by Hugh Howey
And Juliette remembered what he’d said. She realized these kids, this young man, was the same age that he still saw himself. The same age he’d been when he’d been left alone. Had the last survivors of the down deep perished in recent years, but not before leaving something behind?
“What’s your name?” Juliette asked the boy. She lowered her knife and showed him her other palm. “My name’s Juliette,” she said. She wanted to add that she came from another silo, a saner world, but didn’t want to confuse or freak them out.
“Rickson,” the boy snarled. He puffed out his chest. “My father was Rick the Plumber.”
“Rick the Plumber.” Juliette nodded. She saw along one wall, at the end of a tall dune of supplies and scavenges, the gear bag they’d stolen. Her change of clothes spilled out the gaping mouth of the bag. Her towel would be in there. She slid toward the bag, an eye on the kids huddled together on the makeshift bed, the group nest, wary of the older boy.
“Well, Rickson, I want you to gather your things.” Kneeling by her bag, she dug inside and searched for the towel. She found it, pulled it out and rubbed it over her damp hair, an indescribable luxury. There was no way she was leaving them here, these kids. She turned to face the other children, the towel draped across the back of her neck, their eyes all locked on hers.
“Go ahead,” she said. “Get your things together. You’re not going to live like this—”
“Just leave us,” the older girl said. The two boys had moved off the bed, though, and were going through piles of things. They looked to the girl, then to Juliette. Unsure.
“Go back to where you’re from,” Rickson said. The two eldest children seemed to be gaining strength from each other. “Take your noisy machines and go.”
That’s what this was about. Juliette remembered the sight of the compressor on its side, more heavily attacked maybe than Solo had been. She nodded to the two boys, had their ages pegged for ten or eleven. “Go on,” she told them. “You’re gonna help me and my friend get home. We have good food there. Real electricity. Hot water. Get your things—”
The youngest girl cried out at this, a horrible peal, the same cry Juliette had heard from the dark hallway. Rickson paced back and forth, eyeing her and the wrench on the floor. Juliette slid away from him and toward the bed to comfort the young girl, when she realized it wasn’t her squealing.
Something moved in the older girl’s arms.
Juliette froze at the edge of the bed.
“No,” she whispered.
Rickson took a step toward her.
“Stay!” She aimed the point of the knife at him. He glanced down at the wound on his leg, thought better of it. The two boys froze in the act of stuffing their bags. Nothing in the room moved save the baby squealing and fidgeting in the girl’s arms.
“Is that a child?”
The girl turned her shoulders. It was a motherly gesture, but the girl couldn’t be more than fifteen. Juliette didn’t know that was possible. She wondered if that was why the implants went in so early. Her hand slid toward her hip almost as if to touch the place, to rub the bump beneath her skin.
“Just go,” the teenager whimpered. “We’ve been fine without you.”
Juliette put down the knife. It felt strange to relinquish it but more wrong to have it in her hand as she approached the bed. “I can help you,” she said. She turned and made sure the boy heard her. “I used to work in a place that cared for newborns. Let me—” She reached out her hands. The girl turned more toward the wall, shielding the child from her.
“Okay.” Juliette held up her hands, showed her palms. “But you’re not going to live like this anymore.” She nodded to the young boys, turned to Rickson, who hadn’t moved. “None of you are. This isn’t how anyone should have to live their days, not even their last ones.”
She nodded to herself, her mind made up. “Rickson? Get your things together. Only the necessities. We’ll come back for anything else.” She dipped her chin at the younger boys, saw how their coveralls had been chopped at the knees, their legs covered in grime from the farms. They took it as permission to return to packing. These two seemed eager to have someone else in charge, maybe anybody other than their brother, if that’s what he was.
“Tell me your name.” Juliette sat down on the bed with the two girls while the others rummaged through their things. She fought to remain calm, to not succumb to the nausea of kids having kids.
The baby let out a hungry cry.
“I’m here to help you,” Juliette told the girl. “Can I see? Is it a girl or a boy?”
The young mother relaxed her arms. A blanket was folded away, revealing the squinting eyes and pursed red lips of a baby no more than a few months old. A tiny arm waved at its mother.
“Girl,” she said softly.
The younger girl clinging to her side peeked around the mother’s ribs at Juliette.
“Have you given her a name?”
She shook her head. “Not yet.”
Rickson said something behind her to the two boys, trying to get them not to fight over something—
“My name’s Elise,” the younger girl said, her head emerging from behind the other girl’s side. Elise pointed at her mouth. “I have a loose tooth.”
Juliette laughed. “I can help you with that if you like.” She took a chance and reached out to squeeze the young girl’s arm. Flashes of her childhood in her father’s nursery flooded back, the memories of worried parents, of precious children, of all the hopes and dreams created and dashed around that lottery. Juliette’s thoughts swerved to her brother, the one who was not meant to be, and she felt the tears well up in her eyes. What had these kids been through? Solo at least had normal experiences from before. He knew what it meant to live in a world where one could be safe. What had these five kids, six, grown up in? Seen? She felt such intense pity that there was this sick, wrong, sad desire for none of them to have ever been born—
This was just as soon washed over with a wave of guilt for even considering it.
“We’re going to get you out of here,” she told the two girls. “Gather your things.”
One of the young boys came over and dropped her bag nearby. He was putting things back into it, apologizing to her, when Juliette heard another strange squeak.
What now?
She dabbed her mouth on the towel, watching as the girls reluctantly did an adult’s bidding, finding their things and eyeing one another to make sure this was okay. Juliette heard a rustling in her gear bag. She used the handle to separate the zippered mouth, wary of what could be living in the rat’s nest these kids had created, when she heard a tiny voice.
Calling her name.
She dropped the towel and clawed through the bag, past tools and bottles of water, under her spare coveralls and loose socks, until she found the radio. She wondered how Solo could possibly be calling her. The other set had been ruined in her suit—
“—please say something,” the radio hissed. “Juliette, are you there? It’s Walker. Please, for God’s sake, answer me—”
23
• Silo 18 •
“What happened? Why aren’t they responding?” Courtnee looked from Walker to Shirly, as if either of them could know.
“Is it broken?” Shirly picked up the small dial with the painted marks and tried to tell if it had accidentally moved. “Walk, did we break it?”
“No, it’s still on,” he said. He held the headphones up by his cheek, his eyes drifting over the various components.
“Guys, I don’t know how much longer we have.” Courtnee was watching the scene in the generator room through the observation window. Shirly stood up and peered out over the control panel toward the main entrance. Jenks and some of his men were inside, rifles pinned against their shoulders, yelling at the others. The soundproofing made it impossible to hear what was going on.
“Hello?”
A voice crackled from Walker’s hands. The words seemed to tumble through his fing
ers.
“Who’s there?” he called, flicking the switch. “Who is this?”
Shirly rushed to Walker’s side. She wrapped her hands around his arm, disbelieving. “Juliette!” she screamed.
Walker held up his hand, tried to quiet her and Courtnee both. His hands were trembling as he fumbled with the detonator and finally clicked the red switch.
“Jules?” His old voice cracked. Shirly squeezed his arm. “Is that you?”
There was a pause, and then a cry from the speakers, a sob. “Walk? Walk, is that you? What’s going on? Where are you? I thought—”
“Where is she?” Shirly whispered.
Courtnee watched them both, her cheeks in her palms, mouth open.
Walker hit the switch. “Jules, where are you?”
A deep sigh hissed through the tiny speakers. Her voice was tiny and far away. “Walk, I’m in another silo. There’s more of them. You wouldn’t believe—”
Her voice drifted off to static. Shirly leaned against Walker while Courtnee paced in front of them, looking from the radio to the window.
“We know about the others,” Walker said, holding the mic below his beard. “We can hear them, Jules. All of them.”
He let go of the switch. Juliette’s voice returned.
“How are you—? Mechanical— I heard about the fighting. Are you in the middle of that?” Before she signed off, Juliette said something to someone else, her voice barely audible.
Walker raised his eyebrows at the mention of the fighting.
“How would she have heard?” Shirly asked.
“I wish she were here,” Courtnee said. “Jules would know what to do.”
“Tell her about the exhaust. About the plan.” Shirly waved for the microphone. “Here, let me.”
Walker nodded. He handed Shirly the headset and the detonator.
Shirly worked the switch. It was stiffer than she thought it’d be. “Jules? Can you hear me? It’s Shirly.”
“Shirly—” Juliette’s voice wavered. “Hey you. You hanging in there?”
The emotion in her friend’s voice brought tears to Shirly’s eyes. “Yeah—” She bobbed her head and swallowed. “Hey, listen, some of the others are routing the exhaust feed to IT’s cooling vents. But remember that time we lost back pressure? I’m worried the motor might—”
“No.” Juliette cut her off. “You have to stop them. Shirly, can you hear me? You have to stop them. It won’t do anything. The cooling is for the servers. The only people up there who—” She cleared her throat. “Listen to me. Make them stop—”
Shirly fumbled with the red switch. Walker reached over as if to help, but she finally got the device under control. “Wait,” she transmitted. “How do you know where the vents lead—?”
“I just do. This place is laid out the same. Goddammit, let me talk to them. You can’t let them—”
Shirly hit the switch again. There was a blast of sound from the generator room as Courtnee threw open the door and ran outside. “Courtnee’s going,” she said. “She’s going right now. Jules— How did you—? Who are you with? Can they help us? It’s not looking good over here.”
They tiny speakers crackled again. Shirly could hear Juliette take a deep breath, could hear other voices in the background, heard her give commands or orders to some other person. Shirly thought her friend sounded exhausted. Weary. Sad.
“There’s nothing I can do,” Juliette said. “There’s no one here. One man. Some kids. Everyone’s gone. The people who lived here, they couldn’t even help themselves.” The line went silent, and then she clicked through again. “You have to stop the fighting,” she said. “Whatever it takes. Please— Don’t let it be because of me. Please stop—”
The door opened again, Courtnee returning. Shirly heard shouts in the generator room. Gunfire.
“What is that?” Juliette asked. “Where are you guys?”
“In the control room.” Shirly looked up at Courtnee, whose eyes were wide with fear. “Jules, I don’t think we have much time. I—” There was so much she wanted to say. She wanted to tell her about Marck. She needed more time. “They’re coming for us,” was all she could think to relate. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
The radio crackled. “Oh God, make them stop. No more fighting! Shirly, listen to me—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Shirly said, holding the button and wiping at her cheeks. “They won’t stop.” The gunfire was getting closer, the pops audible through the thick door. Her people were dying while she cowered in the control room, talking to a ghost. Her people were dying.
“You take care of yourself,” Shirly said.
“Wait!”
Shirly handed the headset to Walker. She joined Courtnee by the window and watched the crush of people cower on the other side of the generator, the flash and shudder of barrels leaning against the railing, someone in Mechanical blue lying still on the ground. More faded pops. More distant and muted rattles.
“Jules!” Walker fumbled with the radio. He shouted her name, was still trying to talk to her.
“Let me talk to them!” Juliette yelled, her voice impossibly far away. “Walk, why can I hear you and not them? I need to talk to the deputies, to Peter and Hank. Walk, how did you call me? I need to talk to them!”
Walker blubbered about soldering irons, about his magnifiers. The old man was crying, cradling his boards and wires and electrics as if they were a broken child, whispering to them and rocking back and forth, saltwater dripping dangerously onto this thing he’d built.
He babbled to Juliette while more men in blue fell, arms draped over railings, inadequate rifles dropping noiselessly to the ground. The men they had lived in terror of for a month were inside. It was over. Shirly groped for Courtnee, their arms entangling, while they watched, helpless. Behind them, the sobs and mad ravings of Old Walk mixed with the jitter of deadened gunfire, a popping noise like the grumble of a machine losing its balance, sliding out of control—
24
• Silo 18 •
Lukas teetered on the upturned trashcan, the toes of his boots denting the soft plastic, feeling as if it could go flying out from under him or collapse under his weight at any moment. He steadied himself by holding the top of server twelve, the thick layer of dust up there telling him it had been years since anyone had been in there with a ladder and a rag. He pressed his nose up to the AC vent and took another whiff.
The nearby door beeped, the locks clanking as they withdrew into the jamb. With a soft squeal, the massive hinges budged and the heavy door swung inward.
Lukas nearly lost his grip on the dusty server top as Bernard pushed his way inside. The head of IT looked up at him quizzically.
“You’ll never fit,” Bernard said. He laughed as he turned to push the door shut. The locking pins clunked, the panel beeped, and a red light resumed its watch over the room.
Lukas pushed away from the dusty server and leapt from the trashcan, the plastic bucket flipping over and scooting across the floor. He wiped his hands together, brushed them on the seat of his pants, and forced a laugh.
“I thought I smelled something,” he explained. “Does it look smoky in here to you?”
Bernard squinted at the air. “It always seems hazy in here to me. And I don’t smell anything. Just hot servers.” He reached into his breast pocket and brought out a few folded pieces of paper. “Here. Letters from your mother. I told her to porter them to me and I’d pass them along.”
Lukas smiled, embarrassed, and accepted them. “I still think you should ask about—” He glanced up at the AC vent and realized there was no one in Mechanical to ask. The last that he’d heard from the radio below was that Sims and the others were mopping up. Dozens were dead. Three to four times that many were in custody. Apartment wings were being prepped in the mids to hold them all. It sounded like there would be enough people to clean for years.
“I’ll have one of the replacement mechanics look into it,” Bernard promised. “Which rem
inds me, I’d like to go over some of that with you. There’s going to be a massive shift from green to blue as we push farmers into Mechanical. I was wondering what you’d think of Sammi heading up the entire division down there.”
Lukas nodded as he skimmed one of the letters from his mother. “Sammi as head of Mechanical? I think he’s overqualified but perfect. I’ve learned a lot from him.” He glanced up as Bernard opened the filing cabinet by the door and flipped through work orders. “He’s a great teacher, but would it be permanent?”
“Nothing’s permanent.” Bernard found what he was looking for and tucked it into his breast pocket. “You need anything else?” He pressed his glasses up his nose. Lukas thought he looked older from the past month. Older and worn down. “Dinner’ll be sent over in a few hours—”
