Karma of the Silo: The Collection Page 12

  Now he is here all the time, but he doesn’t seem to know it.

  There are plenty of supplies down here—gauze bandages and tape and liquids to help destroy bacteria. Even suturing needles. The entire Silo goes without, putting up with primitive resources, and here it was all these years, sitting in plastic boxes reserved for… whom? For those from IT who deserve 21st century care?

  Rick is out of it, but still alive. After watching him for three days, Mars and I have decided that the bullet lodged in his arm needs to be removed.

  I’ve been nominated as the person most likely to do so without killing him.

  Jeff, having been convinced that Mars is telling the truth about his value down here in communicating with the mysterious Silo 1, is cooperating. He’ll hold Rick down. Mars will be my scrub nurse, and I’ll be the surgeon. It would be funny if it weren’t so serious.

  The only other person down in the lower level with us is Jeff’s flunky Hazen. Hazen is tasked with staying alert to the ringing I sometimes hear from the servers, which indicates some sort of communication from the powers that be. We don’t know what’s going on in the rest of the Silo other than the fact that there is intermittent gunfire and an occasional loud noise that vibrates along the floor and the walls. There’s a camera just outside our coded security door on the upper level, so we can see if anyone is outside in the corridor.

  I try to keep my mind off the fighting except to send whispered prayers for my family outside. They are all in the Up Top, which is always the most secure area of the Silo. Or at least, it has always seemed so.

  We are in survival mode here, and since there is little I can do to affect the happenings outside of our secret lair, I do my best not to worry. Today I will concentrate on Rick.

  For the operation, the men have placed Rick on a high table so that he is easier for me to reach. We have fed him gruel laced with wine, and as much as he would drink of a bottle of Scotch Mars found in the storerooms here. My mind boggled when I first saw what was available to the people in IT. The brand name soda that Delta once told me she drank… plus shelves and shelves of alcohol, fancy canned goods, and all kinds of gourmet items I haven’t seen in decades. Luxury goods and electronic entertainment devices of every conceivable description were in the storage room. And all of it sitting here waiting for some gigantic Christmas morning that would likely never come.

  I force my attention back to the task in front of me—a task I’m dreading. Jeff has strapped Rick down to the table with some relish. Mars and I aren’t sure enough about the contents of various preloaded hypodermic needles we found in the medical kits to try to sedate or numb him with one—I’m already afraid that my efforts to remove the bullet could kill him—so we go with an old-fashioned attempt to get him drunk. Rick seems to be slurring his words after imbibing the liquor, but since he doesn’t make too much sense on a normal day, it’s difficult to tell just how out of it he is.

  I steel myself for what I am about to do.

  Mars pours some orange liquid onto a cotton ball and swabs Rick’s arm where the skin is swollen and purple. I palpate the area and locate the bullet. Rick grunts, but he is not struggling, which is a good sign.

  I take the scalpel, fresh out of its sealed wrapping, and place it about two inches ahead of where I feel the lump. I inhale slowly and with the release of breath I cut.

  It’s horrible and familiar all at the same time. I feel the give of his skin as I cut through, and then something harder and thicker. A tendon? I shudder, but I do not stop. It reminds me of cutting up a chicken, only this chicken is alive.

  Rick is moaning and Jeff holds his arm tight to the table so it won’t move. I feel my blade touch something hard and see the glint of metal.

  “Mars,” I say. “I need the tweezers.”

  He hands me some long tweezers we found with the medical equipment, and uses forceps to hold back the lips of the incision I’ve made. The blood is gushing and I can smell the hot living red of it. Everything is slippery and liquid inside as I try to get hold of the bullet.

  My mind flashes back to the day I sliced my baby’s tiny toe away, and even farther back to the day my brother cut his head in a fall. All the blood and fear I remember from my life is gurgling under my fingers in this moment, and I will my hand to be steady, to pull this thing out, to save Rick.

  My husband. My lover.

  He is groaning now, in pain despite any deadening of his senses by the alcohol we forced into him. His eyes open wide and flash on mine and I see awareness in them before they skitter away. For a moment I pause, stunned with the possibility that he is not as delusional as he seems to be. I wrench my thoughts back to the task at hand, grasping the bullet, which I know will be a rough homemade affair shaped by the folks in Mechanical.

  Pulling it out, gently but quickly, I deposit the bloody piece of metal into a bowl beside me.

  As I lean over and reach for the needle already threaded for suturing, I hear Mars swear.

  I look up and he gestures with his eyes toward what remains of the bullet. Even through the blood, I can see that it is not the primitive thing we imagined. It is shiny and expertly shaped. This is no handmade slug of metal. This is a bullet that came out of one of the weapons owned by IT.

  16

  Rick talks to me now, at night, when we are alone together. A lifetime of secrets come tumbling out of his mouth, seemingly driven by a pent-up need to expel them.

  “I know you didn’t want this. I know you loved him. It wasn’t my idea. Not all mine, anyway. Helen… can you forgive me….”

  I was startled the first time he began babbling, his voice awakening me from a sound sleep when he uttered the name Helen. I thought he was dreaming about the time before, and not in his right mind. But night after night, it went on.

  “We didn’t know. We didn’t understand. We thought we were saving the world.”

  At first I tried to shush him, concerned that the others would hear. For all I knew, Jeff was waiting to kill all of us… that is, me, Mars and Rick. If Rick started speaking the truth, it could be a death sentence. I did my best to quiet his ranting.

  “Shhh… sweetheart,” I said. “It’s all right. There is nothing to explain.”

  I didn’t know if he heard me or not. I didn’t know if he cared anymore.

  Sometimes he talked about the here and now.

  “Jeff. Was my buddy. Twenty-five years.”

  He had my attention. I whispered back.

  “What happened? Between you and Jeff?”

  “Trusted him….” Rick’s voice faded.

  “Why did he turn on you?”

  There was no answer. And then. “Power.”

  I said nothing. Finally, he spoke again. “Watch out for him.”

  Another night Rick moaned in his sleep and then the moans became words. “We are buried. Not human….”

  I shushed him, and left my cot, which was wedged close to his, to wrap my arms around his shivering form. “It’s all right, sweetheart. You’re all right. Not buried.”

  This seemed to agitate him.

  “Buried! All buried!”

  And then he fell back to sleep, a low hum emanating from his throat.

  Sometimes it was just a fragment.

  “Jeff! Be careful of Jeff!”

  Tonight, he goes back again to the time long ago. “Helen,” he says, startling me awake.

  “What?” I whisper. I feel guilty encouraging him to talk. I feel that I am putting him—all of us—in jeopardy. But still, I am desperate to receive this knowledge only Rick has. I am glad when I hear his voice again, unusually lucid.

  “The damage was already done. To everyone. Everywhere. That’s what the Senator told us. He had all the answers… all the power.”

  For a moment, nothing, as I hold my breath. Then I hear strangled sobs from his cot, just a few feet from mine.

  “We were so young, Helen. Young and stupid. This important man… wise man… man who advised presidents… told
us we were doing the right thing.”

  Now I am sitting up. Ancient ghosts stir in my memory as I think about my life with Donald, a quarter century ago. Sweet Donald, my first love, who was indeed young… but never stupid. I want to tell Rick to stop speaking, to lock the truth back down and keep us all safe. But more than that, I want to know.

  “What did he tell you to do?” I ask. “The Senator?”

  In the dark, his voice comes back to me, clear and lucid.

  “He said we were going to do it. We were going to end it all, and save a precious few. In the Silo.”

  I wait.

  “There was a book they wrote.” I see that Rick’s good arm is raised up in the very faint light and gesturing toward some unknown wall. “It’s here. The Order. Find it. Read it.”

  “What is the book about?”

  “Everything. It tells everything. What to do. All emergencies; all contingencies. It’s for those in charge here in IT.”

  He sounds rational. Is there a book here that will explain everything? Part of me wants to get up and find a flashlight, start combing through this secret lair to find it and uncover all the secrets. And part of me is terrified to know.

  “Be careful,” Rick says. His voice is conspiratorial now. “There are cameras.”

  17

  Jeff is on a rampage. I do my best to stay out of his way, keeping to our private corner with Rick and attending to his needs. Rick can sit up now, can move around a little bit, and is healing. But there is something very different about him, and even though the wound in his arm continues to improve, I am not sure if he understands everything around him anymore.

  Mars is attending to the business of the Silo, doing his best to take the place of his father. We have been in here for three weeks, judging by the marks I have put on the wall by my cot. We have plenty of food, and the place is well stocked for months or years of this.

  But the space we share on this secret, closed level is starting to feel like a jungle.

  I can smell the men as they come near my living space on their way to get food, or to use the toilets. They are dank and musky, as though fighting season is at hand. I see Jeff eyeing Mars, his frustration at the younger man’s position chafing. Rick doesn’t seem to be a threat, addled as he is, and weak. Hazen is taking the brunt of the anger.

  “You idiot!” Jeff shouts loud enough for me to hear from the other side of the floor, where he must be near the servers. “I told you before, Hazen. If you hear that noise, that means a call is coming in. And you gotta get Mars. He’s the only one who can answer.”

  “What’s so special about him? Why does he get to talk to them?” Hazen’s voice is a whine.

  “Because if he doesn’t answer, they’ll fuckin’ shut us down! What part of that don’t you understand?”

  There is a loud crash. It isn’t the first time I’ve heard what sounds like fighting from that end of the room. Mars comes out of the bathroom at the end of our hall, fastening his coveralls, and hears the commotion. “Imbeciles,” he mutters under his breath as he starts to jog toward the altercation.

  There is another loud slam, the sound of a body hitting metal, and then silence.

  When I see Hazen later in the day, he has red blood vessels filling the white of his right eye and a dark purple circle around it. Jeff has a swollen lip. They are sullen as they come through our area to pick up cans of food. They do not bother to heat the food anymore. They puncture it with a can opener, pour whatever glop they’ve chosen into a bowl, and devour it.

  If they’re really in a hurry, they just glug it down directly from the hole in the top of the can.

  Tonight, Jeff has taken a bottle of Scotch with him when he leaves the food storage area. I can hear him talking with Hazen outside of our sleeping quarters. They must have made up—they sound pretty chummy.

  “Wait’ll those bastards calm down outside—shouldn’t be long now. Then we’ll come out and see what the damage is.” Jeff’s voice trails off as his mouth meets a glass.

  “There was shooting yesterday. Nothing today that I could hear.” Hazen says.

  “Yeah. The assholes from Mechanical must be running out of bullets,” Jeff says. “If they’re not all dead.”

  There is a clink of glasses together, and laughter.

  “So when are you gonna be in charge?” It’s Hazen’s voice.

  “When I damn well please,” Jeff says. “I sure as hell can run this place better than our nutty friend.” They chuckle, again, their scorn apparent.

  “So, you gonna kill him?” It’s Hazen.

  “Shut up. Jesus. No.” Jeff sounds angry and then he laughs. “Well, not yet anyway. Not even sure the stupid bastard would know the difference. He’s like not all there, you know?”

  I glance over at Rick to see if he’s paying attention. His eyes meet mine. He is.

  18

  Mars gives me reports about what he hears from up above, on the days when he climbs the ladder to the thirty-fourth level and watches and listens at the door. For a week there is almost no fighting, and then there seems to be a resurgence. We all feel a blast that must be an attempt to blow the coded security door down from outside. It reverberates through our lower level as though even the servers are shuddering.

  Mars comes into our living space a few minutes later. I am grateful for his attentiveness. Without him, we would be at the mercy of the increasingly malevolent Jeff and his stupid sidekick. With Mars, we are safe. At least for the time being.

  He looks terrible. His eyes are hooded and have a shadow of purple underneath. His bristly chin and snarled hair give him an unkempt look. The youthful muscles that usually bulge under his IT coveralls seem diminished.

  I know that he is worried about Ruth, up above us by eighteen levels. We left her in the care of neighbors we trust. But who knows what is going on now? Is there a full-scale rebellion?

  “Mars,” I speak in a near whisper, since we never know who is nearby. “Do you know what is happening?”

  He shakes his head in frustration. “Hard to know. I hear some of the radio communications. And I can see the hallway in IT. But it’s hard to tell who’s on which side. Fighting, double-crossing, frustration. Anger. Just… anger.”

  “Are there a lot of dead?” As I say it, I know it’s a foolish question. Of course there are, and there will be more, no doubt, until this thing is over.

  “Yes.” His answer is gruff.

  “Do you know if Ruth is safe?”

  Now he turns to me, and I can see his eyes are wet. “I think so.” His head goes down. “I hope so.”

  I reach up to hug him and he lets me, passive, at first, and then responding as he wraps his strong young arms around my back. I hear a choked sob, and I realize that my baby… my little not-so-little son… is crying.

  I don’t think I’ve heard him cry since he was eight years old. My heart breaks for him.

  “I’m sure she’ll be okay, honey,” I say quietly, trying not to weep aloud myself. “She’s in good hands. She’ll get well and you’ll live a long and happy life together.”

  As I say it I pray that it may be so.

  He quiets and pulls back from me, fisting away any moisture from his eyes. He won’t look at me.

  “How’s Dad doing?” he asks.

  “The same.”

  Mars nods. “Do you think he’ll ever be… normal again?”

  I suddenly focus on the burdens Mars himself is carrying. Concern for his wife, far above and out of reach. Grief for his father, who is not the man he once was. And most of the responsibility for keeping his family safe while we endure this bizarre imprisonment with our fellow inmates.

  All of that, plus a pivotal role in keeping the Silo itself alive. So much for one so young.

  I realize that Mars must be the official IT head now—though I don’t understand exactly what powers that gives him. Clearly, he is the only individual authorized to talk on the communication device that keeps ringing from the back of one of th
e servers. I hear it now. The sound of the ringing phone—if that’s what it is—is echoing throughout our level.

  “I’ve got to get that,” he says, turning to jog toward the big room.

  For just a moment I picture Mars as a typical twenty-year-old of an earlier generation, though he would never have raced to pick up a phone. He would have grabbed it out of his pocket and answered on the run. He would fit right in, with his dark skin and his lithe tallness, so like his father, always a handsome man. I realize with a start that he looks very much now like the thirty-something Rick I once knew in the time before—not yet Rick Brewer, but Mick Webb. Same man, different name. Same memories, different world.

  19

  The uprising, or whatever it is, is taking longer than anticipated to put down. It has been more than a month. Down on the secret level under the thirty-fourth floor, we are bored and twitchy.

  At night, when I dare, I take a flashlight and look for the book that Rick told me to find. Read it, he said. It explains everything.

  What I do find is a vast array of gorgeously illustrated books that are akin to an encyclopedia—but with details made necessary only because, as I now realize, they were created to be read by people who would never live on the Outside. Every critter and every natural or man-made wonder is described in a way that is tediously obvious to those of us who grew up in the real world. The Grand Canyon—does it still exist? I hope so—is pictured in a glorious full-color photograph showing the golden striations of the same rock that has been there for millennia, but the words describe it in terms of levels and numbers analogous to our life down here. I would imagine that a Silo-dweller could not conceive of the width of the thing from side to side, even if the depth were comprehensible. But most of all, someone who had grown up in here would have had trouble taking in the astonishing sky… a sky that must have been photographed at sunrise. The clouds glowed brilliant in colors ranging from rose to cerise to deep purple, and the rich blue behind them depicted a kind of light never contemplated here in the Silo.