by Hugh Howey
A man twice Rodny’s age hesitated before doing as he was asked and pulling the door shut. This was not the demeanor of a prisoner. It was one who held captive the attention of others. Frankie lurched forward before the door shut all the way, calling “Father,” as he caught a glimpse of his old man in the hall with the others.
“We were coming for you,” Mission said. He wanted to approach his friend, but there was something dangerous in Rodny’s eyes. “Your note—”
Rodny finally looked away from the Crow.
“We were coming to help—” Mission said.
“Yesterday, I needed it,” Rodny said. He circled around the desks, the gun at his side, his eyes flicking from face to face. Mission backed up and joined Allie in standing close to the Crow, whether to protect her or feel protected, he couldn’t say.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Mrs. Crowe said with a lecturing tone. “This is not where your fight is.”
The gun rose a little.
“What’re you doing?” Allie asked of her old friend.
Rodny pointed at the Crow. “Tell them,” he said. “Tell them what you’ve done. What you do.”
“What’ve they done to you?” Mission asked. His friend was different beyond the garb.
“They showed me—” Rodny swept his gun at the posters on the wall. “That these stories are true.” He laughed and turned to the Crow. “And I was angry, just like you said. Angry at what they did to the world.”
“So hurt them,” the Crow insisted, her voice creaking like a door about to slam.
“But now I know. They told me. We got a call. And now I know what you’ve been doing here—”
“What’s this about?” Frankie asked, still in the middle of the room. He moved toward the door. “Why is my father—?”
“Stay,” Rodny told him. He pushed one of the desks out of the way and moved down the aisle. “Don’t you move.” His gun swung from Frankie to the Crow, whose chair shivered in time with her palsied hand. “These sayings on the wall, the stories and songs, you made us what we are. You made us angry.”
“You should be,” she screeched. “You damn well should be!”
Mission moved closer to her. He kept his eye on the gun. Allie knelt and held the old woman’s hand. Rodny stood ten paces away, the gun angled at their feet.
“They kill and they kill,” the Crow said. “And this will go the way it always has. Wipe it all clean. Bury and burn the dead. And these desks—” Her arm shot up, her quivering finger aimed at the empty desks newly arranged. “These desks will be full again.”
“No,” Rodny said. He shook his head. “No more. It ends here. You won’t terrify us anymore—”
“What’re you saying?” Mission asked. He stepped close to the Crow, a hand on her chair. “You’re the one with the gun, Rodny. You’re the one scaring us.”
Rodny turned toward Mission. “She makes us feel this way. Don’t you see? The fear and hope go hand in hand. What she sells is no different than the priests, only she gets to us first. This talk of a better world. It just makes us hate this one.”
“No—” Mission hated his friend for uttering such a thing.
“Yes,” Rodny said. “Why do you think we hate our fathers? It’s because her stories are true. But this won’t make it better.” He waved his hand. “Not that it matters. What I knew yesterday had me terrified for my life. For all of us. What I know now gives me hope.” His gun came up. Mission couldn’t believe it. His friend pointed the barrel at the Old Crow.
“Wait—” Mission raised a hand.
“Stand back,” Rodny said. “I have to do this.”
“No!”
His friend’s arm stiffened. The barrel was leveled at a defenseless woman in a mechanical chair, the mother to them all, the one who sang them to sleep in their cribs and on their mats, whose voice followed them through their shadowing days and beyond.
Frankie shoved a desk aside and lurched toward Rodny. Allie screamed. Mission’s legs coiled with the power of a thousand climbs. He threw himself sideways as the gun roared and flashed. There was a punch to his stomach, a fire in his gut. He crashed to the floor as the gun thundered a second time, the Crow’s chair lurching to the side as her hand spasmed.
Mission clutched his stomach. His hands came away sticky and wet.
Lying on his back, he saw the Crow slump over in her chair, a chair that no longer moved. Again, the gun roared. Needlessly. Her body twitched as it was struck. Frankie flew into Rodny, and the two men went tumbling. Boots stormed into the room, summoned by the noise.
Allie was there, crying. She kept her hands on Mission’s stomach, pressing so hard, and looked back at the Crow. She wailed for them both.
Mission tasted blood in his mouth. It reminded him of the time Rodny had punched him as a kid, only playing. They’d only ever been playing. Costumes and pretending to be their fathers.
There were boots everywhere. Shiny and black boots on some, scuffed with wear on others. Those who had fought before and those just learning.
Frankie screamed. Boots shuffled. And then Rodny appeared above Mission, his eyes wide with worry. He told him to hang in there. Mission wanted to say he’d try, but the pain in his belly was too great. He couldn’t speak. They told him to stay awake, but all he’d ever wanted was to sleep. To not be. To not be a burden to anyone.
“Damn you!” Allie screamed, and it was at him, at Mission, not at Rodny. She blubbered that she loved him, and Mission tried to say he knew. He wanted to tell her that she was right all along. He imagined for a moment the kids they would have, the plot of soil if they combined their holdings, the long uninterrupted rows of corn like lives that stretched out for generations. Generations of people staying close to home, there for each other, doing what they knew best, enjoying being a burden to one another.
He wanted to say all these things and more. Much more. But as Allie bent close and he struggled to form the words, all that came out, a whisper amid the din of boots and shouts, was that today was his birthday.
www.hughhowey.com
A word from the author
Everyone wants to know where Jules is, who will play her in the film, what’s going on with the kids in Silo 17, and I have to admit: I’m as eager as anyone to revisit her. So thank you for suffering these SHIFT books, which are dear to me in a way that few will appreciate. The post apocalyptic genre has a tendency to gloss over the cause of the end-times and to remove those responsible from the equation. Perhaps there’s good reason for this. Perhaps the why and how aren’t as exciting as the what’s next?
I, however, am eager to see those who think they have good reason for causing so much suffering answer to the ones they’ve inflicted it upon. Long gone are the days when mortals were able to shake their fists at Mount Olympus and expect an answer from cruel gods. Jules, perhaps, will be given that chance.
THIRD SHIFT will wrap this trilogy with a look at Jimmy’s time during the fall of Silo 17 and his gradual transformation into the man we come to know as Solo. I’m excited to tell that story. And I look forward to wrapping the overall series up by bringing Donald’s world into contact with Juliette’s. This third and final act will be entitled DUST, and I’m leaning toward releasing it in small parts, similar to WOOL. I’m undecided. But hey, not knowing is half the fun.
A final note for how awesome you have made my life this past year. It’s been a magical ride. There’s no way you’ve gotten as much out of these stories as I’ve gotten out of our interactions, your emails, your comments, and reviews. I can’t thank you enough for making me happier and damned luckier than I have any right to be. I get up and work hard at this every day because of how rewarding you all make it.
Okay, now for those of you Marvel fans who know to stay after the credits . . .
Epilogue
Hush my Darling, don’t you cry
I’m going to sing you a lullaby
Though I’m far away it seems
I’ll be with you in your
dreams.
Hush my Darling, go to sleep
All around you angels keep
In the morn and through the day
They will keep your fears at bay.
Sleep my Darling, don’t you cry
I’m going to sing you a lullaby
Silo 18
Mission changed out of his work coveralls while Allie readied dinner. He washed his hands, scrubbing the dirt from beneath his fingernails, and watched the mud slide down the drain. The ring on his finger was getting more and more difficult to remove, his knuckles sore and stiff from the hoeing of a planting season.
He soaped his hands and finally managed to work the ring off. Remembering the time he’d lost it down the drain, he set it aside carefully. Allie whistled in the kitchen while she tended the stove. When she cracked the oven, he smelled the pork roast inside. He’d have to say something. They couldn’t go buying roasts on no occasion.
His coveralls went into the wash. There were candles on the table when he got back to the kitchen. Lit candles. They were for emergencies, for the times when the fools below switched generators and worked on the busted main. Allie knew this. But before he could say anything about the roast or the candles, or tell her that the bean crop wouldn’t be what he’d hoped come harvest, he saw the way she was beaming at him. There was only one thing to be that happy about—but it was impossible.
“No,” he said. He couldn’t allow himself to believe it.
Allie nodded. There were tears in her eyes. By the time he got to her, they were coursing down her cheeks.
“But our ticket is up,” he whispered, holding her against him. She smelled like sweet peppers and sage. He could feel her trembling.
Allie sobbed. Her voice broke from being overfull of joy. “Doc says it happened last month. It was in our window, Mish. We’re gonna have a baby.”
A surge of relief filled Mission to the brim. Relief, not excitement. Relief that everything was legal, on the up-and-up. He wasn’t sure why this is what he felt. He kissed his wife’s cheek, salt to go with the pepper and sage. “I love you,” he whispered.
“The roast.” She pulled away and hurried to the stove. “I was gonna tell you after dinner.”
Mission laughed. “You were gonna tell me now or have to explain the candles.”
He poured two glasses of water, hands trembling, and set them out while she fixed the plates. The smell of cooked meat made his mouth water. He could anticipate the way the roast would taste like it was already in his mouth. A taste of the future, of what was to come. Like by the table, how he could already see two children, two more mouths to feed. He’d have to find a way to put in another row of corn. Or take that part time delivery job he’d been thinking about, just on weekends.
“Don’t let it get cold,” Allie said, setting the plates.
They sat and held hands. Mission cursed himself for not putting his ring back on.
“Bless this food and those who fed its roots,” Allie said.
“Amen,” said Mission. His wife squeezed his hands before letting go and grabbing her utensils.
“You know,” she said, cutting into the roast, “if it’s a girl, we’ll have to name her Allison. Every woman in my family as far back as we can remember has been an Allison.”
Mission wondered how far back her family could remember. Be unusual, if they could. The first piece of meat hit his tongue, an explosion of flavors. He chewed and thought on the name. “Allison it is,” he said. And he thought that eventually they would call her Allie, too. “But if it’s a boy, can we go with Cam?”
“Sure.” Allie lifted her glass. “That’s wasn’t your grandfather’s name, was it?”
“Hmm? No. I don’t know a Cam. I just like the way it sounds.”
He picked up his glass of water, studied it a while. Or did he know a Cam? Where did he know that name from? There was something he was supposed to remember, something about the way water gets made, gets purified. But there were pockets of his past shrouded and hidden from him. There were things like the mark on his neck and the scar on his stomach that he couldn’t remember coming to be. Everyone had their share of these things, parts of their bygone days they couldn’t recall, but Mission more than most. Like his birthday. It drove him crazy that he couldn’t remember when his birthday was. What was so hard about that?
All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy;
for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves;
we must die to one life before we can enter another.
-Anatole France
Silo 1
“Sir?”
There was a clatter of bones beneath his feet. Donald stumbled through the dark.
“Can you hear me?”
The haze parted, an eyelid cracking, just like the seal of his pod. A bean. Donald was curled inside that pod like a bean.
“Sir? Are you with me?”
Skin so cold. Donald was sitting up, steam rising from his bare legs. He didn’t remember going to sleep. He remembered a doctor, remembered being in his office. Not his office, an airlock. They were talking. People were angry. Now he was being woken up.
“Drink this, sir.”
Donald remembered this. He remembered waking over and over, but he didn’t remember going to sleep. Just the waking. He took a sip, had to concentrate to make his throat work, had to fight to swallow. A pill. There was supposed to be a pill, but it wasn’t offered.
“Sir, we had instructions to wake you.”
Instructions. Rules. Protocol. Donald was in trouble again. Troy. Maybe it was that Troy fellow. Who was he? Donald drank as much as he could.
“Very good, sir. We’re going to lift you out.”
He was in trouble. They only woke him when there was trouble. A catheter was removed, a needle extracted from his arm.
“What did I—?”
He coughed into his fist. His voice was a sheet of tissue paper, thin and fragile. Invisible.
“What is it?” he asked, shouting to form a whisper.
Two men lifted him up and set him into a wheelchair. A third man held it still. There was a soft blanket instead of a paper gown. There was no rustling this time, no itching on his skin.
“We lost one,” someone said.
A silo. A silo was gone. It would be Donald’s fault again. “Eighteen,” he whispered, remembering his last shift.
Two of the men glanced at each other, mouths open.
“Yes,” one of them said, awe in his voice. “From Silo Eighteen, sir. We lost her over the hill. We lost contact.”
Donald tried to focus on the man. He remembered losing someone over a hill. Helen. His wife. They were still looking for her. There was still hope.
“Tell me,” he whispered.
“We’re not sure how, but one of them made it out of sight.”
“A cleaner, sir—”
A cleaner. Donald sank into the chair; his bones were as cold and heavy as stone. It wasn’t Helen at all.
“Over the hill—” one said.
“We got a call from Eighteen—”
Donald raised his hand a little, his arm trembling and still half-numb from the sleep. “Wait,” he croaked. “One at a time. Why did you wake me?” It hurt to talk. He remembered a hill. A view over a hill.
One of the men cleared his throat. The blanket was tucked up under Donald’s chin to stop him from shivering. He hadn’t known he was shivering. They were being so reverent with him, so gentle. What was this? He tried to clear his head.
“You told us to wake you—”
“It’s protocol—”
Donald’s eyes fell to the pod, still steaming as the chill escaped. There was a screen at the base, empty readouts without him in there, just a rising temp. A rising temp and a name. Not his name.
And Donald remembered a conversation. He didn’t remember going to sleep, but he remembered a doctor, a man with glasses and an accent telling him how names meant nothing unless that was all we had to
go by. Unless we didn’t remember each other, didn’t cross paths, and then a name was everything.
“Sir?”
“Who am I?” he asked, reading the little screen, not understanding. This wasn’t him. “Why did you wake me?”
“You told us to, Mr. Thurman.”
The blanket was wrapped snugly around his shoulders. The chair was turned. They were treating him with respect, like he had authority. The wheels on this chair did not squeak at all.
“It’s okay, sir. Your head will clear soon.”
He didn’t know these people. They didn’t know him.
“The doctor will clear you for duty.”
Nobody knew anyone.
“Right this way.”
And then anyone could be anybody.
“Through here.”
Until it didn’t matter who was in charge. One who might do what was needed, another who might do what was right.
“Very good.”
One name as good as any other.
In memory of Michael Fry
Table of Contents
Second Shift - Order
Silo 18
1
2
3
4
5
Silo 1
6
7
8
9
Silo 18
10
11
12
Silo 1
13
14
15
16
Silo 18
