Spirits of the Earth: The Complete Series: (A Post-Apocalyptic Series Box Set: Books 1-3) Milo Fowler (different e readers TXT) 📖

to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb. It could be the title of my memoir—or my epistle. I listen to the hum of the reactor below us, vibrating the steel beneath my boots. Then I toss the book back onto the stack. "Is this all they found?"

Jamison nods, glancing down at the crate of green hardbounds on the floor between us. "Want them to keep looking?"

War and Peace. I trace the embossed title with my finger and can't help but smile. It's fitting. Apropos.

I hear one of them grunt—or snort—from across the main floor. Four of them stand just inside the south tunnel, their heads hanging low to shield their lidless eyes from Eden's lights. The small red bulbs on their collars blink intermittently, pulsing with the programmed setting that holds them in a catatonic state.

Perch and two others stand by with weapons drawn, leveled on the mutos. Perch carries the remote, but he favors the shock prod dangling from his belt. He enjoys it maybe a little too much, but he's not hurting anybody.

They're just dogs, after all.

"Brand new. Like everything else we've found." Jamison squints at me with a sudden thought. "Why'd those government scientists want us to head up to the Preserve after All-Clear? Everything we need to start over is right here!"

I've trained him well. The others, too. You'd think we have a hive mind or something by the way we all tend to stay on the same page these days.

"Send them out for another run. Have 'em finish off the south sector." I watch them. Stoop-shouldered creatures with deformed, lumpy-muscled arms hanging low at their sides. Like apes. "Let's see what else they find."

It'll be getting dark. While it's bright as day here in Eden, night will be coming on strong out there. But Jamison already knows what to do.

"We'll switch the cameras over to night vision."

Good boy. I nod and he salutes—something new they've started doing. Can't say that I mind it. He takes off in an easy jog, looking like a second-stage student warming up for a track meet. I don't know how he's done it, but Jamison has managed to hang onto a youth that's passed the rest of us by. Maybe it comes from having a clear conscience. Bet he sleeps like a baby every night.

He heads over to Perch and the others, and they quickly adjust the cameras on the mutos' collars, then back away. The freaks don't even seem to notice. The collars are a godsend, and that's a fact. Wish we'd come up with them sooner, but better late than never at all.

Perch activates the remote and whips out his prod, jamming it into each of the dogs' sides with a vengeance. He curses them as they cringe and stagger away, lumbering off into the blackness of the tunnel beyond the reach of Eden's lights. Jamison turns my way once they're gone and gives me a double thumbs-up.

Now we watch and wait.

My attention is drawn back to the box of books. Somebody twenty years ago thought these titles were worth publishing, defying a UW mandate. Brand new, never read. It's like they were made just for us. Printed off in secret probably, then buried beneath the rubble in sublevel storerooms. The food and supplies we've found have made sense. Of course there'd be underground warehouses full of that stuff. But illegal books? What was the point?

I bend down to heave the crate against my chest and feel my back pull, then pop. That can't be good. I'm not like Jamison at all. I've probably aged ten years in the past months since All-Clear. One of the banes of leadership. God knows, it hasn't been easy.

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