by Hakok, R. A.
‘Guess I’ll be turning in too. See you both tomorrow.’
Eric leaves with him. I watch as the two Guardians make their way toward the stair. For a while the sound of their boots echoes up out of the darkness and then those too fade.
I go back to pushing the last of my frankfurter chunks around with the spoon, pretending to study the greasy patterns they make in the congealing sauce. Lauren’s already done with her bowl, but she’s showing no sign of getting up. I will her to go downstairs with the others, but she doesn’t move.
In the end I drop my spoon into the bowl.
‘Well, I reckon I’m done, too.’
But when I glance across the table she’s still sitting there, just looking at me.
‘It’ll be okay, Gabe. Really. Things will seem a lot better after we’ve had a good night’s sleep.’
I nod, like I believe it.
She hesitates for a second and then reaches across the table and places her hand over mine, like Mags did, when it was just the two of us here, last night.
I glance over at the counter, to where the last of the makeshift stoves are burning.
‘Mags and Johnny; we forgot to bring something down for them.’ I look back at her. ‘Hey, would you…’
I was only meaning to ask if she’d mind if I tended to that, but I never get the chance to finish the sentence. She draws her hand back, and for an instant the smile becomes uncertain, like maybe she’s worried I was going to ask her to do it for me. She gets to her feet, a little faster than I guess she means to. Her chair teeters like it might fall; she holds a hand out to steady it.
‘Well I guess I should let you get to that.’
She makes for the gangway without waiting for my reply.
*
HE SITS ON THE NARROW CATWALK, his elbows resting on the bottom guardrail, his feet swinging into empty space below. The flashlight the girl gave him lies on the grating, next to his goggles. It went out hours ago, but he hasn’t bothered to wind it.
Far below he hears her, at work on one of the machines. It’s the important one, she says, the one that will make this place run again. He asked her if she could fix it and she said she thought she could. He hopes she can. He’s not so sure, though. The girl is smart, he knows that. But not everything can be fixed. And most things down here smell old, broken.
He rests his chin on the metal and stares out at the silo’s curving walls. He hasn’t been to many other places, at least not that he remembers, so he doesn’t have much to compare this place to. There was the place inside the mountain, where the girl and the tall boy brought him first. He had been very sick when they arrived, though, and they had left right after, so his memories of that place are broken, incomplete, like when he first woke up in the cage.
They had gone to the other place next, where the rest of them had been living. It had been much nicer there. Inside a mountain too, just like the first, except it hadn’t felt like it. It was way bigger, for a start. He liked that. He spent a long time in a box not large enough even for him; he does not care for tight spaces anymore. It wasn’t safe there, though, that’s what the tall boy had said. The man with the gray eyes and the gun had left, but he would probably be back.
And now they are here. He lifts his head and looks down, past the catwalks that crisscross beneath, all the way to the bottom, to the rusting machines rising from the oily floodwaters. He wrinkles his nose at the smell.
This place isn’t so nice.
He returns his gaze to the gangway. His new perch is okay, though. He chose it carefully. It is the highest of the walkways, passing through a space for the most part uncluttered by pipes or cables, yet still far enough beneath the ceiling above that he does not feel it pressing down on him.
The plant room falls quiet and he realizes the girl has stopped whatever she was doing. He wonders if she is finished. It has been a while since he ate and he thinks he might be hungry. He has decided he will finish all of the food in the pouch today, before he opens the candy bar. That will make her happy. He listens, waiting to hear her boots on the stair. But then the tapping resumes as she goes back to work.
He hears another sound and he looks up, following the steps that spiral towards the ceiling. All afternoon he has listened, straining for any sign that one of them might be about to come down. It was difficult at first. The sounds in this place are unreliable; they echo, bouncing off the curving walls, so it is hard to tell their source. But he thinks he is getting the hang of it.
There has been no one, though, not even the tall boy. A little while ago it seemed like they all stopped what they were doing and then there was the hollow clang of boots as they took to the stair. He scrabbled for his goggles, but when he listened closer the sounds were heading up, not down, and he had relaxed again. Soon after there had been a commotion, and just one of them – he thinks maybe the tall boy; he knows his footsteps well – had set off up the steps, only this time he had been running. Soon after there had been a smell; faint at first, but growing steadily stronger. It was horrible; he had to bury his face in his hands to try and block it out.
Things stayed quiet for some time after that. When at last the boy had returned other smells had started to drift down. Those had been all jumbled up, and it had taken him a while to untangle them. There had been smoke, that one had been easy. But not the thick, wet odor of the branches he is used to. This had been different: a sharp, peppery smell that had burned his nostrils and stung his eyes. And underneath the smoke, something cooking. Not like the food they normally eat, though, the kind that comes in the plastic pouches. This was different. Not a bad smell exactly, at least not bad in the way the first one had been. But there had been something about it, something familiar, that at the same time had made him feel uneasy.
The girl must have noticed the smells too, because she had stopped whatever she had been working on, and for a long while the whole silo had gone quiet except for the occasional noise from above, much more subdued now: the thin clink and scrape of cutlery; the dull screech of a chair being drawn back. Then the sound of boots on metal again as the first of them had started to make their way down through the silo. He had reached for his goggles again, but it soon became clear none of them planned to venture beyond the hatch. For a while that had continued until he had been sure the last of them had gone to bed.
Now somebody is coming down, however. Their footsteps are awkward, like they’re carrying something, but it’s the tall boy, he’s sure of it. They continue, past where they should have stopped if he were going to bed, like all the others. He looks down, searching the plant room’s depths. The girl continues to work on the machine. Maybe she hasn’t heard yet.
The footsteps grow closer, stop. There’s a long pause and then the hatch creaks open and he sees the wink of a flashlight above. Food smells, stronger now. It is the tall boy, bringing them something to eat. He tilts his head, scenting the air. There’s something about the smell that is unsettling, but that doesn’t matter. He’ll eat the food and then there’ll be a candy bar for after, maybe two; the tall boy always gives him his. For a second the thought consumes him. He picks himself up and scurries along the catwalk. It’s only when he nears the end that he realizes he’s left his goggles behind. He looks up, just as the flashlight appears on the handrail where the ladder drops through the ceiling. A shape appears, but it is nothing more than a shifting of shadows behind the light, a movement in darkness not even his eyes can penetrate. It is definitely the tall boy, though; he is certain of it now. The flashlight starts circling its way down. He glances back towards the goggles. He still has time to fetch them. But then he remembers. He doesn’t have to wear the goggles around the tall boy, not anymore.
He already knows.
The footsteps come to a halt just above his perch, on the far side of the column supporting the stair. The boy calls the girl’s name. The sound echoes off the walls, but she doesn’t answer. For a long moment the boy waits, and then he continues, more slowly no
w. He takes the last few steps around and then peers over the guardrail, canting his head to one side, as though listening. The boy is right at the end of the gangway, only a handful of yards away, but he hasn’t seen him yet. It is too dark for his eyes.
The boy bends down. There’s the soft clank of something metal being laid on the grating. He has to shift his grip on the flashlight to set the second bowl down. As he does he loses control of the beam; it darts along the catwalk.
The light is a surprise and for a second all he can think is that he must not look away. Because not looking at the flashlight is a sign, just like not eating your food.
The boy’s eyes suddenly grow wide. He drops the bowl, takes a startled step backwards. The bowl clatters to the grating, for a second teeters on the edge like it might go over, then rights itself.
The tall boy bends down, pulls the bowl back.
‘Jesus, Johnny. You scared me.’
He tilts his head, testing the air. He knows. He can smell it.
The boy glances over his shoulder, as if reassuring himself that that way is still clear. He reaches in his pocket for a couple of spoons, sets them next to the bowls, then takes another step back.
‘Listen, I have to go. Can you make sure Mags gets one of those?’
The boy turns and hurries back up the stairs, not waiting for an answer. Seconds later there’s the sound of his boots climbing the ladder and then the creak of the hatch closing behind him.
He picks himself up and crawls along the gangway.
The bowls sit side by side on the metal grating. He bends over the closest one.
His brow furrows as he sees what’s there.
*
I MAKE MY WAY slowly down through the narrow shaft, the flashlight sweeping the gray walls. A vent grille appears in the beam, long fingers of rust staining the concrete beneath. I’m not sure how far I’ve come. For once I’m not counting, simply following the yellowing cone of light as it circles the spiral stair.
This is bad.
Really bad.
The first box I picked at random, from nowhere near where I got the franks and beans. I chose ham and eggs. I figured I’d open just what was needed for the Juvies’ breakfast. That’d be enough. It’s pretty cold up in the airlock, so whatever I tried would keep until morning, and that way there wouldn’t be any waste.
The smell from the eggs was even worse than the franks and beans. I tossed the shrieking cans out as quick as I could, but without the fans to clear it the stench was overpowering; the first time I threw up I barely made it out to the snow. After that I dragged the box close to the airlock’s outer door, trying to ignore the icy wind that howled around the edge of the thick steel. When I was done I heaved it closed again and counted up what remained. There wasn’t enough for a single meal. Not even close. I had to make another two trips to the stores, just to give me the numbers I needed for breakfast.
That’s four boxes I’ve opened now, each worse than the last. Assuming the rest are like that we won’t make it through a single winter, let alone two or three. Our food will run out long before the storms break.
The thought makes me want to throw up again. I stop and reach for the handrail. My knees fold underneath me and I slump to the narrow step. I rest my forehead against the cold steel and wait for it to come. But there’s nothing left. After a while I get to my feet again and continue on, letting my boots find their own way down the spiraling stair. The voice starts to whisper. It reminds me of what Mac said, about how things got in Starkly when the food ran out.
It won’t get to that. I’ll figure something out.
I keep going, following the flashlight around, fighting to stop the panic from rising.
One problem at a time. There’s enough cans in the airlock for the morning. It’s too cold outside to clear the ones I had to discard from in front of the blast door, but I’ll head back up first thing and deal with those. All I need to do now is bring another box of franks and beans up to the airlock, to replace the one I opened first.
The concrete ends and the silo opens out to silent rows of workstations. When I drop to the level beneath I stop among the dusty server stacks and listen. But the mess is dark, quiet. I continue on, treading as lightly as I can. At the stores I step onto the gangway. The old metal groans under my boots as I cross, but I learned in Eden how to tread lightly; the sound won’t carry to the dorms.
On the other side boxes circle the central shaft, piled high against the guardrail. The shelves start beyond, stretching back into darkness. They’re crammed tight, the empty spots from earlier now filled; Lauren’s already started stacking boxes against the walls at the end of each row. And this isn’t all of it; there’s more yet to come up.
I stop in the middle of the gangway, then reach for the strip of card in my pocket, the one with the inventory of our supplies. Back in Eden it was Quartermaster’s responsibility to keep track of our provisions, and because I’d worked with him all those years, in Mount Weather it became mine. It’ll be no different here. Most of the Juvies don’t have enough reading to know what’s printed on the side of the boxes.
I stare at the stacks, my mind already starting to sketch out the bones of the deception. Boxes waiting to be opened can go in the decontamination area next to the airlock, and in the passageway beyond. I can stash them in other places too: under the workstations and between the banks of servers on the levels above. The airlock’s where I’ll keep the cans I’ve already checked. It’s hardly convenient, having them all the way up there, but after what happened in the mess earlier, when I opened that first tin, there won’t be any objections.
I feel a glimmer of insane hope.
As long as I make sure the Juvies have sufficient food for the time I’ll be gone nobody needs to know. Not yet. Not till I get back from The Greenbrier.
I return the strip of card to my pocket.
I’ll make a start tonight.
The flashlight’s about to die so I wind the stubby handle. It clicks and grinds but after a few turns the bulb brightens, then takes to flickering. I give it a shake, as though that might solve the problem, then I step in among the shelves and start probing the dusty boxes with the faltering beam.
It doesn’t take me long to find the one I’m looking for. I drag it down, crouching over it to check the contents are match. But as I lift the flap I suddenly realize I’m not alone. I stagger to my feet, startled, take a quick half-step backwards. I hadn’t heard anyone on the stair. I point the flashlight along the narrow aisle. There are two figures standing between the shelves.
Mags raises a hand to ward off the beam. The kid peeks out from behind her. He’s put his goggles back on.
The flashlight continues to flicker. Mags waits until I’ve pointed it down, then she takes a step closer.
‘What’re you doing, Gabe?’
I can’t help an incriminating glance at the box at my feet.
‘I…I was just bringing some cans up to the airlock. For tomorrow’s breakfast.’
Her eyes drop to the lid. The cardboard’s mildewed but the print’s legible through it: Beans with Frankfurter Chunks in Tomato Sauce.
She looks at me, waiting for the rest of it.
‘…and dinner. Thought I’d get a head start on tomorrow.’
So far I’m still within spitting distance of the truth; now would be a good time to let her know about our supplies. I can almost feel the relief that would come with it. But if I tell her about the cans she’ll insist on getting the others involved, and who knows what will come of that? I certainly can’t wait around to find out; I need to set out for The Greenbrier as soon as possible. Before I’m aware I’ve even made a decision I hear myself repeating the same thing I told the Juvies earlier.
‘Yeah, one of the cans in the first box we opened had gone off. So I’m going to open all of them up there. Just to be safe.’
This time I notice the lie slips out a little easier than before. But then I guess lying’s no different to most
things: to get good at it just takes practice. I think I even manage a smile.
The flashlight falters, like it might die, then steadies, goes back to flickering. She looks at me like she’s trying to work out what it is I’m not telling her. I don’t want her dwelling on that too long, so instead I ask what her she’s doing in the stores. I hadn’t practiced that one, however, and it comes out weird, like I’m accusing her of something.
‘I came up to get something for Johnny.’
I glance down to the kid, then back to her.
‘I brought food down, for both of you.’
She cants her head to one side and looks at me, like that’s something else she wouldn’t mind an explanation for, as long as we’re on the subject. When I don’t say anything she continues.
‘Yeah, I saw.’
She doesn’t raise her voice but there’s an edge to the way she says it, like there’s a whole litany of things wrong with what I’ve done. She stares at me for a long moment, like she’s waiting for my thoughts on the subject. When it’s clear I don’t have any she continues.
‘You didn’t stop to think what it was you were giving him?’
The kid looks up at her, mumbles something about it being okay, he’s really not that hungry. Mags pays him no mind.
‘Cold beans, Gabe?’
The kid says the beans weren’t actually cold, not really, but she ignores that too. I guess I’m a little distracted, or maybe I’m having a slow day, because I’m still not sure what she means.
‘That’s what Truck was feeding him, in the cage. You couldn’t have found something else?’
I’m not sure what to say to that. I open my mouth to explain, but then realize I’ve got nothing, so I close it again.
