remarks once we're alone. "So...when do we start the search?"

My gaze returns to the mountains in the distance, their peaks frosty in the light of the waxing moon. "Sector 50's bunker was near that ridge. But the maps are useless now—the earth has changed. Those may not even be the same mountains, for all we know."

Plato keeps his voice low as we work together, tying down one of the tarps on Samson's shelter. "Do you really think they planned everything out?"

They—the government scientists and sociologists—had known for years the Cold War would eventually thaw, and when it did, another continent could be lost. Or worse: the entire globe. The North American Sectors had grown ripe with underground terrorists—Patriots, they called themselves. Rumors circulated about vials of weaponized chemical agents missing from secure government labs. If such dangerous bioweapons ended up in the wrong hands, the only way to neutralize a potential threat would be nuclear strikes hot enough to eradicate a toxic outbreak along with every other living organism for kilometers around.

The scientists worked together unilaterally across the sectors to construct our bunkers—state-of-the-art subterranean prisons designed to safeguard their most valued commodities, as defined by rigorous tests of intelligence and physical stamina. The war-mongering factions turned a blind eye to these efforts; their goal was to take lives, not save them, and they did not interfere. Before the time eventually came for a chain reaction of falling bombs, the government officials collected us and took us below ground to safety. For the next twenty years, we stayed alive thanks to their careful planning and preparation. But how far into the future did their foresight extend? Could they have accounted for every eventuality?

"For our sake, and for the future of our species...I hope so."

"You've done well, Luther. You've kept us together, united. The men remain in high spirits." Plato glances around quickly before returning to his work. "But if they were to lose hope—"

"We won't let them."

He looks up at me, and in his eyes is a hint of fear.

"Done!" Rip calls out, slapping the roof with an air of finality as he tosses down his hammer. It hits the hard-packed sand with an earthy thud.

"Done!" echoes throughout our village as the shelters are completed, one by one, and the men move on to the next.

We join forces to finish Samson's, and by morning, as the sun's rays break across the eastern horizon, we find refuge for the first time not beneath the earth, but above it, in shelters of our own design. The men sleep, each under his own roof, exhausted bodies sprawled out across mattresses we exhumed from the bunker below. Snores and deep sighs punctuate the stillness of a new day.

I lie on my back and stare at the plexiglass ceiling, coated with a dark UV protective polymer. I study the edges where thick canvas tarps are tied down. If we made any mistakes in our construction, if something comes loose in a sudden gust of wind, the sun will scorch us in our sleep. Perhaps I should have told the men to wear their jumpsuits, but I wanted them to feel free.

I need to relax. We are free now. Finally on our own.

But we're not truly alone. I feel it—that Presence in the air I breathe. I don't know how to describe it. I sense the men around me in their shelters, even when their breathing is quiet. But this is different. It's not simply the presence of another human being. What I sense is much greater. And it is watching us.

When Samuel from the Hebrew Scriptures was a boy, he thought he heard his elder, Eli, calling to him. But it wasn't old Eli. It was God.

"Here I am, Lord..." My voice hangs in the stillness. The silence that follows is thick, mocking me. I'm no prophet. I shouldn't presume to hear the Creator speak to me.

Something hits the side of my shelter with a loud crack. I catch my breath and sit up.

"Yes?"

No sound answers. I pull on my jumpsuit and fasten the face shield. Pushing through the heavy tarp that serves as my door, I step outside into the white-hot sunlight.

Even with the tinted Mylar on my face shield, my eyes take a few moments to adjust. When they do, I find a large stone lying beside the canvas wall of my shelter. I bend down and pick it up, hefting it in the palm of my gloved hand. We swept this area clean a few nights ago, sending rocks to the bottom of a dry gully south of our village. This stone shouldn't be here. It wasn't here minutes ago when we all turned in for our first day's sleep inside our new homes.

I glance up and down the vacant path between our twin rows of shelters. If one of the men is up to some sort of shenanigan, he's doing a good job of hiding. I stand and face the bunker, a hundred meters away with its mouth dark and inviting. In this moment, I know what Plato meant. It's natural for us to crave the familiar. We were so secure in our underground prison.

I grip the stone in my hand and take a few steps away from my