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

on there? Was he trying to kill her? It had to be the spirit inside him, acting through him. I can't allow myself to speculate whether he was successful. But with his superhuman speed, no one could stop him.

"They've got books." Samson gestures at the rosewood cupboards along the far wall. "Hardbound, all kinds. Not the digital stuff we had in the bunker. The more illegal variety."

"We had everything," I remark absently. I read most of what the database had to offer, but it was far too extensive even for the most avid of readers to exhaust, given twenty years or a lifetime.

I step across the plush carpet toward the row of enclosed shelves mounted on the wall. The small door opens with a short creak. Instantly I'm met with the ancient aroma of print, paper, and glue. Yet there is nothing ancient about these books. Were they printed here, by these people who seem to have no end to their modern conveniences? Or were they printed before, decades ago, by trade workers in blatant defiance of the UW mandate?

"Well?" Samson yawns again. This place is putting him to sleep. "See anything you like?"

All of the bindings are similar, a forest of green leather with titles embossed in gold. One stands out: A Holy Bible. My breath catches as I reach for it. How long has it been since I've held the word of God in my hands? My fingers tremble as I slide it out from the books on either side. I cradle it in my palms, letting it fall open. But it does so reluctantly. The binding creaks and the pages remain in clumps. No one has opened this book before.

"They're new." Reverently, I tuck the Bible under my arm and reach for a random title. Robinson Crusoe. It's in the same pristine condition. So is Great Expectations and Les Miserables and War and Peace. "They've never been read."

Samson grunts and scratches his belly. "Weird, huh? I don't think anybody's ever lived in this place." He winks at me and raises his voice. "You sure don't get this kind of hospitality everywhere you go!"

Anywhere would be more like it, but his comment was meant for anyone listening in. There is no hospitality on this planet, not anymore. There are no comforts outside this strange place. Unless I am mistaken, and this is merely one of many subterranean returns to normalcy. How long have they lived like this, while we've fought for our lives on the surface?

Was it a mistake to leave the bunker when we did? Perhaps we too would have found some sort of tunnel to this place or another like it if we'd only looked. If I hadn't been so determined for us to make a new life for ourselves outside.

Defeat overwhelms me as I think of the lives lost since All-Clear. Could we have avoided all that suffering?

"They've really rolled out the red carpet, that's for sure." Samson rubs between his eyes again and blinks. He looks as though he's fighting a losing battle against the weariness overtaking him. "But I hope they can answer the hundred or so questions I've got for them. Because right now, no matter how I look at it, I can't get much of this to add up."

"Our gracious host will return soon." I wish we could speak freely. I have a feeling Captain Willard is far from the gracious type.

"Find a good one?" He leans over to take a look at the Bible in my hands, but his interest fades. "Oh."

"Not one of your favorites?" I turn to the middle, having always found solace in reading the Psalms of King David. Samson, on the other hand, has always found strength in himself—despite the irony of the name we bestowed on him years ago. For the Samson of the Bible, strength came only from Jehovah.

"Not much of a reader," he admits. "Unless I'm into the topic. Sex, weapons, warfare, you know. The usual."

"You might be surprised by what you find in here." I almost smile. "Have you ever heard of King Solomon?"

"Maybe. Why?"

"He had hundreds of wives."

Samson blinks at me, his face expressionless. "How did he manage to...?" He shakes his head. "Wow. What chapter is he in?"

The shower shuts off. We both look up, then glance at each other. In his eyes, I can tell what he's thinking. "Have a sudden urge to visit the bathroom?" I know him too well.

"No." He gestures to the Bible. "Where's this Solomon guy?"

"But you were thinking about it."

"What?" He looks up, catches my gaze, and quickly averts his eyes.

"You were imagining her naked."

"Was not." He points at the Bible again. "Show me."

"Don't try to change the topic."

The lobes of his ears start to flush. "Are you going to show me or not?"

"When you admit it."

The bathroom door opens, and Shechara emerges wearing clothing from the hall closet. Unlike me, she thought ahead, bringing a pair of jeans and a cream turtleneck sweater with her. She too is barefoot as she steps lightly across the carpet to join us.

"All washed up?" Samson manages, jumping to his feet and not seeming to know what to do with his hands. Or his eyes.

Shechara's figure—normally hidden by her loose garments—is shapely in the form-fitting attire. Her scalp shows a day's growth. She must have decided not to shave it. My mind wanders, imagining her with a full head of dark, thick hair.

Daiyna's face flashes through my mind.

"Your turn." Shechara looks up at him, her tone congenial but with enough of an edge to achieve the desired result.

"Right." With a short nod and his eyes focused on nothing in particular, Samson drops his head and stomps toward the bathroom like he's marching to war.

Before he can reach his cold shower, the bolt on the front door slides open. I clench my fists quickly as my talons flex outward, piercing the palms of my hands and drawing blood. I grit my teeth and will them back where they