by Hugh Howey
With Hal under, the restraints were loosened, his coveralls peeled off with care. Troy volunteered with the boots, unknotting the laces and setting them aside. There was no need for a paper gown—that was for the modesty of the awake. An IV needle was inserted and taped down; Troy knew it would plug into the pod. He knew what it felt like to have ice crawl through his veins.
When Henson told them everything was ready, Troy helped guide the foot of the table, the assistant doing most of the pushing. They followed the doctor out the door and down the hallway, past the room Troy had woken up in, past his empty and waiting coffin, and further down toward the room that sang out to him most nights, the room he had wanted to visit that first day of his shift, the room that lay full of some forgotten misery that didn’t want to be remembered. It was a room for the long-sleeping, and it tugged on his gut similar to how the cafeteria yanked on his soul. It was no wonder he felt torn apart living and working in the numb space in between: there was something at either end of the building calling out to him, some hurt too strong to recall but impossible to ignore.
They brought the gurney to a halt outside the reinforced steel doors of the deep-freeze. Troy studied the doors. They seemed familiar. He seemed to remember speccing something similar for a project once, but that was for a room full of machines. No, computers. Shards of the past came back, slid like ghost ships through the mist.
The keypad on the wall chirped as the doctor entered his code. There was the heavy thunk of rods withdrawing into the thick jamb and the hiss and sigh of an unbreathing room as it cracked its mouth.
“The empties are at the end,” Henson said, nodding into the distance.
Troy steered while the assistant pushed. Wheels squeaked and squealed, their echoes filling this inner sanctum. Troy felt guilty about the noise, even though the sleep in that room could not be so easily disturbed.
Rows and rows of gleaming and sealed beds marched by. The gurney and the three men seemed to stand still while the pods drifted past. Troy felt numb. He was out of his own body as a memory returned. The room was chilly. His eyes fell to the readout screens on the bases of each pod. There were green lights solid with life, numbers showing the chill of the frozen, no space needed for a pulse or heartbeat, first names only, no last, no way to connect these strangers to their legacy. No way to connect them to what they’d done.
Cassie, Catherine, Gabriella, Gretchen.
Made-up names.
Gwynn. Halley. Heather.
Everyone in order. No shifts for them. Nothing for the men to fight over. It would all be done in an instant. Step inside the lifeboat, dream a moment, step out onto dry land.
Another Heather. Duplicates without last names. Troy wondered how that would work. He steered blindly between the rows, the doctor and his assistant chatting about the procedure, when a name stabbed at his peripheral, a fierce quake vibrating through his limbs.
Helen. And another: Helen.
Troy lost his grip on the gurney and nearly fell. The wheels squealed to a stop.
“Sir?”
Two Helens. But before him, on a crisp display showing the frozen temps of a deep, deep slumber, another:
Helena.
Troy staggered away from the gurney and the still form of Hal’s nakedness. The echo of the old man’s feeble screams came back to him, insisting he was someone named Carlton. Troy ran his hands along the curved top of the cryopod. She was here. He knew she was, but always in the ephemeral way like how he vaguely knew that his organs were buried within his own body. Except suddenly, everything was exposed. Like skin peeled back, layers of his being forgotten. He was invisible, the lies on the surface transparent. He saw his spleen, wet and shiny. Coils of intestine. These things that were a part of him, things tucked away and now resting visible beneath his palm.
“Sir? We really need to keep moving—”
Troy ignored the doctor. He rubbed the glass shield, the cold inside leaching into his hand, the chill in the air creeping deep into the marrow of his bones. Troy’s gut tightened around a memory—
“Sir—”
A spiderweb of frost covered the glass. He wiped the frozen film of condensation away so he could see inside.
“We need to get this man installed—”
Sealed eyes lay inside that cold and dark place. Skin and air held a tint of blue. Blades of ice, like a snow queen’s mascara, clung to her lashes. It was a familiar face, but this was not his wife.
“Sir!”
The fist in his gut—that hand that clenched desperately around the nothingness—it stirred. It punched upward into his heart. Troy stumbled, hands slapping at the cold coffin for balance, bile rising in his throat with remembrance, his body searching for some medicine to dissolve.
He heard himself gag, felt his limbs twitch, his knees buckle. He hit the ground between two of the pods and shook violently, spit on his lips, strong memories wrestling with the last residue of weak drugs.
The two men in white barked at each other. Footsteps slapped frosted steel and faded toward the distant and heavy door. Shivers and inhuman gurgles hit his own ears and sounded faintly as though they came from him.
But who was he? What was he doing there? What were any of them doing?
The shakes subsided to a vibration, a bass chord thumbed hard and shivering home from some invisible state. Troy settled into this sonorous tremble, the cold floor distant somehow, his body growing numb as his mind became aware.
This was not Helen. His name was not Troy.
He almost had it as feet stomped his way in a hurry. The name was on his tongue as the needle bit his flesh.
Donny.
But that wasn’t right, either.
And then the darkness took him, the cold enveloping him like a hoary cocoon, tightening down around anything from his past that his mind deemed too awful to bear.
19
2052 • Fulton County, Georgia
Some mash-up of music festival, family reunion, and state fair had descended on the southernmost corner of Fulton County. For the past two weeks, Donald had watched while colorful tents sprang up over a brand-new nuclear containment facility. Fifty state flags flew over fifty depressions in the earth. Stages had been erected, an endless parade of supplies flowing over the rolling hills, golf carts and four-wheelers forming convoys like ants marching back to their nests, their mandibles full of food, boxes, Tupperware containers, baskets of vegetables—some even pulled small enclosed trailers loaded with livestock.
The foodies were out in droves. Farmers’ markets had been staked out in winding corridors of tents and booths, chickens clucking and pigs snorting, children petting rabbits, dogs on leashes. Owners of the latter guided dozens of breeds through the crowds. Tails wagged happily, and wet noses sniffed the air.
On Georgia’s main stage, a local rock band performed a sound check. When they fell quiet to adjust levels, Donald could hear the twangs of bluegrass spilling over from the general direction of North Carolina’s delegation. In the opposite direction, someone was giving a speech on Florida’s stage while lines of ants moved supplies over the rise, and families spread blankets and picnicked on the banks of sweeping bowls. The hills, Donald saw, formed stadium seating, as if they’d been designed for the task.
What he couldn’t figure out was where they were putting all those supplies. The tents seemed to keep gobbling them up with no end in sight. The four-wheelers with their little boxed trailers had been rumbling up and down the slopes the entire two weeks he’d been there helping prep for the national convention.
A set of brakes squealed beside him as Mick rumbled to a stop, sitting atop one of the ubiquitous ATVs. He grinned at Donald like a guilty frat boy and goosed the throttle while still holding the brakes. The Honda lurched, tires growling against the dirt.
“Wanna go for a ride?” he yelled.
“Where to?” Donald screamed back. The rock band resumed its sound check, the Honda blatting as Mick worked the throttle.
&n
bsp; “South Carolina,” Mick said, smiling. He scooted forward on the seat to make room.
“You got enough gas to make it there?” Donald held his friend’s shoulder and stepped on the second set of pegs, threw his leg over the seat.
“It’s just over that hill, you idiot.”
Donald resisted the urge to assure Mick he’d been joking. He held on to the metal rack behind him as Mick gave it gas and shifted through to third gear. His friend stuck to the dusty highway between the tents until they reached the grass, then angled toward the South Carolina delegation, the tops of the buildings of downtown Atlanta visible off to one side.
Mick turned his head as the Honda climbed the hill. “When is Helen getting here?” he yelled.
Donald leaned forward. He loved the feel of the cool October morning air as the ATV created a breeze. It reminded him of Savannah that time of year, the chill of a sunrise on the beach. He had just been thinking of Helen when Mick asked about her.
“Tomorrow,” he shouted. “She’s coming on a bus with the delegates from Savannah.”
They crested the hill, and Mick throttled back and steered along the ridgeline. They passed a loaded-down four-wheeler heading in the opposite direction. The network of ridges formed an interlocked maze of highways high above each containment facility’s sunken bowl.
Peering into the distance—the bumps in the trail traveling up through the metal cargo rack and into his arms—Donald watched the ballet of scooting ATVs weave across the landscape. One day, he imagined, the flat roads on top of the hills would rumble with much larger trucks bearing hazardous waste and radiation warnings. This would be the last time civilians could march up and down grass hillsides designed not for stadium seating but simply because all the soil dug up from below had to go somewhere.
And yet, seeing the flags waving over the Florida delegation to one side and the Georgia stage to the other, and noting the way the slopes would carry record crowds and afford everyone a perfect view of each stage, Donald couldn’t help but think that all the happy accidents had some larger purpose. It was as if the facility had been planned from the beginning to serve the 2052 Democratic National Convention, as if it had been built with more than its original goal in mind.
••••
A large blue flag with a white tree and crescent moon swayed lazily over the South Carolina stage. Mick parked the four-wheeler in a sea of ATVs ringing the large hospitality tent. Donald watched his friend pocket the key, even though all of the vehicles were on loan. He supposed it prevented someone from taking their ride by mistake.
Following Mick through the parked vehicles, Donald saw that they were heading toward a smaller tent, which was swallowing a ton of traffic.
“What kind of errand are we on?” he asked.
Not that it mattered. In recent days they’d done a little of everything around the facility: running bags of ice to various state headquarters, meeting with congressmen and senators to see if they needed anything, making sure all the volunteers and delegates were settling into their trailers okay, whatever the Senator needed.
“Oh, we’re just taking a little tour,” Mick said cryptically. He waved Donald into the small tent where workers were filing through in one direction with their arms loaded and coming out the other side empty-handed.
In comparison, he and Mick looked conspicuously lazy—or perhaps important—as they passed through with nothing.
The inside of the small tent was lit up with flood-lights, the ground packed hard from the traffic, the grass matted flat. A concrete ramp led deep into the earth, workers with volunteer badges trudging up one side. Mick jumped into the line heading down.
Donald knew where they were going. He recognized the ramp. He hurried up beside Mick.
“This is one of the rod storage facilities.” He couldn’t hide the excitement in his voice, didn’t even try. He’d been dying to see the other design, either on paper or in person. “Can we just go in?”
As if to answer, Mick started down the ramp, blending with the others.
“I begged for a tour the other day,” Donald hissed, “but Thurman spouted all this national security crap—”
Mick laughed. Halfway down the slope, the roof of the tent seemed to recede into the darkness above, the concrete walls on either side funneling the workers toward the gaping steel doors.
“You’re not gonna get inside one of those other facilities,” Mick told him. He put his hand on Donald’s back and ushered him through the industrial-looking and familiar entrance chamber. The foot traffic ground to a halt as people took turns entering or leaving through the small hatch ahead. Donald felt turned around.
“Wait.” Donald caught glimpses through the hatch. “This is my design.”
They shuffled forward. Mick made room for the people coming out. He had a hand on Donald’s shoulder, guiding him along.
“What’re we doing here?” Donald asked. He could’ve sworn his bunker design was in the bowl set aside for Tennessee. Then again, they’d been making so many last-minute changes the past weeks—and the CAD-FAC design made it easy to get turned around—maybe he’d been mixed up.
“Anna told me you wimped out and skipped the tour of this place.”
“That’s bullshit.” Donald stopped at the oval hatch. He recognized every rivet—more from his drawings than from passing through a few weeks before. He waved the inside people out, allowing them to pass through the tight squeeze first. “Why would she say that? I was right here. I cut the damn ribbon.”
Mick pushed at his back. “Go. You’re holding up the line.”
“I don’t want to go.” He waved more people out. The workers behind Mick shifted in place, heavy Tupperware containers in their hands. “I saw the top floor,” he said. “That was enough.”
His friend clasped his neck with one hand and gripped his wrist with the other. As his head was bent forward—like a perp shoved into a squad car—Donald had to move along to avoid falling on his face. He tried to reach for the jamb of the interior door, but Mick had his wrist.
“I want you to see what you built,” his friend said.
Donald stumbled through to the security office. He and Mick stepped aside to let the congestion they’d caused ease past.
“I’ve been looking at this damn thing every day for three years,” Donald said. He patted his pocket for his pills, wondered if it was too soon to take another. What he didn’t tell Mick was that he’d forced himself to envision his design being above ground the entire time he’d worked on it, more a skyscraper than a buried straw. No way could he share that with his best friend, tell him how terrified he felt right then with no more than ten meters of dirt and concrete over his head. He seriously doubted Anna had used the phrase “wimped out,” but that’s exactly what he had done after working those oversized shears. While the Senator led dignitaries through the complex, Donald had gone up to find a patch of grass with nothing but bright blue above while the sweat cooled from his neck and he gasped for fresh air.
“This is really fucking important,” Mick said. He snapped his fingers in front of Donald. Two lines of workers filed past. Beyond them, a man sat in a small cubicle, a brush in one hand and a can of paint in the other. He was painting a set of steel bars a flat gray. A technician behind him was wiring something on the wall. Not everything looked like it was being finished precisely the way Donald had drawn it.
“Donny, listen to me. I’m dead serious. Today is the last day we can have this talk, okay? I need you to see what you built.”
Donald tore his gaze away from the workers. He shouldn’t be surprised that there were last minute details that needed attending to. The entire project had been rushed right up to the end, every deadline missed as they fought to catch up. He had suggested they wait and complete the build after the national convention. The Senator and a few others had nearly blown their tops.
Looking to Mick, he saw a similar mask of seriousness. His friend’s permanent and mischievous grin was gon
e, his eyebrows tilted. He looked, if anything, sad.
“Will you please come inside?” he asked.
Donald wanted to laugh and point out that he already was inside. But he knew what Mick meant. He meant deeper. Taking a full breath and fighting the urge to rush out to the hills and fresh air, away from the stifling crowds, Donald found himself agreeing. It was the look on Mick’s face, the feeling that he needed to tell Donald about a loved one who had just passed away, something deathly serious.
Mick patted his shoulder in gratitude as Donald nodded. He turned and merged with the line heading through the security office’s inner door, and Donald felt like he was seeing one of the thousands of rendered walk-throughs he’d performed in AutoCAD. It helped to imagine this. He wasn’t below the earth and concrete at all—he was in his office on Capitol Hill. He was at his desk, working his mouse, sending his bodiless avatar through his blueprints one final time. So when he gasped for air, he imagined the window behind his desk was open, the sounds of D.C. traffic wafting through on the fresh breeze—
“This way.”
Mick led him toward the central shaft. Donald slid his imaginary mouse forward and followed. They passed through the cafeteria, which was being used. It made sense. Workers sat at tables and ate off plastic trays, taking a break. The smell of food drifted from the kitchens beyond. Donald laughed. He never thought they’d be used at all. At least they would have this one go. Again, it felt like the convention had given this place a purpose. It made him happy. He thought of the entire complex devoid of life one day, all the workers milling about outside storing away nuclear rods, Atlanta buzzing with its everyday routine, while this massive building, a skyscraper that would have touched the clouds had it been above ground, would sit perfectly empty, plunged into the dirt like a forgotten needle.
Down a short hallway, the tile gave way to metal grating, and a broad cylinder dove straight through the heart of the facility. Anna had been right. It really was worth seeing. He really had wimped out.
