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

Then I remember: So long without fresh air in the bunker—just the recycled variety they said was perfectly fine for us.

Never again. I'd sooner die.

And that might happen a whole lot sooner than I'd planned. I count my packs: three hydro, two vitamineral, four protein. The last bit of ingenuity from those United World scientists before they were blown away. These packs were issued by the ton to every bunker in the sector. They'll last me two days, no more.

That's how long I have to scale those sleeping giants and see what's on the other side. I'm counting on a city—ruins with leftovers where I can re-stock my supplies. Maybe there will be people. Survivors, like me.

It's been two months since I came across my last neighbor. But I probably shouldn't count him. There wasn't much left. Bones, mostly, and what looked like organic matter baked into the broken concrete nearby. I called him Adam, since he was the first person I saw after All-Clear. I knew he wasn't Eve because his pelvis wasn't the right shape.

I like people. I miss them.

I am so, so sorry for what I did.

Packs counted, bedroll slung across my back, every centimeter of my body covered by my jumpsuit, face shield, hood, gloves, and boots, I make my way down the rocky hillside where I spent the night. As I reach a level stretch of gravel below, I settle into an easy walking pace. There's no rush. Not anymore. Life has slowed to barely a crawl, and I'm the only one out here doing the crawling.

I check my gloves again. Habit. A few weeks ago, I forgot to zip them to my sleeves. As I climbed down a knoll, the sand shifted and I lost my footing. My left glove snagged on a piece of shale and almost slipped off. The instant sunburn across my wrist was excruciating. Haven't forgotten since. And now I have this delightfully compulsive little habit of checking them every few minutes. Just a tug every now and then to be sure.

All I can hear now are the dull thuds my boots make across the dusty ground and the echo of my breath against the face shield. Every morning it hits me like this: how alone we are now.

We?

Humankind. I can't be the only one left. That would be too depressing. There have to be others like me somewhere out there. The bunkers were designed to safeguard the continuation of our species. I survived, so others must have as well. They all couldn't have lost their minds and killed each other—or eaten each other.

"Cannibalism is not an option." Jackson's voice echoes clearly through my mind.

A smirk creeps across my face. He didn't say anything about murder.

It was one way to keep the rations coming.

Before the end, back when we had more restaurants and grocery stores than we needed, when they used to throw away extra food into dumpsters in back alleys, I'd fantasize about my favorite meals. My mouth became a wellspring of hot saliva at the thought of a large, extra cheesy pizza loaded with toppings; nachos smothered with salsa and jalapeños; lasagna with piles of garlic bread on the side... Then there were the desserts: ice cream sundaes, cheesecake –

"Cheesecake," I murmur out loud. I shake my head.

Why am I torturing myself?

Because you deserve it.

Those years in the bunker may not have erased my memories of the way life used to be, but they did train me for the life to come. I learned to eat ration packs not because of their taste (they were designed by the government geniuses to have no flavor) or because I was hungry. I ate them to survive. They nourished me and kept me alive. That was their only purpose, and they did it well enough.

So now when my stomach growls, when I feel that sharp hunger pang knifing me, I don't even think about what I want to eat. That part of the equation doesn't exist anymore. Things are simpler. My hunger is relieved by a ration pack. No use reminiscing on the flavors of a past life.

It's too soon to eat. With only a handful of packs left, I need to be careful. Hydration is no problem with this jumpsuit the scientists designed. The cooling system recycles my piss. Used to gross me out, but not anymore. I've learned to appreciate it. So even under the hot sun, three hydropacks will see me all the way to the top of those mountains. But I need to make the other rations last. Once I start climbing, I'll need my strength.

I hum while my footsteps keep the beat. I don't recognize the tune. Something original? Improvised and improved, one bar at a time. I have to do something in the silence, or it'll get to me. The overwhelming enormity of it. The finality. And me, all alone, swallowed whole by it.

I really don't want to go crazy.

Spending time hiking the great outdoors was never really my thing before the end of the world. I liked to swim or run in the Preserve on occasion when I could get the time off. It was great to see the wild life. I was in their world, visiting. The earth belonged to the animals, and we took it from them. We took it, and we destroyed it. We destroyed them. In the past few months, I don't know how many kilometers I've covered. But I've done more than enough hiking to last a lifetime.

The earth is so quiet now, I can't help but wonder if it's sleeping. Should I walk on tip-toe to keep from waking it? No birds with morning calls. No snakes to slither, no lizards to blink in the sun. This land was a desert once, full of life.

Now it's an ash-scape, blown to hell. Like the rest of the planet.

I glance over at the road, asphalt rippled and twisted like a frozen river. The InterSector highway at one time, with