Second Shift - Order s-2

by Hugh Howey

  “People like me?” Donald shook his head. “What does that even mean?”

  Erskine smiled. “I asked him precisely that. His response was that it was a burden doing what he knew to be correct, to be sound and logical.” Erskine ran one hand across the pod as if he could touch his daughter within. “And how much simpler things would be, how much better for us all, if we had people brave enough to do what was right, instead.”

  •16•

  It was that night that Anna came to him. After a day of numbness and dwelling on death, of eating the meals brought down by Thurman and not tasting a bite, of watching her set up a computer for him and spread out folders of notes, she came to him in the darkness.

  Donald complained. He tried to push her away. She sat on the edge of the cot and held his wrists while he sobbed and grew feeble. He thought of Erskine’s story, on what it meant to do the right thing rather than the correct thing, what the difference was. He thought this as an old lover draped herself across him, her hand on the back of his neck, her cheek on his shoulder, lying there against him while he wept.

  A century of sleep had weakened him, he thought. A century of sleep and the knowledge that Mick and Helen had lived a life together. He felt suddenly angry at her. Not at Anna, whose breath he could feel on his neck, but at Helen. Angry at her for not holding out, for not living alone, for not getting his messages and meeting him over the hill where he could store her beauty away forever.

  Anna kissed his cheek and whispered that everything would be okay. Fresh tears flowed down Donald’s face as he realized that he was everything Victor had assumed he wasn’t. He was a miserable human being for wishing his wife to be lonely so that he could sleep at night a hundred years later. He was a miserable human being for denying her that solace when Anna’s touch made him feel so much better.

  “I can’t,” he whispered for the dozenth time.

  “Shhh,” Anna said. She brushed his hair back in the darkness. And the two of them were alone in that room where wars were waged. They were trapped together with those crates of arms, with guns and ammo, and far more dangerous things.

  Silo 18

  Do not let me fear my death.

  I beg you with my final breath.

  Take and plant me ‘neath the corn.

  Take me, oh Lord, another born.

  One for one, as per your plan.

  One for one, come take my hand.

  Bury me that I’ll take root.

  Plant me, oh Lord, and reap your fruit.

  — Seth Hayden, age 5

  •17•

  Mission wound his way toward Central Dispatch and agonized over what to do for his friend. He felt afraid for Rodny but powerless to help. The door they had him behind was unlike any he’d ever seen: thick and solid, gleaming and daunting. If the trouble his friend had caused could be read by where they were keeping him—

  He shuddered to continue that line of thought. It’d only been a few months since the last cleaning. Mission had been there, had carried up part of the suit, a more haunting experience than porting a body for burial. Dead bodies at least were placed in those black bags the coroners used. There was something good and somber about them. The cleaning suit was a different sort of bag, tailored to a living soul that would crawl inside and be forced to die there.

  Mission remembered where they had picked up the gear. It’d been a room right down the hall from where Rodny was being kept. Weren’t cleanings run by the same department? He shivered. One slip of a tongue could land a body out there, rotting on the hills, and his friend Rodny was known to wag his dangerously.

  First his mother, and now his best friend. Mission wondered what the Pact said about volunteering to clean in one’s stead. If it said anything at all. Amazing that he could live under the rules of a document that he’d never read. He just assumed others had, all the people in charge, and that they were operating by its contents fairly.

  On fifty-eight, a porter’s ’chief tied to the downbound railing caught his attention. It was the same blue pattern as the ‘chief worn around his neck, but with a bright red merchant’s hem. Duty beckoned, dispelling thoughts that were spiraling nowhere. Mission unknotted the ‘chief and searched the fabric for the merchant’s stamp. It was Drexel’s, the apothecary down the hall. Light loads and lighter pay, normally. But at least it was downbound, unless Drexel had been careless again with which rail he tied it to.

  Mission was dying to get to Central where a shower and a change of clothes awaited, but if anyone spotted him with a flat pack marching past a signal ‘chief, he’d hear it from Morgan and the others. He hurried inside to Drexel’s, praying it wasn’t a round of meds going to several dozen individual apartments. His legs turned to rubber just thinking about it.

  Drexel was at the counter as Mission pushed open the apothecary’s squeaky door. A large man with a full beard and a balding head, Drexel was something of a fixture in the mids. Many came to him rather than to the doctors, though Mission wasn’t sure how sound a choice that was. Often, though, it was the man with the most promises who got the chits, not the one who made people better. And besides, the very worst cases rarely complained. If they did, only the roots heard.

  The usual handful of sick people sat on Drexel’s benches in the waiting room, sniffling and coughing. Mission felt the urge to cover his mouth with his ‘chief. Instead, he innocuously held his breath and waited while Drexel filled a small square of paper with ground powder, folding it neatly like one might roll a cigarette, before handing it to the woman waiting. The woman slid a few chits across the counter. When she walked away, Mission tossed the signal ‘chief on top of the money.

  “Ah, Mish. Good to see you, boy. Looking fit as a fiddle.” Drexel smoothed his beard and smiled, yellow teeth peering out from cornrows of drooping whiskers.

  “Same,” Mission said politely, braving a breath. “Got something for me?”

  “I do. One sec.”

  Drexel disappeared behind a wall of shelves crammed full of tiny vials and jars. A baby in the waiting room wailed. The apothecary reappeared with a small sack. “Meds for down below,” he said.

  “I can take them as far as Central and have Dispatch send them from there,” Mission told him. “I’m just finishing up a shift.”

  Drexel frowned and rubbed his beard. “I suppose that’ll do. And Dispatch’ll bill me?”

  Mission held out a palm. “If you tip,” he said.

  “Aye, a tip. But only if you solve a riddle.” Drexel leaned on the counter, which seemed to sag beneath his bulk. The snifflers and coughers waiting on their meds were ignored, and the last thing Mission wanted to hear was another of the old man’s riddles and then not get paid. Always an excuse with Drexel to keep a chit on his side of the counter.

  “Okay,” the apothecary began, tugging on his whiskers. “Which one weighs more, a bag full of seventy-eight pounds of feathers, or a bag full of seventy-eight pounds of rocks?”

  Mission didn’t hesitate with his answer. “The bag of feathers,” he declared. He’d heard this one before. It was a riddle made for a porter, and he had thought on it long enough between the levels to come up with his own answer, one different from the obvious.

  “Incorrect!” Drexel roared, waving a finger. “It isn’t the rocks—” His face dimmed. “Wait. Did you say the feathers?” He shook his head. “No, boy, they weigh the same.”

  “The contents weigh the same,” Mission told him. “The bag of feathers would have to be bigger. You said they were both full, which means a bigger bag with more material, and so it weighs more.” He held out his palm. Drexel stood there, chewing his beard for a moment, thrown off his game. Begrudgingly, he took two coins from the lady’s pay and placed them in Mission’s hand. Mission accepted them and stuffed the sack of meds into his pack before cinching it up tight.

  “The bigger bag—” Drexel muttered, as Mission hurried off, past the benches, holding his breath again as he went, the pills rattling in his sack.

>   The apothecary’s annoyance was worth far more than the tip, but Mission appreciated both. The enjoyment faded, however, as he spiraled down through a tense silo. There was a fear invisible but still sensed like the rising smoke. He saw deputies on one landing, hands on their guns, trying to calm down fighting neighbors. The glass on the windows peeking into a shop on forty-two were broken and covered with a sheet of plastic. Mission was pretty sure that was recent. And down he went, the stairway trembling, the graffiti on the walls warning him with grammatical troubles of what was yet to come.

  He arrived at Central Dispatch to find it eerily quiet. Marko passed him in the hall. The older porter had a black eye, and Mission had a good idea of where it came from. He nodded, and Marko nodded back, a bit of respect from a veteran porter who had warred with him in the dark the night before. Mission felt sad for the things he could imagine doing for a little respect. Braving violence was an ignoble way to earn it.

  He made his way past the sorting rooms with their tall shelves of items needing delivery and went straight to the main counter. He would drop off his current package and pick out his next job before changing and showering. Katelyn was working the counter. There were no other porters queued up. Off licking their wounds, perhaps. Or maybe seeing to their families during this recent spate of violence.

  “Hey, Katelyn.”

  “Mish.” She smiled. “You look intact.”

  He laughed and touched his nose, which was still sore. “Thanks.”

  “Cam just passed through asking where you were.”

  “Yeah?” Mission was surprised. He figured his friend would be taking a day off with the bonus from the coroner. “Did he pick something up?”

  “Yup. He requested anything heading toward Supply. Was in a better mood than usual, though he seemed miffed to have been left out of last night’s adventures.”

  “He heard about that, huh?” Mission sorted through the delivery list. He was looking for something upbound. Mrs. Crowe would know what to do about Rodny. Maybe she could find out from the mayor what he was being punished for, perhaps put in a good word for him.

  “Wait,” he said, glancing up at Katelyn. “What do you mean he was in a good mood? And he was heading for Supply?” Mission thought of the job he’d been offered by Wyck. The head of IT had said Mission wouldn’t be the last to hear of the offer. Maybe he hadn’t been the first, either. “Where was Cam coming from?”

  Katelyn touched her fingers to her tongue and flipped through the old log. “I think his last delivery was a broken computer heading to—”

  “That little rat.” Mission slapped the counter. “You got anything else heading down? Maybe to Supply or Chemical?”

  She checked her computer, fingers clacking furiously, the rest of her perfectly serene. “We’re so slow right now,” she said apologetically. “I’ve got something from Mechanical back up to Supply. Forty five pounds. No rush. Standard freight.” She peered across the counter at Mission, seeing if he was interested.

  “I’ll take it,” he said. But he didn’t plan on heading straight to Mechanical. If he raced, maybe he could beat Cam to Supply and do that other job for Wyck. That was the way in he was looking for. It wasn’t the money he wanted, it was having an excuse to go back to thirty-four to collect his pay, another chance to see Rodny, see what kind of help his friend needed, what sort of trouble he was truly in.

  •18•

  Mission made record time downbound. It helped that traffic was light, but it wasn’t a good sign that he didn’t pass Cam on the way. The kid must’ve had a good head start. Either that, or Mission had gotten lucky and had overtaken the kid while he was off the stairway for a bathroom break.

  Pausing for a moment on the landing outside of Supply, Mission caught his breath and dabbed the sweat from his neck. He still hadn’t had his shower. Maybe after he found Cam and took care of this job in Mechanical, he could get cleaned up and get some proper rest. Lower Dispatch would have a change of clothes for him. And then he could figure out what to do about Rodny. So much to think about. A blessing that it took his mind off it being his birthday.

  Inside Supply, he found a handful of people waiting at the counter. No sign of Cam. If the boy had come and gone already, he must’ve flown, and the delivery must’ve been heading further down. Mission tapped his foot and waited his turn. Once at the counter, he asked for Joyce, just like Wyck had said. The man helping him pointed to a heavyset woman with her hair up in a tight bun at the other end of the counter. Mission recognized her. She handled a lot of the flow of equipment marked special for IT. He waited until she was done with her customer, then asked for any deliveries under the name of Wyck.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “You got a glitch at Dispatch?” she asked. “Done handed that one off.” She waved for the next person in line.

  “Could you tell me where it was heading?” Mission asked. “I was sent to relieve the other guy. His… his mother is sick. They’re not sure if she’s gonna make it.”

  Mission winced at the lie. The lady behind the counter twisted her mouth in disbelief.

  “Please,” he begged. “It really is important.”

  She hesitated. “It was going six flights down to an apartment. I don’t have the exact number. It was on the delivery report.”

  “Six down.” Mission knew the level. Residential except for the handful of less-than-legal businesses being run out of a few apartments. “Thanks,” he said. He slapped the counter and hurried toward the exit. It was on his way to Mechanical, anyway. He might be too late for Wyck’s delivery, but he could ask Cam if he might pick up the pay for him, offer him a vacation chit in return. Or he could just flat out tell him an old friend was in trouble, and he needed to get through security. If not, he’d have to wait for an IT request to hit Dispatch and be the first to jump on it. And he’d have to hope that Rodny had that much time.

  He was four levels down, formulating a dozen such plans, when the blast went off.

  The great stairwell lurched as if thrown sideways. Mission slammed against the rail and nearly went over. He wrapped his arms around the trembling steel and held on.

  There was a shriek, a chorus of groans. He watched, his head out in space beyond the railing, as the landing two levels below twisted away from the staircase. The metal sang and cried out as it was ripped free and went tumbling into the depths.

  More than one body plummeted after. The receding figures performed cartwheels in space.

  Mission tore himself away from the sight. A few steps down from him, a woman remained on her hands and knees, looking up at Mission with wild and frightened eyes. There was a distant crash, impossibly far below.

  “I don’t know,” he wanted to say. There was that question in her eyes, the same one pounding in his skull, echoing with the sound of the blast. What the hell just happened? Is this it? Has it begun?

  He considered running up, away from the calamity, but there were screams from below, and a porter had a duty to those on the stairwell in need. He helped the woman to her feet and bid her upward. Already, the smell of something acrid and the haze of smoke were upon them. “Go,” he urged, and then he spiraled down against the sudden flow of traffic, responding on automatic to his shadowing days rather than to some deeply held sense of duty. And his friend. Cam was down there. Where the boy had gone and where the blast had occurred were still coincidence in Mission’s rattled mind.

  The landing below held a crush of people. Residents and shopkeeps crowded out of the doors and fought for a spot at the rail that they might gaze over at the wreckage one flight further down. Mission fought his way through, yelling Cam’s name, keeping an eye out for his friend. A bedraggled couple staggered up to the crowded landing with hollow eyes, clutching the railing and each other. He didn’t see Cam anywhere.

  He raced down five turns of the central post, his normally deft feet stumbling on the slick treads, around and around. It’d been the level Cam was heading toward, right? Six down. Level one-sixt
een. He would be okay. Mission convinced himself Cam would be okay. The sight of those people tumbling through the air flashed in Mission’s mind. It was an image he knew he’d never forget. Surely, Cam wasn’t among them. The boy was late or early to everything, never right on time.

  He made the last turn, and where the next landing should’ve been was empty space. The stalwart rails of the great spiral staircase had been ripped outward before parting. A few of the steps sagged away from the central post, and gravity tugged at Mission’s feet. He could feel a pull toward the edge, the void clawing at him. There was nothing there to stop him from going over. The steel felt slick beneath his boots.

  Across a gap of torn and twisted steel, the doorway to one-sixteen was missing. In its place stood a pocket of crumbling cement and dark iron bars bent outward like hands reaching for the departed landing. White powder drifted down from the ceiling beyond the rubble. Unbelievably, there were sounds beyond the veil. Coughs and shouts. Screams for help.

  People were yelling from the landing above as well. A fire hose slithered down, the nozzle clinking and banging against the wall of the stairwell. There was no one there to accept it, just an orange glow of fire deep inside that seemed to throb. It was as if the earth’s chest had been torn open, exposing its bright red heartbeat, the bent rods of steel now like a shattered ribcage.

  “Porter!” someone yelled from above.

  Mission carefully slid to the edge of the sloping and bent steps. He held the railing where it had been torn free. It was warm to the touch. Leaning out, he studied the crowd fifty feet above him at the next landing. They were swinging the fire hose, trying to get it inside the busted door. But there was no landing rail to snag the nozzle on anymore, no one to grab it. Again, someone yelled something about a porter. Mission didn’t know what was expected of him. He hadn’t shadowed for this. The nozzle swung wildly a dozen feet away. Did they expect him to reach it? To swing over and douse that mad pulse in the heart of the burning earth?