by Hugh Howey
Only one break to drink and pee before he reached the farms. His legs were good. Stronger, even, than when he was younger and never got out. The hard things got easier the more you did them. It didn’t make it any more fun to do the hard things, though. Solo wished they would just be easy the first time.
He rounded the last bend before the landing on twelve, was just about to start whistling a harvest tune, when he saw that he’d left the door open. He wasn’t sure how. Solo never left the door open. Any doors.
There was something propped up in the corner against the rail. It looked like scrap from one of his Projects. A broken piece of plastic pipe. He picked it up. There was water in it. Solo sniffed the tube. It smelled funny, and he started to dump the water over the rail when the pipe slipped from his fingers. He froze and waited for the distant clatter. It never came.
Clumsy. He cursed himself for being forgetful and clumsy. Left a door open. He was headed inside when he saw what was holding it open. A black handle. He reached for it, saw that it was a knife plunged down through the grating.
There was a noise inside, deep within the farms. Solo stood very still for a moment. This was not his knife. He was not this forgetful. He pulled the blade out and allowed the door to close as a thousand thoughts flitted through his waking mind. A rat couldn’t do something like this. Only a person could. Or a powerful ghost.
He should do something. He should tie the handles together or wedge something under the doors, but he was too afraid. He turned and ran, instead. He ran down the stairs, jugs clattering together, his empty pack flopping on his back, someone else’s knife clutched in his hand. When the jugs caught on the railing, the rope snagged, and he tugged twice before giving up and letting them go. His hole. He had to get to his hole. Breathing heavily, he hurried on, the clangs and vibrations of some other disrupting his solitude. He didn’t have to stop to listen for them. This was a loud ghost. Loud and solid. Solo thought of his machete, which had snapped in half years ago. But he had this knife. This knife. Around and around the stairs he went, sorely afraid. Down to the landing. Wrong landing! Thirty-three. One more to go. Stopped counting, stopped counting. He nearly stumbled, he ran so fast. Sweating. Home.
Solo pushed through the busted gate and hurried down the halls. One of the lights overhead was out. A Project. But no time. He reached the metal door and heaved. Ran inside. Stopped and ran back. He leaned on the door and pushed it closed. He got low and put his shoulder into the filing cabinet, slid that against the door, an awful screech. He thought he heard footsteps outside. Someone fast. Sweat dripped off his nose. He clutched the knife and ran, ran through the servers. There was a squeal behind him, metal on metal. Solo was not alone. They had come for him. They were coming, coming. He could taste the fear in his mouth like metal. He raced to the grate, wished he’d left it open. At least the locks were busted. Rusted. No, that wasn’t good. He needed the locks. Solo lowered himself down the ladder and grabbed the grating, began to pull it over his head. He would hide. Hide. Like the early years. And then someone was tugging the grate from his hand. He was swiping at them with the knife. There was a startled scream, a woman, breathing heavy and looking down at him, telling him to take it easy.
Solo trembled. His boot slipped a little on the ladder. But he held. He held very still while this woman talked to him. Her eyes were wide and alive. Her lips moved. She was hurt, didn’t want to hurt him. She just wanted his name. She was happy to see him. The wetness in her eyes was from being happy to see him. And Solo thought—maybe—that he himself was like a shovel or a can opener or any of those rusty things laying about. He was something that could be found. He could be found. And someone had.
www.hughhowey.com
Note to the Reader
This is the final shift, everyone. Next up is DUST, where we’ll see how Juliette and Lukas are able to manage Silo 18, what happens to Solo and the kids, and how Donald handles the fate of humanity. Things are breaking down rapidly. It should be a lot of fun.
Just so you know, there’s probably not an epilogue this time around. I wouldn’t leave the end of this trilogy on a cliffhanger—that would be cruel. So, no point in turning the page, nosiree. Why don’t you go outside and play, instead? That’s right, resist the urge. Just put your reading device or book down and trust me. Nothing to see here…
“But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.”
— Robert Frost
To Janet Winslow, never alone.
Epilogue
Donald sat in the otherwise empty comm room. He had every station to himself, had sent the others to lunch and ordered those who weren’t hungry to take a break anyway. And they listened to him. Donald was in charge.
A blinking light on the neighboring comm station signaled Silo 6 attempting to make a call. They would have to wait. Donald sat and listened to the ringing in his headset as he placed a call of his own.
It rang and rang. He checked the cord, traced it to the jack, made sure it was plugged in correctly. Between two of the comm stations lay an unfinished game of cards, hands set aside from Donald ordering everyone out. There was a discard pile with a queen of spades on top. Finally, a click in his headset.
“Hello?” he said.
He waited. He thought he could hear someone breathing on the other line.
“Lukas?”
“No,” the voice said. It was a softer voice. And yet harder, somehow.
“Who is this?” he asked. He was used to talking to Lukas.
“It doesn’t matter who this is,” the woman said. And Donald knew perfectly well. He looked over his shoulders, made sure he was still alone, then leaned forward in his chair.
“We’re not used to hearing from mayors,” he said.
“And I’m not used to being one.”
Donald could practically hear the woman sneer at him. “I didn’t ask for my job,” he confided.
“And yet here we are.”
“Here we are.”
There was a pause.
“You know,” Donald said. “If I were any good at my job, I’d press a button right now and shut your silo down.”
“Why don’t you?”
The mayor’s voice was flat. Curious. It sounded like a real question rather than a dare.
“I doubt you’d believe me if I told you.”
“Try me,” she said. And Donald wished he still had the folder on this woman. He had carried it everywhere his first weeks on shift. And now, when he needed it—
“A long time ago,” he told her, “I saved your silo. It would be a shame to end it now.”
“You’re right. I don’t believe you.”
There was a noise in the hallway. Donald removed one of the cups from his ears and glanced over his shoulder. His comm engineer stood outside the door with a thermos in one hand, a slice of bread in the other. Donald raised his finger and asked him to wait.
“I know where you’ve been,” Donald told this mayor, this woman sent to clean. “I know what you’ve seen. And I—”
“You don’t know the first thing about what I’ve seen,” she spat, her words sharp as razors.
Donald felt his temperature go up. This was not the conversation he wanted to have with this woman. He wasn’t prepared. He cupped his hand over the microphone, could sense that he was both running out of time and losing her.
“Be careful,” he said. “That’s all I’m saying—”
“Listen to me,” she told him. “I’m sitting over here in a roomful of truth. I’ve seen the books. I’m going to dig until I get to the heart of what you people have done.”
Donald could hear her breathing.
“I know the truth you’re looking for,” he said quietly. “You may not like what you find.”
“You may not like what I find, you mean.”
“Just … be careful.” Donald lowered his voice. “Be careful where you go digging.”
&
nbsp; There was a pause. Donald glanced over his shoulder at the engineer, who took a sip from his thermos.
“Oh, we’ll be careful where we dig,” this Juliette finally answered. “I’d hate for you to hear us coming.”
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