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

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