Shift (silo)

by Hugh Howey

  He worked his way up the hillside. Movement was a struggle inside the bulky suit. He slipped and fell several times in the slick soil. When a gust of wind hammered the landscape, it peppered his helmet with grit and made a noise like the hiss of Anna’s radio. There was no telling how long the suit would last. He knew enough of the cleaning to suspect it wouldn’t be for ever, but Anna had told him that the machines in the air were designed to attack only certain things. That’s why they didn’t destroy the sensors, or the concrete, or a properly built suit. And he suspected the suits in silo one would have been built properly.

  All he hoped for as he laboured up the hill was a view. He was so obsessed and determined to win this that he never thought to look behind him, slipping and scrambling, crawling on his hands and knees the last fifty feet, until he was finally at the summit. He stood and staggered forward, exhausted, breathing heavily. Reaching the edge, he peered down into the adjacent bowl. There, a concrete tower stood like a gravestone, like a monument to Helen. She was buried beneath that tower. And while he could never go to her, never be buried alongside her, he could lie down underneath the clouds and be close enough.

  He wanted his helmet off. First, though, his gloves. He tugged one of them free — popping the seal — and dropped it to the soil. The heavy winds sent the glove tumbling down the slope, and the swirling grit stung his hand. The peppering of fine particles burned like a day on a windy beach. Donald began tugging on his other glove, resigned to what would come next, when suddenly he felt a hand grip his shoulder — and he was pulled back from the edge of that gentle rise and the view of his wife’s last resting place.

  53

  • Silo 1 •

  DONALD STUMBLED AND fell. The shock of being touched sent his heart into his throat. He waved his arms to free himself but someone had a grip on his suit. More than one person. They dragged him back until he could no longer see beyond the ridge.

  Screams of frustration filled his helmet. Couldn’t they see that it was too late? Couldn’t they leave him be? He flailed and tried to lunge out of their grip, but he was being pulled inexorably down the hill, back towards silo one.

  When he fell the next time, he was able to roll over and face them, to get his arms up to defend himself. And there was Thurman standing over him — wearing nothing more than his white overalls, dust from the dead earth gathering in the old man’s grey brow.

  ‘It’s time to go!’ Thurman yelled into the heavy wind. His voice seemed as distant as the clouds.

  Donald kicked his feet and tried to crawl back up the hill but there were three of them there, blocking his way. All in white, squinting against the ferocity of the driving wind and pelting soil.

  Donald screamed as they seized him again. He tried to grab rocks and fistfuls of soil as they pulled him along by his boots. His helmet knocked against the lifeless pack of dirt. He watched the clouds boil overhead as his fingernails were bent back and broken in his struggle for some purchase.

  By the time they got him to the flats, Donald was spent. They carried him down a ramp and through the airlock where more men were waiting. His helmet was tossed aside before the outer door fully shut. Thurman stood in a far corner and watched as they undressed him. The old man dabbed at the blood running from his nose. Donald had caught him with his boot.

  Erskine was there, Dr Sneed as well, both of them breathing hard. As soon as they got his suit off, Sneed plunged a needle into Donald’s flesh. Erskine held his hand and seemed sad as the liquid spread through Donald’s veins.

  ‘A bloody waste,’ someone said as the fog settled over him.

  ‘Look at this mess.’

  Erskine placed a hand on Donald’s cheek as Donald drifted deeper into the black. His lids grew heavy and his hearing distant.

  ‘Be better if someone like you were in charge,’ he heard Erskine say.

  But it was Victor’s voice he heard. It was a dream. No, a memory. A thought from an earlier conversation. Donald couldn’t be sure. The waking world of boots and angry voices was too busy being swallowed by the mist of sleep and the fog of dreams. And this time — rather than with a fear of death — Donald went into that darkness gladly. He embraced it, hoping it would be eternal. He went with a final thought of his sister, of those drones beneath their tarps, all those things he hoped would never be woken.

  54

  • Silo 18 •

  MISSION FELT BURIED alive. He fell into an uncomfortable trance, the bag growing hot and slick as it trapped his heat and exhalations. Part of him feared he would pass out in there and Joel and Lyn would discover him dead. Part of him hoped.

  The two porters were stopped for questioning on one-seventeen, the landing below the blast that took Cam. Those working to repair the stairwell were on the lookout for a certain porter. Their description was part Cam, part Mission. Mission held deathly still while Joel complained of being stopped with so sensitive and heavy a load. It seemed that they might ask for the bag to be opened, but there were some things nearly as taboo as talk of the outside. And so they were sent on their way with a warning that the rail was out above and that one person had already fallen to their death.

  Mission fought off a coughing fit as the voices receded below. He wiggled his shoulders and struggled to cover his mouth to muffle the sound. Lyn hissed at him to be quiet. In the distance, Mission could hear a woman wailing. They passed through the wreckage from hours earlier, and Joel and Lyn gasped at the sight of an entire landing torn free from the stairwell.

  Above Supply, on one-zero-seven, they carried Mission into a bathroom, opened the bag and let him work the blood back into his arms. Mission used one of the stalls, took a few sips of water and assured Joel and Lyn that he was fine in there. All three of them were damp with sweat, and there were still thirty-odd levels to go to Central Dispatch. Joel especially seemed weary from the climb, or perhaps from seeing the damage wrought by the blast. Lyn was holding up better but was anxious to get going again. She fretted for Rodny and seemed as eager as Mission to get to the Nest.

  Mission caught a glance of himself in the mirror with his white overalls and his porter’s knife strapped to his waist. He was the one they were looking for. He drew his knife, held a handful of his hair and cut through a clump close to his scalp. Lyn saw what he was doing and helped with her own knife. Joel grabbed the trash can from the corner to collect the hair.

  It was a rough job, but he looked less like the one they wanted. Before putting his knife away, he cut a few slits in the black bag, right by the zipper. He peeled off his undershirt and wiped the inside of the bag dry before throwing the shirt in the trash can. It reeked of smoke and sweat anyway. Crawling back inside, helping with the straps, they zipped him up and carried him back to the stairway to resume their ascent. Mission was powerless to do anything but worry.

  He ran over the events of a very long day. That morning, he had watched the clouds brighten over breakfast, had visited the Crow and delivered her note to Rodny. And then Cam — he had lost a friend. The exhaustion of it all caught up with him and Mission found himself sliding into unconsciousness.

  When he started awake, it felt but a moment later. His overalls were damp, the inside of the bag slick with condensation. Joel must have felt him jerk, as he quickly shushed Mission and told him they were coming up on Central.

  Mission’s heart pounded as he came to and remembered where he was, what they were doing. It felt difficult to breathe. The slits he had cut were lost in the folds of the plastic. He wanted the zipper cracked, just a slice of light, a whisper of fresh air. His arms were pinned and numb from the straps around his shoulders. His ankles were sore from where Lyn was hoisting him from below.

  ‘Can’t breathe,’ he gasped.

  Lyn told him to be quiet. But there was a pause, an end to the swaying. Someone fumbled with the bag over his head, a series of tiny clicks from the zipper being lowered a dozen notches.

  Mission sucked in cool gasps. The world resumed its swaying, boots s
triking the stairs in the distance — a commotion somewhere above or below, he couldn’t tell. More fighting. More dying. He pictured bodies spinning through the air. He saw Cam leaving the farm sublevels just the day before, a bonus in his pocket, no thought of how little time he had left for spending it.

  They rested at Central Dispatch. Mission was let out in the main hallway, which was frighteningly empty. ‘What the hell happened here?’ Lyn asked. She dug her finger into a hole in the wall surrounded by a spiderweb of cracks. There were hundreds of holes like them. Boots rang on the landing and continued past.

  ‘What time is it?’ Mission asked, keeping his voice down.

  ‘It’s after dinner,’ Joel said. It meant they were making good time.

  Down the hall, Lyn studied a dark patch of what looked to be rust. ‘Is this blood?’ she hissed.

  ‘Robbie said he couldn’t reach anyone down here,’ Mission said. ‘Maybe they scattered.’

  Joel took a sip from his canteen. ‘Or were driven off.’ He wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

  ‘Should we stay here for the night? You two look beat.’

  Joel shook his head. He offered Mission his canteen. ‘I think we need to get past the thirties. Security is everywhere. Hell, you could probably dash up with what you’ve got on the way they’re running about. Might need to clean up your hair a bit.’

  Mission rubbed his scalp and thought about that. ‘Maybe I should,’ he said. ‘I could be up there before the dim-time.’ He watched as Lyn disappeared into one of the bunk rooms down the hall. She emerged almost immediately with her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide.

  ‘What is it?’ Mission asked, pushing up from a crouch and joining her.

  She threw her arms around him and held him away from the door, buried her face into his shoulder. Joel risked a look.

  ‘No,’ he whispered.

  Mission pulled away from Lyn and joined his fellow porter by the door.

  The bunks were full. Some lay sprawled on the floor, but it was obvious by the tangle of their limbs — the way arms hung useless from bunks or were twisted beneath them — that these porters weren’t sleeping.

  They discovered Katelyn among them. Lyn shook with silent sobs as Joel and Mission retrieved Katelyn’s body and loaded her into the bag. Mission felt a pang of guilt that she’d been chosen as much for her size as how well loved she’d been. While they were securing the straps and zipping her up, the power in the hallway went out, leaving them in the pitch black.

  ‘What the hell?’ Joel hissed.

  A moment later, the lights returned but flickered as though an unsteady flame burned in each bulb. Mission wiped the sweat from his forehead and wished he still had his ’chief.

  ‘If you can’t make it all the way to the Nest tonight,’ he said to the others, ‘stop and stay at the way station and check on Robbie.’

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ Joel assured him.

  Lyn squeezed his arm before he went. ‘Watch your steps,’ she said.

  ‘And you,’ Mission told them.

  He hurried towards the landing and the great stairway beyond. Overhead, the lights flickered like little flames. A sign that something, somewhere, was burning.

  55

  • Silo 18 •

  MISSION HURRIED UPBOUND amid a fog of smoke, his throat on fire. An explosion in Mechanical was whispered to have been the reason for the blackout. Talk swirled of a bent or broken shaft and that the silo was on backup power. He heard such things from half a spiral away as he took the steps two and sometimes three at a time. It felt good to be out and moving, good to have his muscles aching rather than sitting still, to be his own burden.

  And he noticed that when anyone saw him, they either fell silent or scattered beyond their landings, even those he knew. At first, he feared it was from recognition. But it was the Security white he wore. Young men just like him thundered up and down the stairwell terrorising everyone. Only yesterday, they had been farmers, welders and pumpmen — now they brought order with their dark weapons.

  More than once, a group of them stopped Mission and asked where he was going, where his rifle was. He told them that he had been a part of the fighting below and was reporting back. It was something he’d heard another claim. Many of them seemed to know as little as he did and so they let him pass. As ever, the colour you wore said everything. People thought they could know you at a glance.

  The activity grew thicker near IT. A group of new recruits filed past, and Mission watched over the railing as they kicked in the doors to the level below and stormed inside. He heard screams and then a sharp bang like a heavy steel rod falling to metal decking. A dozen of these bangs, and then less screaming.

  His legs were sore, a stitch in his side, as he approached the farms. He caught sight of a few farmers out on the landing with shovels and rakes. Someone yelled something as he passed. Mission quickened his pace, thinking of his father and brother, seeing the wisdom for once in his old man’s unwillingness to leave that patch of dirt.

  After what seemed like hours of climbing, he reached the quiet of the Nest. The children were gone. Most families were probably holed up in their apartments, cowering together, hoping this madness would pass like others had. Down the hall, several lockers stood open, and a child’s backpack lay on the ground. Mission staggered forward on aching legs towards the sound of a familiar, singing voice and the horrid screech of steel on tile.

  At the end of the hall, her door stood as welcome and open as always. The singing came from the Crow, whose voice seemed stronger than usual. Mission saw that he wasn’t the first to arrive, that his wire had gone out. Frankie and Allie were there, both in the green and white of farm security. They were arranging desks while Mrs Crowe sang. The sheets had been thrown off the stacks of desks kept in storage along one wall. Those desks now filled the classroom the way Mission remembered from his youth. It was as though the Crow were expecting them to be filled at any time.

  Allie was the first to notice Mission’s arrival. She turned and spotted him at the door, her bright eyes shining amid her farmer freckles, her dark hair tied back in a bun. She rushed over, and Mission saw how her overalls were bunched up around her boots, the straps knotted at her shoulders to make them shorter. They must’ve been Frankie’s overalls. As she threw herself into his arms, he wondered what the two of them had risked to meet him there.

  ‘Mission, my boy.’ Mrs Crowe stopped her singing, smiled and waved him by her side. After a moment, Allie reluctantly loosened her grip.

  Mission shook Frankie’s hand and thanked him for coming. It took a moment to realise something was different, that his hair had been cut short as well. They both rubbed their scalps and laughed. Humour came easy in humourless times.

  ‘What is this I hear about my Rodny?’ the Crow asked. Her chair twitched back and forth, her hand working the controls, her faded blue nightgown tucked under her narrow bones.

  Mission drew a deep breath, smoke lingering in his lungs, and told them everything he had seen on the stairwell, about the bombs and the fires and what he had heard of Mechanical, the security forces armed with rifles — until the Crow dispelled his frenzied chatter with a wave of her frail arms.

  ‘Not the fighting,’ she said. ‘The fighting I’ve seen. I could paint a picture of the fighting and hang it from my walls. What of Rodny? What of our boy? Has he got them? Has he made them pay?’ She made a small fist and held it aloft.

  ‘No,’ Mission said. ‘Got who? He needs our help.’

  The Crow laughed, which took him aback. He tried to explain. ‘I gave him your note, and he passed me one in return. It begged for help. They have him locked up behind these great steel doors—’

  ‘Not locked up,’ the Crow said.

  ‘—like he’d done something wrong—’

  ‘Something right,’ she said, correcting him.

  Mission fell silent. He could see knowledge shining behind her old eyes, a sunrise on the day after a cleaning.

&nb
sp; ‘Rodny is in no danger,’ she said. ‘He is with the old books. He’s with the people who took the world from us.’

  Allie squeezed Mission’s arm. ‘She’s been trying to tell us,’ she whispered. ‘Everything’s going to be okay. Come, help with the desks.’

  ‘But the note…’ Mission said, wishing he hadn’t turned it to confetti.

  ‘The note you gave him was to give him strength. To let him know it was time to begin. Our boy is in a place to hurt them good for what they’ve done.’ There was a wildness in the Crow’s eyes.

  ‘No,’ Mission said. ‘Rodny was afraid. I know my friend, and he was afraid of something.’

  The Crow’s face hardened. She relaxed her fist and smoothed the front of her faded dress. ‘If that be the case,’ she said, her voice trembling, ‘then I judged him most wrongly.’

  56

  • Silo 18 •

  THE DIM-TIME approached while they arranged desks and the Crow resumed her singing. Allie told him a curfew had been announced, and so Mission lost hope that the others would show up that night. They pulled out mats from the cubbies to rest and plan, and decided to give the others until daybreak. There was much Mission wanted to ask the Crow, but she seemed distracted, her thoughts elsewhere, possessed with a joyousness that made her giddy.

  Frankie felt certain he could get them through security and deeper into IT if only he could reach his father. Mission told them how well he’d been able to move about with the whites on. Maybe he could reach Frankie’s dad in a pinch. Allie produced fresh fruits harvested from her plot and passed them around. The Crow drank one of her dark green concoctions. Mission grew restless.