The Last Prayer (silo)

by Lyndon Perry

  Paradise! Yes! And they must clean the window so all may see it.

  Hanna had already left his side and was spinning and running, clumsily because of the suit, but running, dancing, skipping among the flowers. Elias imagined her shouting with joy as she pointed to the top of the hill. Though he longed to join her in her ecstatic outburst, he knew his old, worn out frame simply could not. He also knew they needed to clean. Maybe the child had forgotten, maybe she would leave him behind and keep on skipping, traipsing to the castles in the sky. But before he could wave her back, Hanna turned and ran towards him, arms wide in carefree abandon.

  She motioned to one camera; Elias indicated another. They knew their jobs and each headed to their assignment, climbing short ladders that led to muted, grime-covered sensors. Spray, scrub, wipe, apply; each utilized the contents from each pocket in turn. The directions were simple enough even if their execution took some effort. Beads of sweat trickled down his nose. Elias coughed a few times, the exertion catching up with him.

  He glanced over at Hanna who was waving at the camera after every application. She motioned to whoever was watching the inner screen to come join them, pointing to the hill behind her where a fading twilight was giving way to a glorious day. The pinks and reds and oranges along the horizon were asserting themselves; the yellows and greens stretched before them were keeping pace. Surely this was a hint of heaven. Hanna had been right.

  Finally, as if by mutual agreement, they both crawled down from their perches and met in the clearing in front of the earth-covered bunker. Hanna grabbed his gloved hand and started to pull him through the yellow flowers. Elias took a few steps and almost tripped, stumbling upon some hidden rock, he guessed. He coughed again and stopped to catch his breath. His viewplate shimmered and Elias blinked the sweat from his eyes.

  Before him, Hanna pointed up the hill. He followed her gaze and could see the castles in the distance, golden in the sun that was about to illumine even them. The young girl pulled on his hand once more. Heaven, she seemed to say, we must make our way to God.

  And so Elias put one foot in front of the other, trusting his way to paradise.

  -7-

  Samuel followed Jedediah, Adin, and Ester into the cafeteria where a large viewscreen projected the blurred and dreary image of the world beyond. They were alone, which was not unusual. Very few attended a cleaning; the disturbing images of dying friends were best left to the imagination. Even the mayor had chosen to remain in her quarters, washing her hands of a child’s execution, the first in the history of her silo.

  The klaxon horn, muted at this distance but still alarming, caused them all to stiffen. In a few moments they would see the condemned fulfill their duties, allowing the people of the silo to see clearly once again the surface devastation wrought by their ancestors. It was a reminder the people of the silo paradoxically abhorred and welcomed.

  At that moment a distant thundering of steps challenged the blaring horn and eventually gained the upper hand. The four who were standing in the open room turned to the stairwell and watched as a few individuals, then dozens, and finally scores of work-vested sweepers enter the commons area. Men and women, young and old, filed in and took positions behind the Tates in support and solidarity.

  The new chief priest noted Jedediah’s alarmed reaction as the typically empty cafeteria filled to capacity. The sweepers had come in full force to witness the cleaning and there was no denying the impact they made. Samuel glanced at Adin and Ester and saw a mixture of hope and resolve steal away their grief. Samuel smiled to himself and nimbly fingered the audio device in his pocket as he caught the first glimpse of Lonni’s sister entering the viewing area.

  Hanna broke away from the old man and ran part way up the barren hill, spinning, pointing. Skipping? It seemed absurd, but Samuel accepted the truth of it. When the child returned and she and Elias both made their way to the sensors, he heard Ester moan and Adin sob. Hanna’s helmet filled the screen. The crowd watched, stunned to silence, as she sprayed a liquid into the camera, scrubbed, then wiped, and finally placed something over the lens. The grime was gone, the image was much clearer. But the darkness and clouds remained. The land was brown and dead.

  Her beckoning call, however, seemed enthusiastic. She pointed to the hills and the tall, broken city towers beyond, a remnant of a destroyed civilization. With all her waving, Hanna looked as if she might simply take flight and disappear into the rising sun.

  All eyes in the cafeteria watched as the two of them started their path up the gentle slope. Some whispered their heartbreak as Elias nearly tripped over the remains of the last cleaner who’d died twelve years before. When the priest finally went down, most wept openly. They turned their heads when Hanna tugged at the old man, urging him to get up, only to fall down herself and crawl but a few feet before collapsing, never to rise again this side of heaven.

  Samuel, however, watched it all. The joyous entrance, the enthusiastic cleaning, the stumbling toward God. The priest had clung so tenaciously to his faith, all the while worried that his role in the underground community had come to an end. Samuel remembered how, just two days before, Elias had asked if his days were long past, if the sun had already set for believers like him. The secretary hadn’t contradicted his mentor. But he recalled his answer.

  “…It may be that a new day will soon dawn.”

  Samuel—always truthful, always planning—closed his eyes in solemn satisfaction as the pair ended their journey together. An old priest, a young child, believers till the end.

  A streak of light from the rising sun gently stroked their still, small forms. And the sweepers, as one, let out an anguished and embittered cry. A cry they’d bottled up for a generation. One that could no longer be contained.

  It was, indeed, the dawning of a brand new day.

  Thanks and Credits

  Thanks first go to Hugh Howey for allowing (encouraging!) his fans to play in his playground. The Last Prayer is a work of fiction based on the world of Wool, a New York Times Bestseller, created by Mr. Howey. The setting and concepts original with his story are used by permission. This slice of silo life (and any shortcomings or mistakes relative to Howey’s novel) belong to me, Lyndon Perry. [BTW, names, characters, places, and incidents within this story are either the product of my imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Thought I’d lay that out there.]

  Second, thanks to Jeff Parish, who designed the cover art. Jeff is the author of Jennings Grove, a modern day horror novel set in a small community in far North Texas. You should read it, it’s really good. The photograph used in the cover is by Ilya Bushuev and licensed through iStockphoto.com.

  Thanks, also, to my cadre of beta readers, especially Stoney, Beth, and Steve for their constant feedback, whether on this work or others. And to Wes, who inspired me to write this piece by first posting his own silo story, The Runner. Then to Milo, Simon, and Jeff C — thanks for assimilating me into the SpecFic Authors Collective where we post free stories every month. I’m also grateful to my wife who will sit through just about anything I write as long as I tell her a day ahead of time that I’m going to read something to her. Oh, and to Dictionary dot com. What would I do without your thesaurus?

  Finally, I want to express my gratitude to you, the reader. Whether you’re a fan of Howey’s “wooliverse” or stumbled upon The Last Prayer by some other means, thank you for taking the time to read this short story. If you enjoyed it and want to know what happens next in this particular silo, let me know! If you have questions, comments, or even corrections (typos or inconsistencies), drop me a line at lyngperry@yahoo.com. You can also visit my website at www.lyndonperrywriter.com and comment there. It would be most kind if you could post a review as well — both on Amazon and on Goodreads. Thanks!

  Q&A About Various Things

  Q. First, tell us a little bit about you.

  A. I’m a middle school Lan
guage Arts teacher, part-time pastor, full-time husband, and grateful father of two living in Kansas. I write speculative fiction on the side with plans to make it a career in the next few years. So far I’ve written mostly short stories and novellas in a mix of genres but mainly speculative, including fantasy, SF, even a bit of horror. I enjoy writing humor as well. The sky’s the limit. Who knows, I might try paranormal romance one day!

  Q. What’s currently in the works?

  A. I’m finishing a suspense novel titled Simply Criminal featuring Ned Nbonivoy, a private eye from Detroit who hates guns, violence, and the mob. Unfortunately, he’s mixed up with all three. My science fiction novel, The Tralian Incident, is well on its way to completion, so look for that if you like space opera with a kick-butt female protag. Until then, check out the next section for a few of my current stories available online.

  Q. How did you come up with the idea for The Last Prayer?

  A. A few years ago I reviewed Hugh Howey’s YA science fiction novel, Molly Fyde and the Parsona Rescue. He was gracious enough to send me a free copy; we struck up an online friendship and an occasional correspondence began. When the original Wool novella started selling hundreds of downloads a day, I asked if other stories were in the works. Duh. He had plenty of ideas and one involved a class of priests. He said he might try to write a short story for the magazine I was editing. But alas, other things came up…like becoming a NY Times Bestselling Author!

  So anyway, I decided to write my own version of what might happen if a priestly caste lost its influence and faith spiraled into decline. What power struggles might ensue? Would faith in something beyond life in the silo translate into open rebellion against the ruling class? This “Last Silo” series explores the tension that genuine belief in something “beyond” often causes in our lives.

  Q. So this is a religious story?

  A. No. It’s an open-ended “what if” that prompts readers (I hope!) to question what’s assumed. I very much intended the story to capture the spirit of Howey’s original. Wool had such an emotional impact, and while I’m not trying to duplicate that, I want the theme to be similar.

  Q. What prompted you to self-publish this story?

  A. When I saw another silo story pop up on Amazon, I thought, wow, here’s an amazing development. The author of a great series is allowing/encouraging fans to jump into his swimming pool. Fan fic was receiving legitimacy! So I contacted W. J. Davies, the author of The Runner, asked him a few questions, sent him this manuscript, and received such great encouragement that I decided to go for it. Plus, the fact that his story has already had over 6,000 downloads did cross my mind. [grin]

  Q. Isn’t “fan fic” plagiarizing?

  A. Not if the author, who owns the rights to the world he or she created, gives you the green light. I sent Howey the opening scene of this story and asked him if it “fit” his vision of silo life. His reply: “I love it. Feel free to write and publish whatever you want.”

  Q. Anything to add?

  A. Just that I made these questions up and asked them to myself. Thanks for reading! Feel free to email me at lyngperry@yahoo.com and say hello. Oh, and if you enjoyed this story please consider leaving a review. Very much appreciated!

  Enjoy these excerpts from current projects available now or coming soon!

  ~*~

  Coming Soon: The Last Uprising — A Silo Story by Lyndon Perry

  The crowd of sweepers watched in confusion as one of their own stepped into the grim panoramic view that was projected onto the width of the cafeteria wall. The figure, in a form-fitted suit to protect her from the toxic world outside their underground silo, was spinning, running, pointing. Those who knew her could easily imagine her laughing. She was a child, after all. Her enthusiasm had been contagious.

  So had her dreams. Dreams of paradise, of a heaven that awaited them on the other side of a yellow hatch door and protective airlock. She’d spoken of it with such certainty. The hatch wasn’t protecting them from the tainted atmosphere, she’d implied with her words. It was imprisoning them in their strict and stifling bunker.

  “Heaven’s real. It’s just outside.” Those were her actual words. And her fellow sweepers believed them.

  For that crime she’d been sent to clean.

  (The Last Uprising will be available soon. Check here for updates.)

  ~*~

  Available Now: Ulemet and the Jaguar God (A Mesoamerican Fantasy Novella)

  The moon was dark rust at her untimely birth.

  Ulemet’s mother had labored three days and nights, fainting in pain every few hours, and only responded to the shaman’s mixture of kakawa and sorosi when she was forced to drink. Once the elixir wore off, she would succumb to agony once again and cry out in shrieks that competed with the jungle’s nightly squawks and screeches.

  When the moon rose a fourth time, dark and blood-red, she gushed forth a baby along with fetid fluids and putrefied organs. With desperate murmurs, she reached out weakly for her child. The medicine man, sneering at what the woman’s womb had cast out, thrust the limp and dying infant onto her belly. He left the dingy hut with a curt command for the wide-eyed midwife to dispose of the abomination before the sun’s rising.

  Upon seeing the malformed otentzata that claimed by crying to be a baby, Ulemet’s mother keened in despair and let herself hemorrhage, praying that her spirit would quickly fly to whatever god would take her. Her father, with curses on his tongue, not prayers, abandoned his small family to the care of the attending woman and fled into the jungle. The midwife, grieving the recent loss of an only child and with breasts aching for relief, wrapped the baby, a girl she noted with indifference, in a bit of worked leather and shambled back to her own shelter.

  And despite the village priest’s imprecations following the discovery of the defiant deed, the child lived.

  To appease the shaman’s wrath, the Olmec village elders declared the infant zacila, one cursed-to-wander. Deformed and outcast, the child was destined to be rejected; forsaken even by the woman who raised her through her toddling years. When her breasts ran dry, the former midwife disappeared into a moonless night.

  Ulemet remained and scavenged for survival by wandering the forest and from hut to hut. The village had no obligation to raise her, but some were sympathetic. Still, they mostly left the misshapen child to fend for herself until the fortunate day she would wander away into the rainforest for good. Until that day arrived, however, she stubbornly participated in village life to the extent she was allowed.

  Her face marred with a twisted upper lip and a cleft head, Ulemet was ugly in a way that attracted second looks, but seldom pity. With barely a feminine feature, she was often mocked by the other children as a should-be boy. This did not stop her from attempting to join them in their childhood games, especially the ulama. But when she tried, she was frequently shoved to the side, relegated to watch as her teammates kicked the little rubber ball across temporary boundaries and through makeshift hoops.

  The ulama, however, was what kept her alive.

  She spent her days and many nights kicking and punting and dribbling a crudely fashioned rubber ball under the watchful eye of Uaxaca, the jaguar god of her people. When she looked into the almond-shape eyes of the stone carving near the clearing where they played, she knew the animal spirit gave her strength.

  Daily, she came to the crude ballcourt in anticipation of those rare occasions when she was allowed to join in. Even then, the others would soon banish her as her shooting acrobatics often put them to shame. This prompted the older boys to slap her and kick her until she escaped to the relative safety of her jungle hideaway where she kept a small image of her god and a few other belongings. Yet Ulemet clung to the hope that one day she would be accepted, welcomed among her people. She would continue to cling to that hope until it proved to be misplaced.

  The sad occasion arrived with her first bleed.

  In the midst of a game in which she was told she could defend but not k
ick, Ulemet blocked a routine shot with her stomach. Normally, her strong muscles bounced the ball back into play, but this time she doubled over in pain. Her groin cramped and released and when she stood back up a dirty red rivulet streamed down from behind her loincloth. Her playmates laughed and pointed as she, in surprised confusion, smeared the blood along her inner thigh. Embarrassed and enraged by her embarrassment, she screamed hollow threats at the other children who only laughed the louder.

  Without looking back, Ulemet dashed to her tiny hovel to gather her things. With tears streaming her face, she fled the village with only her throwing stick and an animal skin pouch hosting a few items slung over her shoulder. She ran into the jungle as fast as she could, the leather strap cutting an angle across her flat chest with each bouncing movement. Yet she needn’t have hurried for no one was chasing her. No one would even look for her. No one would miss her.

  Still, she ran, forging a path where there was none, avoiding a path when she came to one. When she should have collapsed, she continued on for the pain in her lungs and legs and side dulled the pain that welled from within. Even when darkness came she kept moving blindly forward, a stumbling of legs and a flopping of arms, heedless of the danger of the jungle night.

  At the point of exhaustion her instincts prevailed and she climbed into an olma tree, barely wedging herself in before immediately falling into a fitful and nightmarish sleep.

  In the morning, with a suddenness of a monsoon rain, Ulemet awoke and began to weep, crying out with loud, chest-shaking sobs until the poison in her soul had bled out.

  She slept once more and this time dreamed of jaguars and temples and cities of gold.