by Tosca Lee
I think of Kestral, who first told me about this place. Whose return to the religious compound I grew up in must have induced a few coronaries given that our spiritual leader had told everyone she was dead in order to marry my sister. I hope Kestral’s safe. That even Ara, my friend and enemy, is, too.
“The greatest shortage after food, water, and fuel, of course, is reliable information,” Noah continues. “We are in the Middle Ages once more, operating on hearsay and what radio operators report. What I can tell you is that the attack on the substation in California three weeks ago appears to be the act of terrorists working in conjunction with the cyberassault on the grid in order to prolong the blackout. The consensus is Russia, though there are those celebrating in pockets of the Middle East and Pakistan and groups claiming unlikely credit.”
“What about the attack on the CDC?” Nelise says.
“It’s got to be them,” Preston says.
“How is it possible we’ve harbored Russian terrorists in our country and not even—”
“Shh!” several others hiss as Noah continues.
“The president has not been heard from since his radio address last week. Foreign borders remain closed to Americans, and our neighbors to the north and south have sworn to vigorously defend their borders in an effort to stem the tide of Americans attempting to enter Canada and Mexico illegally. They don’t want us there, folks.” He hesitates a moment, and then says, as though against his better judgment: “There are reports that an Alaskan ship full of Americans was deliberately sunk when it wandered into Russian waters.”
Piper glances from person to person with a wide-eyed stare. Chase sits unmoving on my other side, jaw tight. There was news of a missile strike in Hawaii hours before we entered the silo. But that turned out to be only a rumor.
“There’s talk of aid from our neighbors and allies in the form of food, fuel, generators, relief workers, and engineers. How much and how quickly remain to be seen. I imagine sharing information toward the creation of a vaccine in exchange for help manufacturing it will be a part of that discussion. Our knowledge of the disease will be the best bargaining chip we have,” he says, gazing meaningfully at the camera with a slight nod.
“What knowledge?” Nelise says, too loudly. She’s unaware that not only does Noah know about the samples being used in the production of a vaccine but two of his crew helped us get them over state lines in the middle of a manhunt. His pause is a silent acknowledgment of Chase and me.
“Meanwhile, we hear it may be March before the first power grids come back online. By which time we hope to have not only vaccinations but your favorite television shows waiting when you all reemerge. I will, of course, keep you apprised as we learn more. Hey, Mel—” he calls, leaning out in his chair. “Remind me to get a television, will you?”
Quiet laughter around me.
Noah looks back into the camera and smiles.
“We are well up here. You may be interested to know we’ve acquired our first acupuncturist, as well as a zookeeper specializing in reptiles. We are fifty-three in number. As you might guess, the bunkhouse is full, as is the main house. Packed to the gills. There’s a long line for the showers—those of us who grew up in houses with only one bathroom never knew we had it so good.”
He chuckles, and then says, more somberly, “I’m sorry to report that we have had to close our gates. I hope the day does not come that we have to defend them. And so our number stands at one hundred and sixteen souls above- and belowground. Too few, at the risk of being too many.”
He pauses, and I hate the disappointment that’s etched into his features. It causes his lip to tremble as he looks away.
Gazes drop to hands and laps around me. Julie swipes at her eyes.
A few seconds later, Noah continues: “Five of our number have assembled a country band. Which leads me to say that I hope you’re making good use of the keyboard and guitar in the library. Perhaps when you return to the surface we’ll enjoy an old-fashioned summer jam—” His attention goes to something below the edge of the screen. “We have someone who wants to say hello.” He turns away in his chair and reaches down.
When he straightens, there’s a dog in his arms—a brown and white mix of churning feet and floppy ears panting happily at the screen.
“Buddy!” I shout happily at sight of the puppy Chase rescued during our journey west. A round of “aww” circles the chamber. I wish Truly was awake to see him. It’d been difficult to leave him topside, but in the end, practicality won out over the comfort of his presence.
Chase laughs and glances at me. “Can you believe how big he is?”
“You won’t believe how big this fella has gotten,” Noah says, and Chase points at the screen as Noah steals his words. “Artemis the cat, on the other hand, has become strangely thin despite the fact that I fill her bowl repeatedly throughout the day.” Chuckles issue around me as Noah lifts one of Buddy’s paws and waves.
“We’re signing off for now. I wish you a good night’s rest, a happy Boxing Day, as it were. A holiday I’m fond of for its—”
The screen freezes, Noah’s face separated into two disjointed planes by a line of static.
We wait, collective breath held, for the video to buffer and finish.
The screen goes blank instead.
DAY 15
* * *
We stare at the empty wall and then at one another as though someone will interpret its meaning. I catch a glimpse of Micah’s watch, the arms barely separated on its face. Just past midnight.
No one moves.
“What happened?” someone finally says. The question is directed at Micah.
He frowns. “My guess is the message was too big and cut off. Or just froze the system.”
“It was longer than the others,” Nelise says, looking around. “It was, wasn’t it? Longer.”
“But what’s wrong with the screen?” Jax says, as Nelise launches into a discussion about how this is normally the time she turns in for the night and she hasn’t even brushed her teeth yet.
Micah shakes his head. “I don’t know. Maybe the dog was trying to get down and hit the keyboard.”
“But it isn’t live!” Preston says.
“I don’t know!” Micah says. “It could be a dozen things from a cable going bad to his laptop’s battery dying. Or the computer itself freezing up.”
“From the cold?” Jax says, with a weird look.
Micah closes his eyes and takes a breath on reopening them. “Hasn’t your cable box ever glitched up and just needed to be re—” The wall flickers and darkens. “Look! There. It’s back.”
The stars return in sectors, the night sky rebooting itself by constellation: the Little Dipper. Boötes. Ursa Major. Hercules. Draco.
The North Star, last of all.
We loiter another half hour, waiting—I’m not sure for what. A follow-up message of “oops” and “all is well”? To check the stars’ carousel journey across the sky?
For it to go offline again?
But it doesn’t.
“Come on,” I say, my fingers twining with Chase’s.
• • •
“I SHOULD BE up there,” he murmurs that night, his arm beneath both our heads. I start to say everyone’s gone to bed by now, and then realize he’s not talking about the atrium, but about topside. And though I know why he’s saying it, it’s hard not to take it as some kind of rejection. After all, I’m down here.
“You will be,” I say. “There’ll be plenty of work to do by summer. Think of it as the second shift.”
“Feel so frickin’ useless down here,” he says.
“Sorry.”
I say it, but I’m not. I’m glad Noah insisted Chase come below. Because unlike Truly and me, who had the benefit of an early dose of antibodies her father created to protect the two of us when we thought Chase was dead, Chase—like Julie, Lauren, and everyone else in this silo—has no such immunity. It’s the reason I situated myself like a human
wall between them and the rest of the last-minute arrivals those first days of quarantine. If anyone should be above, it’s me.
Except I have Truly to take care of now.
“I need you,” I say. “If it’s any consolation.”
When he doesn’t respond, I roll away until his arm tightens around me.
• • •
THE NEXT EVENING we gather early beneath the waxing moon. For once, there is no discussion about the disease. Just Preston playing the guitar as everyone but me sings “Stand by Me” and “American Pie,” and then “Sweet Caroline” (“bah bah bah!”), which stayed with me for two days the last time they sang it. (“So good! So good!”)
There’s a forced levity to our assemblage tonight, determined and hopeful as Preston pumps his fist in the air during the chorus.
We’ve done our best to get through the day, going through the motions of chores while simultaneously seeking and shunning the clock. Willing its arms to move faster. Anxious for Noah’s appearance and the reassurance that everything’s okay.
At 11:34, Preston puts down the guitar and we lift our gazes to the wall and wait for Noah’s appearance. For laugh lines to crinkle his eyes as he tells the story of Buddy tangling in a computer cord when he scampered after the cat. Or the system lagging after his long-windedness as he vows to keeps tonight’s message brief.
We won’t complain.
Someone shifts on the squeaky leather of the L-shaped sofa.
At 11:36, Micah checks his watch.
Rima, sitting on the floor in front of me, glances over her shoulder, the LED moon shining above her head.
“What time do you have?” Preston says, leaning over to compare with Micah.
“Same,” Micah says.
I glance at Chase, who frowns. Across the room, a few people begin to murmur.
Finally, Nelise blurts, “Well, he wouldn’t just forget us!”
“Of course not,” Preston says.
“Maybe something happened,” Piper says. “He said they had to close the gate. Maybe people were trying to get in and they had to fight them off. Maybe they still are.”
Chase lifts a palm. “Let’s not get dramatic. The most boring answer is usually the accurate one.”
“I’m not being dramatic,” Piper snaps. “You heard what he said about what’s going on. Anything could be happening!”
“He also said all is well,” Chase says.
Nelise swivels, turning on Chase. “Noah’s messages are like clockwork. Have been since Day One, when you were still in quarantine.”
“Noah knows how to take care of himself—and anyone else with him,” Micah says. “I’m sure everything’s fine.”
“Maybe something happened that he had to tend to,” Delaney says. “Something broke down. Personality differences that had to be mediated. He’s only one man, for crying out loud.”
Nelise shakes her head. “He’s got plenty of men to—”
“Did he actually say he’d be sending a video every night?” Julie asks.
“No,” Rima says from across the room. “He said he would send word that all was well after the door closed. None of us knew how until the door shut and the screen came on.”
“He did say in the last message he’d keep us apprised,” Preston says.
Micah shrugs. “If the system’s down from whatever caused the problem last night, he could still be working on it.”
“Then what do we do?” Nelise demands.
“There’s nothing we can do.” He gets to his feet.
“Where are you going?” she says.
“To bed.”
Nelise gives an incredulous chuff as Delaney and a few others rise from the sofa around her.
“Wait,” Reverend Richel, whom several of the others call Carolyn, says. “What if a message comes and we’re not here?”
Preston lifts a hand. “I’ll stay up, just in case.”
Jax volunteers to take over at 3 a.m. Delaney says she’ll come up after she’s made the oatmeal we eat twice a week for breakfast. It sits in a big pot on the stove next to a bowl of reconstituted blueberries, nuts, and stevia, and everyone just helps themselves.
Finally, we follow the others into the silo and down the spiral stairs through the library, Nelise still asking questions of anyone who will listen.
“What do you think happened?” I whisper when we’re alone in our quarters after checking on Truly, curled up with Lauren in the older girl’s bed.
“Probably some technical issue, like Micah said,” Chase says, yawning. “Or maybe there was some minor crisis. You pen a bunch of strangers in together and all kinds of issues can break out. We’re probably missing some really good fights.”
But I’ve lived the vast majority of my life in community with others in the name of safety from the outside world, and fights were unthinkable.
No, the damage we inflicted on one another was far more insidious.
• • •
THAT NIGHT, I dream of Noah, his kindly face on the titan screen. But as he talks, his skin begins to lighten. His hair, gray and tightly cropped, lengthens in dark curls. The crow’s feet disappear as his brows lower until he’s glaring at me from the wall.
It’s coming, he says. His eyes glitter with unnatural light. With laughter.
Magnus. My sister’s husband and leader of New Earth. The Interpreter of God who preached the coming apocalypse as he tried to seduce and then rape me. Who shattered my faith, and my peace along with it.
The man I killed.
DAY 16
* * *
I sit up in the darkness.
My heart is racing, thumping in my ears.
I glance toward the frosted partition of our small, private quarters, but the lamp that emulates sunrise in the main dorm outside is still dark.
Careful not to jostle Chase, I slide from bed, pad out to check on Truly, Lauren, and Julie.
“Can’t sleep?” Julie whispers, startling me. I shake my head.
She gets up, throws a shawl over her pajamas, and follows me up the eight flights of back-and-forth cold metal stairs to the dining hall, up the spiral staircase to the library, and through the tunnel to the atrium.
Jax sits on the sofa in animated conversation with Delaney, a bottle of Jack Daniels on the table between them. At our arrival, she shakes her head.
“Nothin’ yet,” Jax says, his words slightly slurred.
I prepare for the school day. Wake Truly at seven thirty.
“Morning, sugar booger,” I say, nuzzling her as she wraps her arms around me. But the fringe of panic is there. The old familiar sensation like the bass of a car in the lane beside you at a stoplight: thrumming up your spine, taking over the rhythm of your heart. The same heart that believed when the disease broke out that the cataclysm was here. That despite all the ways Magnus proved himself a fraud, he managed to be right all along.
And now you’re going to Hell.
I help Truly dress and wash her face before taking her upstairs for breakfast. All the while reminding myself that the dread clawing at my gut is only the PTSD and my special talent for obsession. That I expected this after running out of meds before we got here and declining a substitute from the silo’s limited pharmacy, which Rima warned could make my symptoms worse or take up to six weeks to work—if it worked for me at all.
The world is not ending. I know this because I delivered the samples being used even now to create the vaccine.
Magnus wasn’t just wrong. He’s dead today by his own hand.
I only supplied the weapon.
I smile during school. Make Lauren, the oldest student by six years, retake the precalculus test I wrote for her that she failed yesterday despite her argument that she’ll never need to use it.
“No other kids are in school right now,” she says, shoving it away.
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do. They’re too busy trying to find food and water and wondering if their friends or parents ar
e alive!”
Seth, Truly, and the others look between us in the silence, pencils poised over their homemade worksheets, eyes far too somber.
“My mommy’s dead,” Truly says, going back to work matching uppercase and lowercase letters. She looks so much like Jackie sometimes it makes my soul ache.
“Mine is, too,” Seth says.
“Mine, too,” I say softly.
Lauren studies the table between us. A minute later, she slides the test closer and bends over it.
• • •
THERE ARE NO songs that night as we crowd around the sofa. Just Piper reaching for Nelise’s hand as Reverend Carolyn lays an arm around Rima’s shoulders, all of us focused on the artificial night sky. It’s cloudy tonight, the haze obscuring Ursa Major, diffusing the glow of the moon.
The video never comes.
DAY 29
* * *
It’s been two weeks since we last heard from Noah.
Yesterday, Micah sent another message to the surface. It said only: “Is all well?”
No response.
DAY 37
* * *
By now we have no expectation that the moon emerging from the clouds over Preston’s head will transform into Noah’s screen likeness.
We steal glances at it anyway.
“I understand there’ve been concerns,” Preston says, trying to regain the control over this discussion that he lost in the first five minutes. I’m having a hard time concentrating on him; there’s a square of dark pixels that doesn’t match the sparkling wash of the Milky Way around it.
Chase whistles, the sound piercing and shrill. A few of those closest to him—including me—grimace.
“Please!” Preston says. “We can’t decide a course of action if we can’t have an orderly conver—”
“Did we get any response to our message yesterday?” Nelise shouts.
