Gated

by Amy Christine Parker

  I hurl the shoes across the room. They hit the wall and land underneath the kitchenette’s small table. Mom turns her back on me and rushes to pick them up. She carefully brushes the worn suede back into place and then tucks them against her chest again.

  “So that’s it? You’re going to choose your dead daughter over the one who’s living and breathing and right in front of you? I spent my whole life trying to make sure you never had to go through anything like her death ever again. I stayed inside the house after she went missing; I came here and followed Pioneer. I did whatever you asked me to do. I would’ve even gone into the Silo for good to make you happy, but you never cared, did you? You brought us here so you could stop living.”

  The truth of what I’ve just said rips me apart. I stare at her, hoping that she’ll at least try to argue with me, that she’ll find a way to make things right, but she just hangs her head and rubs her thumb across those stupid shoes.

  She begins to talk without looking at me. “You can’t understand. You’re just a kid. I lost a child. You don’t just get over that.”

  “No, you don’t understand! You lost Karen, but you still had me.”

  She tries to move a little closer to me, but I don’t want to be anywhere near her right now and I back away.

  “I do love you,” she whispers. “Find a way out, Lyla. I want you to. You deserve more than I could ever give you.”

  I fold my arms around myself to keep from reaching out to her. I still want her to come around—so badly, but I can see that she won’t. Her arms drop to her sides and she walks past me to the bedroom area and closes the door behind her. She’s taken Karen’s shoes with her. I’m finally beginning to understand. She died when Karen did and all these years we’ve just been living with her ghost.

  Dad stares at the door. “I’ll talk to her.”

  “It won’t do any good. I think she’s wanted this all along,” I say, my voice shakier than I want it to be. “Are you coming?”

  I move toward the door.

  “I have to stay with her, Lyla. She’s my wife,” Dad says softly.

  “And I’m your daughter. You’re telling me neither of you are going? This is crazy! You’d both rather stay here and die?”

  “No, of course not. You’ll bring help … but if somehow you can’t, I can’t just let her die down here all alone.”

  Dad looks tortured and guilty, but I don’t care. I want to shake him or hit him. I want to make him come with me.

  “You’re asking me to survive your death and hers? On top of Karen’s, Marie’s, and Indy’s?” My voice breaks. I can’t believe he’s doing this. I can’t lose my entire family in one day. It’s too much.

  “You’ll do it because you survive. It’s what you do. You were the only one who actually managed it after Karen and now again with Pioneer. You’ll survive us too if you have to.”

  “I was never completely alone before,” I say. “Dad … please.”

  My dad looks close to wavering, but then he shakes his head. “You’ll find help. And I swear that I will do what I can from down here to keep us alive until then. I can talk to the others and show them Marie. You need me down here. You can’t get everyone out all at the same time anyway. There’s not enough time. You have to get help. The faster you go, the sooner all of this will be over.”

  “Daddy …” My voice breaks and I fold in on myself.

  He pulls me close. His voice is thick and he has a hard time speaking at first. “I want you to go, Lyla. Find the exit and leave. Get help. You have to go now, because there’s not a lot of time left.”

  He’s right. I can feel the closeness in the air. I might be imagining it, but every breath I take feels less … right. The oxygen levels could already be dropping.

  Dad walks over to the wall and pulls out one of the storage drawers built into it. There are rolled-up papers inside along with flashlights and pens, candles and matches. He pulls out one of the large paper rolls and opens it.

  “These are the building plans for the Silo. We’re here.” He points to our compartment’s location. “The closest emergency hatch is in the supply room on this wall. Pioneer’s hidden it pretty well behind supply shelving, so you’ll have to move things to get to it. There’s a combination lock on it. If Pioneer hasn’t changed it since we originally set it, it could be this.”

  Dad pulls out a pen and writes a series of numbers onto the side of the plans. I recognize them. It’s the date the world’s supposed to end.

  “When you get up to the surface, give the plans to the sheriff. He’ll know what to do from there.” Dad plants a kiss on the top of my head. “Be careful. And no matter what, don’t stop until you’re out.”

  I nod and take the papers, folding them so they’ll fit inside my jeans pocket.

  “I love you,” Dad says. “Your mother does too—I mean that. She’s just been broken for a long time.”

  “Sure, whatever you say,” I say bitterly.

  “People don’t always react the way you want them to when they’re hurting. Don’t give up on her.”

  “Why not? She’s already given up on me.” I look past him at the closed door to the bedroom. “I need to go.”

  I can’t stay in this tiny space with them any longer or I might not be able to keep my courage. As it is, I can’t think about the possibility that I might never see them again. My feet are having a hard enough time taking the few steps forward to the front door.

  “Be careful,” Dad says from behind me. The way the silence hangs in the air makes me think he’s about to say something more, but then he doesn’t and I’m opening the door and looking to see if anyone’s in the hallway.

  “Wait.” Dad pulls me close, hugs me so hard that I can’t breathe. “I love you.”

  “Me too,” I say, but I feel like I’m choking on the words.

  I step out into the hallway, thick with heat and darker than I’d like it to be. I fly toward the stairs. I don’t look back. I can’t. The only thing I can do now is run.

  I’m sorry some of you guys got shot, but hey, God’ll have to sort that out, won’t he?

  —David Koresh, leader of the Branch Davidians

  Once I’m in the stairwell, it dawns on me that the Silo is too quiet. Why are my parents the only people I’ve run into so far? I linger on the landing for a moment. If Pioneer’s already put things in motion, do I really have time to get the sheriff down here? I need someone else to go with me. I can’t do this alone, despite what my dad thinks.

  If I can just talk to Will and show him Marie, he’ll help me. Even angry, he’s not deluded enough to keep following Pioneer after this … at least I don’t think that he is. And Brian. Once he knows, he’ll help me for sure. I need to at least get them and then they can go with me above ground to get help. Instead of going down the stairs, I go up. I’ll check some of the other floors first and then go to the emergency tunnel. Will will be in the medical rooms, especially if there are already some wounded there after the gunfight. He’s been training with Mr. Kincaid for the last few years.

  I open the door to the second level of personal compartments on my way up. All of the doors here are shut tight as well. It’s just as eerily quiet as the other floor. Then I run up to the next level, where the medical rooms are. When I crack open the door, I finally see people. They’re gathered outside of the medical rooms’ double doors. I’d forgotten that some family members would gather here too and wait for word. I’m not sure I want to know who’s hurt. I can’t keep losing people.

  It won’t be easy to get to Will now. But I do see Brian milling around with the others. I’ll talk to him first—except now that he’s in front of me, I don’t know what I should say, how to break the news about Marie. His mom is huddled with Mrs. Whitcomb and some other ladies. She’s crying.

  Pioneer is nowhere in sight, so I walk into the midst of them. The ladies notice me at about the same time and their faces settle into identical glares.

  “You! This is all you
r fault. How dare you be anywhere near here right now! He’s dead because of you. You killed my husband!” Brian’s mom screams at me. Brian goes to stand beside her; his hand settles on her shoulder. He looks awful. I swallow hard. He doesn’t even know about Marie yet. He’s lost two of the people he loves most in one day.

  “Your dad?” I ask Brian.

  “Was shot out there … during the fight.” Brian looks shrunken, defeated.

  “You shouldn’t be in here with us. You should be outside with Them.” Brian’s mom points a shaky finger at me. I start to back away.

  “She doesn’t deserve salvation. She should be dead, not my Steven.” She’s wailing and the others rally around her, comforting her.

  I was wrong to try to talk to anyone else. I should’ve realized. They won’t listen to me. The only way I can help any of them now is to leave. I have no choice but to do this on my own.

  Before they can move toward me, I turn and throw myself back into the stairwell and down the stairs. I manage to make it to the supply room door before I hear their voices on the stairs. They’re coming for me. I rush into the supply room and flick on the light. I begin moving the closest set of shelves in front of the door. I have to knock off half of the canned goods on it before I make any real progress. Then I take a set of two-by-fours from a stack of lumber in the corner and wedge them between the door and the thick steel bar at the bottom of my cell. It should buy me some time. I move farther into the room and trip over Marie. I didn’t have time to explain what happened to her to Brian or the rest of them. What if, when they manage to get in, they think it was me, that I killed her? I have to leave quickly.

  I begin searching the enormous back wall, my dad’s plans in my hand. I pull bags of flour away off of the shelves there and upend baskets full of onions and potatoes. Behind me I hear the supply room door jiggle.

  “She’s locked herself in somehow,” someone yells.

  “Door’s jammed,” someone else yells back.

  I think Mr. Brown is the one talking, but I can’t be sure. His voice is garbled like it’s underwater, either because the door is so thick or because panic roars in my ears. I work faster, pulling boxes of rice and pasta away from the shelves. One bursts open and rice spills out on the cement. I clamber over the slippery grains, trying to get to the next set of shelves.

  The door begins jumping in its frame. They’re trying to kick it in. I don’t have much time. My teeth start chattering. I’m more afraid than I’ve ever been. It’s strange, what I fear most right now isn’t the outside world, but my own friends and neighbors, people I’ve trusted.

  When I sweep a long line of canned goods onto the floor, the escape hatch materializes from behind them. It’s round and large like a manhole cover, with a latch and padlock on one side. I jiggle the shelving unit in front of it as much as I can without stopping to take any more supplies off it. It’s heavy, but still I manage to inch it forward enough to get behind it. I pick up the padlock and begin working it back and forth, entering in Pioneer’s end date. I pull down and nothing happens. The combination’s wrong. The supply door shudders behind me again. Loudly. I’m about out of time and I have no idea what numbers to try next. I wipe my forehead. My shirt is damp and sticking to me. The heat is becoming unbearable. My breaths are starting to feel shallow.

  Think. Come on, think, think, THINK!

  I roll through another set of numbers, Pioneer’s birthday. It’s wrong.

  I hit the hatch with the flat of my hand in frustration. What good is an emergency hatch if you can’t use it in an actual emergency?

  One of the two-by-fours holding the door closed bounces, then shifts out of place. The other one looks dangerously close to doing the same. I turn back to the lock and begin trying every combination I can think of. None of them work.

  “Open this door, Lyla!” It’s Pioneer. If I don’t figure the lock out soon, I’m as good as dead.

  I don’t answer. I rack my brains for some set of numbers with meaning. If he used significant numbers before, chances are he’s done it this time too. He probably changed the lock in the last few days, after he knew we would be inside the Silo for good.

  It hits me then.

  The first combination was the day we were originally supposed to be sealed in here. So maybe … I try today’s date. It doesn’t work. But then maybe we’ve already been in here for a day. It’s hard to tell. I try the dates for every day this week. Come on, come on, come on. I start to shake as I try the last one. I’m out of ideas. It’s all over. My fingers struggle to line each number up with the arrow, but when I reach the last one, the lock hangs open. It worked!

  I throw the lock on the ground just as the other two-by-four shifts away from the door. The only thing keeping the people in the stairwell out now is a shelving unit, and since I was able to move it across the door alone, it won’t be long before the men on the other side of the door get it moved back out of the way.

  I swing open the emergency hatch, throw my flashlight and Dad’s map out in front of me, and dive into the black space beyond the door. It’s dank and smells of dirt and worms.

  I switch on my flashlight. I’m at the bottom of a long cement cylinder. There are iron rungs on one side of it. They form a narrow ladder to the top. I can’t see where the cylinder ends, but I’m guessing it’s as tall as the Silo itself, which means I’ll be climbing for a while.

  I put the flashlight in my waistband and the map back in my pocket and start making my way up.

  I try not to think of how high up I’ll be at the top or that there’s obviously something blocking the exit up there since it’s so dark—something Dad neglected to mention before. I just climb.

  Hand over hand.

  One foot and then the other.

  My hands are sweaty. They keep slipping as I move upward by degrees. The air here is worse than the air inside the rest of the Silo. I’m practically smothering. And my head is pounding again. It feels tender and achy. Between the concussion and the lack of breathable air, I have to battle to keep the flurry of black dots that swarm just outside of my sight line from blinding me completely. I’m not sure if I have enough air to make the climb, but I don’t have any choice. I have to keep going up.

  I’ve made decent progress by the time I hear people yelling down below me. I look down in time for a large, bright round beam of light to block out my vision. I startle and have to hook an arm around one ladder rung to keep from falling. I can’t see anything but the light.

  “Come back down, Lyla.” Pioneer’s voice echoes off the walls.

  I don’t answer. I turn my face toward the cement wall again and focus on the rungs above me.

  Hand over hand.

  One foot and then another. I am close to the top. I have to be.

  Below me a shadow falls over the light. Someone is beginning to climb. I can’t see who it is, but it doesn’t matter. Whoever it is is coming fast. His silhouette scrambles up the cement tube like a giant spider. My stomach clenches. I try to speed up, but my limbs are stiff with panic. I feel as if I’m actually slowing down.

  “You won’t be able to get out now,” Pioneer yells up. “I can’t have you endangering us anymore.”

  My flashlight’s sending jumpy streams of light up ahead of me as I climb. I can see something up ahead—the top of the tube, but there’s no door. There’s only a thickish-looking fabric that reminds me of spider webbing. It makes me feel like I’m in a trap. Now the spider person’s coming to finish me off. I reach up and touch the mesh fabric. There’s something heavy behind it. I knock my hand against it. It makes a solid thudding sound, but the board manages to move upward a teensy bit. I test the fabric, try to pull it down, but it’s taut and holds fast. I need something to cut it with.

  “Your parents are waiting for you, Little Owl,” Pioneer calls up.

  There’s a threat in his voice that makes me falter, but I don’t stop. I can’t. I pick at the fabric, try to poke a hole through it with my fingers, but
it holds.

  Below me the spider person becomes visible. It’s Mr. Whitcomb. His jaw’s clenched shut and his face is beet red. The climb up is starting to catch up with him. I can see it in his eyes, but he’s still coming.

  I have to get through the fabric now. I grab for the only tool I have, my flashlight. It’s a heavy-duty kind—large and encased in steel. I unscrew the top and the tunnel gets darker. I can still see because of the light below, but not enough to work quickly.

  I feel the edge of the tubular part and hope that it’s rough enough to cut the fabric. Then I loop one arm around the rung beside me and brace my feet—one against the ladder and one on the opposite side of the wall. I move the flashlight casing’s edge across the material above me.

  I run the flashlight casing back and forth, over and over, in as close to the same spot as possible. I feel some of the nylon threads give way under my assault. I go faster.

  Once the tear is big enough to grab onto, I slip my hand inside and tug. The tear grows larger until it runs the length of the space above me. I push at the board beyond it. It moves again, but only a little, not enough to dislodge it.

  I move upward as far as I can go, curling my back against it and pushing up with my legs. The board groans against the cement, and bits of sand and dirt trickle down the sides of it.

  “Too late,” Mr. Whitcomb says below me. He huffs out a breath and lunges upward. His outstretched hand grazes my shoe.

  I readjust and kick his hand away. Then I move the board with my back one more time. This time it slants upward. It’s really just a sheet of plywood, which seems like an absurd barrier against the outside world, but I guess anything thicker would make upending it from the inside impossible.

  More sandy dirt rains down on us. It gets in my eyes and I can’t see.