She doesn’t even want to say the word Cleaning. “No, no,” I say quickly. “It’s just a… formality.”
I’m surprised she doesn’t know what I’m being accused of. But I’m happy to hear it. That means other people don’t know that Judge Brewer killed a man, whether in self-defense or not. That will be good for my case.
“The Sheriff is just… getting statements from other people,” I say. “Tying up loose ends. Doing it by the book, as he says. Because of my position.”
“Okay,” she says. “Though I don’t know why he had to lock you up.” Rose shakes her head. “I don’t know him well, so I don’t know if he’s different, but with all the fighting—all the death—I think folks in the Up Top are a little bit crazy.”
I let go of her hand. “That’s probably true.”
“Is everyone in our group okay?”
Rose hesitates for a moment. “We were very careful. We didn’t take sides. Though it wasn’t as though there were really any sides. Everyone just wanted to stay alive.” She gives a brief laugh that doesn’t sound like a laugh at all. “Rachel, though…”
I look at her, waiting. “Rachel?” I fear what might come next.
“You know she was in the lottery this year. She and her husband Brant… were trying to conceive.” I hear a sigh. “Brant was killed in an explosion. And Rachel….” Rose bites her lip. “Rachel was raped.”
My breath catches. Beautiful Rachel, married more than five years, finally getting a lottery ticket. She had been so happy, knowing that she and her husband could try for a baby.
“How terrible. Poor Rachel.”
We are both silent for a moment.
“They’re spiking the water again,” Rose says.
“What?” I say, surprised.
“People seem to be getting loopy. Though it’s pretty hard to tell, since everyone’s nuts anyway.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure. It started at least a month ago… or that’s when I noticed it. I talked it over with Willow and she said she saw the same thing. Some of us from the group had dropped our guard in terms of avoiding water, because they must have either lowered the dose or eliminated it for the last few years. And now it’s back again.”
I nod. It made sense. Dampen the trauma. Calm the people down. Keep the Silo running.
And then, of course, it hit me. Who was keeping the Silo running?
Silo 1. The puppetmasters. And who helped keep the puppets in line?
My husband. My son.
18
Food arrives. Finally. I can use it. That and some liquid.
I recognize Henrik from the cafeteria staff, an older man who usually has a smile on his face. Not today, though. He slides a tray under the bars without speaking, and I take it from him eagerly.
“Henrik—thanks so much! I’m starving. Didn’t the Sheriff leave word to bring me food if he wasn’t in the office?”
Henrik gives me a blank look. “The Sheriff? I haven’t seen him. Someone told me to bring food to the jail cell.”
“Will it be as delicious as all that food you made for Mars and Ruth’s wedding?” I smile at him. “It was such a shame most of it never got eaten.”
He looks puzzled. “Wedding?”
“Oh,” I say, at a loss. “Henrik. You don’t remember my son’s wedding?”
“Maybe,” he says. “You look a little familiar.”
As he turns to leave, I add, “Will you be coming back later with dinner? I’m kind of stuck here.” I laugh, but it’s a frightened laugh.
He doesn’t seem to notice. “Hard to say.”
I put the tray down and reach out to grab his arm before he moves too far away. “Can you get the Sheriff? No one seems to know I’m here.”
“The Sheriff?” A flicker crosses his face, and he walks away. “I’m not sure I know who that is.”
19
I eat the food, ravenous. The mug full of water is sorely tempting, but I resist. Barely.
Instead I squeeze the juice out of the cucumber slices he gave me, and lick the tomato. At home, I would have my homemade juicer, or at least a mortar and pestle. Here, I use my hands and do what I can to maximize the liquid sliding down my parched throat.
Henrik moved and spoke like a man half awake. Clearly, they’ve upped the dosage of the drugs in the water—maybe up to the level it was set at after we were first herded into the Silo.
I remember the feeling of fog and confusion. The inability to remember… and the lack of concern about that. It was only when I was taken off the water during my pregnancy—women were losing babies, and they couldn’t afford that after the initial rash of suicides— that the fog started to lift.
As soon as I stopped drinking the water, memories came rushing back. By then, I wanted to remember. As uncomfortable as it was, as horrifying as it was, my grief at realizing what we’d lost was not as great as contemplating a future where I had forgotten the time before completely. And so I chose to hold onto the memories, and pass them down to others who fought to retain their hold on reality. The old reality.
The current reality is that I am sitting in a cell and looking out at the toxic world we have been bequeathed. I think about my daughter and all the others in the Silo who were born too late to experience life in the time before—the time before that terrible day when we were banished to this living tomb. For them, I must remember. I must keep my mind alert and free.
And so I pour the water out and try to ignore my thirst.
20
I am dozing, hungry again, when I hear someone approach. I can tell from the tread that it’s a man. But it doesn’t sound like the lumbering walk of Henrik. This man is moving much more quickly.
Someone I don’t know comes around the corner to my cell. A young man, very dirty. His hair is shaggy and he has a rough growth of beard. He comes right up to the bars.
“Where’s Aponte?”
I shrink back, grateful for the cell that keeps him from me. I know that the keys are often in plain view on a hook in the Sheriff’s office, but I hope he doesn’t.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“When’s he coming back?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know that either.”
With a sort of growl, he turns around and heads back down the hallway. It occurs to me that I could ask him to have someone bring me food, but I’m sure he isn’t the helpful type.
If I could, I would warn the Sheriff.
21
It is getting late. The wallscreen is darkening. I am so hungry.
More than hungry, I am desperately thirsty. I gaze with regret at the wet stain in the corner of the cell, where I dumped the water. What I would give now for a sip. How could it hurt? A little bit of fogginess doesn’t sound so bad now.
For a moment I consider getting down on my hands and knees and licking the wet spot.
There is a noise. The man is back, now with a friend. The friend, taller and lankier, looks even more scruffy. Both of them have homemade masks over their faces, with holes for their eyes.
“Where the hell is he?” the first one asks me.
“I haven’t seen him,” I say. I keep my eyes low and my posture unthreatening. The tall one has a metal bar tucked into a loop on his coveralls. I see a knife on the other one.
I’m glad that I’m in the cell, and they are outside.
“Okay then. We’ll wait for him.” The first man turns and strides back toward the Sheriff’s office.
I can do nothing but wait myself. Wait to see what unfolds.
22
Despite my thirst and my hunger, I drift into sleep. I dream of being locked up. When angry voices wake me, I open my eyes to discover that it’s not a dream.
On the wallscreen, there are shades of black swirling over darker shades of black. It is night, outside and in.
I hear a few words. “… him. I told you. I saw him.”
“Bastard. I thought he was supposed to be the law. If we…”
<
br /> There is another sound. The slower, heavier tread of Aponte. He is inside. Shouts of surprise. The slam of a body against the wall. I can hear it but I can see nothing.
The noise moves closer. They are scuffling.
“He’s got his gun!” It’s the voice of the tall man.
“Damn it…” Aponte’s voice, still coming this way.
The cluster of men comes into view. I can see the Sheriff, his gun in his hand, with the first man clutching his wrist, twisting. Trying to direct the barrel up toward the ceiling.
Grunts of effort and pain come from the Sheriff. More shouts. Fierce contortions, resistance, strength strained to the max. The taller man has his metal pipe raised.
I see Aponte look up, his arm held tight by the younger man, his gun trapped. The pipe comes down on his skull, and there is a crack.
He falls to the ground.
As I see all this, I am lying on the cot at the far end of the cell. I get as low as I can, and keep my eyes like slits. They are just barely in my view. My hope is that they don’t know it.
“Gaah!” The first man takes his knife and strikes out at the Sheriff’s inert body.
He pulls it out and plunges it in again. I close my eyes.
“Okay. Enough.” It’s the voice of the taller man. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
They never glance in my direction. I watch as they pull their masks down and turn away, leaving the Sheriff.
I assume that he is dead.
23
The blood is flowing into my cell.
I can smell it.
And he’s still alive.
Broken moans come from the floor, only feet from the bars that hold me in.
“Sheriff,” I say, “can you hear me?”
Moaning.
“Can you move. At all? I could… if I could get out I could go for help.”
He says nothing.
“The keys. Can you get the keys?”
There is a sound like an attempted word. “Pah…”
“Pah… in your pocket?”
“Pah…”
“If it’s in your pocket I could reach for it, let myself out. Get you help. Can you… can you move?”
There is a scraping sound.
Moaning and scraping. He is getting closer.
There is just enough light to see his form. There is matted blood in his hair and one arm doesn’t seem to move. He is using the other to push himself along, inch by inch. He is only five feet away from my cell now.
“A little closer,” I say.
I reach out of the bars, my shoulder as far as I can get it between them. My arm is still missing him by two feet. I shudder to think of reaching through the blood to his pocket. But if I can touch him, I will.
His breathing is labored. Between every tiny move, he stops. Another inch. Another.
“You’re almost here.”
He groans. He moves. I reach out and touch him. “Where?”
He heaves himself three inches closer and I can see the pocket. I stretch my arm as far as it will go and connect with the keys. They are fastened to something. Of course.
Slippery and covered with blood, they are impossible to pull off. The man is going to die. What can I do?
I realize that my food tray is still in the cell. There is a knife. Like everything else in the Silo, it is built for permanence. I scramble over to the tray. I grab the knife. It isn’t sharp, but it’s strong and made of metal.
Going back to the gate, I take the knife in my right hand, slide my arm through the bars, and reach out to the keys. I put the point of the knife against the pocket and start to saw. I have no confidence that this could possibly work.
The blood is in my favor. The string holding the keys has become wet and weak. As I saw, trying to maximize friction but minimize movement for the Sheriff’s sake, I feel progress. Slowly, the knife is narrowing the thickness of the string.
Suddenly there is only a thread holding it together. The knife pops through and releases the keys. I use the tip to slide the jingling bundle toward me.
There are no more groans from the Sheriff.
“Hold on.” I don’t know if he can hear me.
The keys slide across the floor and under the bottom bar. I’ve got them. I can see which one must be for this door. I work it off the ring with my hands, smelling the sharp tang of blood.
I grasp the key and slide my hand through the bars, contorting my wrist so that I can reach the lock. I turn, and hear it spring. Pushing the door gently open so I won’t hit Aponte, I slide out and race down the hall as fast as I can.
24
It must be the middle of the night, but there is someone in the cafeteria.
“Help me,” I shout across the room. “The Sheriff is hurt. Can you get the doctor?”
The man, far across the cafeteria, stands up. I am startled to see that it is Mars, sitting alone and gazing at the wallscreen.
He races across the length of the room and I turn back with him as he jogs toward the stairway. “I’ll get her.”
“Can’t you… radio?” I ask.
He glances in the direction of the Sheriff’s office. “The radio won’t help—she’ll be at home. I’ll go on foot. What happened to the Sheriff?”
“He was hit on the head and stabbed. I think he’s unconscious. There’s a lot of blood.”
“Got it,” Mars says as he pounds down the stairs.
25
I go back to the Sheriff. If he’s going to die, I don’t want him to be alone.
“I’m here,” I say as I sit down beside him. “I’m here. I’m sorry I couldn’t stop those men.”
There is the faintest sound and a movement from one of his legs. He is still alive.
I put my hand on his shoulder, far from his injuries. I stay that way until Mars comes back with the doctor, who takes over.
So much death. So much pain.
26
I suppose I am free, at least temporarily. No one seems interested in locking me up again right away, and I’m not going to volunteer.
The Silo is waking up, and I go to the cafeteria for a meal and a drink. They have juice. I know it is made from the water, but I don’t care.
Though there is blood on my coveralls and in my hair, no one seems to be surprised. Perhaps there has been so much blood that they are numb to it.
When I take the first sip of the drink, it reminds me of my dream. Juice, like my mother used to give me when we went on the sailboat. So many years ago. Another life.
I walk back down the stairs and around the spirals, one after another, until I finally reach seventeen. Rick is surprised to see me. I tell him about the hunger, the thirst, the Sheriff coming back, the attack. He tells me that I was going to be released today in any case. Aponte had satisfied himself by interviewing Mars and Rick, and the doctor had examined Jeff’s body. Apparently the Sheriff was convinced that I killed Jeff in self-defense.
I don’t care.
I am numb.
All I want is sleep.
27
“Mom.” The voice is my son’s.
“Mars?”
I open the door to let him into the apartment, and he follows me into the kitchen.
I’m disoriented after sleeping. It seems to be afternoon.
“Did the Sheriff make it?” I ask.
“It looks like he will, so far. The knife wounds are more serious than the head. No question, you saved his life.”
If that’s true, I think, now I am even. One killed, one saved from death.
Mars is quiet. He shows no overt reaction to the fact that I am no longer under suspicion. I have never seen him so closed; so cold. My son, bearing such burdens now that he dares not let the cracks of vulnerability show. I realize that I will probably never again see him as open as he was when we were locked together below the IT floor. He has abandoned the things of youth and taken up a man’s job.
I don’t envy him.
28
I am in my home, and it is good to be here. I never knew I could be so grateful for my own space, and a measure of privacy. My husband, my kitchen, my bed.
We sit in the kitchen over coffee mash, and Rick keeps grinning.
“I’m glad you’re here, Karma.”
“Me too,” I say, smiling back at him.
He takes my hand in his. “Ruth came by to say thank you for the other night—the way you and Athena set up their new apartment.”
I feel surprisingly placid. And then I remember the juice I drank yesterday. No wonder I slept so deeply.
I lean toward him across the table. “Rick.” I put my hand on his. “The drugs. Who administers the drugs?”
Rick takes his hand away and stands up, moving back from the table. He shakes his head. “I can’t tell you… I’m not allowed to talk about this. It’s not good for me… and even worse for you.”
“You can, Rick. You can tell me.” I go over to him and put my hand on his arm. “I’m your wife. You can trust me. I would never put you in danger.”
His eyes meet mine, and they are afraid.
“It’s not you I don’t trust. It’s him.”
“Him?” I step back and put my hands up on his shoulders. This man who was once so intimidating. “Do you mean our son?”
“Karma.” He looks befuddled, and then he continues. “There is nothing we can do. We can only try to be as happy as we can be, here in the Silo. There is nothing else.”
“But… what are you saying?” My voice is rising. “Is Mars our enemy now? He administers the drugs… he sends people out for Cleaning?”
“He does… what he’s told to do.” Rick sighs. “He does whatever he’s told to do, or we all die.”
29
Some of the members of my “art class” are meeting to help clean up the supplies from the Up Top classroom that were damaged in the fire. Many books were lost—a tragedy, since we can’t replace them—but some are salvageable. We sit around the miniature tables and wipe off the plastic covers of the children’s stories, the ones with beautiful illustrations of “imaginary” blue skies and fluffy white clouds, butterflies, and children standing out in a sun unlike any a Silo child has ever seen.
Karma of the Silo: The Collection Page 17