“Grandma, we’ve made some modifications to the suit. You won’t die in pain. It’s airtight—we gave you the good tape. You should be able to make it… to the top of the hill. That’s where I understand you want to go.” She gives a grim smile. “What will happen is that you’ll run out of oxygen, which I’m told is relatively painless.”
She puts the boots on. “We have a camera rigged to the front of your helmet that will send a live signal back to us. So we’ll be able to see whatever you see. Don’t worry too much about the cleaning itself. Save your oxygen for the climb… up the hill.” Her head is down, tightening the boots, and I think I hear a sniffle. She is being very brave. My strong girl.
She takes a hand and wipes at her eyes, still looking at my boots. “Make quick work of the cleaning—we’ll get all we need if you simply make sure you do a general sweep of each side of the Silo with the camera mounted on the helmet.”
She stands up, and I can see the red in her eyes.
“Sweetheart—” I start.
She holds up a hand. “Grandma. Please. This is so hard. Just let me finish, before I… or I won’t be able to.” She rolls the rest of the suit up and helps me slide my arms in. I’m stiff and have limited movement—it’s difficult for me, but she is patient and gentle. She pulls the gloves on and fastens them tightly.
“We’ll have a one-way radio, so you can hear us. Dad and I—” she gasps, and I see her eyes widen and her mouth work. “Grandpa and I will be there to make sure you get the views we need. You can’t talk to us, but we can talk to you. Not a lot—we want to make sure our frequency is undetected.”
I am all suited up but for the helmet.
“Thank you, sweetheart. Are you going to be all right?”
A small sob comes from her throat. “I’ll survive.” She reaches her free hand around me in the bulky suit and hugs. “I am… so proud of you, Grandma. You are amazing.”
“I love you, Celeste.”
“And I love you,” she whispers as she carefully places the helmet over my head and locks it down.
37
I stand in the chamber and feel nothing but anticipation. There is a rush of something foggy pumped into the room. I feel the pressure change. The curtains crinkle. My suit shrinks in to me.
I have a vague memory of being here before, a lifetime ago, with a crowd of panicked people. We thought it was the end of the world.
I remember the fear. And I remember that there were a few people who seemed to be in control. Who seemed to know just what was happening.
Now, finally, I am to reverse that journey.
The airlock door opens. Slowly, I begin walking up the ramp.
38
I am surrounded by a white cloud, and then… ahead… an astonishing blueness of sky. Glorious green grass.
I step out into a beautiful day. I don’t understand. I turn in a circle, looking at the lovely hills around me, the sunshine, everything as I remember the world. I look up at the sky, and in the distance, Atlanta—whole and healthy.
How can this be real? This can’t be real. A hallucination?
I must be dead.
I check my senses. I can feel the heaviness of the boots and the thick gloves at the end of my arms. I can smell the odd plastic scent inside the helmet. I hear… static, from the radio beside me. I see the world, the way I remember it from my childhood.
I don’t feel dead. I feel very much alive. More alive than I’ve felt in years. If I could, I’d go bounding around the green earth in front of me.
This must be why everyone does it… why everyone cleans, despite the puzzlement of those left in the Silo. It’s beautiful out here. I want the people inside to see it! But what is the purpose of the fake darkness, the horrible visions on the wallscreen?
To keep us inside, surely. Is the air actually safe, and is there some other reason to keep us in? My thoughts are bumping into each other, contradictory theories tumbling one after another. What is real?
They cannot have faked those cleaning deaths, though. What kind of technology would it take to do that? A video loop, running over and over? Our wallscreens showing ersatz corpses, rotting over time… who would do such a thing, and why?
My heart leaps at the thought of Andy, the first Cleaner, still alive. Could it be?
It was nearly fifty years ago. He would be an old man now.
I look to where I know his body to be. But there is no dead Andy. There is no dead anyone. Just a gorgeous landscape with the familiar cleft in the hill running up to the other silo… Silo 1. And where Andy’s body should be, just a few jumbled rocks.
My hands go to the helmet, and I think about removing it, to breathe the sweet fresh air I have longed for.
Stop, Karma. Think.
39
The static in my ear becomes a voice. “Mom? Mom, can you hear me?”
I stand still. It is the voice of Mars. Mars is dead. The world is dead and Mars is dead, too. Am I going mad?
“Mom, it’s Mars. I’m so sorry. We didn’t mean to be cruel.” Static comes in and out when the voice stops. “I’m alive. I faked my death.” There is a pause. “I did it so that I could work with the resistance, undetected by Silo 1. I’m living in the Down Deep with Ruth’s family. It had to be convincing. You and Dad… we couldn’t tell you.”
I try to breathe slowly. He’s alive? My son is alive.
“We’ve been planning it for a long time.” The quiet voice continues. “Ruth and I. The kids knew.”
I think my heart will break for joy. How I wish I could answer him. But the radio goes only one way.
His voice comes again. “I can’t talk long. I love you, Mom. I’m so proud of you. We’ll…” I hear his voice choke. “We’ll take good care of the Silo for you. We’re all on the same side now.”
It occurs to me that this might be a malicious trick. The green is real, but my son’s voice is false? My son is still alive, but the air is toxic? I am losing my mind.
There is static, and then another voice. “Karma, honey, it’s Rick. I’m here with Mars. You need to get moving if you’re going to have enough time to make that climb.”
He startles me out of my shock. I have to clean. I have to clean and make sure they get their camera feed of the outside of the Silo. And then I have to get up the hill.
I hardly know what’s real. But I do know that I have to get up that hill.
There is peace in my heart. My son is alive!
40
I clean, and as I do, I make sure to swing my head slowly right and left on each quadrant of the Silo so that the camera feed on my helmet takes in everything there is to be seen. I give up any notion of removing the protective headgear… surely Mars or Rick would have told me if it were safe to breathe the air out here. If the toxic view we got from inside the Silo were all one big charade, they would have clued me in.
I wish that I could speak, but I can only listen, and right now there isn’t even any static. I concentrate on the task at hand.
Take out the wool pads and the dedicated tools from the numbered pockets, scrub, wipe, apply, spray. Repeat. It is almost a pleasant job. If only I could give those still in the Silo a glimpse of the glory I see around me.
41
I start up the hill, trudging along the furrow. I am tired already. I’ll need to pace myself. But there is only so much time for this last walk. Placing each foot deliberately in front of the other, I slowly make progress.
There’s a little jumble of boulders right in the cleft. I stumble getting around them. My muscles are aching the way they do when I climb the stairs, but even faster. Is the oxygen thinning in my suit?
One step after another. All I need is to reach the top of the hill. I want to see the silo where Donald has been resting all these years—asleep. Frozen and dead asleep.
And what would I say to him if he weren’t asleep? Scream at him? Hug him? From what Rick has told me, Donald helped design these structures, but knew less than Rick did about the ulti
mate arrangement.
Can Donald still be a young man, though I am old? I hope he has had—will have—a good life. I think of him with nothing but affection, now. Sail on, Donald, I imagine saying. Live your own life and remember that I loved you.
What I would give to see him once more.
I could go down the hill to Silo 1. I imagine the chaos that would ensue if I walked up to their airlock door and pounded on it, pleading to be let in… if I stood in front of one of their wallscreen cameras and waved my arms. But what good would it do?
It would only endanger those left at home—home, I think, and smile for a moment.
The Silo is my home.
42
It’s getting harder to walk. I can feel my heart pounding with effort. My energy is ebbing.
My breath is coming shorter. My legs are throbbing. I feel sweat trickling down the back of my neck.
Will I make it to the top? To the top and just a bit beyond. I don’t want my body to lie where those I’ve left behind can see it.
There is something wrong with my vision. The beautiful bright sun is going dark. The sky is no longer blue.
What is happening?
43
Everything is brown now, like on the wallscreen. Is this what the world really looks like? Which is the mirage, and which is reality?
I am nearing the crest of the ridge, my breath coming sharp in my lungs. Each step is difficult. My balance is teetering. Just a few more feet to go.
And then I fall, slipping back down the gritty hill, sliding in the direction I just came. I don’t know if I have the strength to climb back up. Or even if I want to anymore.
There is no one who cares about me on the other side of that hill.
I look back for a moment toward my Silo, and I see the truth. All is brown. All is dead. And right there where I stumbled—the “boulders” I thought I walked around—I see Andy, his suit tattered and coming apart. A glove eradicated by the swirl of poisonous dust. A hand protruding… but all that is left is bones.
44
I am on my knees now. The pain of seeing my friend’s body desecrated here in this terrible landscape gives me one last ounce of strength. If I can’t see Donald I still want to see the place from which this deadly world is controlled—and where those who run it still live.
I’m going to get to the top of the hill or die trying.
45
I can hear my lungs laboring to get enough oxygen to keep moving. I reach forward with a gloved hand and use it to pull my body forward. Inch by inch. I am almost there.
I wonder if Mars and Rick are still watching—if the camera feed still works. There has been no sound from the radio for a long time. They are probably out of range. No more communication, no connection with those I left behind. I believe I am alone. But I’m going to do this. Whatever it takes.
Another inch… another foot. Another agonizing minute trying to breathe. The air is foul. I stink of sweat. Everything hurts. My arthritic knees are aflame, and my leg muscles are cramping.
Keep moving.
Almost there. Yes.
I can do this. It is the last goal of my life.
46
My head pokes over the top. I see the other silo.
Silo 1. Georgia.
A vivid memory, so bizarre now it seems like a hallucination, comes to me. The crowds, the anthem, the planes. Looking for Donald everywhere… wondering why he doesn’t answer my frantic texts. The final day of the world as we knew it.
My breathing is shallow. I want to rest. I want to lie down and die.
But I can’t stop here. If I stop here everyone in my silo will have to look at my body for the rest of eternity. I must get over the edge.
I pause to get what breath I can, and marshal my energy to go over. If I have to, I’ll simply pitch myself over the top and let my body roll down.
This will be the end for me. It matters not how I go.
47
Groaning, I push myself over the peak. I look down at the center of the great depression before me and see the concrete top of an identical silo.
There’s movement at the base. Men in suits are coming out. They have guns.
Of course. I should have realized they would see me. They see everything. They know everything.
Surely they knew that I was being sent out to Clean.
Will they shoot me? It’s almost comical to think of them coming up here to… what? Kill me? Me, an old woman about to die?
48
I try to stand. It is impossible. My legs are quivering jelly, and I have no more muscle control.
My breath is ragged. I hoist myself up to a kneeling position as the men with guns approach rapidly. They raise their weapons, and I feel myself slipping, sliding down their side of the hill.
My head hits with a bang, and all goes dark.
49
When I open my eyes, there is someone standing right beside me. Tall, with a corona around his head.
He is not wearing a protective suit.
I try to move. My muscles won’t obey.
I feel something hit my foot, encased as it is in this heavy boot. I realize that they may think I’m dead. I know from looking at the helmet before Celeste put it on that they can’t see through it. They won’t be able to see my face.
The tall man leans down and looks at me.
“Oh my god.” An unexpected voice comes from the radio inside my helmet.
50
Someone is taking my helmet off. Not gently. I feel the latches being released.
A faint voice sounds from the radio just before it is removed.
“Mars. Celeste.” It’s Rick. “Remember this man’s face—” The voice fades as my helmet is pulled away.
As the visor lifts, I see the tall man look down and gasp.
“Helen,” he says.
Barely changed, only a little more wrinkled around the eyes, the man who stares down at me is the creator—the destroyer—who inflicted his vision of dominance on all of us.
My body sucks in a great draft of air and my lungs scream with pain.
Thurman puts his hand under my head and lifts it up slightly, this time with kindness. The tiny particles in the air are pelting my skin like a million relentless insects, stinging, biting, slicing into my face.
This is what the world has become.
I draw in another breath, because I want to say something. Every inch of my body sings with agony. There is no time.
“Senator,” I say, and he leans forward, a desperate eagerness in his eyes. If I could, I would laugh. Is he expecting me to be glad to see him? Does he seek forgiveness—a happy reunion and a final toast for auld lang syne?
I take one more breath as my entire body quivers and my ears begin to ring. There is nothing to say. There are no words.
I bundle up whatever energy I have left and I raise myself. My body is racked with spasms. As Thurman leans in even closer, I gather moisture from my parched mouth.
I aim for his face and I spit, hard.
The Senator reels back, dropping my head and wiping the spittle off his skin with disgust. There are shouts, but I pay them no heed.
I have a clear, unobstructed view of the sky now. The beautiful, horrible, brown sky that is our legacy.
It is wonderful to be outside. No concrete roof above me, and no concrete walls around me. Even this evil air is better than eternal burial underground.
If it takes forever, we will take back the earth and live again as humans are meant to.
My lungs bleed. My eyes tunnel. My body shudders.
I look up and remember the sky that once was blue. I let the last rattle of toxic breath leave me and I am free again.
Acknowledgements
First let me thank you, the reader. The story of Karma is close to my heart, and after spending much of this year exploring how it would feel to suddenly be forced to live underground, I have been deeply gratified by the response from readers. I appreciate your following m
y journey with Karma, who was created by the WOOLmeister himself, Hugh Howey. Read on for an interview with him at the back of this book.
Please feel free to email me at [email protected]. To hear first about my future releases, please sign up here. And come check out my website, www.PatriceFitzgerald.com for more updates.
Indie writers don’t have the advertising funds of the traditional publishing houses—it’s all up to us. If you enjoyed this story, you can help me by writing a review. It doesn't have to be elaborate. I read every single one, and it makes my day when I hear that someone was moved by my words! So please consider submitting a review while the story is fresh in your mind.
I also want to thank the savvy early readers who helped by giving me their thoughts on all or part of this story. They include Kathleen Fitzgerald Barth, Carol Davis, Jerilyn Bozarth Dufresne, Rick Evans, Annie Kelleher, and Richard Leslie, always my alpha beta.
Thanks to Mike Tabor who created wonderful covers for all the individual segments as well as this collection. Thanks to Amy and Tina of 52Novels, who helped put it all together and made it look beautiful in the formatting stages. And thanks to all the other Silo writers (who also have wonderful stories set outside the Silo) including David Adams, Michael Bunker, W.J. Davies, Hanna Elizabeth, Jason Gurley, and the members of LOOW, the League of Original Woolwrights.
To Hugh Howey I can only send gratitude expressed by virtual hugs and air kisses, along with perhaps a bouquet of roses. Or maybe a Learjet. Or whatever he wants. That’s how grateful I am to Hugh for letting me play in the WOOLiverse.
Finally, thank you to Richard for everything.
About the Author
Karma of the Silo: The Collection Page 24