Rose is here, and Willow, who is one of my old students and now the mother of a young boy herself.
“We need to spread the word,” Willow says. “People were getting pretty relaxed about drinking the water. With the drugs back in the supply, they’ll start feeling the effects, so we have to let them know.”
“Some people will be happy about that,” Rose says. “They don’t want to know what’s really going on.”
I turn to her as I wipe off a book about petting a bunny. The cover is only a little singed around the edges, and most of the ash is coming off. “So they know about the drugs, but they still drink the water?”
Rose nods. “Yes. I went to see Rachel yesterday—she’s in bad shape. Her husband’s gone, and she went through that attack. Everything has fallen apart for her.”
“How about her family?” I ask. “Her mom is around, right?”
“Her mom is double-dosing. She’s pretty eager to go back to la la-land,” Rose says, her voice worried. “I had to talk Rachel out of drinking the water herself.”
“I’ll go down and check on her,” I say. “After we’re done.”
There is silence for a moment as we concentrate on the books.
“Our numbers are increasing, though. More cells forming,” Willow says. “Apparently we have a big following in the Down Deep. Way more than we knew about.”
“Seriously?” I say. “How did you find that out?”
“Grandon, a guy in the Mids—oops!” Willow puts her hand over her mouth. “No names… sorry!” She grins sheepishly. “Somebody from my cell who lives at a lower level keeps a rough count of members in the group.”
“That’s good news,” Rose says.
“Yes. For whatever reason, the numbers in the Down Deep are twice what they are up here. Something like twenty percent of the folks down there.”
“I wonder if they’re really interested in remembering the time before… or just in keeping their heads clear,” I say, putting down a book about a pet goat and reaching for another.
“Either way, it’s a good thing, right?” Willow looks up at me and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “So we should let them know about the water.”
“Definitely,” I say. And I wonder what it means that folks in the Up Top are less interested in being aware of what’s really going on than those in the Down Deep.
30
I’m preoccupied as I pad down the stairs to see Rachel. She’s only a few levels lower. I realize that I’m near the gap in the railing that was being repaired when we came up from thirty-four.
Apparently there are still some repairs going on, because I see a cluster of activity blocking the stairs just below the next spiral. I sigh at the delay.
After one more turn I find myself stopped behind a man with a massive backpack. I can’t see past him. I crane my neck to get a view.
“What’s the holdup?” I ask.
He turns to look at me. His eyes are strangely excited. “Girl’s going to jump.” There’s anticipation in his voice. He moves aside a bit and points.
I look down and gasp.
“Rachel!” I scream. I start to fight my way through the small crowd. People seem oddly unmoved. Some are laughing and some just stand as if transfixed.
“Stop her. Grab her!” I am shouting, but no one moves to help.
Rachel is standing on the railing, balancing, one hand holding on for support, and the other extended into the airy space that a body could fall into—would fall into—if she just leaned slightly.
I push harder, shoving past the hypnotized onlookers.
“Jump!” someone shouts, and others start to join in.
“Go ahead… do it,” says one voice.
“Come down,” a woman pleads. “Don”t.”
“Jump, baby, jump!” says another.
“Rachel! No!”
She turns to look at me then, her beautiful brown eyes dead with sorrow. She raises her hand high, fingers crossed in the signal we use to recognize cell members, and leans out.
Faster than I can breathe, she is gone. No scream.
Only a sickening wet landing that we all hear. A moan goes up, and some scattered cheers. I lean over and vomit.
31
There is no body to bury; nothing to tuck respectfully into the earth to nourish growing things. There is little family to mourn. Rachel’s mother didn’t care to come.
We are a woeful knot of five, standing in the classroom around a tiny table that holds a burning candle and a sketch of Rachel that Willow made many years ago. In the picture, Rachel is young and smiling.
“The first time I met her,” Willow says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “Rachel was playing in the cafeteria. It was recess. I think she was about… twelve. So cute, in her braids and overalls.” She smiles and then the smile fades away. “She started chanting one of those rhymes the kids used to use for games when we were on the surface. Real quietly. When she saw that I’d heard her, she looked scared. So I walked over and started whispering the rest of the thing to her… and she looked at me like it was Christmas morning. She had found a friend.”
Willow sniffles. “She was two years younger than me. But we became friends that day and stayed friends for more than… twenty years.”
She places a flower in front of Rachel’s picture and steps back.
Steph, Mercedes, and I add flowers, and then Rose. “A long time ago, Rachel wrote a little poem. I set it to music, and Willow’s going to sing it with me.”
They stand, and in sweet harmony they begin.
So we link ourselves by love
Though we spend our years below
And we speak of life above
To remember what we know
For the world is not yet lost
When it lives on in our hearts
Though we bear the hardest cost
Still we carry out our parts
And we share what we once knew
As we struggle on each day
So the sky that once was blue
Will be blue again… someday.
32
I’m alone in the apartment when I hear a knock. Rick is out helping with some repairs, which seem endless. There is a lot of damage to be undone.
I open the door.
“Hi Mom,” Mars says, looking serious, as he always does these days.
“Mars. Hi.” I try not to look surprised. “It’s… nice to see you.” Things have been strained between us for the last several months, ever since we came upstairs after our months imprisoned on the level below IT. He doesn’t stop by much these days, even with Ruth. He doesn’t stop by alone at all. “Come on in.”
“I can’t stay,” he says, standing, his arms across his chest and a nervous energy coming from him. Whatever he is, he is still my son. I wonder if he’s getting any sleep. “I wanted to tell you in person. So you heard it from me.”
“Oh?” I steel myself. What could this be, that he needed to come to my door to deliver the message? “Is everything okay?”
“No. Yes. Well, it’s okay with us.”
I nod, willing him to get it over with.
“There’s going to be a Cleaning.”
My hand reaches out for a chair. There were Cleanings under Rick, and certainly some of them were while Mars was his shadow. But somehow… with Rick as chilly and remote as he was then, it didn’t touch me as much.
This is my son. My baby boy who has grown into a man. And he is sentencing someone to his death?
As soon as that thought runs through my mind comes another… and you are the mother who killed a man. Are you so pure?
“Who is it?” I ask.
“A guy from Mechanical. The one who tried to kill the Sheriff? Turns out he was the linchpin for this whole so-called uprising. It wasn’t really the Wrenchers’ idea at all.”
“I don’t understand.” I sit down in the chair my hands have been gripping.
“They’re not very happy in the Down De
ep in general, but they didn’t start this. This man—his name is Samuel—was in cahoots with Jeff and helped set the whole thing up. He got a few buddies to create that first huge explosion—all timed to coincide with the wedding, so that Dad, as Head of IT, and you, plus the Sheriff, would be busy on the top level—and it was all one big smokescreen for an IT coup.”
It takes me a moment to absorb what he’s said. “Okay,” I say slowly. “So this was all Jeff. There was no uprising.”
“Not a real one, no.” Mars sits down.
“How did you figure all this out? Especially without a sheriff?”
His face glows. “Ruth did it. She knows everyone down there, of course. Her Dad is the chief man on the generator. Her family has a lot of clout… and they call the shots. No way there would have been anything going on down there without them knowing.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Yeah, they knew there was some sort of traitor who had started this whole thing. It was just a matter of digging him out.”
I shake my head. “I’m glad you got to the bottom of this. But such a tragedy that so many lives were lost.” The enormity of it hits me. “Whether it was a real ‘uprising’ or not, they’re all still dead.”
He nods, and lets out a long breath. “Yes. Including most of the IT staff. Because a good percentage were on Jeff’s side… and the others were loyal to Dad. They mostly succeeded in killing each other off.” Mars stands, his voice tighter now. “I have to go. The Cleaning is tomorrow morning. I’m not eager to do this, but I’m convinced we have the right guy. He’s a man whose actions led to the death of hundreds.” He sighs. “And he’s going Outside.”
I walk him to the door. “This must be difficult.”
He looks me in the eye for a moment. His expression is empty. “Harder than I ever imagined. But if it’s what keeps us alive… Ruth, and you, and Dad, and Athena, and… everyone we know… what choice do I have?”
I give him a quick hug. My son. The man in charge of all of us now. I find that if there has to be someone representing us in response to the powers in Silo 1, I’m glad it’s him.
“Thank you for coming to tell me in person, Mars.”
“It matters to me what you think, Mom,” he says.
33
Mars and Ruth have come by our apartment to join us as we climb. We are going upstairs to see the wallscreen the morning after the Cleaning. No one wanted to go up for the Cleaning itself—except Mars, who felt he had to bear witness to the punishment he meted out.
This morning he seems even more sober than usual. Ruth, on the other hand, is grinning slyly. Rick and I are putting our packs on for the climb.
“Can I tell them, Mars?” Ruth says, hanging on to his arm, so tiny next to my tall, muscular son. Her eyes are sparkling.
“Go ahead,” he says. He’s smiling now too.
“We’re pregnant!” It practically bursts out of her, and she jumps up and down as she says it. “Mars and I are going to have a baby… you’re going to be grandparents again!”
“Careful, honey,” Mars says, touching her gently on her arms as if to get her to stop bouncing around. “You don’t want to shake yourself up too much.”
I laugh. “Oh, mothers-to-be are a pretty sturdy lot, Mars. Congratulations, you two!” I hug Ruth and then Mars, as Rick follows suit, slapping his son on the back.
The door opens and Athena and Dylan come in with Erica. The apartment is full to bursting. “I’m going to have a baby!” Erica says.
We all stop for a moment, stunned. “She means she’s going to have a niece, or nephew. Ruth’s baby,” Athena says, laughing. “I’m sorry, Ruth, she overheard us talking last night. Did we upstage your announcement?”
“I just told them.” Ruth is all smiles.
“You told Athena before you told me?” Mars asks.
“I didn’t tell her. I asked her. I thought… I thought I was… we were, and… well, she’s a mother herself… so….” Ruth is blushing now.
Finally Rick speaks up. “Well, it’s a great day. Another Brewer baby!”
Yes, I realize. This will be a Brewer baby.
We head out the door and down the hall to the teeming stairway. Mars takes Erica on his shoulders to protect her from the crush of bodies making their way up.
“You can practice with me, Uncle Mars,” Erica says. “I’ll tell you all about what babies need. I used to help my mom put on the diapers when I was little.”
I look over at Athena, who is rolling her eyes. Though we are making our way upward with a much bigger crowd, I realize that we are walking, once again, up the stairway as a family, just as we did six months ago on the day Mars and Ruth got married.
So much has happened since then. So much death… and now, a new birth. There will be many new births in the year to come, with the lottery floodgates open. Even in the Silo, life goes on.
I walk beside Rick, thinking good thoughts, wondering about this new little person-to-be who will soon join us. Round and round we go, each footfall taking an infinitesimal layer of metal away from the treads on the stairs. How many generations will it be, I wonder, until the toxic debris is washed from the world, and we are free to emerge into the sunshine?
Will we be any different for all our years living underground? Will we even make it that long… or will we find a way to destroy each other here in the Silo… or break out, only to fight our way to extinction after all?
When I look up, we are only steps from the top. I suddenly notice Ruth, just ahead of me on the stairs, her arms linked behind her back. Her hands are eye level with mine, and her fingers are crossed. It looks just like the signal we use for cell members to identify themselves to one another.
For a moment I wonder if it could simply be a coincidence.
But then Ruth turns around and nods at me, and I realize that she, too, wants to know the truth. She doesn’t drink the water. And she is married to the power at the top of the Silo.
A challenging position, and one I know well.
We reach level one. Far across the room above the throng of people I see the wallscreen, as clear and clean as it ever gets. Like sunrise in the Silo, it heralds our new day.
I bow my head for a moment in remembrance of my friend Andy, out there in the storm, his body suffering the endless buffeting of the deadly clouds we made to destroy others, and which may yet destroy us.
LAST WALK
Karma #5
“Do you know that I’ve been on to you from the start, and not once did you pull the wool over this boy’s eyes?”
Tennessee Williams, A Streetcar Named Desire
“Knowing the truth is always good. And better that it’s us discovering it than someone else, right?”
Hugh Howey, WOOL
1
The young people are fighting.
I see two of them, inked on the face with the colors of the Down Deep, locking bodies with two from the Up Top. It must have just started.
So much of this now, everywhere I go. In the halls, on the landings, on the great stairs. Even in the cafeteria.
A tall one with the white and silver dagger of the Up Top across his cheek is wrestling hand-to-hand with a shorter but more muscular opponent whose face bears a blue gear. I hear grunts and the sickening sound of a fist hitting bone. Something crunches and I shudder.
Where are the level guards? There are supposed to be two citizens on every floor to stop such fights. Maybe they were outmanned. I notice someone lying on the ground near the wall. Is he part of a gang or one of the guards? I can’t see his face.
The other two young men are circling each other, bloodied and purpling already with bruises they seem to relish. A grin passes between them, a moment of glory in the fight before they engage again. One of them gets perilously close to the railing.
Most onlookers rush away from the violence, eager to get out of sight and sound of the fight. Those with children push them down the hall and into the safety of home. Others are attracted
to the excitement. I see men—particularly young men—and some women, watching with eager eyes to see who triumphs. Up here on seventeen, the home court advantage goes to the Daggers. The Gears sense this, and their fighting becomes more desperate.
A cheer goes up as the tall Dagger gets in a powerful blow, and the Gear is thrown against the stairs.
I gasp when the crowd whoops with encouragement. As the shorter man is lifted above the railing and balanced for a moment on the brink, his eyes catch mine and beseech me as I scream out for mercy. Others are shouting, some for, some against.
The crumpled figure near the wall lifts his head. “Don’t do it,” he croaks, but no one can hear him. I realize with a start that it’s my grandson, Abe. He tries to raise himself and I hurry over to help.
And then there is a wail—of relief? Of disappointment?—as the young man is pulled back over the edge and stands, panting, still alive.
“Get outta here, Gearheads!” the tall Dagger says. “This is our territory, and don’t forget it. Next time, I’ll throw you over.”
The crowd roars.
2
There is a sickness down here in the Silo. A sickness that has to do with stunted ambition and the frustrated need to explore… to expand. We need to go somewhere, but there is nowhere to go.
The young people feel it the most. They are exploding. Perhaps we bred too many of them in the time after the last uprising—an uprising that didn’t flare up on its own but was masterminded by Jeff, the derelict from IT—and which nevertheless left hundreds dead.
These children don’t remember that. They were all born in the aftermath. The restrictive birth lottery was halted for a few brief years, and during that period the population boomed. These are the children of that boom.
Karma of the Silo: The Collection Page 18