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

get back." Weeks ago, I might have added something suggestive about sharing my bunk and reading passages from Hitler and Moses during foreplay.

Her lips curve upward as she says, "I'd like that." She falls back into her seat.

Did she just read my mind?

"How far out have we driven?" I turn to Jamison.

"Almost ten kilometers." He doesn't take his eyes from the tunnel ahead of us. There isn't much room for error in here.

"How's the juice?"

He checks the gauges. "Under seventy percent. Going faster than I thought. I should've charged it up this morning."

"We'll make do."

He glances quickly in my direction. "You really believe God's with us, Boss?"

"Yes. I do." What kind of prophet would I be if I didn't respond that promptly and confidently?

He blows out a sigh and nods. "Good. Because it's starting to get to me a little—how alone we are. All that talk about what happened to the scouts, I was just thinking..." He lowers his voice. "What if we're not the only ones down here?" He darts me another glance. "What if there are others infected like Sharon?"

He's letting his fear get to him. "Have faith, soldier. Everything's gonna be all right."

"How do you know?" He sounds like he wants to believe me.

"Because we aren't mutant freaks." I grin at him. "We're all-natural children of God, and we've got his blessing upon us because of it. Chase those fears away with the truth, son. As sure as I've ever been of anything, I'm telling you: he's with us."

The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. God would favor the naturals over the abominations. It's always been his way. The only problem—and it's a big one—is if we're the only natural children of God left on this sorry planet. If the survivors from Sectors 50 and 51 have already become infected by the dust, that would not bode well at all for the human race. They're the only ones still able to procreate. Reproduction is their post-All-Clear mandate.

We'll have to cross that bridge, too, when we come to it.

A few more kilometers pass, each one identical to the last. Concrete everywhere you look—up, down, both sides. Water and lots of it would have passed through here once upon a time. But now it's just us, rumbling along like we own the place. I glance at the compass in the center console. The needle is still jiggling in a southwestern direction. I lean over to check the odometer.

Jamison slams on the brakes, and I lurch forward against my lap belt, just as Margo shouts, "What's that?" and points. The tires squeal, shuddering against the tunnel floor. I follow Margo's finger toward what lies ten meters before us, washed white in the jeep's headlamps.

Looks like there was a big cave-in a while back. No way we'll be taking the jeep any farther.

"Shut it down." I gesture lamely toward the ignition switch, my eyes fixed on the rubble. "Keep the lights on."

Jamison nods, his gloved fingers fumbling. The engine groans and dies.

Silence, punctuated only by my breath, loud against the O2 mask. Nobody moves.

What is this? How dare it stand in our way?

Stand is the wrong word. It protrudes through the roof of the tunnel with large piles of broken concrete on all sides below, engulfing it. The enormous thing is covered in dust, frosty in the light of the headlamps. There might be enough room on either side to squeeze through on foot and take a closer look.

My curiosity overwhelms my anxiety.

"Let's check it out." I climb out over the jeep's side door and drop to the tunnel floor. I beckon for the others to follow as I venture toward the rubble.

"From the surface?" Jamison's voice echoes behind me. He hasn't left the jeep.

I nod, pointing at the large cylindrical shape piercing the crumbled ceiling. "Came in through there." I drop my hand to gesture at the chunks below. "And did a nose dive."

"It's huge!" Margo keeps her voice near a whisper. Maybe we all should. I doubt there have been many sound waves traveling through here lately. We wouldn't want to start an avalanche. "What do you think? Leftover equipment from when they built the bunker?"

That wouldn't make sense. We're over twenty kilometers out.

"How far down are we?" Perch joins us.

"Fifty meters." I shrug.

"The bunker's that deep. What if the tunnel..." He angles his forearm upward thirty degrees. "What if it brought us closer to the surface?"

My abdomen tightens. "What if it did?" Where's he going with this?

He strides forward, taking big steps over fallen pieces of broken concrete, heading for the gap on the left side of the cylinder. "Then I might know what this is." He glances back to make sure we're following. Then he reaches into the pocket on his pant leg and retrieves a glowstick. He cracks it, washing himself in the sickly green light. "Awful dark on the other side."

Margo and I draw the sticks from our pockets but wait until we're beyond the range of the jeep's headlamps before cracking them. I follow the path Perch has taken, sidestepping debris, climbing over rubble. Is that dirt mixed in with the broken concrete? Demon-dust from the surface? I check my O2 mask, make sure it's secure.

Perch reaches the left side of the cylinder and steps through the gap easily. As he disappears from sight, he curses vehemently. I pick up the pace, clambering over concrete to reach the gap. Perch stands with his head cocked back, gazing upward in the green light. He turns to me and points a couple meters above his head. The large grey lettering on the cylinder is obscured by dust but still legible: UW GUARDIAN MISSILE. Right next to a radiation hazard symbol.

"It's a nuke," he says flatly.

That much is obvious. I stare, unable to string any words together.

"Still in the missile chamber." He curses again. "Undetonated."

"Undetonated..." I echo. "A live warhead."

Margo appears around the corner, adding her light to ours. It doesn't take her