by Hakok, R. A.
She pushes the hand away.
‘Hey, we’re supposed to be checking this place out, remember?’
But as she turns her head away she flashes me a smile.
We head back to the stair and keep going down. The next level’s similar to the first, only in place of the workstations there’s stacks of what looks like computer servers, mounted on thick rubber shocks. A rat’s nest of wires trails from the back of each; more snake along the floor; others hang in thick bunches from the low ceiling. The machines look clunky, old, like they belong in a museum.
We return to the shaft and continue our descent. The level below was clearly the mess. I count four long tables, each bolted to the floor. Chairs are tucked neatly underneath, just like upstairs. Something seems wrong with that, too. I stare at them for a while, but I have no more success figuring out what than I did earlier, so in the end I move the flashlight along. The beam finds a row of industrial-looking ovens, mounted on heavy springs. Large stainless steel hoods hang down, their elbowed vent pipes disappearing into the ceiling above. To one side, counters where food would have been prepared. Further along, rows of metal shelves, stacked with pots, pans, bowls.
I return my attention to the nearest table and play the flashlight over the scuffed metal. Mags takes a step closer, runs a finger across it, dislodging thick motes of dust that swirl through the beam before starting their lazy descent to the floor.
‘It all looks so tidy. Do you remember how long it took us to clean up in Mount Weather?’
And then I see. Mount Weather’s mess had been, well, a mess. The tables had been covered in plates of half-eaten food; the chairs had been pushed back, knocked over. We knew why, of course. On the morning of the Last Day Kane had contacted the base commanders of each of the facilities in the Federal Relocation Arc and ordered an emergency evacuation; anyone inside would have left in a big hurry. Afterwards he’d changed the codes on the blast doors remotely, preventing anyone from getting back in. Thankfully Benjamin had been listening, and had thought to write the new codes down, so that years later Marv could hand them to me.
There’s no evidence anything like that happened here. The tables are bare, the chairs lined up neatly underneath. I point the flashlight over at the shelves. Plates, bowls, cups, all in perfect stacks; everything squared away, just so. I look back at Mags, but she’s already worked it out.
‘Whoever was here had plenty of time to tidy up before they left.’
I nod. It’ll be good not to have to clean up like we did in Mount Weather. But there’s something about it makes me feel uneasy, all the same.
We make our way back to the stairs and keep going down. The next level is stores. Metal shelves stretch back into darkness, all the way from the central shaft back to the silo’s copper walls, like the spokes of a giant wheel. I’m relieved to see most are packed tight with boxes. I play the beam over the nearest one. The cardboard’s old, speckled with mildew, but the faded letters printed on the sides are still mostly legible.
U.S. Army Field Rations ~ Type C.
I point the flashlight along the row. They’re all the same. I drag one down. I don’t need Weasel’s blade; the adhesive’s long dried; the tape lifts easily when I get a finger to it. Inside, small cans, each large enough for maybe a single meal. I lift one out and examine it. The contents are stamped, military-fashion, on the lid: the tin I’ve chosen says Meat Stew with Vegetables. I examine the sides but there’s no further clue as to what animal it might have been taken from. If it’s like Eden it won’t resemble anything in God’s creation; the army seemed to have only the vaguest grasp of what food actually tasted like. But cans are good; as long as the seals have held what’s inside shouldn’t have spoiled. I drop the one I’ve been inspecting back into its slot and return the box to its place on the shelf.
We head back to the main shaft. The floor below looks like it’s been given over to provisions as well. From the stair my flashlight won’t reach between the shelves, but when I set foot on the gangway to cross Mags says there’s no need; it all looks the same as above. We continue on. The air grows heavy around us. I catch the smell I picked up when I first came through the airlock again, stronger now.
We wind our way down, deeper into the silo. The levels beneath the stores house the dorms. I count the cells as we cross the gangway: twelve to a floor. I push the door back on the nearest one, lifting my boot over the raised threshold. Inside is shaped like a slice of pie, narrow near the front, wider towards the back. Two metal-framed cots hinge down from the wall, just like in Eden. There’s no more in the way of comforts than there was in our first home either, just a single bulkhead lamp mounted high on the riveted steel opposite.
I step back out, return to the shaft. Mags says the floor below looks identical to the one above so we stick to the stair. The next level down is ablutions. We find rows of narrow stalls, shower cubicles barely big enough to accommodate a body. The plumbing is rust-streaked, crusted with grime; by flashlight it all looks pretty grim. Here and there a rubber joint has given out, but most of it seems to have held. Beyond the final stall a row of washbasins, bolted to the silo’s curving wall. Above each a square of steel that would once have served as a mirror.
I try one of the faucets, but it won’t budge, so I move along to the next. It’s seized solid, too. Mags steps up to the basin beside me and grasps the handle. For a second it looks like it won’t yield either, but then she adjusts her grip and it turns with a low metallic groan.
She looks at me and smiles.
‘Weakling.’
‘You just got an easy one.’
We wait. At first there’s nothing and then from somewhere above the sound of pipes clunking and shuddering. Finally something brown that might be water spits and sputters from the pipe in chaotic bursts. It doesn’t look very appealing, but Mags says it’s probably okay; at least whatever passes for a reservoir here hasn’t run dry or frozen. She lets the water run until the stream steadies and starts to flow clear, then she shuts the faucet off and starts making her way back to the main shaft. I check she’s not looking then I try the next one along, but I can’t get it to turn any more than I could the first two. I wipe my hand on the outside of my parka and follow after her.
Beneath the showers the stair spirals down through another couple of turns then ends at a floor made of sections of thick, riveted steel. A large metal hatch, a wheel handle in its center, like the kind of thing you’d find on a submarine, waits for us at the bottom. I grasp the handle with both hands and heave it open, then point the flashlight through the opening. A narrow ladder drops to a grated landing; beyond, more steps.
I climb through the hatch and we rejoin the stair. There are no more floors now, just a single cavernous space. The sound of our footsteps changes, taking on a hollow, watery reverberation. The air is thick, the smell pungent.
I wind the flashlight until the dynamo hums and the bulb’s burning bright as it can. I hold it out over the handrail, sweeping the darkness as we descend. Large-bore pressure pipes, their surfaces spackled with rust, circle the walls; others crisscross the open space between. Here and there gangways leave the stair, extending out to machines in an assortment of shapes and sizes. In the yellowing beam they all look old, decrepit.
Behind me Mags steps off onto one of the narrow catwalks. I turn around to see where she’s going, but she’s already lost to the darkness. I’m about to point the beam after her to light the way, but then I remember she doesn’t need it. I lose her footsteps and for a few seconds there’s nothing, but then I hear a tapping from somewhere above me that sounds like she’s checking the level in one of the tanks. I stand there for a moment, uncertain what to do. I’ve had several weeks now to get used to how she and the kid can manage without the light, but the truth is I still find it a little unnerving.
I wind the flashlight and continue my descent. Less than a turn of the stair later the tread plate suddenly becomes slick and I feel my boot slide from under me. A jo
lt of adrenalin rushes my system and I grab for the handrail. The flashlight slips from my fingers, clatters off down the stair.
I take a deep breath and pull myself upright. From somewhere above I hear Mags, asking if I’m okay.
I call back that I’m fine.
I look down. The flashlight’s come to rest on a narrow landing a few steps beneath me. I make my way down to retrieve it, gripping the handrail tighter now. I pick it up. The lens is cracked and when I shake it there’s a rattle that wasn’t there before, but at least it still seems to be working. I wind the handle. There’s an unhappy grinding from somewhere within and for a moment the bulb flickers, but then it brightens. I point it over the edge. The beam reflects back off something dark, oily, and I see why the steps have suddenly become so treacherous, and where the smell’s been coming from. Beneath me the staircase disappears into water. The bottom of the silo’s flooded. I hold the beam close to the slowly undulating surface, but there’s no way to tell how deep it is.
I shout up at Mags. A moment later her voice echoes back to me from somewhere in the blackness above. I point the flashlight to where I thought I heard her, and for a split second the beam picks out two pinpricks of silver, there and then immediately gone again.
The blood in my veins turns to ice water. An image flashes before me: a dark shape, spider-thin, slipping from behind an operator booth, and for a moment I just stand there, paralyzed with fear, just like when that thing attacked Ortiz in the basement of the hospital in Blacksburg. And then I’m bounding back up the stair. My mouth opens to shout a warning, but what comes out is wordless, incoherent. I feel Hicks’ pistol bouncing on my hip, but the narrow steps are treacherous and I need my reaching hand for the rail.
Mags must sense the alarm in my voice because I hear her boots above me now, hurrying across the gangway. She meets me where it joins the stair.
‘What’s wrong?’
I push past her and point the flashlight along the catwalk, searching for the thing I saw only seconds ago. But the gangway’s empty, at least as far the beam will show me. I inch forward, holding it out in front of me. My other hand drops to the haft of the gun. Ahead the fuel tank Mags was checking slowly separates itself from the darkness, its rusting flanks disappearing up into the gloom. I keep going, all the way out to the silo’s curving walls.
‘What is it, Gabe?’
I sweep the beam over the guardrails, the grating, the blue-green copper. This is where it was, right here, I’m sure of it. But there’s nothing; nowhere for anything to hide. I lift my hand from the pistol’s grip, letting it slide back into the holster.
I feel her hand on my shoulder and I start. Another possibility occurs to me then, settling cold in my stomach. I swing the flashlight around, but she’s too fast. Her hand closes around my wrist, so quick it surprises me. She pushes the beam away before I have a chance to see.
‘Hey! Careful with that.’
She stares up at me, a quizzical expression on her face.
‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s wrong?’
I manage to stammer out something about the silo being flooded. She holds my hand for a second longer then lets it go.
‘That’s what freaked you out? I could have told you there was water down here as soon as we came through the airlock.’
She turns around and steps out of the beam, disappearing into the darkness beyond. I think I hear her boots on the stair, but it’s hard to tell above the sound of my own breathing. When I point the flashlight over the guardrail it finds her crouched by the water’s edge. She studies the oily surface for a moment, then comes back up to join me.
‘It’s okay. This far underground they’ll have had to pump the water out, just like we did in the deeper parts of Eden. With the power off all this time it’s seeped back in, that’s all. Once we get the generator running the pumps should kick in and clear it out.’
I nod, like this is good news. She looks at me strangely, like she’s wondering what it is I’m not telling her.
‘Well, I guess we’ve seen as much as there is’. She dusts her hands off. ‘Ready to head back up?’
I nod again, still distracted by what I think I’ve just seen. She studies me a moment longer, like she’s still trying to work it out, then heads for the stair.
*
WE MAKE OUR WAY BACK up to the hatch, clamber through, then rejoin the spiraling stair. When we reach the mess I set the flashlight down on one of the tables and start digging in my pack for the last of my MREs while Mags wipes the dust from the old steel. I open the cartons, add a little water from my canteen to the chemical heaters to start the reaction and then leave the pouches to warm. When they’re ready she tears the foil off one and starts poking at the contents with the plastic fork that came in the packet. She skewers something the carton says is a Chicken Chunk and holds it up.
‘Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask. Do these taste funny to you?’
‘Like what?’
‘I dunno. Stale?’ She shakes her head, like that’s not it. ‘Dull. Boring. Like it’s missing something?
I shrug. My meal tastes like every other one I’ve had. She goes back to digging half-heartedly in the pouch for a few moments then abandons the Chicken Chunks in favor of the HOOAH! that came with them. I steal a glance across the table as she removes the wrapper. The flashlight with its freshly cracked lens sits further along the table. The sorry puddle of light it casts is slowly receding, but it’s enough to see by. She looks okay; still a little thin perhaps, but the shadows have all but gone from her eyes. She finishes the candy bar and looks over at mine.
I slide it across the table towards her. She flashes me a smile and then unwraps it. When she’s done she busies herself fixing a coffee. We haven’t bothered with a fire, so all that’s left to warm the water is the heater from the MRE carton. She takes a sip, grimaces, then looks around the room.
‘So what do you think?’
My mind’s elsewhere, still fretting over what I think I saw in the plant room, so at first I miss what she says. She glances around, the gesture clearly meant to encompass more than just the mess. She looks at me expectantly.
‘Well, it’s thirteen stories, just like Hicks said. He just forgot to mention most of them don’t start until you’re almost that far underground.’
She raises the mug to her lips, letting her gaze rove one more time. I find myself stealing glances at her eyes, searching for anything unusual there. But there’s nothing. The memory of what I thought I saw in the plant room is already growing less certain. Did I imagine it? Was it just my own eyes playing tricks on me?
I’m waiting for the voice to chime in; it seems like just the sort of thing it would have an opinion on. But for once it stays quiet.
‘It seems old, doesn’t it? Maybe even older than Eden was. What do you think they built it for?’
I force myself to pay attention.
‘I dunno. This far underground, the shielding on the walls, the way everything’s mounted, it was definitely built to survive a blast. It must have something to do with that equipment up there.’
She takes another sip from the coffee, sets it on the table.
‘There’s bound to be a set of manuals. I bet they’ll tell us.’
She looks right at me. Her pupils are definitely wide, but then the only light we have is from the flashlight’s tiny bulb. And they’re dark, normal, with no trace of what I thought I saw, earlier.
I must have imagined it. It was pitch black down there, after all. And I had been staring into the floodwaters. Maybe what I saw was the afterglow of the flashlight, reflected off the oily surface.
That would explain it.
I wait for the voice to contradict me, but it remains silent.
A trick of the light, that’s all it was.
I nod to myself, as if to confirm it. I’m being foolish, letting my imagination run away with me. And right now there are plenty of other things I need to concern myself with. I look at th
e handful of tables arranged around us. I certainly wasn’t expecting anything on the scale of Mount Weather, but this place is smaller than I had imagined. Way smaller. The dorms only sleep forty-eight, and that’s assuming two people bunking together, which would be pretty cramped. Seriously cramped. I’m not sure the cells are even as big as the ones we had in Eden.
‘It certainly doesn’t look like it was designed to hold many people.’
I say it mostly to myself. Mags reaches for the mug again, raises it to her lips.
‘Good thing there aren’t many of us, then. At least it’s warm, and there’s food, and water. As long as we have those things we can make it work.’
Two levels devoted to stores is good. Not a lifetime’s worth of food, but several winters at least, as long as we’re careful. I realize I should feel better about that than I do.
‘Yeah, but only cans. Isn’t that strange?’
She shrugs.
‘I guess. I’m just glad we won’t have to clear out stuff that’s spoiled. Do you remember how long that took us in Mount Weather, and we didn’t have that stair to contend with.’
I nod, still a little distracted.
‘I’ll need to check the stores, properly.’ There’s bound to be other things we’ll need. And now that Durham’s off limits I have to figure out where else I can go to get them.
She reaches across the table for my hand.
‘You can do that tomorrow. Come on, let’s go pick out our room.’
She drains what’s left of her coffee while I bag our trash, and then we head back out on to the stair. I stop to charge the flashlight. The handle sticks and grinds for a few turns, like there’s still something amiss with its innards, but then the bulb brightens. I point it along the gangway, but Mags has already disappeared into the darkness. I hesitate a moment then set off after her. When I reach the dorms she’s waiting for me by the guardrail.
‘Okay, which one?’
I sweep the light over the bulkhead doors that circle the landing. The cells all look identical, so I settle on the closest one.
