Wool Omnibus Edition (Wool 1-5) (wool)

by Hugh C. Howey

  These calculations and more ran through her mind, convincing her that she had nothing to be afraid of. She was shivering, but her adrenaline was pumping. She was armed. The leaves of wild and unkempt plants brushed against her face; Juliette pushed through this dense outer barrier and knew she’d found something on the other side.

  The farms here were different. Groomed. Tamed. Recently guided by the hand of man. Juliette felt a wash of fear and relief, those two opposites twisting together like staircase and rail. She didn’t want to be alone, didn’t want this silo to be so desolate and empty, but she didn’t want to be attacked. The first part of her felt an urge to call out, to tell whoever was in there that she meant no harm. The second part tightened its grip on the knife, clenched chattering teeth together, and begged her to turn and run.

  At the end of the groomed grow station, the hallway took a dark turn. She peered around the corner into more unexplored territory. A long patch of darkness wrapped toward the other side of the silo, a distant glow of light emanating from what was probably yet another crop station sucking juice from IT.

  Someone was here. She knew it. She could feel the same eyes she’d felt for weeks, could sense the whispers on her skin, but this time she wasn’t imagining it; she didn’t have to fight the awareness or think she was going crazy. With her knife at the ready and the welcomed thought that she was between this someone and defenseless Solo, she moved slowly but bravely into the dark hall, passing open offices and tasting rooms to either side, one hand on the wall to guide and steady herself—

  Juliette stopped. Something wasn’t right. Had she heard something? A person crying? She backed up to the previous door, could barely see it in front of herself, and realized it was closed. The only one she could see along the hall that was closed.

  She stepped away from the door and knelt down. There had been a noise inside. She was sure of it. Almost like a faint wail. Looking up, she saw in the wan light that some of the overhead wires diverted perpendicular to the rest and snaked through the wall above the door.

  Juliette moved closer. She crouched down and put her ear to the door. Nothing. She reached up and tried the knob, felt that it was locked. How could it be locked, unless—?

  The door flew open—her hand still on the knob—it yanked her into the darkened room. There was a flash of light, and then a man over her, swinging something at her head.

  Juliette fell onto her ass. A silver blur moved past her face, the crunch of a heavy wrench slamming into her shoulder, knocking her flat.

  There was a high pitched scream from the back of the room. It drowned out Juliette’s cry of pain. She swung the knife out in front of her, felt it hit the man’s leg. The wrench clattered to the ground, more screams, people shouting. Juliette kicked away from the door and stood, clutching her shoulder. She was ready for the man to pounce, but her attacker was backing away, limping on one foot, a boy no more than fourteen, maybe fifteen.

  “Stay where you are!” Juliette aimed the knife at him. The boy’s eyes were wide with fear. A group of kids huddled against the back wall on a scattering of mattresses and blankets. They clung to one another, their wide eyes aimed at Juliette.

  The confusion was overwhelming. She was seized by the sensation of wrongness. Where were the others? The adults? She could feel people with bad intentions sliding down the dark hallway behind her, ready to pounce. Here were their kids, locked away for safety. Soon, the mother rats would be back to punish her for disturbing their nest.

  “Where are the others?” she asked, her hand trembling from the cold, the confusion, the fear. She scanned the room and saw that the boy standing, the one who had attacked her, was the oldest. A girl in her teens sat frozen on the tangle of blankets, two young boys and a young girl clinging to her.

  The eldest boy glanced down at his leg. A stain of blood was spreading across his green coveralls.

  “How many are there?” She took a step closer. These kids were obviously more afraid of her than she was of them.

  “Leave us alone!” the older girl screamed. She clutched something to her chest. The young girl beside her pressed her face into the older girl’s lap, trying to disappear, to not be seen by not seeing. The two young boys glared like cornered dogs, but didn’t move.

  “How did you get here?” she asked them. She aimed the knife at the tall boy, but started to feel silly for wielding it. He looked at her in confusion, not comprehending the question, and Juliette knew. Of course. How would there be decades of fighting in this silo without that second human passion?

  “You were born down here, weren’t you?”

  Nobody answered. The boy’s face screwed up in confusion, as if the question were mad. She peeked back over her shoulder.

  “Where are your parents? When will they be back? How long?”

  “Never!” the girl screeched, her head straining forward from the effort. “They’re dead!”

  Her mouth remained open, her chin trembling. The tendons stood out on her young neck.

  The older boy turned and glared at the girl, seemed to want her to remain quiet. Juliette was still trying to comprehend that these were mere kids. She knew they couldn’t be alone. Someone had attacked Solo.

  As if to answer, her eyes were drawn to the wrench on the decking. It was Solo’s wrench. The rust stains were distinctive. How was that possible? Solo had said—

  And Juliette remembered what he’d said. She realized these kids, this young man, was the same age that he still saw himself. The same age he’d been when he’d been left alone. Had the last survivors of the down deep perished in recent years, but not before leaving something behind?

  “What’s your name?” Juliette asked the boy. She lowered her knife and showed him her other palm. “My name’s Juliette,” she said. She wanted to add that she came from another silo, a saner world, but didn’t want to confuse or freak them out.

  “Rickson,” the boy snarled. He puffed out his chest. “My father was Rick the Plumber.”

  “Rick the Plumber.” Juliette nodded. She saw along one wall, at the end of a tall dune of supplies and scavenges, the gear bag they’d stolen. Her change of clothes spilled out the gaping mouth of the bag. Her towel would be in there. She slid toward the bag, an eye on the kids huddled together on the makeshift bed, the group nest, wary of the older boy.

  “Well, Rickson, I want you to gather your things.” Kneeling by her bag, she dug inside and searched for the towel. She found it, pulled it out and rubbed it over her damp hair, an indescribable luxury. There was no way she was leaving them here, these kids. She turned to face the other children, the towel draped across the back of her neck, their eyes all locked on hers.

  “Go ahead,” she said. “Get your things together. You’re not going to live like this—”

  “Just leave us,” the older girl said. The two boys had moved off the bed, though, and were going through piles of things. They looked to the girl, then to Juliette. Unsure.

  “Go back to where you’re from,” Rickson said. The two eldest children seemed to be gaining strength from each other. “Take your noisy machines and go.”

  That’s what this was about. Juliette remembered the sight of the compressor on its side, more heavily attacked maybe than Solo had been. She nodded to the two boys, had their ages pegged for ten or eleven. “Go on,” she told them. “You’re gonna help me and my friend get home. We have good food there. Real electricity. Hot water. Get your things—”

  The youngest girl cried out at this, a horrible peal, the same cry Juliette had heard from the dark hallway. Rickson paced back and forth, eyeing her and the wrench on the floor. Juliette slid away from him and toward the bed to comfort the young girl, when she realized it wasn’t her squealing.

  Something moved in the older girl’s arms.

  Juliette froze at the edge of the bed.

  “No,” she whispered.

  Rickson took a step toward her.

  “Stay!” She aimed the point of the knife at him.
He glanced down at the wound on his leg, thought better of it. The two boys froze in the act of stuffing their bags. Nothing in the room moved save the baby squealing and fidgeting in the girl’s arms.

  “Is that a child?”

  The girl turned her shoulders. It was a motherly gesture, but the girl couldn’t be more than fifteen. Juliette didn’t know that was possible. She wondered if that was why the implants went in so early. Her hand slid toward her hip almost as if to touch the place, to rub the bump beneath her skin.

  “Just go,” the teenager whimpered. “We’ve been fine without you.”

  Juliette put down the knife. It felt strange to relinquish it but more wrong to have it in her hand as she approached the bed. “I can help you,” she said. She turned and made sure the boy heard her. “I used to work in a place that cared for newborns. Let me—” She reached out her hands. The girl turned more toward the wall, shielding the child from her.

  “Okay.” Juliette held up her hands, showed her palms. “But you’re not going to live like this anymore.” She nodded to the young boys, turned to Rickson, who hadn’t moved. “None of you are. This isn’t how anyone should have to live their days, not even their last ones.”

  She nodded to herself, her mind made up. “Rickson? Get your things together. Only the necessities. We’ll come back for anything else.” She dipped her chin at the younger boys, saw how their coveralls had been chopped at the knees, their legs covered in grime from the farms. They took it as permission to return to packing. These two seemed eager to have someone else in charge, maybe anybody other than their brother, if that’s what he was.

  “Tell me your name.” Juliette sat down on the bed with the two girls while the others rummaged through their things. She fought to remain calm, to not succumb to the nausea of kids having kids.

  The baby let out a hungry cry.

  “I’m here to help you,” Juliette told the girl. “Can I see? Is it a girl or a boy?”

  The young mother relaxed her arms. A blanket was folded away, revealing the squinting eyes and pursed red lips of a baby no more than a few months old. A tiny arm waved at its mother.

  “Girl,” she said softly.

  The younger girl clinging to her side peeked around the mother’s ribs at Juliette.

  “Have you given her a name?”

  She shook her head. “Not yet.”

  Rickson said something behind her to the two boys, trying to get them not to fight over something—

  “My name’s Elise,” the younger girl said, her head emerging from behind the other girl’s side. Elise pointed at her mouth. “I have a loose tooth.”

  Juliette laughed. “I can help you with that if you like.” She took a chance and reached out to squeeze the young girl’s arm. Flashes of her childhood in her father’s nursery flooded back, the memories of worried parents, of precious children, of all the hopes and dreams created and dashed around that lottery. Juliette’s thoughts swerved to her brother, the one who was not meant to be, and she felt the tears well up in her eyes. What had these kids been through? Solo at least had normal experiences from before. He knew what it meant to live in a world where one could be safe. What had these five kids, six, grown up in? Seen? She felt such intense pity that there was this sick, wrong, sad desire for none of them to have ever been born—

  This was just as soon washed over with a wave of guilt for even considering it.

  “We’re going to get you out of here,” she told the two girls. “Gather your things.”

  One of the young boys came over and dropped her bag nearby. He was putting things back into it, apologizing to her, when Juliette heard another strange squeak.

  What now?

  She dabbed her mouth on the towel, watching as the girls reluctantly did an adult’s bidding, finding their things and eyeing one another to make sure this was okay. Juliette heard a rustling in her gear bag. She used the handle to separate the zippered mouth, wary of what could be living in the rat’s nest these kids had created, when she heard a tiny voice.

  Calling her name.

  She dropped the towel and clawed through the bag, past tools and bottles of water, under her spare coveralls and loose socks, until she found the radio. She wondered how Solo could possibly be calling her. The other set had been ruined in her suit—

  “—please say something,” the radio hissed. “Juliette, are you there? It’s Walker. Please, for God’s sake, answer me—”

  23

  • Silo 18 •

  “What happened? Why aren’t they responding?” Courtnee looked from Walker to Shirly, as if either of them could know.

  “Is it broken?” Shirly picked up the small dial with the painted marks and tried to tell if it had accidentally moved. “Walk, did we break it?”

  “No, it’s still on,” he said. He held the headphones up by his cheek, his eyes drifting over the various components.

  “Guys, I don’t know how much longer we have.” Courtnee was watching the scene in the generator room through the observation window. Shirly stood up and peered out over the control panel toward the main entrance. Jenks and some of his men were inside, rifles pinned against their shoulders, yelling at the others. The soundproofing made it impossible to hear what was going on.

  “Hello?”

  A voice crackled from Walker’s hands. The words seemed to tumble through his fingers.

  “Who’s there?” he called, flicking the switch. “Who is this?”

  Shirly rushed to Walker’s side. She wrapped her hands around his arm, disbelieving. “Juliette!” she screamed.

  Walker held up his hand, tried to quiet her and Courtnee both. His hands were trembling as he fumbled with the detonator and finally clicked the red switch.

  “Jules?” His old voice cracked. Shirly squeezed his arm. “Is that you?”

  There was a pause, and then a cry from the speakers, a sob. “Walk? Walk, is that you? What’s going on? Where are you? I thought—”

  “Where is she?” Shirly whispered.

  Courtnee watched them both, her cheeks in her palms, mouth open.

  Walker hit the switch. “Jules, where are you?”

  A deep sigh hissed through the tiny speakers. Her voice was tiny and far away. “Walk, I’m in another silo. There’s more of them. You wouldn’t believe—”

  Her voice drifted off to static. Shirly leaned against Walker while Courtnee paced in front of them, looking from the radio to the window.

  “We know about the others,” Walker said, holding the mic below his beard. “We can hear them, Jules. All of them.”

  He let go of the switch. Juliette’s voice returned.

  “How are you—? Mechanical— I heard about the fighting. Are you in the middle of that?” Before she signed off, Juliette said something to someone else, her voice barely audible.

  Walker raised his eyebrows at the mention of the fighting.

  “How would she have heard?” Shirly asked.

  “I wish she were here,” Courtnee said. “Jules would know what to do.”

  “Tell her about the exhaust. About the plan.” Shirly waved for the microphone. “Here, let me.”

  Walker nodded. He handed Shirly the headset and the detonator.

  Shirly worked the switch. It was stiffer than she thought it’d be. “Jules? Can you hear me? It’s Shirly.”

  “Shirly—” Juliette’s voice wavered. “Hey you. You hanging in there?”

  The emotion in her friend’s voice brought tears to Shirly’s eyes. “Yeah—” She bobbed her head and swallowed. “Hey, listen, some of the others are routing the exhaust feed to IT’s cooling vents. But remember that time we lost back pressure? I’m worried the motor might—”

  “No.” Juliette cut her off. “You have to stop them. Shirly, can you hear me? You have to stop them. It won’t do anything. The cooling is for the servers. The only people up there who—” She cleared her throat. “Listen to me. Make them stop—”

  Shirly fumbled with the red switch. Wa
lker reached over as if to help, but she finally got the device under control. “Wait,” she transmitted. “How do you know where the vents lead—?”

  “I just do. This place is laid out the same. Goddammit, let me talk to them. You can’t let them—”

  Shirly hit the switch again. There was a blast of sound from the generator room as Courtnee threw open the door and ran outside. “Courtnee’s going,” she said. “She’s going right now. Jules— How did you—? Who are you with? Can they help us? It’s not looking good over here.”

  They tiny speakers crackled again. Shirly could hear Juliette take a deep breath, could hear other voices in the background, heard her give commands or orders to some other person. Shirly thought her friend sounded exhausted. Weary. Sad.

  “There’s nothing I can do,” Juliette said. “There’s no one here. One man. Some kids. Everyone’s gone. The people who lived here, they couldn’t even help themselves.” The line went silent, and then she clicked through again. “You have to stop the fighting,” she said. “Whatever it takes. Please— Don’t let it be because of me. Please stop—”

  The door opened again, Courtnee returning. Shirly heard shouts in the generator room. Gunfire.

  “What is that?” Juliette asked. “Where are you guys?”

  “In the control room.” Shirly looked up at Courtnee, whose eyes were wide with fear. “Jules, I don’t think we have much time. I—” There was so much she wanted to say. She wanted to tell her about Marck. She needed more time. “They’re coming for us,” was all she could think to relate. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  The radio crackled. “Oh God, make them stop. No more fighting! Shirly, listen to me—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Shirly said, holding the button and wiping at her cheeks. “They won’t stop.” The gunfire was getting closer, the pops audible through the thick door. Her people were dying while she cowered in the control room, talking to a ghost. Her people were dying.