Lightning Child

by Hakok, R. A.

  That first step she took would have been no different to mine.

  This is how she would have gotten started.

  *

  I KEEP GOING, hefting one box after another onto my shoulder, planning my return to The Greenbrier as I haul each up the spiral stair.

  If I cut cross-country, hike sun-up to sundown, I reckon I can reach Sulphur Springs in six days, maybe five. I don’t know how long it’ll take Gilbey to prepare all the medicine I’ll need, but I’ll have to assume a few more. Coming back will take longer. I’ll have to return via Starkly, to prove my side of the deal. I could show them on a map, but I can’t see Hicks taking me at my word. He’ll want to see it for himself. That’s when he’ll try and double-cross me, like he did in Eden, but this time I’ll know it’s coming. Assuming I can figure a way to get away from him, it’ll take me another couple of days to get back here. All that means I’ll be gone two weeks, maybe a shade longer. Mags must have that time. The kid’s already had that eyeshine thing the best part of a month and he hasn’t turned yet. Hers has just started.

  I step off the gangway and look around. Boxes are still stacked four-and five-deep waiting to be taken up, but the shelves behind are mostly bare; Jake’s already started dismantling the first of them. Upstairs the last of the empty spots have been filled and now Lauren’s placing boxes anywhere she can find space – in the aisles, at the end of the rows, against the railing that circles the shaft. Another day at most and I reckon the stores will be all squared away. It’ll take Jake a little longer to get the farms up and running, but I won’t hang around for that. I’ll leave at first light, whether or not Mags has the power back on. I’ll tell the Juvies I’m heading out scavenging; Jake will need things to complete his growing benches, so they’ll buy that. I’ll leave a note for Mags; something she won’t find until after I’m gone. I’ll need to warn her to start tethering the kid again, too. I have no way of knowing how long he might have left.

  I set the box I’m carrying on top of a nearby stack. I can’t say I’m excited about the prospect of returning to The Greenbrier, but I’ve had long enough to think of an alternative now to realize there isn’t one coming.

  I hear the sound of boots on metal, echoing through the silo, and I look up. Tyler and Eric, returning from outside. Their footsteps grow steadily louder, until at last a pair of flashlights materialize on the railing above and begin circling their way down through the darkness. Moments later Tyler appears around the curve of the stair, still bundled up in his parka. His eyebrows are white with ice; more of it thickens his lashes. The crystals stand stark against his ebony skin.

  ‘We stayed out as long as we could, Gabe. I can’t see anyone coming tonight.’

  Behind him Eric nods quickly, like he’s worried I might yet send them back to the guard hut. He asks through chattering teeth whether we’ve eaten yet.

  I shake my head.

  ‘You’re just in time.’

  I reach for a box sitting atop a nearby stack. The writing on the side’s faded, obscured by mildew, but enough remains to make out Beans with Frankfurter Chunks in Tomato Sauce. That was as close as we got to a favorite in Eden; it’ll do for our first meal here. I pick it up, hold it out to him.

  ‘Bring this up to the mess while I fetch something to heat them up.’

  He takes the box, cradles it to his chest, sets off up the stair.

  Lauren emerges from the shelves, dusting her hands on the front of her pants. She flashes me a smile.

  ‘Somebody mention food?’

  I nod.

  ‘Yep. Can you go and tell the others?’

  She hesitates, one foot on the gangway. The smile remains, but now it looks hesitant, uncertain. She looks at me, like she’s waiting for confirmation. I suddenly remember.

  ‘Just Jake and the others. Mags will be busy with the generator; she won’t want to be disturbed. I’ll bring her something later myself.’

  Her expression relaxes and she disappears off down the stair.

  I make my way back in among the shelves. The mess has a couple of large industrial-looking ovens, but like everything else here they’re useless without power. I spotted something while I was going through our supplies that should help, though. I return to the aisle where I thought I saw it and there it is, peaking out from between two mildewed cardboard boxes: an ammo can with the word Sterno stenciled across the top. I drag the old metal container out, spring the catch and lift the lid, reaching inside for one of the little blue fuel blocks. There were a couple of crates of them in Eden, back when we first arrived; Marv would bring a handful with us each time we’d go scavenging. They were useful to get a fire going, or if we managed to scare up a tin of something on the outside. They smell pretty bad when you light them, but what’s here should keep us in warm meals until Mags can get the power back on. I fasten the catch, sling the container over my shoulder and head back to the stair.

  Word about dinner spreads fast; the Juvies are already making their way up as I step out from between the shelves. I cross the gangway and join the last of them. When we reach the mess I deposit the Sterno on the table next to the box of cans. They gather round, anxious to find out what’s on offer now that MREs are off the menu. A few like Jake might have enough reading to be able to make out what’s printed there, but for most I suspect the letters stenciled on the mold-spackled cardboard might as well be hieroglyphics.

  I pull back the flaps, reach inside and lift out one of the tins, setting it on the table. The Juvies press forward, looking on expectantly. Lauren hands me a can opener. I figure I’ll get the first of the tins heating and then bring something down to Mags and the kid while she sees to the rest. I press the opener into the lid, but the cutting wheel’s dull with age and for a second the metal resists. I squeeze the handle tighter and finally it gives with a high-pitched squeal, like a whistle being blown. It keeps that up for a couple of seconds then settles to a sharp hiss.

  The Juvies lean closer, puzzled looks troubling their faces. I know what’s wrong, though; I’ve heard that sound before. I grab the pierced can. The opener unclamps itself from the rim, clatters to the floor. No time to retrieve it. I toss the can into the box and scoop it off the counter, thinking if I’m quick I might just make it. But the Juvies are all around, blocking the way.

  Beside me Amy reaches for the table, and out of the corner of my eye I see Fran, one hand already clapped to her mouth. I held my breath as soon as I heard, but now I catch the first whiff of it too: a vile smell, the rank odor of decay. A hot acid rush hits the back of my throat and my stomach feels like it’s about to do something that could well be projectile. I grit my teeth and swallow hard, then shove my way through them.

  The Juvies have finally figured out something’s wrong. They clear a path for me, but it’s too late. Behind me I hear the first of it: the strained sounds of retching, followed seconds later by something wet spattering on metal.

  I push my way out onto the gangway and start up the stair. I have no thought other than to get the box as far away from the others as possible, but as I follow the steps up past servers and workstations into the concrete confines of the shaft, a simpler reality displaces that goal. I’m never going to make it all the way on a single lungful of air.

  I set the box down, press my face to one of the rusted grilles and breathe deep. When I’ve had enough I take the pierced can, cover the hole with my thumb and carry on, stopping close to a vent whenever I need to take another breath. When I get to the airlock I spin the wheel, shoulder the outer door open. I’ve come up without my parka and the blast of icy air bites immediately, finding its way through my thermals with ridiculous ease. I toss the can out and heave the door closed, then set off back down the stair to retrieve the box of unopened cans I left behind.

  I’m sweating as I make it back to the airlock for the second time. I drop the box in the corridor outside, open the access panel and yank the handle back, cancelling the override. I drag the box into the chamber, close
the inner door behind me and hit the green button to start the cycle. It’s only as the ceiling fans stutter to life that I realize I’ve left the can opener back in the mess. I dig in my pocket for Weasel’s blade and unfold it, holding it over the first of the lids. Above me the fans are turning faster; I wait for them to get up to speed and then I start puncturing metal. The tins squeal like pigs as they’re stuck, the high-pitched shriek quickly settling to an angry hiss that’s mostly drowned out by the thrum of the fans. When they finally shut down I hold my breath and wait for the cycle to finish. As soon as it’s done I open the outer door and toss out whatever’s bad.

  The third time I run the fans they start up as usual but never really get beyond half-speed, and when I cycle the airlock for the fourth time they manage no more than a dozen lazy rotations before grinding to a halt. Whatever juice was left in the batteries, I’ve had it; I can no longer rely on them to purge the chamber of the stench that escapes from each can I puncture.

  I yank the recessed handle to the override position then head back into the airlock and open the outer door. The wind blows snow around the thick steel, sending it dancing into the small chamber in furious flurries. I work quick as I can, but within minutes the fingers that grasp the blade are starting to go numb. I grip the knife in both hands and stab at the lids that remain, puncturing as many as I can while my breath holds, tossing those that hiss or squeal out into the snow before the smell has a chance to linger.

  When there are no more tins left in the box I stagger to my feet and pull the outer door closed again. My fingers have already begun to claw and it takes me longer than it should to turn the wheel handle. As soon as it’s done I slump to the floor and jam my hands into my armpits. I lean back against the frigid steel and stare at what remains of the cans I hauled up the stairs.

  This isn’t good.

  I’d figured on some spoilage, maybe a few tins in each box where the seal had failed. But nothing like this. There were enough cans in that box to keep us in lunches or dinners for the best part of a week. I count up what’s left: barely enough for a single meal.

  I glance back towards the inner door. The Juvies are waiting for me to return. If they see how few cans I’ve been able to save they’ll freak.

  I take a deep breath, tell myself to calm down. I gather up the cans and begin placing them inside the cardboard. That was just one box; the others won’t be like it. They can’t be. I reach for a tin, examining the ragged hole Weasel’s knife has made in the lid. Problem is there’s no way to be sure, not until each one’s been opened.

  I place the can with the others and look around, as if the answer might somehow be found among the scuffs and dents that scar the airlock’s walls. But the old metal is unhelpful; if it has the answer it refuses to reveal it.

  My breath starts to come quicker so I screw my eyes shut, try to bring it back under control. It’s okay; there’s no need to panic yet. I’ll bring another box up, try some more cans. As long as those aren’t spoiled then there’s a good chance this was just a stupid, unlucky box.

  I gather up the last of the tins, place them with the others sitting at the bottom of the box. I get to my feet. I feel a little better now that I have a plan, but mostly I just want to run down to the stores and grab another box, right away. That’ll have to wait until after the Juvies have gone to bed, however. There’s no sense letting them know about this, not yet.

  Not until I’m sure.

  *

  THEY’RE ALL WAITING in the mess when I return. I step off the stairs, clutching the box with the cans I managed to salvage to my chest. I make my way over to the table. The surface has been wiped clean, but the tang of vomit remains. From the looks on some of the faces I’m guessing it was more than just Fran and Amy lost whatever they had last eaten. I set the box down, aware that everyone’s staring at me.

  ‘It was just a random can. What are the odds it’d be the first one we opened?’

  I say it like it really was the funniest of coincidences. Lauren smiles back, but she might be the only one. I start unloading the punctured tins.

  ‘I’ve brought down enough for our meal tonight.’ I stack the cans neatly to one side, trying to sound casual. ‘The rest I’ve left up in the airlock.’

  I figure I’ll be safe in that lie. The airlock’s all the way at the top of the shaft; the Juvies have no reason to venture anywhere near it, at least not tonight. Lauren picks up the can opener and sets to work on the already punctured lids. I keep talking.

  ‘Yeah, I reckon I’ll open them up there and bring down what we need each day. Better safe than sorry, right?’

  Another smile. It goes unreturned, just like the last one. Jake gives me a funny look, like he’s already suspicious of my story.

  Lauren removes the lid from the first of the cans and empties its contents into a metal bowl she picks from a stack on the counter behind her. The beans hold the shape of the can for a while, then slowly start to collapse.

  I pop the catch on the ammo can of Sterno and free one of the little blue fuel tabs from its wrapper. I take the tin Lauren just emptied and start punching holes in the side with Weasel’s knife, just like Marv showed me. When I figure there’s enough to let the air flow through I take one of the tabs and drop it in. I dig in my pocket for a lighter and hold the flame to the fuel until I’m sure it’s caught, then I set it on the table and place the bowl on top.

  Tyler’s been watching and now he gets to work on the cans Lauren’s discarded. Before long there’s a dozen of the makeshift stoves, each with a tin of congealed franks and beans resting on top. My eyes are watering from the fumes, but the little Sterno tabs are doing their job; I can already see the sauce in the first of the bowls starting to bubble. The beans that float in it look a little anemic, and I seem to remember there being more in the way of franks in our rations back in Eden, but at least our first meal here won’t be cold.

  One by one the Juvies shuffle forward to collect a bowl. They take them off to other tables, away from the still lingering smells of vomit and the stinging odor from the fuel blocks. They eat in silence, their heads bowed. I hear spoons scraping metal before I’ve handed out the last of them, then the dull screech of chairs being pushed back. Nobody seems inclined to linger.

  Good; the sooner they leave the better.

  My beans are already cooling, but I force myself to go slow. Cleaning up the mess outside the airlock, that can wait till morning; as long as I’m up there before Tyler and Eric, everything will be fine. The other part of it won’t, though. I need to fetch another box of cans up from stores, to convince myself that first one was just a fluke, a random piece of bad luck.

  One by one the Juvies finish eating and make for the stair, until soon there’s only Lauren, me, Jake, Tyler and Eric left. Across the table Jake gets to his feet. He brings his bowl to the counter, mutters a goodnight and then heads for the gangway. Tyler takes a final mouthful of beans, sets his spoon down, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘Guess I’ll be turning in too. See you both tomorrow.’

  Eric leaves with him. I watch as the two Guardians make their way toward the stair. For a while the sound of their boots echoes up out of the darkness and then those too fade.

  I go back to pushing the last of my frankfurter chunks around with the spoon, pretending to study the greasy patterns they make in the congealing sauce. Lauren’s already done with her bowl, but she’s showing no sign of getting up. I will her to go downstairs with the others, but she doesn’t move.

  In the end I drop my spoon into the bowl.

  ‘Well, I reckon I’m done, too.’

  But when I glance across the table she’s still sitting there, just looking at me.

  ‘It’ll be okay, Gabe. Really. Things will seem a lot better after we’ve had a good night’s sleep.’

  I nod, like I believe it.

  She hesitates for a second and then reaches across the table and places her hand over mine, like Mags did, when it was j
ust the two of us here, last night.

  I glance over at the counter, to where the last of the makeshift stoves are burning.

  ‘Mags and Johnny; we forgot to bring something down for them.’ I look back at her. ‘Hey, would you…’

  I was only meaning to ask if she’d mind if I tended to that, but I never get the chance to finish the sentence. She draws her hand back, and for an instant the smile becomes uncertain, like maybe she’s worried I was going to ask her to do it for me. She gets to her feet, a little faster than I guess she means to. Her chair teeters like it might fall; she holds a hand out to steady it.

  ‘Well I guess I should let you get to that.’

  She makes for the gangway without waiting for my reply.

  *

  HE SITS ON THE NARROW CATWALK, his elbows resting on the bottom guardrail, his feet swinging into empty space below. The flashlight the girl gave him lies on the grating, next to his goggles. It went out hours ago, but he hasn’t bothered to wind it.

  Far below he hears her, at work on one of the machines. It’s the important one, she says, the one that will make this place run again. He asked her if she could fix it and she said she thought she could. He hopes she can. He’s not so sure, though. The girl is smart, he knows that. But not everything can be fixed. And most things down here smell old, broken.

  He rests his chin on the metal and stares out at the silo’s curving walls. He hasn’t been to many other places, at least not that he remembers, so he doesn’t have much to compare this place to. There was the place inside the mountain, where the girl and the tall boy brought him first. He had been very sick when they arrived, though, and they had left right after, so his memories of that place are broken, incomplete, like when he first woke up in the cage.